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zweetpea · 7 months ago

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Mrs. “Wayne”

Content warning: Swears, Arranged Marriage, talks of having an heir, Mentions of Bruce’s Affairs, Nightwing x Starfire mentioned

Based on this since no one else has done it (or at least not that I've seen...)

BTW guys if you want to write something based off something I write I ask that you tag me in it. (Unless it's like a broad thing... like if you see my post about Bruce bringing home a girl that he met and married that day then write a fic around that idea I ask that you credit me, but if you see my Yandere Bruce x reader and decide to make a "baby fever! Bruce x reader" that's more general so I don't think it would be fair of me to ask for credit.)

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"Honey I know you're angry with us but it's what’s best for you. He's the richest man in the country." Your mother fixed your veil.

"He's a whore. And what's worse is that he doesn't even consider how it even affects his kids. I just picks up orphans off the street like they're lucky pennies or a 20 dollar bill for him." You grimaced.

"You know what a..." She sounded appalled. "20 dollar bill is? Oh how I've failed you as a mother."

"Don't be so dramatic." You rolled your eyes.

"Are you ready to go?" Your father entered into the private room. "You look beautiful Princess."

"Thanks dad."

"Come on." He grabbed your hand as you grabbed the bouquet. You wrapped your arm around his as you two walked down the isle to your soon-to-be husband, Bruce "Brucie" Wayne.

You looked down through the entire ceremony, up until the Vows. Brucie's were short and sweet. "We may not know each other too well but I swear to be loyal, thoughtful, and truthful through our entire marriage." At which you heard a faint snort from the front row. You slightly glance over and see a young man a few years younger than you trying to hold laughter, his white streak bobbing as he shook with laughter. Brucie's glaring at him.

You turned back to your inevitable spouse and said your vows. "I promise to stand by your side in all your endeavors, even if that means adopting 10 more orphans you pick up from the streets like they were stray cats." You said in a monotonous voice.

You two finish off the ceremony with the standard ceremonial officiator speach.

"Do you Bruce Wayne take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?"

"I do."

He turns to me. "Do you-"

"I do." You cut him off. Surprising everyone with how forward that was. Some whispers were heard amongst the crowd, undoubtedly calling you a gold digger for being so eager to get this ceremony over with.

"Well at least she's eager! That's almost gotta ensure this marriage lasts right?" The officiator jokes to ease the tension. "If anyone objects to this marriage please speak now or forever hold your peace." The same young man who was laughing held up his hand but it was pushed down by a man about your age sitting next to him. "Then you may now kiss the bride."

You and your new husband shared a chaste kiss before you ran down the isle and out to the limo. And after a short drive you made it to the spot where you were scheduled to take your wedding photos and have the reception.

The reception was void of life, stuffy, like all those galas your parents forced you to attend. Hopefully this didn't end up like one of the incidents of Brucie flirting with milfs, sticking his tongue down a young squeezes throat, or twerking on ice sculptures.

Eventually Brucie takes you over to the loudest table in the place. "Wifey, these are my kids and co. Dick my oldest, the trouble maker who laughed during the ceremony is Jason, my oldest daughter Cass, the middles Stephanie and Tim, and Damian my youngest. Then there's Barbara Commissioner Gordons daughter, and our newest member of our family Duke."

"I'm the only blood child." Damian points out.

"Let's hope debauchery isn't hereditary."

Jason bursts out laughing at that. "I like her already."

"Really? Cause I had to hold your hand like a toddler during the ceremony to keep you from throwing a tantrum like a toddler." Dick points out.

"Can you blame me Dickie. She's your age. If anyone should be having a hissy fit it's you. Well you and maybe Babs."

"But we're not. So can't you be mature about this."

"I think Todd's lack of manners have become more acceptable considering what she said. Now it stands out less. Congrats Todd, you're now the family's second biggest embarrassment." Damian rolled his eyes.

"Haha" You laughed sarcastically. "What are you stray cats fighting over anyway that has you so rowdy? Someone throw out a can on anchovies?"

"No we're just excited to have a new Mom." Dick smiled at you.

"Oh looks like my new Father-in-law is calling me over for some business talk. I'll be back, Wifey. You just stay here and mingle." Your husband walks away and you turn back to the Brucie bunch.

"I know you guys probably don't like me or find it weird that I'm so close to your guys ages. Do me a favor and just put up with me for say five to ten years." They looked at you confused so you elaborate. "Brucie and I signed a prenup that if I asked for a divorce I'd get nothing. But give it a few years and he'll find a new fling. They'll get caught and he'll ask for a divorce to save his image. Don't worry I'll only ask for at most a million. Standard sum for a celebrity of his caliber."

Damian glares at you. "You skank."

"I'm being realistic. As a woman in high society you get to be a man's pretty young thing till you're 40. By then you've either started your own multi-million dollar business or you're the divorced crone who can't do any better. Most relationships of this caliber are shams held together by pool boys and secretaries. Or the few lucky ones that got married for love instead of PR."

"Bruce isn't like that." Tim defends.

"Oh please. I've seen him go to a date with a woman and leave with two completely different women than the woman he arrived with." You rolled your eyes

"Maybe when he was younger, but he's changed." Duke stood up to confront you.

"It's nothing personal kids, it's just business. I don't care if that's how he chooses to live his life. I won't be around much to see it anyway, I'm going to be rather busy." You shrugged, seemingly above it all.

"Busy with what?" Cass glared.

"Trading stocks and such, preparing for the inevitable divorce. Maybe I'll go sponsor some artists or a theatre production if I'm bored. I don't know, but what I can tell you is that it's coming." You turn around to walk away and see Brucie already flirting with another woman. "And from the looks of it, it's coming sooner than we could've ever guessed." You smirked, feeling vindicated. The rest of them looked on in horror.

After the reception you two left on a rather uneventful honeymoon. The private villa was garish and gaudy. It felt like a petty excuse to flaunt his wealth especially because you two spent the entire trip sleeping in different rooms. And on top of all that half way through he up and left you with his black card and flew back to the mansion to deal with an "emergency". Your best guess was a whiny sugar baby was getting pissy.

At the end of the trip you flew back and had to catch an uber home. None of them even came to pick you up from the airport. Though with how they reacted to your statements at the reception could you really blame them?

Regardless you practically snuck into the mansion with the help of Alfred who showed you to a small guest room on the first floor. It had a single queen sized bed without even a comforter, just a white duvet, and on either side of the bed were nightstands.

"Thank you Alfred." You nodded to.

"You're welcome." He bows. "If there's anything else you need please feel free to inform me immediately."

"Brucie left this with me in his vacation home, can you give this back to him and tell him I said thank you for the take out?" You handed over the black card.

"Take out?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. And for letting me use the Wayneflix account while I was there. If I may make a slight suggestion, give your regency era shows more attention. Thank you Alfred. I'll go unpack now."

"I've already taken the liberty of unpacking your clothes into the wardrobe and dresser." He revealed.

"You didn't need to do that."

"I know you requested that I not but I felt I'd rather have your room ready for you than for you to stress when you arrived." He bowed.

"That's very sweet but I have a very particular system. My outfits all fit together in a specific way." You start to rearrange your clothes in the way you see fit.

"Might I learn how you like them so I can properly sort them next time?"

"No, it's okay. I can do my own laundry." You offered.

"Have you ever done your own laundry?" He raised an eyebrow accusingly.

"Well... no." You confessed. "But you already have like 14 other people's laundry to do. I don't want to be a bother. Besides I don't want you to waste a few weeks when it won't matter in a few years."

"So Master Damian has told me you've said. Nevertheless I'm willing to learn to do this if you are willing to learn how to do your own cooking and laundry."

"Why are you helping me?"

"I've met many people whom Master Wayne has brought into his life. You are the first who's actually wanted to fend for yourself. If you are running a long con into Master Wayne's pocket it's either the smartest or the dumbest plan I've ever seen concocted. Besides, many of the Wayne's don't currently reside here full time. Master Dick lives with his wife missus Koriand'r. Master Jason lives in a renovated greenhouse studio apartment. Miss Barbara and Miss Cassandra live as roommates. And Master Wayne lives in either his WayneTech or home Office. I have more than enough time to learn."

You genuinely smiled for the first time since you heard about the engagement. The two of you spent the rest of the day organizing clothes and making cookies.

"-And that is the difference between Light Academia and Pastel Academia.”

He looked stunned. "How do you keep all this straight?"

"It's just something I got into because I wanted to disassociate from my hopeless reality. I figured fake it till you make it right? Someday I could have a different, more quiet life. And finding subtle nuances between aesthetics is honestly fun. Like a game of spot the difference."

“Oh my! Look at the time! It’s already 4 o’clock!” Alfred looks stunned at the time.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spend four hours talking about this.”

"It's quite alright Missus Wayne."

"I'll go bring these to Brucie. Might as well let him know that he's not getting any inheritance from a tragic accident that happened to me."

"Master Wayne cares for you. I hope you know that. It may not be in the most... romantic measure... but I swear that he was not lying on your wedding day when he said he'd remain faithful to you." Alfred tried to reassure.

"If you say so Alfred." You gave him a small smile.

Alfred looked at her sadly as she walked away. He wished there was more he could do to help you fit in around the manor. Someone as grounded as you would be a good addition in Brice's life, he just knew it!

Later in the Batcave, Alfred confronted Bruce

"Master Wayne I have an idea on how to keep your new wife busy."

"Why should I care about what's she's doing with her life? I have more important things to do than to worry about than some nepo-baby throwing a tantrum.

"Why should you care? How about the fact that you have never had a serious relationship and making this work is crucial for your public image? How about the fact that she has given up her entire life to cater towards your brash decision after one petty comment Mr. West made about your love life?" Alfred started listing off reasons; becoming more irate as he did. "How about the fact that if she's not kept busy during the day she'll eventually stumble upon the entrance of the Batcave?"

That peaked Bruce's interest. "I'm listening." He swivels around in his chair.

"Offer her a job as the family's social media manager." Alfred proposed.

"What? Why?" Bruce looked at him, skeptically.

"She's very knowledgeable about different aesthetics and trend. She could make this family look..." He tried to find a nice word to describe them.

"Normal?" Bruce interrupts with an almost bored look on his face.

"I was going to say civil but that works too." Alfred shrugged as Bruce groaned. "Don't take it the wrong way Master Wayne. I love this Family with all my heart but you cannot deny that they can be a bit rowdy at times."

"A bit is an understatement. It would look good for your PR... fine. Go ask her... but If it is not up to Wayne Enterprise standards you're firing her for me!"

So that's what you've been doing for the past few months.

"Jason, I'm telling you, motorcycles are out! Most girls aren't going for the bad boy vibe anymore! They're into Timothée Chalamet!" You argued over the phone with Jason, Bruce's most rebellious child, even more so than the 12 year old pain in the ass! "Fine, we'll talk later. I have an unexpected visitor anyway." You looked behind you as Bruce entered.

Bruce made a habit of being loud around the house for her. You knew he was being exceptionally weird but you didn't exactly know why. You didn't really care all that much either.

He came up behind you and started to massage your shoulders. "Jason giving you trouble again."

"...yeah." You said shrinking into yourself. The one thing you hadn't quite gotten used to was Bruce's attempts to flirt with you. You knew that he wanted to keep public image favorable, but it didn't make sense why he flirted with you behind closed doors.

He leaned down and started kissing your exposed shoulders in your off the shoulder sweater dress. You wriggled out and away from him in discomfort and he looked at you puzzled. "What's wrong?"

"I don't like you touching me." You confessed. "I don't- ...I don't see us that way... I'm sorry."

He sat on the edge of your desk. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm the one who should apologize. It's just that... we haven't done anything yet and-"

"And what? You think I'm a slut that's just going to put out for you?" You interrupted.

"No! I just meant that you were probably wanting me to... be more romantic... I thought you'd want me to instigate something..." He stood there, not knowing what to do.

"Well you thought wrong." You left your office angrily. You stomped out of there and went to the library. You looked over all the books they had. Classics like the Iliad and Crime and Punishment to so many romance novels. But one book in particular caught your interest. The History of Taxes.

"Who wants to read about taxes?" You cringed. The book looked relatively untouched. 'Typical,' you thought. 'Rich people can't even be bothered to try and read the books they have in their house.' She went to pull it out and found the bookshelf moving.

On the other side was the answer to one of the greatest mysteries she's had since she came to Gotham, "Who is Batman and Co?"

There it was! The Batcave and All it's glory...

Oh... the bags under his eye of sleepless nights, the flirty persona, the stomping around trying to make his presence known to you.

"Bruce Wayne is Batman..." No sooner had you said those words did you feel a sharp pain in the back of your head and the world fade into darkness...

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thekinslayed · 9 months ago

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Atone

summary | Rhaenyra seeks to mend the rift between her and Aemond. (based on this request.)

pairing | aemond targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! incest, the handjob that stopped a war, a light sprinkle of mommy kink, post ep. 8 dinner scene, not a daemon-friendly fic

wordcount | 2.2k

note | i felt utterly insane writing this, but this pairing is EVERYTHING! def wanna explore this more in future fics!

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Rhaenyra felt overwrought. This whole ordeal left her weary, both in body and in her spirit, simmering into an agitation that left the babe in her belly restless. Her childhood chambers have never felt so foreign, rid of any warmth they once held in her girlhood. Daemon’s smug commentary recounting the day’s events wasn’t helping her skittishness, and she was starting to feel more suffocated the longer his mouth rambled. She mindlessly mumbled something about checking on the boys, slipping out of her apartments before her uncle-husband could utter another word.

