#'raw' 'war' is the same read left to right and right to left and it brings me real english degree-having joy! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fandomfluffandfuck · 2 months

Note

as someone obsessed with pussy steve, it drives me insane because i was doing my final exam today and all i was thinking about is "am i going to read the same pussy steve blog of S? yeah tf i am" and im here requesting from u some more pussy steve bc goddamn thats my obsessionnnnn. plus it's my first time asking u to write anything (i dont do shit but read things here and trying not fail school at the same time)

related to this pussy Steve ask

also... we're channeling this vibe shamelessly as we continue on from that last post, still set during WWII

Good job with your finals!! Let's dive in 👀

Steve can't fucking take it anymore, groaning as he flops back onto the squeaky, lumpy mattress that's supposed to be his bed. They've been holed up in this goddamn remote rubble city for what feels like years after clearing the town of HYDRA and Nazi agents with no action to burn off his excessive energy. The once standing city has long since been evacuated because of the air raids. The bombs have flattened almost half of it, shaking the other half immensely, but without orders to go elsewhere, the Howling Commandos are lying low, trying to plan their next move on their own. It feels like a waste just to march all the way back to camp but they don't have any other leads. Not yet.

And the Howlies have scavenged the area already, gathering any remaining, surviving food that isn't their shit MREs, plus having made sure no civilians were left behind before sitting down to talk and plan.

And talk and plan and talk and plan.

Steve can only strategize for so long, he can only play card games for so long, he can only draw on scraps of paper for so long; the serum has left him even more hot blooded than he was with all this vivacity he couldn't've dreamed of before, as thin and sickly as he was. So it's a fucking problem. Sitting still.

Waiting.

They should be doing something. Seeing action. Doing good. This is war. It feels so bizarre to sit between what they have just seen and what they're going to see. Bad things.

So, yeah, Steve is having a hard time unhelped by the fact that they're stuck in the one reliable structure that happens to be a small inn with thin walls. It's a blessing to have their own rooms and real beds, just enough rooms that they only have to pair up rather than sleeping in a dog pile together, but they might as well be together with these paper walls. Thus, Steve is being extra careful as he attempts to burn off some steam, alone while the others do... whatever... out in the main room (maybe a game of poker?) by stuffing the undershirt he's been wearing beneath his red white and blue uniform into his mouth.

The shirt tastes of salt and musk, balled up and packed between his teeth, filling his mouth, keeping his jaw open. Keeping the sounds he wants to make down. Most of the sounds. He can't help the sounds his body makes that don't come out of his mouth... wet, slick squelching sounds from between his legs, his fingers plunging deep into himself as if he's trying to get to his heart. In the scenario where he wanted to get off and be done with it, he'd be making tight, hard circles around his clit, pressing down against it hard, impatient and rough with himself, making himself a little raw with it but a lot sensitive--but that's not what he wants right now. He wants to burn through energy now. So, he has two fingers crooked inside his pussy, plunging them in and drawing them out slow enough that it makes him crazy. It's enough to feel good, so, so good, but not enough to get him off.

Steve's not wearing his uniform without the undershirt while he fingers himself. Well, he's not wearing it in full. He's kept his pants and boots on in case they need to get up and go, but... his pants are gaping open.

He's undone the long zip and aaall the latching buttons, ripping the taps as wide apart as he can get them without just taking his pants off. His hand shoved beneath both layers--pants and underwear.

His boxers are ruined. Wet. Soaked.

Registering just how sticky and wet he is, pulling his fingers out of his cunt to trace his puffy, swollen slit, he plays with his own wetness. He's dripping. He doesn't touch his aching clit directly, but he does put pressure on the legs of it, tracing the v down his vulva, spreading his legs wider, just a tiny bit, so his lips are out of the way as much as they can be, exposing himself, touching himself, and--

Choking on a whimper as electric pleasure shoots through him.

That's the closest he's let himself get to touching his clit in, in... however long it's been? An hour? Two? Ten minutes?

Steve doesn't let it last. Instead, blearily, he presses his middle and ring fingers back into himself. Back into the scorching, melted heat of his body. His foot kicks out, restless, needing something to do with the thick lust building inside him. Groaning softly through his shirt, Steve arches his neck, lifting his head off the bed just enough to let it come crashing back down heavily, giving his sweat-soaked blonde hair an impressively ruffled style.