When she left for Dragonstone nearly a decade past, she imagined the moment she would return was when she was to be crowned Queen. Instead, the king’s heir was greeted by the desolate state of the castle she once called home, stared at with judging eyes on nameless faces, and treated like a stranger. The dinner that came afterward was simply worse, a futile attempt on her father’s end to stay in the blissful ignorance of the bloodied strife that has become only more strained. They all tried to indulge him, or she and Alicent did at least, but the children were a different story. She should feel angrier about the insult her name has suffered, as well as the withstanding ridicule following her sons’ heritage. But after today, she was simply tired. However, Rhaenyra knew sleep would not come so easily after a night like this.

There was one place she would escape to as a girl when her rooms felt stuffy. A terrace facing the Bay, cooled by the breeze from the waves and hidden from any other curious eyes. A spot just of her own, or at least it was. In the course of her absence, it seemed that someone else had found her little hideaway, standing tall in black leather, and silver-gold hair dazzling under the pale moonlight.

Her half-brother stared at her in surprise, clearly not anticipating to face her alone. His lone eye widened, void of the menacing sharpness it held at the dinner table. Rhaenyra was caught equally in shock and could only stare back. She could see the inner turmoil in his lone eye. He could kill her right here and then, and she would go without so much of a struggle against his physical prowess if what Lucerys told her was anything to go by.

Once knocked out of his stupor, Aemond straightened his back, and his scowl returned. He turned to leave with a grunt, but Rhaenyra began to speak before he could take a second step.

“Were you satisfied by your performance at supper today?” she asked. Her hand caressed her bump protectively, betraying the mask of indifference she held by keeping her voice stern. Alicent’s son scoffed, turning back to face her.

“Were you satisfied with yours? Forcing your rotting father out of his deathbed because no actual truths would suffice in defending your name?” he retorted, raising a single brow in mocking. “Have you come to face the facts, sister?”

Rhaenyra started to regret opening her mouth to speak with him. She should’ve just let him pass and continued to let the rot fester if it meant facing more taunting than she could handle in one day. Yet, she willed herself to keep her composure. She wouldn’t stoop to their level. She was the elder, the heir; she held authority over him, and would not allow brazen insolence in her face.

“Pray tell, what facts would that be? Since you act like you know them so well.” Aemond’s lips only widened to a wicked smirk, irking an annoyed twinge in Rhaenyra’s chest and a clenching of her jaw. Her hand itches to strike him—a maternal yearning to chastise the boy before her. It reminded her of that know-it-all look on Daemon’s face he permanently had, one that irked her at times, and made her feel like a clueless girl deep down. Seeing them face each other tonight made her briefly wonder how two people who had never met could be so similar, but then again, they were dragons. They all had the same fiery hot, blazing scarlet stream coursing through their veins. Rhaenyra could only sigh in annoyance, blood starting to run hot in Aemond’s presence. She could see the parts of him that were all Alicent, despite the stark features that made him utterly Valyrian, and she could hear her in his taunts. The elder wished to push back, to fight fire with fire, but she was starting to realize she was no warrior, and any battles meant for her to be fought would be better off squandered before they got out of hand. Perhaps she could start with Aemond. “I have always wondered why you hate me the way you do, and my boys,” she said, turning away to look over the crashing waves.

“You have to ask yourself? Your insolent pup has taken my eye and suffered no consequence,” Aemond spat out, venom dripping from his tongue. The princess’ fists clenched in rage, swiftly snapping her head to look at him.

“My son only acted in defense when you tried to injure them, after the years of your restless ridicule because of their parentage!” Rhaenyra defended, veins in her neck straining from anger.

Her half-brother began to take small steps toward where she stood, hands still wound behind his back. She eyed the sword sheathed on his belt, crossing her arm over her belly defensively.

“You would have let me be persecuted for speaking of the sins you committed. Don’t you remember what you said? That I must be sharply questioned. I was only a boy. And I am your blood,” Aemond fumed. His hands unfolded, making Rhaenyra flinch in fear, though they only lifted to remove the patch of leather around his head, revealing a glinting sapphire nestled in his left socket. The scar running across was a darkened line, the skin slightly lifted from when it was stitched. “You wish to know the root of my disdain for you and your brood? Here, this is why.”

The sight took Rhaenyra by surprise, and all the words she wished to spit out in his face were lost into the night. Her mouth fell slightly open in a small gape, a faint gasp leaving her lips. Aemond’s chest was heaving, and the elder took careful steps to approach him. This seemed to take him aback, good eye carefully watching while he stood on guard. Rhaenyra studied the gem. Under the faint glow of the night, she could see herself staring back, surrounded by scarred flesh. The cut-out eyelid twitched frantically as Aemond blinked, the slight movement being the only memory of the life it once held.

To have his eye taken was one thing, but to lose everything else that came with being whole made Rhaenyra’s throat seize at the thought. She imagined the moons— or perhaps years it took for his recovery, and it made her want to quiver in shame. If this happened to her boys….

She couldn’t even begin to think it, let alone live it. “You have been subject to so much pain, I see that now, and it has made you angry,” she uttered, voice dropping to a whisper at their breached proximity. He was but a hair’s breadth away from her protruding belly; the closest she had gotten to any of her half-siblings, yet another growing regret. Rhaenyra lifted her hand to cup Aemond’s face. Her half-brother almost jerked back, presumably thinking she was about to strike him, though his shoulders immediately softened at the warmth of her hand on his flesh. Rhaenyra watched his brow furrowed in apparent confusion, his demeanor betraying how foreign a touch like this felt to him. “I have wronged you, Aemond,” she said.

His lone eye immediately watered at her words, and she realized how important this was for them both. Perhaps this was all it took. Perhaps all he ever needed was for these words to be uttered. Her brother remained unspeaking, letting her pull him into her bosom in an embrace. Strong hands held onto Rhaenyra’s arms, a shudder racking his wide shoulders in a silent sob. She soothed him with soft shushes, running her fingers through his silver tresses. They were much like hers, proving they were one and the same despite their denial to see it.

Both dragons stayed there, basking in the newfound comfort of remission. Rhaenyra nestled her nose into the crook of Aemond’s neck, breathing in the smell of him. He smelled of smoke, leather, and ash, like the true dragon that he was. Her ringed hands caressed the span of his back up and down, the motherly urge to comfort naturally making itself known. Perhaps she was too caught up in his scent, failing to notice something poking into her stomach. Her eyes widened, pulling away in haste in fear that he had pulled out a dagger to plunge into her pregnant belly when she least expected it, but the confusion in Aemond’s eye that immediately shifted into embarrassment made known he had no intent for violence.

“Seven fucking Hells,” he said under his breath. The younger dragon tried to move out of his sister’s grasp, but the firm grip on his arm prevented him from doing so. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” Rhaenyra said, free hand taking his jaw to urge him to look at her. Her throat bobbed as she visibly gulped, before nodding at him in understanding. “It’s alright.” The hand on the crook of his elbow descended south, treading to the growing need in between his thighs.

“S-sister,” the younger pleaded, grasping her wrist to stop her.

“It’s alright, Aemond,” she repeated, looking up at him with an urging glint in her eyes. It urged him to let her do this for him, to let this be the start of her atonement. With a shaky breath, the one-eyed prince released Rhaenyra’s wrist, directing her hand to cup him instead. Uncertainty still lingered in the crease between his brows, the corners of his lips quivering. It dissipated once she started to fondle him, shifting to reveal the desire that he had kept hidden.

Aemond dipped his head closer to hers, breaths mingling yet their equally porcelain flesh untouching. Keeping her sights on his face, Rhaenyra untied his breeches, slipping past the dark fabric to stroke his bare cock. The warmth of his stiffness in her hold spurred a tingling deep within her, urging the hairs on the back of her neck to rise in attention. His cockhead was starting to grow slick, reddened into a painful flush. With a swipe across its slit, Rhaenyra used his arousal to lubricate the rest of his length, stroking him with soft and steady strokes. Soft grunts fell from Aemond’s lips, his forehead resting against her temple as he panted in her ear.

“Mmh… N-Nyra,” he moaned, hips subtly thrusting into her hand. The sounds of his bliss left her bothered, a wetness steadily growing in her smallclothes. She urged herself to pay it no mind, keeping his pleasure first.

“Does it feel good?” she whispered, earning an eager nod against her skin from her younger brother. His hand soon began to wander, moving from her arm to brush against her chest. This made the princess gasp, the subtle caress hardening her nipples under the fabric of her dress. Rhaenyra took Aemond’s hand and placed it over her breast, urging him to squeeze. The sensitivity brought by her pregnancy only served to amplify the pleasure brought about by his touch, amethyst eyes rolling back into her head as she sighed in delight. The hand stroking him picked up in pace, spurring him closer to the end. Aemond continued to softly moan and whimper in her ear, the sounds searing into her memory. She knew she would think back on this tryst in the future, in the silent nights when Daemon would leave her be for the night and stumble into some brothel in the town. Those would become her favorite nights— when her hands would wander south, and she would hear nothing but the sweet melody of Aemond’s pleasure.

He came with a broken moan, spilling all over her hand and some on his trousers. His seed was warm on her flesh, a dazzling pearl held under the shimmering twilight. Rhaenyra wiped her hand clean on her skirts as Aemond turned to lace his breeches back up, a charged silence encompassing the air between them.

With the neckline of her dress righted and his eyepatch placed back over his sapphire, the two dragons could only stare at each other, burdened with unspoken words over what had transpired. Aemond looked at Rhaenyra with a softness that previously wasn’t there, and her gaze held a gentle familiarity. She leaned to press a kiss onto his cheek, her thumb soothingly caressing his jaw. “I will see you when I return, brother,” she whispered, pulling away to return to her chambers.

“I shall be waiting for you, sister. Most eagerly,” Aemond called out, earning a small smile from the heir. Upon her return, Rhaenyra’s chest felt lighter than it did when she had taken the same path leading to her chambers. A budding hope sparked in her heart of hearts, making her believe that reconciliation may not be so lost yet. Though achieved in rather curious ways, but an effective method all the same.

#bella writes ✍️#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen imagines #aemond targaryen smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond targaryen #hotd x reader #rhaenyra targaryen x aemond targaryen #rhaenyra x aemond #rhaenyra targaryen x reader #rhaenyra targeryan

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imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul · 10 months ago

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The Prince - Chapter Five

A/N: First Sunday without a new hotd episode, how are we feeling? Hopefully, this fic can help fill that hotd void. Once again, thank you so much for all of your comments, likes, and reblogs on the last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one, too <3

Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader Word Count: 3.6k Synopsis: In Jace's absence, the reader contends with their feelings, finally coming to the realization that these feelings aren't going away.

Tag List: @rinisfruity14, @gaiaea, @rexorangecouny, @burningwitchobject, @brckenmemories, @thenotesapppoet, @elleclairez

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Tension hangs in the air throughout the entire Keep the next morning. As you walk down the halls towards Rhaena’s room, you hear hushed discussions, spot worried faces, and fear slowly creeps over you.

The first thing you hear when you get to Rhaena’s room is her hushed tone saying, “He’ll be fine.” You feel as though you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be, and try to walk back out, but Baela spots you and waves you in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say.

“You didn’t,” Baela says.

“Is everything alright?”

“There is unrest in the Iron Islands,” Rhaena says. “It seems the Lannisters and a few lords of the Iron Islands have been fighting over territory.”

“It is an uprising,” Baela corrects. “And the queen has sent Jace to attend to it.”

“Tend to it?” you ask quietly, panic icing your body.

“He’s going to be fine,” Rhaena says, looking to her sister.

“I know,” she says softly.

“He might not see any battle,” she says. “We don’t yet know what the status is.” They both look equally concerned for Jace, and you hate that you can’t share your own concern with them.

He had come to your room last night, and with a horrifying realization, you know he was coming to tell you goodbye. He had been trying to tell you he was leaving, and you had denied him.

“He’ll be fine,” you agree aloud, because he is your prince and that’s what everyone must say when the heir is in danger; but also because you need to believe it for yourself, too.

In the coming days, rumors spread. Some claim there is absolutely no warring in the islands, just quarrels between land-hungry lords. Others say it is bloodshed comparable to the peaks of the war. And there are those who declare it is all a ruse to solidify the crown's position.

None of it makes you feel any better. There is, however, the bitter hope inside of you that Lord Blacktyde is somehow involved and might be taken out by an arrow or swing of a sword, if fighting has indeed broke out. But your thoughts can’t rest there for long, so stuck on Jace are they.

You keep playing over what happened in the Dragonpit, how you left things. It seemed the right thing to do, albeit painful. There was no future for you and Jace, giving in to it for even a day would doom you for the rest of your life.

You try to throw yourself into other tasks. You embroider a dress for Jeyne, go to the coast with Rhaena to watch her bond with Morning, and keep your meetings with more suitors.

There is one such suitor, a Ser Swann, who you have met with twice before. He is kind, can sometimes make you laugh, and is by far the best candidate. But when he looks at you, when his hand brushes yours, you feel nothing.

You remember how you clung to Jace in the Dragonpit, the easy way he held you and made you feel safe. Even just the feeling of your hand in his sent a spark through you. You hate to compare the two men, but every interaction with Jace, even just a passing meeting in the hallway, left your heart racing.

During your date with Ser Swann, these thoughts never leave you. Everything he does, you imagine from someone else's lips, someone else's hand. That night, as you lay in bed, you toss and turn. It has been five days since Jacaerys left, and still, you cannot get him out of your thoughts.

Why did you refuse him entry? Why did you drop his hand? Why didn’t you kiss him, just once?

Jace had created plenty of opportunity for the two of you to kiss. He had sat next to you in this very bed, taken care of you, seen you at your lowest, and still he wanted to kiss you. He brought you to spar with him, clearly seeing the way you were longing for him, and kept you close to him, to see if you would finally act. In the gardens and in the Dragonpit, he had held your body to his, kept you safe, and yet, you pushed him away.

What was wrong with you?

He will return from the Iron Islands, you know. You have to believe. But the chance you might have had with him, you fear is quickly dwindling away.

You had told him he would ruin you, if you gave into your desires. But the truth was, he already had ruined you. You know that now. Ser Swann was a perfectly fine gentleman, and you could have been happy with him, if you didn’t know that there was better.

You are ruined for any other man, because every other man is not him.

You get very little sleep that night. When Brigitta comes in the next morning to wake you, you are already up, exhaustion written over your face.

“My lady,” she says, slightly in chaste, but also in concern.

“I’m fine, Brigitta. Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix.” She is silent as she prepares the tea for you, but when she brings it over, there is a note left next to the mug.

“He left that for you,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to read it or not, but I think you better.”

“Thank you,” you say, forgetting the tea altogether as you rip open the seal. Brigitta gives you a moment's privacy and goes about getting your outfit ready for the day.

Y/N – I am sorry to leave without saying goodbye. Do not worry for me, I promise I will return safely. I hope that the time I am gone will be enough space for you, as I would very much like to continue our conversation from the Dragonpit, if you’ll grant me such leave.

Yours, Jace

“Are you ready, My Lady?” Brigitta asks. You aren’t sure if she's referring to something in the note, the dress she holds in her hand, or something else, but the letter has given you a new sense of purpose.

“I am.”

As she gets you ready, Brigitta lets you know that the flowers in the gardens have bloomed and recommends that you see them for yourself today. You had forgotten to find a task for the day, and you’re thankful for her idea.

You are making your way towards the gardens, when he comes around the opposite hallway.

“Prince Jacaerys,” you say, stopping abruptly in the hallway. Your knees wobble, nearly knocking you to the floor, seeing him in one piece. “I didn’t realize you had returned.”

“Just,” he says. You take a moment to look him over, checking for any visible injuries.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t see you that night,” you say, nervously fiddling with the sleeves of your gown. Jace frowns at you, frowns at the movement. He glances at the guards following him and nods them away. You watch them slip into the nearest door.

“Don’t apologize,” he says, “You wanted to be left alone.”

“I did say that,” you say, “But if you are heading into dangerous territory, of course I would want to know, want to hear you out,” you say with a shake of your head.

“Needless to remind you, Y/N, I’m a prince,” he says, “Often I am sent to do dangerous things.”

“Of course,” you say with a tight-lipped smile. Sudden frustration fills your bloodstream at his cool demeanor. He has never acted this closed off with you and you aren't sure how to navigate through it. The courage you had felt when you left your room seems to be fading quickly.

“I got your letter,” you say weakly.

“Good,” he says, glancing down at his boots. There is a strange silence, that is so unlike the two of you. He is nervous, angry with with you, or just over his feelings? This behavior from him is so unexpected, you want to run away before you do something embarrassing.

“Well, welcome home, Your Highness,” you say stiffly.

“You sound as though you were worried for me,” he says, before you can turn from him. You meet his eyes, and somewhere in them, you see the Jace you know.

“You are the future of the realm, of course I worry for you,” you say. Jace lets out a tut of laughter, closing some of the distance between the two of you.

“Of course,” he says to himself. “Is that all?” he asks, his eyes locking with yours again.

“What?”

“Is that the only reason you worried?”

“Jace,” you say, your voice barely a breath.

“I hate it when you call me anything other than Jace,” he says with a smile. At the sight of that smile, ridiculously, your breathing turns shallow. You watch Jace’s eyes fall to your chest, watching the rise and fall of your breasts. You realize how close he has gotten to you, how close you’ve allowed him to get.

“I could have died, I very nearly almost did,” he says lowly. Your eyebrows scrunch in worry, and Jace brushes your hair out of your face, his hand cupping your cheek. “Because I know you, I know you must have thought about if I did. You must have thought about regrets, what you would do if you ever saw me again.”

“Jace,” you try again, putting a hand on his chest, partially to push him away, and also to feel him, feel his beating heart. He is right and he knows it. He has grown to know you so well in the last weeks. Every night, you played this moment over in your mind again and again, what you would do when you saw him again.

“Y/N,” he says, just as soft.

“I didn’t worry too much,” you whisper, lying, “You told me you’d return.” Jace’s eyes flick between yours and your lips.

“You believed me?” he asks lowly.

“Yes,” you say, realizing that it was easy. You trust him and believe in him. Up until the Dragonpit, you had truly thought that his feelings were based purely on attraction. But seeing him now, looking into his eyes, you know he was telling the truth. It’s love in his eyes, and a weight lifts off you when you realize the same feeling is inside you, too. You love him, and in that moment, you know that no matter what comes, you want him, for as long as you can have him.

“Was this enough time apart?” he asks with a smile, “I’m not sure I can—”

“Yes,” you say, and before Jace gets the chance to say anything, your lips finally, finally meet his. His lips are soft, and it only takes a moment for him to shake his shock and take control of the kiss. You very nearly moan as he does, seamlessly pinning you against the wall.

Your hands are on his face, in his hair, anything to pull him closer. When his tongue slips into your mouth, you do moan. The sound elicits a similar one from Jace, and he presses you firmer into the wall. His rough hands trail down your sides, gripping your waist, holding you flush against him. In that moment, you would have let him touch you anywhere and everywhere, just to keep him close to you, keep him alive.

A throat clears at the end of the hallway, and you snap back to your senses, breaking away from each other. You take a healthy step back from him and adjust your dress. Jace is breathing heavily, a beautiful smile on his face.

A glance down the hall reveals a white cloak, just a shoulder standing outside of the doorframe. You assume it’s Ser Harrold, thankfully bringing you both to your senses.

You look at Jace and both laugh when his eyes meet yours. He moves closer to you, and takes your hand, placing a gentle, but far too long to be proper, kiss to it. You take a shaky breath at the look in his eyes as he looks up at you.

“I love you,” you say gently. Jace’s eyes widen, and he looks to be in physical pain that he can’t kiss you again. He just smiles and gives your hand a squeeze.

“I’m sorry to have worried you, Lady Y/N,” he says.

“I’m just happy you’ve returned.”

“As am I,” he says. He nods down the hallway, holding out an arm for you. You take it, your pulse quickening at the closeness of your bodies. You look up at him, seeing the smile on his lips, the slight pink tint to them from your kiss.

“I need to see my mother, tell her about my journey,” he says, continuing the walk down the hallway, “But I want to see you as soon as possible. Will you join me for supper tonight? In my quarters.”

“Jace,” you start. He looks down at you, a smile growing on his face.

“Please.”

You can only nod your head. He smiles and breaks from your side, leaving you cold. He kisses your hand once again.

“My chambers, just after sunset,” he says.

“Yes.”

It is dark in his room when you arrive. This shouldn’t surprise you; he invited you after sunset. But in the dark, you aren’t sure what you’ll do. You broke all conduct and kissed him in daylight, with several guards within earshot.

Candles are strewn about his room. Soft light illuminates Jace in the corner, adjusting his shirt nervously in the mirror. In the reflection, he sees you, and a smile grows on his face.

He crosses the room in two strides and rest his hands on your waist. His lips are gentle when they meet yours. You push him off at the first brush, looking around the room anxiously.

“Don’t worry,” he says, tugging at your waist slightly to have you face him. “I dismissed all the servants. Ser Harold is the only one at the door. He has already promised his secrecy.” You let out a sigh, smiling at him as you trace his jawline with your finger. He closes the gap between the two of you again, and you don’t pull away this time.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he says, resting his forehead against yours when he breaks away.

“Me too,” you say with a laugh. Jace kisses you again before taking your hand and leading you over to his table. A small feast is laid out before you. Jace pulls out a chair for you, pushing you in with ease.

“I hope wine is alright,” he says, pouring some into your goblet. “I know the mead we had before didn’t agree with you.”

“Wine is wonderful,” you say, “And I don’t think it was the mead that made me sick.”

“What then?” he asks, sitting across from you.

“Feelings I was trying to fight,” you say.

“You don’t seem to be fighting them anymore."

“I don’t think it’s a battle I can win. Or even want to win," you say, taking a sip of the sweet wine.

“And you came to this realization while I was gone?” he asks, drinking from his own glass. Your eyes watch the movement along his neck greedily.

“Before you left, I said that you would ruin me, if we gave into this feeling between us.”

“I remember,” he says, setting his jaw. You reach across the small table and take his hand, your thumb brushing against his skin.

“But while you were gone, I realized you already had ruined me. Ruined every other man for me. You infiltrated my mind and my heart, Jace. If I can only have you for a day, I’ll take it, rather than live my life with regret.”

“It won’t be just a day," he says, gripping your hand firmly, his eyes wide with emotion.

“I hope so.”

“I am still talking with my mother. We will find a way to keep us together.”

“I believe you,” you say, “But I don’t want to talk about the future anymore, uncertain as it is. I just want to be here with you tonight.”

Fuck, he could stay like this forever: his hands wrapped around your waist, yours on his shoulders, your soft lips locked with his. The evening had progressed to a couch in his chambers – neither of you ready to move to the bed just yet.

He had wanted this for so long, had imagined it a hundred times over. Never in his wildest dreams did he imagine you wanting him just as much. Never did he believe you would love him, too. And never did he imagine that kissing you would feel this good.

Your hand cups his jaw, drawing him closer. Your chest presses against his. He wants to pull you in, wants your bodies to become one, but he reminds himself that this is just the first night. There will be more to come.

“Jace,” you say, breaking away to catch your breath. He is not so eager to break contact. His arms wrap tighter around you, pulling you into his lap.

“Yes?” he says against your neck, his mouth traveling down the slender column. You breathe shakily, your body pressing into his when his tongue glides over the sensitive skin at your collarbone. He hums happily, exploring which parts make you press into him, which make you whimper.

“Jace,” you say again.

“Yes, Y/N?” he says, smiling against your molten skin.

“It’s getting late,” you say, whining when he bites softly, careful to not leave a mark. “I need to get back to my own chambers.”

“But there’s so much I’ve yet to explore,” he says, looking at you. Your pupils are blown wide, a sight that fills him with male satisfaction. He tastes your lips softly, in between smiles.

“Like what?” you ask. A wicked look passes over his face.

“Well,” he says, “Here.” He kisses the hinge of your jaw, relishing the arch of your back at his actions.

“Here.” He bites gently on your ear lobe.

“Jace,” you gasp.

“And I didn’t even get to these,” he says, his hand cupping your breast. “You have no idea how much I love these.”

Despite what you said, you kiss him again, falling back onto the couch as he continues to palm your breasts. His hands move down to your hips, gripping tightly, and holding you flush against him. But never any further than that.

You stay there for a long while. Each time you suggest that you need to leave, Jace manages to convince you to stay. Eventually though, you extract yourself from underneath him. For a moment, you just look at each other, the flushed skin, the clothes that hang awkwardly.

“I love you,” he says, smiling at you as you try to bring some semblance of order to your unruly hair. You look over at him, a soft smile on your own face.

“I’m glad for it,” you say. You stand, tugging at your dress, before presenting yourself to Jace. “How do I look?” you ask.

“Gorgeous,” he says, taking your hand, kissing up your arm.

“I mean,” you say with a laugh, pulling your arm from him, “Do I look presentable?” He stands and looks you over for a long moment, making you shake your head. He snakes his arm around your waist.

“You do,” he says, kissing your lips softly. Your arms wrap around him again, and for a second, he thinks he might convince you to stay. But you hum against his mouth and pull away. Your hand rests on his chest as you catch your breath.

“Stop doing that,” you say with a laugh.

“Doing what?”

“Making me want to stay.”

“Maybe,” he says, gripping your hips, pulling you against him. He knows you can feel how much he wants you, how much he has wanted you all night. “You should just stay.”

“It’s late,” you sigh.

“Another reason to stay.”

“Brigitta will be expecting me.”

“Maids are good at keeping secrets,” he says, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him gently. It’s the millionth time you’ve kissed him today, but still, each time feels like the first. Like it’s air, like it’s a touch he's waited for his whole life. “I have to go.”

“Let me walk you to your chambers at least,” he says as you pull from his grasp. His hand reaches for yours and trails out of it as you keep moving.

“I think I can make it on my own.”

“It’s late, you never know who might be prowling around the castle.”

“All the more reason to keep you protected, Your Highness,” you say, back resting against his door. Jace smiles, the title now feeling like a joke between the two of you, instead of propriety.

“I really can’t convince you to stay, can I?” he asks. You shake your head at him, a small smile on your face. “Very well.” He makes to open the door, but his hand instead rests against it, the other wraps around your waist, bringing your lips to his again. You gasp into the kiss, the sound making Jace practically feral with need. He holds you for a long while before you put a hand to his chest, bringing you both back to the present moment.