As thoughts as he feels--his coherency consumed by pleasure--Steve suddenly flushes, wondering if Bucky will be able to smell it on him when he's done (if he doesn't already know what he's locked himself into their room to do). Once he's worn himself out, cumming on his own fingers after too much build up to be comfortable, leaving himself hurting with too much tension and desire, will Bucky know? Steve will button and zip up his pants and put his shirt back on and waltz back out there, but will it all be only for Bucky to corner him away from the other guys and maybe tip his chin up, fingers on his jaw, eye-to-eye, give him those dark eyes that say, I know what you did, maybe Bucky will kiss his neck and murmur to him hotly, or maybe he'll bend him over, their clothes still on, his cock a hot, thick line in his trousers, pressed against his slit, sweet talking him with his players voice, saying filthy things about how he can smell it on him like he's a bitch in heat with the most syrupy tone, crooning so Steve will get stickier, wetter, and gooey-er. Melted in the center like some kind of oozing, chocolate dessert. Hot and ready to be devoured.

Bitten.

Licked.

Swallowed.

Steve is thinking about his best guy's cock and he's thinking about his mouth, too, now. He's thinking about those sweet talking, wicked lips. He's thinking about his immaculately styled head of hair between his thighs, going to town. Not an ounce of reservation in the way he dives into him, in how he licks, how he slurps, how he fucks.

Jesus Christ.

Steve's jaw works around his balled up shirt, clenching. His throat contracts as he swallows thickly, praying that he doesn't wail like he wants to. The sound is in his chest, rattling around, building into this aching pressure. He can't fit anymore arousal inside himself. He's gonna burst.

Then, when he's weak and he just can't fucking stop himself, Bucky on his mind like always, Steve curls his fingers just enough to catch the raised spot inside him, spongy and sensitive. So fucking sensitive. His sweet spot that causes his hips to involuntarily buck up, searching for more, needing more. If he weren't gagged, he'd be moaning for it.

Moaning Bucky's name.

Bucky's on his mind already, so, of course, he wants Bucky on his tongue, too. Worse, he wants Bucky inside him. He wants him so bad that he's fucking aching, clenching around his fingers, hips squirming, toes curling, panting. He wants Bucky's cock in him so bad, slamming home so he's leaking around it, wetting his balls and smearing all over both of their thighs. He's a slippery mess.

He wants Bucky so bad that he has to stop thrusting his fingers in and out of his tight cunt to work a third finger into himself, chasing the girth of his dick. He can't get as deep as Bucky does, and it's just not the same to the point that, that--

Steve garbles out something of a sob. His eyes sting with tears. His head is so hot with frustration. Hazy and smoking. He can't think. He can't keep his rhythm. He's shaking.

Fuck.

When he pulls out to add another fingertip--stretching before he eases the entire length of his own finger in--he realizes he can smell himself. Already, he could smell himself wafting up from his unwashed shirt, sweaty, but now he can smell the hot, briny musk of his own arousal, carried on the sex-thick air of the quaint inn room. Humid and heavy.

He can smell himself. Sweat, musk, and leaking slick. It's an unmistable scent that turns Steve on more than it should, considering it's his own smell, twisting up in his gut and making him feel tighter, tenser, hotter. He can taste himself. Sweat, musk, and dirty, unwashed cotton coating his tongue, dripping down his throat, joining the lust already pooled low in his belly. He can hear himself. Slick, squelching, and lewd with his fingers curling inside himself. Muffled and drowning with sounds dying in the back of his throat before they have the chance to come out of his mouth. The soft snuffling, shuffling sounds of his pants folding and brushing against the bed sheets, fabric rustling and creaking as his thighs spread instinctively until the the seams groan. Every sound is another piece of wood added to the fire, burning hotter until it crackles and pops with the explosions of hot sap. Steve is feasting on these sensations as much as he's feasting on the slick, velvet feeling of the inside of his own pussy. He can touch himself. Smooth, wet inner walls that cling so tightly to his own fingers. If he could lift his head, the weight of his empty skull, so weakened, he could see himself, too--his hand moving in his pants, the veins running over his muscled forearms bulging with the effort of working his fingers so much.

God, he wants more in him.

His fingers work faster, curling a little harder, plunging deeper until he's erupting with another garbled cry.