“Goodnight, Jace,” you say.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, reluctantly opening the door for you. Ser Harrold is stationed there still, and Jace feels a modicum of shame that the knight probably heard the last bit of your conversation. You exchange a look with him, your cheeks red with embarrassment, and you both laugh.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

“I look forward to it, My Prince.”

#jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys x you #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jacaerys velaryon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon fanfiction

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noxhalas · 1 year ago

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Happy 4/13! Here's a mix of old and new hyperfixation and my first drawing of The Gang! Here's some Classpects: laios - heir of blood falin - witch of life marcille - witch of void chilchuck - rogue of heart senshi - maid of life kabru - knight of blood

Spoiler characters under the cut!

Feel free to discuss other classpects and homestuck stuff for this au in here or tag me! I'd love to hear more about it.

mithrun - prince of hope thistle - bard of hope winged lion - lord of hope

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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 1 year ago

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My Body is a Cage

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Heavy angst, death. Word count: ~2.3k

Summary: When Aemond goes to Storm's End to offer a betrothal between his younger brother, Daeron, and one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters, he does not anticipate the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys, nor does he anticipate murdering him. He seeks comfort and reassurance in the arms of his betrothed, but soon finds she has neither to offer to a kinslayer... Based on this request.

Author's note: For @doomwhathouwilt Moodboard by the wonderful @flowerandblood. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

Grief is an impregnable fortress, an all consuming void that, once toppled into, feels impossible to escape. When grief turns to rage, there is the false belief that one has found freedom, however, it is merely the act of replacing the bars of a cage with anger instead of sorrow. The emotions vibrate at a differing frequency, yet the imprisonment is fortified with equally devastating consequences.

The air is thick as Aemond dismounts from Vhagar, the sulphurous stench of dragonfire clings to his leather riding coat like a shroud as his boots crunch heavily across the gravel, leading him back towards the imposing ruin of Harrenhal. His skin is hot, he can feel the soot that darkens the ends of his snow white hair also sticking to the flesh of his cheeks. There is no time to pause and wipe it away, not when duty awaits.

The heavy oak doors creak as he pushes them open, revealing the men that sit around the long table in the centre of the room - his war council - dwindled to a paltry number since the war began. They stand as he enters, each of them look ashen faced, none standing quite as proudly as they once had. He swallows thickly, before addressing them.

“Be seated,” he snaps dismissively. “Have the Riverlands been scouted? Do we have the final count of Houses that have fallen?”

How different life is now to what it was a year ago.

Aemond’s betrothal to Lady Fell had been a political arrangement, a bargaining tool utilised by his grandsire to secure loyalty to Aegon’s claim to the throne in the Stormlands. A lady in waiting for Helaena, it had made perfect sense, she was already present within the Keep, so their courtship could be easily managed.

Despite the formality of it, Aemond had grown to love her, and in turn she loved him. She was patient where he was quick to anger, forgiving where he was vengeful, all of the things he knew he did not deserve and yet yearned for just the same.

He basked in the glow of her radiant smile, his heart softening when she did not recoil from his disfigurement. With every stolen kiss in darkened corridors, every eager touch that lingered in places that decency dictated be saved for their wedding night, the burden of the injustice that had been bestowed upon him felt lighter to bear. Despite the hardships that had befallen him, his affection for her came easily, there was nothing simpler in his world.

Then his father, King Viserys, had passed away, and life for Aemond grew infinitely more complicated.

There had always been the unspoken intention that his mother and grandfather planned to challenge his half sister Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne, however, even he was surprised by the swiftness with which they moved to coronate Aegon. Further still, there was the responsibility that fell to him as second son to help assure his brother kept the throne that his family had made bold moves to secure.

Many of the lords that had sworn fealty to Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron Throne had long since passed, and she would surely be sending reminders to their heirs of the vows sworn more than a decade ago. It was up to Aemond to ensure that better offers were made in Aegon’s name.

With Daeron in Oldtown, Aemond was tasked with earning the fealty of The Stormlands. Despite his own impending marriage to Lady Fell, without the support of House Baratheon they would stand little chance of gaining any further support from that part of Westeros. In order to do this, he was to fly to Storm’s End to offer a marriage proposal between his younger brother and one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters.

He had been given a warm reception upon his arrival, and Lord Borros had readily accepted his offer. Aemond has chosen carefully for Daeron, desiring for him to have a match that would make him as happy as he was with Lady Fell. He had selected the youngest of the Four Storms, Floris. Closest in age to his sibling, and the most comely of her sisters, she had seemed the best suited. Aemond had felt satisfied that he could return to King’s Landing proud of what he had accomplished for his family.

What he hadn’t anticipated was the arrival of his nephew, Lucerys Velaryon.

When he saw the dark haired boy enter the hall, he had felt a phantom slash across the left side of his face, a malevolent rage simmered beneath the surface of his skin, barely concealed by the sinister smirk that tugged upwards at the corners of his mouth.

With every word that Lucerys uttered, Aemond’s mood grew darker. Was it not enough that his half sister’s bastard had taken his eye? Now he meant to take his brother’s birthright too.

As he had chased down Lucerys and Arrax on the back of Vhagar, he had only intended to scare him. If his nephew felt only a fraction of the fear that he had endured as a boy, as he had laid bleeding and maimed upon the dusty ground of Driftmark, then he would consider it a triumph, a reminder that there was a debt to be paid.

His heart had lurched when the jaws of his dragon had snapped around the body of the one they had been pursuing, sending both rider and mount toppling into the sea below. He had killed him. Yet the tears he wept as he made the sombre return home to King’s Landing were not for the death of Lucerys, they were for the consequences that his family would face as a result. The debt owed to Aemond had been paid in blood, and it would cost his family everything.

He had immediately sought out Lady Fell’s chambers upon his return to the Red Keep. The rain had dripped off of his riding leathers and onto the flagstone floor in cold rivulets as he had hovered in her doorway, eye wide and imploring.

She had rushed to him, grasping his forearms and pulling him inside. Her touch had immediately grounded him, calmed the pounding in his chest. It would all be alright in the end, how could it not be with her at his side?

“You will catch a fever like this,” she said with a soft laugh,”could you really not wait to get changed to see me?”

He raised a hand to stroke through her soft hair, loose and brushed through, ready for sleep. It was only as he did this that he realised he was trembling, and not from the cold.

“Aemond?” She asked, her brow furrowing with concern. “What is it?”

It would be fine. He could tell her this. She loved him. She would understand.

“I killed him,” he told her in a hushed tone, his eye reluctantly meeting hers.

Her lips had parted in shock, before she exhaled shakily. “Killed who?”

“Lucerys,” he told her, “I did not mean to, I only meant to frighten him, but I lost control, and now he is dead.”

He had expected her to embrace him, to tell him Lucerys had gotten what he deserved, that she would stand by him.

Instead, she had pulled away, and at the loss of her touch Aemond had felt as though he was in freefall. The warmth that usually filled her gaze when she looked upon him was filled with an emotion that he had never seen her direct at him before: fear.

His stomach had twisted into knots and his throat had grown dry as he’d taken a step towards her, hoping to bridge the gap between them, and instead she had furthered it by taking one backwards.

“Kinslayer,” she had whispered shakily. “Leave my chambers at once or I shall scream.”

He had turned and walked away without another word, a gaping void opening within his chest at the realisation that her love for him had died alongside Lucerys.

His world had seemed as though it was coming to an end when Lady Fell departed King’s Landing to return to Felwood. She was taking his heart with him, and he grieved the loss of her, alongside the knowledge that he had jeopardised his family’s prospects for an alliance with the Houses of the Stormlands.

Consumed by grief, her absence was never felt more than in the moments when his nephew, Jaehaerys, was murdered and Aegon was grievously injured in battle. He no longer had her to turn to for comfort, and so his sorrow turned to rage, hot as dragon’s fire. If the only person he had ever truly loved saw him as someone to fear, then he would become just that. The loss of her would not be for nothing.

It was this thought that had clouded his thoughts as he had seized Harrenhal, and put every person residing within to the sword. Every person except one: Alys Rivers. She was a witch, and the visions she conjured within fire aided him in his efforts in battle, though his uncle continued to evade him.

He had grown to love Alys, not in the same way he loved Lady Fell, but he felt that Alys was the match that he deserved. Lady Fell possessed a kind heart, a purity that Aemond could never dream of aspiring to. There was a darkness within Alys that paralleled his own, and so when she invited him to her bed, he did not resist.

There was no hushed laughter, or gentle caresses, the pair of them tore at each other like wild beasts, both of them pouring their malice into the other. There was no warmth to be found in her gaze, only a sharpness that served to encourage his bloodlust and desire for vengeance.

She had told him that she was expecting his child, and his thoughts had drifted to what could have been with his betrothed; a soft, happy bundle of joy that would have been all of the best parts of its mother. He wondered what qualities the bastard he had fathered upon Alys would possess, perhaps they had created the second coming of Maegor Targaryen. It would be no less than what he deserved.

When the news had reached him of Rhaenyra’s capture of King’s Landing, he was briefly thankful that Lady Fell no longer resided there, though enraged that he was not able to fly back to the capital to defend his family. If he ended his occupation of Harrenhal, then it would provide his uncle with the opportunity to seize it back.

The fear in Lady Fell’s eyes flashed through his mind once more. Fear. If he could inspire that, do any damage possible to his half sister’s plight, then he would. His losses would not be for nothing.

He was merciless as he mounted Vhagar and flew over the Riverlands, torching everything in his path. Every House that had sworn allegiance to Rhaenyra Targaryen would burn, for her capture of the capital would be meaningless with no supporters left to aid her.

It is in the wake of this that he stands, waiting to hear of the total losses of support to his half sister.

The maester clears his throat, unfurling a parchment upon the tabletop. “The final raven has just arrived, your grace,” he tells Aemond. “House Darry, House Blackwood, House Fell–”

“House Fell?” He interrupts, his blood turning to ice in his veins. ��Impossible, they are based in the Northern Stormlands.”

“Yes, your grace. However, there was a betrothal between the youngest daughter of House Fell and the youngest son of House Blackwood. Lord Fell and his family had been guests of Raventree Hall.”

Bile rises in his throat. He had killed her. The only good thing he had ever had in the world had died at his hands. She had been right to be afraid of him, and yet it had not helped to save her. He does not want to live a life where her goodness has been snuffed out. For every atrocity he has committed in the name of his family’s honour, he has known that the gentleness of her soul is a beacon of hope that there is goodness in humanity. Now there is nothing. He is trapped in a prison of his own making.

It has to end.

With the aid of Alys, he tracks Daemon to South of the Trident, West of the Kingsroad in the Southern Riverlands. His uncle is eagerly awaiting him.

As he kisses Alys, his usual ferocity is absent. His lips are soft and tender against hers, filled with unspoken devotion, the goodbye kiss he never got to give to his intended.

He knows this is a battle he will not return from as he chains himself into Vhagar’s saddle. The cage he is trapped in has only one means of escape.

Daemon is a savage opponent, and Aemond fights as though he has nothing to lose. What else could possibly be taken from him, when he has already deprived himself of it? As his uncle leaps from the back of Caraxes towards him, he does not resist, even as the blade of Dark Sister plunges brutally into the socket of his seeing eye.

His final thought as his body tumbles down towards the icy waters of the God’s Eye is that finally he is free, and if he could not reciprocate his true love’s purity in life then perhaps the Seven will see fit to grant him the opportunity to do so in death.

When grief is allowed to mutate into rage, it will become a person’s ruin, and none more so than that of Aemond Targaryen.

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jiminjamms · 1 year ago

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sex therapy :: 29. karma's a bitch

chapter tags/warnings: manipulative! naoya. naoya's anger issues continue. infidelity/adultery. extremely strong language. corruption. mentions of physical violence. family drama.

word count: 3.2k

notes: my sixty-hour work weeks have been taking a huge toll on me, so i apologize for this incredibly slow update. the good news is that i cannot take this corporate america bullshit anymore and will resign in the next two months. thank you for being patient! likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated. xoxo

fic masterlist | 01. 02. 03. 04. 05. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

Naoya had never felt this humiliated in his entire life.

When people said karma was a bitch, he never thought that it would actually make its way back to him. While he was not the most righteous person in the world, he was the Zenin CEO, for god’s sake! He was the leader to a multi-billion dollar conglomerate, the heir of a centuries-old bloodline.

Yet, here he was, charging back to his apartment like an irate animal.

He startled the lobby doormen upon his loud entry, and once he returned to his penthouse, he had to will every muscle in his body not to tear apart his abode in a rampage.

In his head, his encounter with Toji looped like a broken record, fueling his chagrin.

When Naoya sought to confront his cousin for the first time in months, he thought he had been prepared. He did not expect to end up digging himself into a deep hole surpassing the world's layers due to a judgment error—a slight miscalculation.

Correction: this miscalculation was anything but 'slight' because he wildly underestimated what felt like everything. Now, he bore the consequences of his mistakes after inadvertently turning himself into a laughingstock. Because his ego was his hamartia, he had become a mere jester in a story where he was meant to be the sole hero, and thus his ill feelings burned hotter than the surface of the Sun.

As much as he hated to admit this, Naoya had been shortsighted. He should have known better. Just weeks ago, he saw a vision filled with saccharine promises of a happy, comfortable life as the most powerful man in Japan imbued with power and wealth. He had been confident—a hundred percent certain—that absolutely nothing could go wrong in the trajectory he worked hard to create. But, what the actual fuck just happened at the therapist's office?!

He did not expect his mistress to make a complete fool out of him. Her very existence was an anathema to him, and he hoped to never be in contact with that woman ever again. In hindsight, Naoya should have taken the hint a while ago. He had previously forgiven his cousin's ex-wife, dismissing her blissful but intentional ignorance. Mari had never been too keen on actual intellectual and corporate matters, for she took far more interest in the money and comfort that came with starting from the bottom and sleeping her way to the top. Despite that, Naoya trusted that she at least had half the mind to not publicly discuss their affair, only for him to be proven wrong in front of none other than...Toji Fushiguro.

"Fuck!" Naoya screamed into the void of his empty living room. His reality was a nightmare as he thought about his despised cousin again—the assured gleam in his viridescent eyes, the smug smirk that tugged across his lips. The imagery soured his mood beyond measure. "I'm going to fucking—"

He did not finish his sentence.

Instead, he kicked a nearby lamp in an angry bout, toppling the fixture over and sending tiny shards cascading across the floor accompanied by the dull thud of the shade. Whatever. His housekeeper tomorrow morning would come in and clean that.

What he instead focused on was how he had never been this infuriated, this belittled, this undignified.

The entire apartment echoed with Naoya's loud huff.

'About ‘your wife’ or whatever you want to deem her, there is not a single chance in hell that she’d ever think about calling you her husband anymore.' These words from Toji affected him more than he would have liked.

What did he mean?

That bastard is bluffing, the blonde had to tell himself, yet even he could not believe in his own consolation.

He needed to do something about this.

No, no, Naoya wasn’t scared.

He couldn’t possibly be, right?!

Yet, after he could feel his ears begin to cool and breathing start to re-regulate, he stared at the emptiness in his halls as he came to the realization that had no better choice but to talk to you.

You didn't want to be here.

The moment you read Naoya Zenin's text to meet up for a 'quick chat' at the café near his office, you already knew that the upcoming conversation was going to be anything but 'quick.' The last thing you wished to do was to be in the same vicinity as that very man again.

After spending the last few days at your family residence, you had been showered with warm attention from aunts, uncles, cousins, and even house attendants who—despite naturally wondering the reason behind your stay—welcomed your visit with open arms. To your relatives' many inquiries, you forged a pretense that all was well even if all was not. (Besides, all did seem well in your family estate, away from the incessant pandemonium that was the Tokyo city center.)

While you knew that this peaceful break was not meant to last forever, you did not anticipate returning to the capital just to sit with the Zenin CEO alone.

Naoya had specifically chosen a corner table in the Hong Kong-inspired establishment, distanced from potential eavesdroppers. He seemed to have been waiting for a while by the time you arrived, his right leg crossed over his left knee as he twiddled with his thumbs impatiently. Sprawled on the table were a freshly brewed pot of jasmine tea and a platter of warm custard pastries.

He remained quiet as you took the seat across from him, observing with a crease on his forehead and a knit to his brows.

Anyone could tell that the blonde was not the least bit happy.

"Giving me dirty looks is not going to get this conversation anywhere," you pointed out while helping yourself to a tart.

From your comment, the inverted slope on Naoya's lips twisted into a deeper frown.

He did not understand where your annoyance came from.

Fine, he never treated you nicely either, but he did not expect you to snap at him when the discussion had hardly begun. You offered him no greetings, and Naoya also took great offense at how you chose not to look at him as you talked.

Truth be told, your neglect reminded him of all the other upsetting things that he was dying to bring up, and your unpleasant attitude whittled away the little restraint he had left.

“You didn’t try to ask where I’ve been. Not one text or call. Guess it would not have mattered to you if I disappeared, huh?" he lashed out through gritted teeth. He hated being forgotten, hated being looked over, and hated how easy it was for him to prove you to be a neglectful and apathetic wife.

Which was why there was no better option than to cut him off.

“You ordered me to leave you alone, Naoya.” Only slightly did you turn your head to glance at him. Stirring sugar into your tea, you kept your attention otherwise on the nearby window and watched businesspeople scurrying about on the streets on their lunch breaks. "You can live without my attention since I'm not the only woman you have around. What happened to your lady friend? Hasn't she been entertaining you long before our marriage? I am sure she would love your company, so why not pay her an impromptu visit?”

From a slanting angle, you could tell that the transformation from your normally calm demeanor dismayed him. Naoya, not you, was typically the one to make snide comebacks, but he could not deny your latest comments. Evidently, he wanted you to go back to your submissive and passive self, but that was precisely what you no longer could be for him.

His silence prompted you to reach into your purse and retrieve a thick manila envelope, and you presented the package on the table.

Naoya's gaze snapped to the parcel.

He was curious, but cautiously so. He had invited you here, expecting to control the narrative, to dictate the terms. As a result, your unexpected move threw him off balance.

"What...?"

“Take a look and find out for yourself.”

A puzzled Naoya demonstrated no hesitation.

He snatched the folder, tearing the top open and greedily grabbing the curated pieces inside. He stared for a long time at the first item: a photo. But he recognized the image of him and his mistress, boarding a private jet for their most recent trip to Mexico. Then, he flipped through the stack rapidly, barely registering each item before he turned to the next. Some were printed-out pictures and others were cutouts from news articles, but all featured him and his paramour. The confusion on Naoya's visage slowly morphed into aggravation, and when he finished his inspection, he forcefully threw the items back onto the table.

In the end, Naoya sat back and went still, not even blinking, thinking, or doing anything but pressing his tongue along his inner cheek. "How did you get these?"

No apologies. No remorse.

Hell, based on his response, the man could not even bother to deny your accusations, a telling sign of how little he could care for his relationship with you. Obviously, you must be a joke to him.

In one firm motion, you placed down your teacup.

"You're missing the point.”

While one's eyes may be the windows to the soul, Naoya's offered nothing in his current state. His pupils looked at—no, examined you in intense dark pools despite the iridescent glow from the lights above.

"Toji gave you these, didn't he?" Naoya continued with a disdainful laugh, himself insistent on getting answers to his own questions. "You can't find this shit on the internet anymore since I've had them all taken down. But Toji's fast. He has eyes everywhere, I know he does. Look at him. Months later, and he's still hung up on reclaiming a position he should've never had the right to in the first place!"

Thankfully, you didn’t flinch from his loud voice. What you did do was become more indifferent as if you were placing a wall to separate yourself from him, mentally bracing for his emotional maelstrom.

"You are missing the point," you said once more. This time, you shook your head in disappointment, and your tone was far more frustrated than the last. "Aren't you shameless?”

"Me? Shameless?!” His brows pinched closer from fury. "Take a look at yourself, woman! What did you do to get all this dirt from Toji and his henchmen, hm? Ha! Know what? I bet it’s because you're so willing to spread yourself for them,” he rambled with a nasty sneer plastered on his expression. At his comments, your jaw fell open before snapping shut as the meaning behind his words sank in. The way this man disregarded how he had an affair (that began many months ago!) only to redirect the spotlight onto you was repulsing, implying that the sole reason the therapists talked to you was that you had slept around. “A whore like you love taking all them all, don’t you? Well? Well? Am I right? Goddamn, you’re such a—”

The harsh scraping from your chair as you stood was what finally interrupted him. Unable to tolerate his vilification, you counteracted his anger with the venom in your rancorous glare.

"How dare you talk about me like that!”

In the meantime, prying eyes started to turn in your direction from the commotion: teenage girls, sharing nervous glances across their table; a lone businessman, stopping mid-sip from his cappuccino; even the barista, pausing mid-grind such that her arm froze inches from the hopper.

"That man...doesn't he seem familiar?" a distant voice asked.

"Is he a celebrity or something?"

"No, wait. He's the person on the cover of last month's Fortune magazine. Naoya Zenin!" another replied.

"Isn't that lady his wife?"

While the onlookers' curious glances turned into full-on stares, their regard steeled your resolve rather than bothered you. Instead, you wanted the crowd to take in the spectacle. Corrupt tricks and dirty money had long painted the Zenin heir as 'the most perfect man in Japan,' and the public deserved to understand the fraudulence and cruelty that underlaid his facade.

"For months, I trusted you. I respected you. I put aside the harrowing loneliness weighing on my heart all because I tried to understand you. You told me that finding the time or energy for our marriage was not easy because board meetings kept you late in the office or business meetings required you to spend several nights abroad. Fine! So, I had been patient. But," and your voice overflowed from anger as you pointed a shaking finger at the pictures on the table, "Taking another woman to Michelin restaurants for dinners? Spending nights with her at Ritz-Carltons and Four Seasons? Going on entire vacations with her across the Pacific? All while you had a wife at home? Are you out of your fucking mind ?!"

The man's nose flared with deep-seated rage, his eyes mirroring the same bitterness in yours. "At the end of the day," he began sternly, "we're still married."

Ridiculous.

“On paper, ” you had to clarify. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be cheating on me with your older cousin's ex-wife."

Immediately, louder murmurs rippled through the crowd. Naoya turned stiff, uncomfortable with the attention. So much for selecting a quiet corner in the café. He wasn’t stupid enough to sense that he had to be careful. Saying one wrong phrase would condemn him to a public meltdown.

However, you were already steps ahead of him when you loudly declared: “I’m filing for a divorce.”

That caught him off guard.

Your announcement even drew audible astonishment from bystanders as they stopped their meals, turning to each other and drawing out their phones.

In literal milliseconds, the vexation once riddling Naoya's demeanor shifted into denial.

“No. We’re not going to talk about a fucking divorce right now. We’re going to fix what we have, and you’re going to come back to me. We’re...We're married for a reason, and we’re going to keep with it!”

"That's a bullshit reason,” you had to snap. “Listen to yourself. Do you hear how selfish you sound!?" At this point, nothing could hide your bafflement. "Naoya, you were the one who said that if I wanted to leave this marriage badly, then I should leave. Ask Mai and Maki! They heard the entire conversation. Didn't you also say that you didn't give a fuck anymore?"

The man attempted to salvage some semblance of control. "I was just joking!"

"No, you were not." Picking up a photo of Naoya and Mari together, you pressed the picture to his face. “How much more can I take? How many days would I still have to go through alone in the penthouse, all because you would be spending your sweet time with the woman that you love?”

Unloading all this emotional baggage, not only for Naoya Zenin but also for the café spectators to hear, took courage. Previously, you would have let the burden gnaw at your soul. You would have rather wallowed in suffering rather than even think about speaking up.

But the past was the past, and you had grown immensely since then. Currently, you were stronger, more confident. You knew that, in Toji's words, you deserved better. Life was too beautiful to waste on a man who did not love or respect you and, with that in mind, you relaxed your clenched fists with an exhausted and fatigued sigh.

You broke me first, you said through a deserted gaze.

Naoya Zenin was the reason why you had become the way you were: a cold, seemingly heartless wife who cared none for her husband. The misery that he placed on your shoulders finally reached its limit, and while you could forgive, forgetting the memories in your scarred heart would be a task over months, years, and even a lifetime.

“Listen,” you began, tone terse, “this divorce will set you free. Mari is the person whom you need—”

“The hell. No!” the man interrupted in a violent outburst, taking your breath away as he slammed the table and hissed. “I don't give a damn about her right now! We’re…We’re over!" he snarled with incredible anger such that he almost appeared to growl. "I don’t need her, I need you! That...That whore doesn't give a flying fuck about my shit! All she cares about is...is...Fuck this. All she wants is the money. Why else do you think she married and then later divorced Toji? She doesn't want to hear about all the shit in my family because she had not been brought up to deal with all the fuckin' drama in my household. She can't understand because, unlike you, she wasn't born with a silver spoon shoved down her goddamn throat!"

Quietly, you absorbed his words, stunned.

So this was how their relationship had been.

You had not expected him to reveal all these entrenched feelings willingly, but his concoction between reckless rage and sheer desperation had allowed him to spill the ugly side of this extramarital affair. Naoya could not afford to lose you, and not just because this marriage solidified the respect of those around him. While Mari offered him an outlet for physical indulgence, only you could offer the cornerstone to Naoya's mental and social fortitude.

“So you ‘need’ me now, but what happens when you find another reason to hate me again? What will you do if you don’t think I can fulfill the role you want me to have as your partner? Or if you wake up one day and suddenly want your cousin’s ex-wife again? Or if you meet another woman? Am I supposed to stand there again, and watch this all happen?"

No answer.

The fact that he couldn't respond hurt.

"My decision is final. Looking back, I despised every single second married to you. In fact, I feel sorry for myself. The fact that I blindly put up with your manipulation, betrayal, and blame for all these months.” With your belongings collected, you prepared to leave. “You would be stupid to think you're the only one with options, you know.”

Only when you turned around did Naoya react, scrambling to his feet.

“What the fuck are you—”

In any other situation, he would have grabbed you, lunged at you, did everything in his power to stop you from going. Yet, given all the witnesses, all he could do was call you back like a helpless child, trying his best to not escalate the scene (although, at this point, even passerbys outside have stopped by the window to spectate).

"Hey!" Naoya called after you. “Hey! I’m still talking with you!”

Pathetic, really, to see him desperately beg for you to stay in his life.

There was a certain satisfaction in finally having the control at your fingertips. The feeling was empowering—electrifying, even—and you became so focused on the gratification that you barely registered Naoya's last question.

“Where are you going?”

At this point, you already stood by the exit.

“That’s not something that my soon-to-be ex-husband would need to know,” and you hardly gave him another glance as the door closed behind you. “Thank you for showing me everything I hope to never find in another man again."

last chapter || next chapter

end notes: Part of why this update took so long was because I wanted to have an encounter between Naoya and Y/N to showcase Y/N’s development, from someone who thoughtlessly defended her husband to someone who could stand up for herself (all while alone!). I envisioned this interaction many times, and I thought about different ways to approach the scene, the delivery, the dialogue, the choreography, etc. It took me a while to go for what I currently have. Thank you for reading!

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287 notes · View notes

novaursa · 9 months ago

Note

we know that Aemond can be very obsessive.

What if the hand of his little sister was given to a lord in exchange of an army but that happens when he killed Luke. When he came back to King’s Landing he heard the new from Aegon and goes into an furious anger

He threatened her future husband and maybe even end up killing him.

Blood and Vows

- Summary: While Aemond was at Strom's End, your family gave you away to Tyrell Lord in exchange for support of the Highgarden. But you were Aemond's, and only his.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 18+

- Word count: 2 900+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've changed the thing with future husband slaying a little. I think this fits better. I hope you don't mind.

The torches flicker along the narrow halls of the Red Keep as Aemond strides with purpose, his cloak billowing behind him, the faint scent of salt and sea clinging to his skin. The echo of his boots against the stone floors is the only sound accompanying him as he makes his way toward the council chambers, where his mother and grandsire await. The weight of what he has done hangs heavily upon him, yet he feels no regret, only a dark satisfaction that lingers in his chest. Luke is dead. But in the cold aftermath, another gnawing thought takes root—you. The one person whose absence has left a void he cannot ignore.

When he finally reaches the doors of the council chamber, the guards open them, revealing Alicent and Otto, both already seated and deep in conversation. Their eyes snap to him as he enters, their expressions shifting from curiosity to alarm as they take in his appearance—the dampness of his clothing, the exhaustion that lines his face, and the unmistakable tension in his jaw.

“Aemond,” Alicent’s voice is laced with concern as she stands, her hands trembling slightly. “What has happened?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead pacing to the center of the room, gathering his thoughts. How to tell them? How to make them understand that what he has done was necessary, that it was just? He looks at his mother, her eyes searching his, then to his grandsire, whose gaze is sharp and calculating, always weighing the advantages, the risks.

“It’s done,” Aemond finally says, his voice steady but cold. “Lucerys Velaryon is dead.”

Alicent gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as she stumbles back a step. Otto, though shocked, is quicker to recover, his mind already racing with the implications.

“By your hand?” Otto asks, though the answer is clear.

Aemond meets his grandsire’s gaze, unflinching. “Yes.”

The silence that follows is thick with tension, Alicent’s horror palpable in the air. She closes the distance between them, grasping Aemond’s arm as if to steady herself, as if to make sure he’s still there and not some ghost conjured by her fears.

“What have you done?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “You’ve started a war, Aemond.”

“There was already a war,” Aemond replies, his tone devoid of remorse. “I’ve only struck the first blow.”

Otto, ever the strategist, cuts in before Alicent can respond. “The boy was heir to Driftmark, and his death will provoke a retaliation we are not prepared for. We need allies—more than ever.”

Aemond barely hears him. His mind is already drifting elsewhere, to you, to the knowledge that you are far from him, being promised to another. The thought is like a blade twisting in his gut.

“I’ve ensured that the Greens will not be seen as weak,” Aemond continues, his voice darkening as he pushes past his mother, toward Otto. “But we must be prepared. Daemon will not let this go unanswered.”

“Indeed,” Otto mutters, his hand rubbing his chin in thought. “The timing could not be worse. At least your sister has already been promised to Lord Tyrell. The Reach’s support will be crucial when the storm inevitably comes.”

The mention of your name pulls Aemond’s attention sharply. His gaze snaps to Otto, and his heart pounds in his chest, the rage simmering beneath his calm exterior flaring dangerously.

“No.” The word is spoken softly, but it carries an unmistakable weight.

Otto’s eyes narrow slightly, the hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Aemond, you understand the importance of this alliance. Your sister’s marriage to Lord Tyrell will secure—”

“She will not marry him,” Aemond interrupts, his voice low and filled with menace. “I will not allow it.”

“Aemond!” Alicent’s voice is frantic, pleading. “You cannot speak this way. It is already arranged—”

“Arrangements can be broken,” Aemond growls, his one eye blazing with a dangerous light. “She belongs here, with us. With me.”

The intensity of his words sends a chill through the room, and for a moment, even Otto is at a loss for words. Alicent’s hand trembles as she reaches out to her son, her voice a whisper now. “Aemond… she is your sister.”

“She is mine,” he hisses, his voice low and possessive. “Not some pawn to be traded for power. I will bring her back. I will make sure of it.”

Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, and she looks to Otto for support, but Otto remains silent, calculating, weighing the balance of power that is ever shifting. He knows Aemond, knows the fire that burns in him, and realizes that to challenge him now would be to ignite that fire into something uncontrollable.

“Aemond,” Otto finally says, carefully choosing his words. “You must be careful. The decisions you make now could determine the future of this realm.”

“The future is already determined,” Aemond replies coldly, turning on his heel to leave. “I will bring her back. And woe to anyone who stands in my way.”

As he exits the room, his heart is set. There is no power in this world that can keep you from him. You are his blood, his fire, and he will see to it that you are where you belong—by his side, bound to him as tightly as dragon and rider.

Aemond mounts Vhagar that night, the storm in his heart mirroring the one that brews on the horizon. Highgarden may be far, but for Aemond Targaryen, no distance is too great, no obstacle too daunting. He will have you back, and not even the gods themselves will stand in his way.

The night air is sharp as Vhagar soars above the clouds, her massive wings beating rhythmically as she slices through the sky. The stars are scattered like silver dust across the dark expanse, and below, the world is nothing but a distant shadow. The wind rushes past you, cold and biting, but you feel none of it. Your focus is entirely on your destination—Highgarden, where you are waiting, unaware of the storm that is about to descend upon you.

Aemond’s grip tightens on Vhagar’s reins as he leans forward, urging the ancient dragon to go faster. Every beat of her wings carries him closer to you, and every moment that passes without you by his side is a moment too long. The image of you haunts his mind, more vivid than any memory. He sees you as you were the last time he laid eyes upon you, your features softened by the firelight, your eyes shining with a warmth that you never quite showed to anyone else, not even to him.

But he saw it—felt it. That warmth was meant for him, only him. The thought of you being offered to another, of you standing before some lord of the Reach, promising yourself to a man who is not him, fills him with a fury that threatens to consume him. You are his sister, yes, but more than that, you are his. The very idea that you could be taken from him, that you could be used as a pawn in this game of thrones, is unbearable.

The wind howls louder as Vhagar dips lower, closer to the earth. The landscape below becomes clearer—the rivers, the hills, the forests that stretch on for miles. Aemond’s thoughts drift to the conversations he had overheard, the whispers in the corridors of the Red Keep, the plans that had been laid out without his knowledge. They had decided your fate as if you were nothing more than a chess piece to be moved at their whim. His mother, his grandsire—they thought they were securing an alliance, strengthening the Greens’ position in the war that loomed on the horizon.

But they were wrong. They had miscalculated. You were not a piece to be played with. You were a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and you belonged to him. Aemond’s heart pounds in his chest as he thinks of how it must have felt for you, to be sent away to Highgarden, to be kept away from the family, from him. Did you feel abandoned? Did you think he had forgotten you, that he had let them send you off without a second thought?

The thought gnaws at him, a festering wound. He had always been there for you, had always protected you, even when others sought to control your fate. And now, when you needed him most, he had been miles away, lost in the chaos of war and duty. But no longer. He would not let anyone—his grandsire, his mother, not even the King himself—decide what was to become of you. That was his right alone.

As the dark silhouette of Highgarden comes into view on the horizon, Aemond’s heart races with a wild intensity. Vhagar lets out a deep, resonant growl, sensing the anticipation in her rider. The sprawling fortress, with its high walls and lush gardens, is a beacon in the night, but to Aemond, it is nothing more than a cage that holds you captive.

He thinks of you again, wondering if you’re awake, if you feel his approach, if your thoughts are with him as his are with you. The bond between you has always been strong, stronger than anyone could understand. Even when you were children, you had always been drawn to each other, a connection that went beyond mere blood. It was as if you were two halves of the same soul, destined to be together, to complete each other.

The idea of you marrying another, of giving yourself to another man, fills him with a possessiveness that borders on madness. He can’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you, holding you, claiming you. You are his, and he will make sure the world knows it.

As Vhagar circles Highgarden, Aemond’s thoughts become clearer, sharper. He will take you back, and he will do whatever it takes to ensure that you are never taken from him again. The Reach may offer its armies, its loyalty, but it will do so on his terms, not because they have taken you from him.

With a final command, Vhagar descends, her massive form casting a shadow over the land below. Aemond’s pulse quickens as he imagines your face when you see him, when you realize that he has come for you. He pictures the relief, the joy that will light up your eyes when you understand that he will never let you go.

As he prepares to land, his mind is filled with only one thought, one burning desire—to have you by his side, where you belong. And this time, no one will stand between you and him. You are his, and soon, the world will know it.

The ground trembles as Vhagar lands just outside the walls of Highgarden, her massive wings folding against her sides with a rush of air. The sound reverberates through the night, startling the guards and servants of the Tyrell household who have never seen a dragon so close. They scatter like leaves in the wind, their fear palpable as Aemond dismounts, his dark cloak swirling around him like a storm. His mind is set, his purpose clear. You will leave this place with him, and nothing—not even the Lord of Highgarden—will stand in his way.

He strides toward the castle, his steps purposeful, each one echoing with the cold determination that grips him. The great doors to Highgarden open before him, revealing a grand hall bathed in candlelight. The Tyrell banners hang from the walls, their golden roses a stark contrast to the fire and blood that courses through Aemond’s veins.

At the far end of the hall stands Lord Tyrell, a man of considerable girth and wealth, though neither his stature nor his riches can save him now. He watches Aemond’s approach with a mixture of unease and defiance, his gaze flicking nervously to the massive shadow of Vhagar that looms just beyond the doors.

“You’ve come a long way, Prince Aemond,” Lord Tyrell says, his voice trying—and failing—to sound cordial. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Aemond’s eye narrows, his gaze cutting through the lord like a blade. “Where is she?”

Lord Tyrell’s composure falters for a brief moment, but he quickly recovers, straightening his shoulders. “Your sister is under my protection, as per the arrangements made by the Crown. She is to marry my son in due course, as we agreed. The union will—”

“Where is she?” Aemond’s voice is sharp, filled with a dangerous edge that silences the room. The air grows thick with tension as the threat in his words becomes clear.

Lord Tyrell’s face pales slightly, and he hesitates before nodding to a servant, who quickly rushes out of the hall to fetch you. Aemond waits, his gaze never leaving the lord who dares to think he can keep you from him.

“You must understand, Prince Aemond,” Lord Tyrell begins, his tone now laced with a hint of desperation, “this marriage was arranged for the good of the realm. It will bring the Reach’s strength to your cause, solidify—”

Aemond takes a step forward, his presence menacing, his eye blazing with a fury that makes the lord take an involuntary step back. “The only thing this marriage will bring is your death if you do not return her to me now.”

The words hang in the air, the weight of them suffocating. Lord Tyrell’s face blanches completely as he realizes that Aemond is not here to negotiate or to parley. He is here to take what is his.

Before the lord can respond, you are brought into the hall, flanked by two servants. Your eyes widen as you see Aemond standing there, his expression one of fierce determination. Relief washes over you, mixed with fear for what might happen next.

“Aemond,” you breathe, taking a hesitant step toward him.

In two strides, he closes the distance between you, his hand reaching out to take yours, pulling you to him as if to assure himself that you are real, that you are safe. His grip is firm, possessive, and the moment his fingers entwine with yours, you feel the undeniable truth of his words—he is here to take you away, to claim you as his own.

“This is madness,” Lord Tyrell stammers, his voice shaking now. “She is betrothed to my son. You cannot simply take her—”

“She was never yours to give,” Aemond snaps, his voice low and dangerous. “She is mine.”

With those words, the last vestiges of Lord Tyrell’s composure crumble. “This is treason! You cannot—”

But Aemond has heard enough. His free hand moves with the swiftness of a serpent, and before anyone can react, his sword is drawn and buried deep in Lord Tyrell’s chest. The lord gasps, his eyes wide with shock and pain as he collapses to the floor, blood pooling beneath him. The hall is silent, save for the dying man’s gurgling breaths, and the eyes of every witness are fixed on Aemond, none daring to move, to speak, to challenge the dragon prince who stands before them.

You stare at the fallen lord, your heart pounding in your chest, but when you look up at Aemond, his expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on you.

He sheathes his sword, and with a voice that is as cold as ice, he speaks to the room. “Anyone who wishes to dispute my claim on my sister, speak now.”

No one moves. No one speaks. Fear grips them all as they realize that to oppose Aemond Targaryen is to invite death upon themselves. And with Vhagar just outside, there is no doubt that the prince’s wrath would be swift and unforgiving.

Aemond turns to you, his eye softening just slightly, though the intensity of his gaze remains. “We’re leaving,” he says, his voice gentler now, meant only for you. “You’re coming with me.”

You nod, unable to find the words, but knowing that there is no other choice. You’ve always known that Aemond would come for you, that he would never let anyone take you away from him. And now, as you stand beside him, the reality of his promise is clearer than ever.

He leads you out of the hall, his hand still gripping yours, guiding you back to where Vhagar waits. The great dragon lowers her head as you approach, her eyes gleaming in the darkness. Aemond helps you mount, his hands firm but gentle as they guide you into the saddle before he takes his place behind you.

As Vhagar rises into the sky, Aemond’s arms wrap around you, holding you close. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his body shielding you from the cold night air. His voice, when he speaks, is low and filled with a fierce determination.

“We will be married,” he vows, his breath warm against your ear. “No one will take you from me again.”

You close your eyes, letting the wind whip through your hair as Vhagar carries you both far from Highgarden, far from the reach of anyone who might try to come between you. And in that moment, you know that Aemond’s promise is one that will never be broken.

He is your brother, your protector, your everything—and he will do whatever it takes to keep you by his side.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen

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daveymaybe · 2 years ago

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sorry i keep forgetting to check my piccassol this is fucking gold

here's a picture of me and the heir of void hanging out in my tumblr house, im showing him my weird fucked up inbox and using my soundboard ( that im holding ) to call people pieces of shit

#homestuck #homestuck fanart #that me right there #not dave strider i dont know who that is #thats me. like in my pfp which is a picture of me #classpect tag #[ heir of void tag ]

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sulkingheichou012 · 2 months ago

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Into the Dungeon with You

Pairing: Jinwoo x Reader

Genre: RomCom, Action, Future Smut

Warning: Description of violence and profanity.

Summary: Jinwoo frowned as a new system notification appeared before him.

[Special Reward Successfully Claimed.]

Author's note: I'm happy that some of you are enjoying my silly work! Yes, if you're asking to be tagged—sure! 😊

Chapter 14

The Gate of Origin loomed like an ancient wound in reality, a scar left from a time before names and monarchs. Jinwoo stood before it, his shadow legion silent behind him. Bellion shifted uneasily, his golden eyes wary.

“Bellion,” Jinwoo said quietly. “This was where Ashborn once came to seek answers.”

Bellion stood tall, his massive blade resting on his shoulder.

“My King… are you sure?” Bellion’s voice was low.

Jinwoo’s gaze didn’t waver. “She’s waiting.” Then he pushed forward, the black mist swirling as the gate opened with a sound like cracking bone.

He stepped into silence. A place where stars flickered like dying embers and gravity held no dominion. And there, seated atop a massive throne of fractured light and darkness intertwined, was Raizel—the Monarch of Origin.

His silver hair floated weightlessly, and his eyes, golden and deep as the void, tracked Jinwoo’s approach with slow, deliberate calculation.

“You have grown, Ashborn’s heir,” Raizel murmured. His voice was smooth, but something ancient and dangerous coiled beneath it. “Yet, you come here… crawling.”

Jinwoo’s jaw tensed. “I didn’t come to kneel.”

Raizel’s thin lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “No. You never did, did you?” He rose from his throne with languid grace, as if gravity was beneath him. “You never surrendered her to me. Not when I first asked. Not when I warned you.” His gaze gleamed. “And now you beg for what I could have prevented.”

Jinwoo’s fingers curled into fists, shadows writhing around his arms. “You mean what you wanted to claim.” He took a step forward, dark tendrils rising behind him. “She’s not a possession.”

Raizel’s laughter was cold. “Everything is a possession. Even you. Ashborn knew that in the end.” He studied Jinwoo like a disappointed teacher. “She was always more than you understood. The Balance Keeper… the one who holds the line between life and death, creation and destruction.”

Jinwoo’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t care what you call her.” He met Raizel’s gaze without flinching. “She’s Y/N.”

Raizel’s smile finally cracked wider, sharp and mocking. “And you love her.” He walked in a slow circle around Jinwoo, as if measuring him for something. “You think that matters? That love will anchor her back to you? Foolish boy.” His voice dropped, smooth and cruel. “Love is why she chose to disappear.”

Jinwoo’s breath hitched, but he refused to look away. “She chose to save us.”

Raizel nodded slowly. “And you let her.”

The words cut deeper than Jinwoo expected.

Raizel came to stand in front of Jinwoo again, his presence suffocating, heavy with ageless power. “She belongs in my realm. With me.” His golden gaze softened with something almost resembling regret—or longing. “I offered her eternity, once. She refused. Because of you.” His tone sharpened. “And now, she’s trapped in oblivion. Untethered. You, Shadow Monarch, have no right to demand her return.”

Jinwoo’s shadow flared. “I’m not demanding,” he said quietly. “I’m taking her back.”

For a long moment, Raizel said nothing. Then, with a lazy flick of his fingers, the space around them twisted—revealing visions: Y/N closing the portals, standing on her shadow dragon, smiling faintly as her body turned into radiant dust.

“She was… radiant,” Raizel murmured. “Even at the end.”

Jinwoo’s throat worked. He forced himself to speak. “Show me the way to The Well of Beginnings”

Raizel’s golden eyes gleamed brighter. He extended his hand, fingers tipped in faint light. “The place where no Shadow Monarch dares. To The Well of Beginnings?”

His tone darkened.

"Well then…. But there is a price... When you find her… you’ll have to choose: restore her… or restore the world.”

Jinwoo clenched his jaw. “I’ll save her.”

Raizel smiled faintly, like a man watching a beautiful tragedy unfold. “If you fail… I’ll claim what’s left of her. And next time… I won’t ask.”

Jinwoo’s shadows coiled tighter, his teeth grit. “You’ll never touch her.”

Raizel’s crimson gaze glowed. “We’ll see.”

Raizel had shown him the way. Silent as ever, his gaze heavy with knowledge Jinwoo barely understood. The key shimmered faintly in his hand, ancient power humming beneath his fingers.

Jinwoo stood at the threshold of a forgotten ruin, half-buried beneath time and dust. This was the place—the door to the Abyss of the Well of Beginnings. A place no Monarch or Ruler had ever dared enter. A place only he could open.

“This is it,” he murmured. His voice was low, but steady. No more hesitation. No more waiting.

“I’ll bring her home.”

[System Alert]

Entering Quest: “The Well of Beginnings”

Difficulty: [Unknown]

Success Rate: [???]

Proceed? [YES] | [NO]

Jinwoo didn’t hesitate. [YES]

The portal swallowed them in silence.

Raizel did not follow them into the Well. He remained behind, his golden eyes gleaming as he watched the scar in reality slowly mend itself.

“She was never yours, Ashborn’s heir,” he murmured. His fingers traced the faint scar over his heart—an old wound, from a time when he first laid eyes on the Balance Keeper. “Y/N belongs to the one who endures.” A faint smile curved his lips. “And I will endure long after you’ve fallen.”

He turned away, his mind already savoring the thought of her return. But not to Jinwoo.

The Abyss yawned open before him—an endless darkness at the bottom of the Well of Beginnings. Jinwoo stood at the edge, the obsidian key that had given him pulsing with a steady, ancient heartbeat in his palm. Every instinct screamed at him to be cautious. But he had already made his choice.

He stepped forward.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, gravity itself seemed to vanish. Jinwoo was falling, yet not falling—drifting through an expanse of infinite night. Then came the pulse. A deep, resonating beat that echoed through his very soul.

[You have entered: The Abyss of the Well of Beginnings.]

[Commencing Memory Restoration.]

A flood of memories surged, but they weren’t his alone. He saw her. Y/N. But not as she was now. No… this was different.

The first life. Raizel stood alone at the peak of his kingdom. The last of the Noblesse. Yet, there was someone beside him in those quiet moments. A woman whose silver hair glowed under the moonlight, her eyes filled with endless loyalty and sorrow. She called him My King, but her smile… it was soft, familiar. Like the one Y/N gave him now when she thought he wasn’t looking.

[Synchronization Rate: 33%…]

The second life. Ashborn. The Monarch of Shadow. The last of the rulers to hold the line against oblivion.

He stood atop a battlefield drenched in the blood of Monarchs and Rulers alike. His wings, darker than night, spread wide as the world crumbled around him. Yet even in his absolute power, he couldn’t save her.

Her body was breaking apart—turning to dust—her essence sacrificed to destroy an enemy they could not defeat otherwise.

“Why…?” Ashborn’s voice was not a growl, nor a roar—it was the low, broken whisper of a god losing the last piece of his humanity. He dropped to his knees as her ashes slipped between his fingers. His clawed hands, stained with ancient blood, trembling.

“I told you… I would stay by your side,” she whispered, her soul flickering like a dying flame in his grasp. “And you did,” he murmured. And then she was gone.

Ashborn raised his head, his hollow gaze turning toward the skies that wept fire. His fury and grief became a storm that tore through creation. That was the day the Shadow Monarch renounced the war. That was the day he became death itself.

[Synchronization Rate: 67%…]

The third life. Jinwoo. Himself.

He felt it as if it were happening now. His heart pounding, his lungs crushed under the weight of invisible hands.

Her form dissolved against his chest, leaving faint warmth and motes of light behind.

“No. No, no, no… Please... not like this…” Jinwoo’s hands scrambled to hold her together, but his fingers passed through smoke and fading light.

And she was gone.

And for the first time, Jinwoo understood why Ashborn had fallen to his knees. Because he did too.

[Synchronization Complete.]

His hands clenched at his sides as the memories settled into him like old armor finally reforged.

[New Title Acquired: The Trinity of Existence.]

[Hidden Trait Unlocked: Soulbound Fate.]

[Description: Your soul and hers have been entwined through three lives. This bond transcends life and death. Fate itself has tied your existences together.]

[Hidden Passive Skill Unlocked: Absolute Dominion.]

[Description: You have ascended beyond the concept of Monarch and King. Absolute Dominion grants you the power to exert complete control over your domain, shadows, and the battlefield itself.]

Jinwoo opened his eyes. They glowed faintly violet, layered over the abyssal black of his shadows. And yet, the first thing he looked for wasn’t power.

The pain was unbearable.

Jinwoo’s breath came in shallow bursts as he dropped to his knees, one hand bracing himself against the cold obsidian ground of the Abyss. His other hand clutched at his temple, trying to hold his mind together as memories—no, lifetimes—flooded in all at once. Raizel. Ashborn. Himself.

Their grief. Their rage. Their love.

And then, amidst the chaos, a hand. Soft. Warm. Familiar.

Slender fingers combed gently through his hair, gliding down to cradle his cheek. He flinched at first, but the touch was grounding. Calming. It pulled him out of the storm in his mind and into something quieter. Safer.

“Rest, Jinwoo,” came the gentle whisper, so close it ghosted over his ear. “You’ve carried enough… let me hold you now.”

His throat tightened as he turned his head. It was her. Y/N.

Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid starlight, her violet eyes soft, full of understanding and something deeper. She knelt before him, straddling his lap now, as if she’d always belonged there, her body so close. Her fingers trailed from his cheek down to his throat, then lower, her hand resting lightly on his chest—right over his heart.

He didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

His hand reached for her almost desperately, fingers brushing along the curve of her waist, up her side, feeling the familiar dip where her ribs were. His palm slid over the small of her back as he drew her closer. He needed to feel her—confirm that she was there, real, warm. And she was. Warm. Soft. Alive beneath his touch.

“Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against the edge of his jaw, her breath feather-light on his skin. “Stay with me,” she whispered. “Just for a while. You’ve done enough.”

His hands roamed without thinking—up her back, over her shoulder, down the slope of her thigh. She felt right under his hands, like she belonged there. He let his forehead rest against hers, closing his eyes as his hands gripped her hips, needing to anchor himself to something that wasn’t pain, wasn’t war.

God, he missed her.

For a heartbeat, he was tempted. To stay. To let go.

But something was wrong.

His brow furrowed as his thumb idly traced the curve of her hip, then slid to her hand where it rested on his chest. He took it gently in his, feeling the smoothness of her fingers. Too smooth. No calluses from gripping her scythe. No faint scars from battle.

His heartbeat slowed. His eyes opened.

This wasn’t Y/N.

Jinwoo’s grip shifted, tightening on her wrist. He pulled her hand up between them, staring at it. Perfect. Flawless. Wrong.

“The real Y/N would never ask me to stop,” he murmured. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the illusion like a blade. “She’d tell me to get up. To keep fighting. To stand with her.” He looked up, meeting her gaze—but now it was different. The softness faded, replaced by something hollow, predatory.

“You almost had me,” Jinwoo said, his tone cold now, even as his heart ached.

The illusion’s lips curled back in a mocking smile. “You wanted to stay.” “I wanted her,” he corrected. “You’re not her.”

His shadow erupted, tendrils lashing out to wrap around the false Y/N, lifting her into the air as her form distorted, flickering with static before revealing something monstrous beneath.

“You’ll never be her,” Jinwoo finished.

With a pulse of Absolute Dominion, the shadow constricted. The illusion shattered into ash and smoke, swept away by the currents of his domain.

Jinwoo stood slowly, his breathing steady now. He flexed his hand, still remembering the phantom warmth of her body against his. But now that warmth became something else—a promise. A reason to keep moving forward.

“No more games,” he muttered, his gaze burning as he stepped deeper into the abyss.

<< Chapter 13 | Chapter 15 >>

Tag requests: @kisssleeping; @catsf0rlife707; @aorifukuzawa; @joannthebish; @ojog404; @tanspostsblog; @snowy-violet; @o-qi-shisme; @sleepyamaya; @harrystylesfan2686; @night-shadowblood-writes2; @weaponxgames; @bubera974; @moonlightsof;

#jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo

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nightlyrequiem · 6 months ago

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

Hiii!

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

Also thank you lots XX

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

Blue Blooded

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#valeria garza #cod mw2 #valeria garza x reader #modern warefare ii #valeria garza x fem!reader #valeria garza cod #valeria garza x you #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare #cod x you #cod x reader #cod

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saraannereads · 5 months ago

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WIP Fanfic Friday

“Elain will accept the bond and her place by Lucien’s side as his mate and bride. They will reside in Spring to help restore the strength in that court, and Tamlin has agreed to name Lucien as his heir. In exchange, Beron will ally with the Night Court. Those are his terms.”

Azriel felt as though his world was cleaving in two and as if he was going to slip into the void. Rhys had made the consequences clear — if Elain did not accept the bond, Beron would ally with Koshchei and together, they would invade Spring and set about a sequence of events that would force the entirety of Prythian into war. Lives would be lost and entire cities decimated.

“Rhys, you cannot ask that of her.”

“It’s done. She agreed and has already written to Lucien to confirm their betrothal. He’ll be in Velaris by morning, and planning for their mating ceremony will officially begin. Beron will want to make a show of it.”

Shadows swirled around Azriel as he gritted his teeth in an attempt to keep from shouting how wrong this was. Elain loved him. They loved each other. This could not be how their story ended, and yet he could not mistake the finality in Rhys’s words. Elain had agreed, not only that — she’d written to Lucien. So many raging, panicked thoughts roared within his mind, and the sharpness with which this fell upon him stole his breath.

“Az,” Rhys said perhaps a bit more softly than Azriel expected, “It’s the only way I can keep them safe.” He reached out for Azriel’s shoulder but held back as if he thought the better of it. In that moment, there wasn’t anything in the world that could comfort Azriel, and Rhys knew that.

Azriel understood the lengths Rhysand would go to ensure his family’s safety, but he hadn’t expected Rhys to simply give into Beron’s demands. When had they ever simply given into a tyrant without a fight? But the Rhys he knew was gone, the Rhys who made choices for a court was replaced by the Rhys who was a mate and a father. as well as a high lord.

Before he could think the better of it, Azriel found himself looking his brother directly in the eyes as he squared his shoulders and said, “I need to see her, Rhys.”

Rhys stiffened, the mask of the cool high lord firmly in place as he commanded, “you will do no such thing. She’s made her choice, and -“

“Choice?! She’s made her choice?! What choice did she have when you’ve put the entirety of our peace on her shoulders? What choice did she have in saying no when you’ve made it clear that should she reject Lucien, all of Prythian and the mortal lands would be in danger?! You never gave her a choice, Rhys, and you know it.”

Rhys’s wings flared and the windows rattled as he crossed the threshold towards Azriel. Azriel braced himself for the blow, readied himself to fight his High Lord. But nothing. Rhys just stood there within inches of Azriel’s face, pain and understanding flickering in his eyes for a moment before he sighed and simply repeated, “it’s the only way, Az.”

“I love her,” Azriel breathed with a hint of silver gleaming in his eyes, an uncharacteristic show of emotion from the Night Court’s spymaster. He’d never even confessed his feelings about Mor to his brother, and here he was ready to beg on his knees for Rhys to reverse this, to keep the female he loved in Velaris. Rhys stilled and closed his eyes before sighing heavily as he walked back toward his desk.

“Azriel,” Rhys spoke as he sat down, “Feyre said Elain asked to be alone this evening. She’s at the townhouse.”

To be continued. Maybe?? Idk. What do y’all think? Tagging some Elriel fic writers whose work I love @lunaatthezoo, @tswaney17, @nikachansstuff, @jasmineandcedar, @shedoessoshedoes and @violetasteracademic

#pro elriel #elriel #elriel endgame #elain archeron #elrielfanfic #elriel fic writers #elriel fic #elriel fanfiction #elriel fanfic

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starryevermore · 1 year ago

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the house of snow (13) ✧ coriolanus snow

the house of snow ✧ a royal coryo au | pinterest board| ao3

pairing: king!coriolanus snow x fem!reader

series summary: the king of panem is in search of a bride. and, for reasons you can never understand, coriolanus snow has set his sights on you. it would never be a happy marriage, you’re sure of that. but none of that matters, because when snow decides he wants something, he will do everything in his power to ensure it is his.

chapter summary: coriolanus doesn’t understand why you've shut him out.

word count: 1,878

series warnings?: 18+ MINORS DNI, royal au, regency au, arranged marriage, rivals to lovers, obsessive!coryo, jealous!coryo, protective!coryo, eventual smut, eventual pregnancy, more tags to be added later

chapter warnings?: coryo’s pov, a shorter chapter rip, coriolanus the cat is a menace™, pet name (petal), not proofread

Coriolanus Snow could not even begin to understand you. Where had he gone wrong? In the days leading up to the wedding, you were so affectionate with him. It felt like the difficult part of this was finally over. Sejanus, his only real competition, was long gone. You were finally calling him Coryo. You spent time with him without complaint and, dare he say it, even seemed to enjoy his company. Yet, it all came crashing down so quickly, so suddenly.

What had happened last night? Coriolanus spent the entire night wracking his brain, going through each part meticulously, trying to determine where he went wrong. Had he missed some sign that you were uncomfortable? Had he unintentionally pressured you? What had he done to deserve the cold look you gave him? For you to accuse him of only caring about himself? Coriolanus couldn’t deny that he could be a selfish man, but for you? Did you not realize the lengths he would go to, to make you happy?

When morning came, you said hardly a word to him. The most he heard of your voice was when you were speaking to your lady’s maid, telling her of any questions you needed answered about the trip to the cottage. Coriolanus nearly lost his temper then. What had he done that was so wrong, so hurtful, that you were cutting yourself off from him? He had half a mind to bring up the agreement made during your courtship, about how you would behave, but he thought better of it. You never responded well to his attempted pressuring. To do so now might push you away. Might irreparably damage this relationship.

Now he sat across from you in the carriage, traveling through the countryside, still just as clueless about what he should do. Worse yet, every time he attempted to speak, that damned Coriolanus the Cat hissed at him from its perch on your lap.

“The cottage has a library,” he tried, hiding his flinch as the cat swatted its paw at him. “Not nearly as impressive as the one in the palace, of course, but I believe it should be satisfactory during our stay.”

Finally, finally, you looked over at him. Your eyes were blank, completely void of emotion. Your voice was the same when you said, “Placating me with a library worked once. I will not allow it to work again.”

Then you turned back to the window, watching as the flat lands of the Capital swooped into rolling hills. Coriolanus the Cat hissed at him again, as if it was in agreement with you.

“Petal, tell me what I’ve done wrong. I don’t wish for this to be an unhappy marriage. I…” He swallowed thickly. This would pain him far more to say than it would for you to hear. “I would be alright if you never love me the way I love you. But I don’t want you to think that this is a political affair. Or that I care more for Panem or the want of an heir more than I do you.”

You stared at him for a long moment. It almost felt like hours. Coriolanus wanted to say more, but he fought against his instincts. If anything could be repaired from this relationship, he could not force you into it.

“How long until we arrive at the cottage?”

“Three hours, assuming there are no delays.”

“Very well then.”

You plucked a book from the stack beside you. Coriolanus should have known you wouldn’t want to speak to him when he watched as a half dozen books were placed in the carriage.

You didn’t say anything to him again.

He should have known that bringing up the possibility of a delay would, in fact, cause a delay to occur. When the dark gray clouds began to dot the sky, Coriolanus had hoped that the storm would pass by. But with each rumble of thunder and flash of lightning, it became more and more obvious that luck was not going to be on his side. Even nature was turning its back on him. Finally, the coachman announced that it would no longer be safe for the horses and that he would be stopping at the next available inn.

The cat hissed at Coriolanus as if he was the one to cause the storm.

Coriolanus stepped out of the carriage first, his nose wrinkling as he stepped straight into a mud puddle. Was the entire universe against him now? Could he not even have a nice, clean pair of shoes? He bit back his disgust as he reached for your hand. Admittedly, he was surprised you took it, allowing him to lift you out of the carriage and far away from that damned puddle.

“Coriolanus hates the rain,” you said, reaching out for the cat.

“Yes, I do,” he muttered. He took the cat before you could, not wanting you to get scratched up by the beast. Coriolanus pulled back his damp jacket and tucked the cat inside, careful to make sure not a single droplet of water hit it. The cat hissed and clawed still, not impressed by Coriolanus’s attempts to keep it (mostly) dry. Once secured, Coriolanus reached for your hand again. You didn’t shake him off. “Come, let’s get inside before we get sick.”

The innkeeper was already waiting with a bundle of towels when Coriolanus led you inside. Coriolanus passed one to you, before taking another to dry off the hissing beast. The innkeeper flinched, but held his own tongue lest he offend his King or Queen. Coriolanus nearly laughed at the idea of you chewing the man out for offending your precious beast of a baby. Once the cat was bundled and in your arms, Coriolanus took a towel for himself.

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” the innkeeper began to say, “but there is only one available room left for tonight. Had I known that you would be stopping in, I would have made sure there would be plenty of room for your staff. Unfortunately, all that is left beyond that room is the stables.”

So Coriolanus would be sleeping in the stables tonight. Wonderful. He just hoped you would be gracious enough to wait until after the innkeeper was gone to kick him out of the room and reveal the already apparent marital problems.

“That will be quite alright,” Coriolanus said. It wasn’t. But part of being King was knowing when to play the part of a courteous monarch. “If you could please show us our room, that would be most appreciated.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” the innkeeper said. Then he turned his gaze to you and bowed his head. “And if I may, congratulations on your nuptials.”

Coriolanus half-expected you to spit in his face for mentioning your marriage. Instead, though, you offered a smile. “Thank you. And thank you for being so accommodating to us.”

“It is my honor, Your Majesty. Now, if you’ll follow me.”

The entire walk up to the room, Coriolanus braced himself to be thrown out. Even as the footman followed behind, carrying a trunk with his belongings, he nearly said to not bother. He was sure that, within a few minutes, you would be demanding a room alone. He could only hope that you would be kind enough to minimize the embarrassment.

Yet, when he found himself alone in the room with you, you did not make any demands, save for asking Coriolanus to help you out of your gown. He undid the fastenings, but turned away when you stepped out of the gown and into a nightdress you plucked from the trunk.

Fine. If you weren’t going to make the demand yourself, he would go. “I shall see you in the morning, petal,” he said.

You turned, but where he expected your brows to be furrowed, your face was blank. “You think you are to sleep in the stables?”

What game were you playing? Last night, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough. But today, you are confused as to why he might leave? “After last night, I thought you would want some privacy.”

You looked out the window, at the torrential downpour and at the stables that felt like a million miles away. “I am not cruel, Coryo.”

Not like me, he finished. Instead, he said, “I don’t understand you.”

“I believe part of your agreement was that I refrain from causing any scenes. I can think of no greater scandal than me throwing you out to spend the night with livestock the day after our wedding.”

“There is no one here to spread a scandal.”

You rolled your eyes. “Much of our staff is here, as is the innkeeper. They talk as much as the ton. If I make you sleep in the stables, by the time we return from our honeymoon, the Capital will be in disarray that the seeming lovebirds are already on the outs. Whether they blame you or I, I cannot say for certain. But it would ruin the public perception of us.”

Coriolanus was proud that you had thought these things through, but part of him nonetheless ached over you allowing him into your bed only so as to avoid scandal, not because you enjoyed his presence.

With nothing more to say, you climbed into the bed, laying down as close to the edge as you could manage without falling to the floor. Coriolanus let out a sigh and then, too, got ready for bed. Once dressed in his nightclothes, he crawled into bed. You shuffled even closer to the edge. He worried that you might fall if you moved any further away.

Was he truly so repulsive that you’d rather risk falling to the floor than share a bed with him?

And though he knew better, he still reached for you. All he wanted was to hold you. He had been deprived of that last night, deprived of the ability to tell you how wonderful you are, how he enjoyed being your husband. A part of him hoped that the forced proximity might make you more willing to be held.

You pushed his hand away. “Not tonight, please.”

“Petal…”

“I shall fulfill my duty some other time. Today has been too stressful.”

“You are more than a duty. And I want more from you than that. I want your love, but if you can’t give me that, can’t I at least hold you?”

You started to move, and, for a moment, Coriolanus thought you might burrow yourself in his arms. But instead, you picked up that damned cat from the floor and dropped it between the two of you. “Hold your son.”

Coriolanus the Cat hissed at him. Coriolanus (the human) had half a mind to hiss back. Instead, he rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, wishing for sleep to come.

It never did.

Not with the beast looking at him like he was a meal. Not with his wife acting like this is all a transactional affair. And certainly not when, some minutes had passed and you allowed yourself to cry, perhaps taking his stillness as a sign he had gone to sleep.

Oh, where had he gone wrong?

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