He wants Bucky's cock in his pussy, throbbing with the pound of his best guy's heart, at the same time that he wants Bucky's thumb to sneak down between where their sweaty bodies collide with every frantic thrust, slicking the digit up with Steve's overpouring wetness until he reaches back, traces the sensitive, pink flesh between his legs to get to his asshole and pops it inside him, too, giving him something extra. Extra stuffing, his thumb in his ass, pressing back against his pussy. The thin wall between his holes. Giving him something more to clench down on while he wails, crashing over the edge as Bucky grinds so deep he can taste it, choke on it, so deep that his pelvis rubs on Steve's swollen clit and makes it impossible not to cum.

Guh.

Steve is drooling, soaking into his own shirt, thinking about Bucky.

Drowning in pleasure from his own hand.

Steve is rocking up into his hand, his hips with a mind of their own, or, rather, mindless in the pursuit of pleasure, instinctively rutting, humping, rolling, and just going. He's trying to swallow moans and gasps to varying degrees of success. He knows not all of them stay down in his tight, heaving chest, but he doesn't know how loud his noises are, his heartbeat is too loud in his ears.

Regardless of his noises, he keeps chasing his pleasure, his clit swollen and peaking out as much as it can from it's hood--leaving it vulnerable and draaagging just lightly against the heel of his hand. It's agonizing. With every feathered drag of his sensitive clit against his hand, it's making his sounds grow worse. He will be wailing soon no matter what he does. No matter how much he tries to keep it down.

It aches.

It hurts.

It feels sofuckinggood.

His jaw is working so hard that it feels like his teeth will rip into his shirt soon. Gah. Oh, ah, yeahh--

The temperature keeps going up and up in and all around Steve, fever hot, when the door swings open.

Steve is so tightly wound that he can't freeze. There is no way to stop the forest fire within him. It's going to have to come to its own conclusion when it has burned through everything he has, only ash left. Nothing can put him out.

So it's a damn good thing that it's Bucky that walks through the open door, hurriedly slamming it behind him when his eyes land on Steve's debauched, twitching form on the bed they've been sharing. A cold rush of air comes in with him, leaving all the hair on Steve's body to stand on end in salute. He quivers harder.

Bucky wastes no time. He is deadly, vicious in his pursuit--the sound of the door slamming hits Steve's ears, delayed with his mushy brain, and then Bucky is immediately on him like a predator pouncing.

His body is heavy on top of him, pinning him with the drag of his uniform against Steve's sensitive, sweat-glistening skin.

Real.

He's so real that it's visceral. It's not just Steve's heated, out-of-control fantasies as he approaches his orgasm without breaks.

Bucky cages him in with his body, one of his hands planted by Steve's head, steadying himself, while his other hand grabs ahold of Steve's forearm to rip his hand out of his pants.

Steve does wail then, through his makeshift gag.

The look on Bucky's face is evil, mocking him playfully, asking, oh, really, is that how it is?

After all these years, they read each other like open books. Steve knows he knows how turned on he is, and it's devastating. Bucky probably knows just based on how much he's blushing and how he can't keep his eyes open, how long he's been going at it for. He knows how much it aches to be untouched when he gets like this. Especially now. Post-serum. It's all he can think about. He can feel his heartbeat pounding in his pussy. He's hot and swollen and so wet that it brings stinging tears to his eyes. God.

He's so fucking needy.

He needs Bucky. He needs--

Bucky sticks both of Steve's hands above his head, crossed at the wrist, and uses one of his own to pin them there. Steve could easily break away any time, but now. He's so worn down. He's weak. His brain has gone out of his head, and all of his super-strength has drained from his body out of his weeping cunt. He's depleted. He can do nothing by lay there, helpless and vulnerable, as Bucky shoves and pushes and shimmies his pants and underwear down. He barely gets them halfway down his thighs before he stops, and because of it, Steve sucks in a sharp breath through his balled up shirt. The air of the room is shocking against his soaked, sticky center.

Guh.

GUH!

Steve makes a fucking stupid sound when Bucky quits messing with his tangled up pants to instead mess with his pussy. He slips one, then two, then three inside him. Fast. A predator tearing through prey, no time to think, just do. His shit eating grin tells Steve that he's impressed with how sloppy he's gotten himself, and he wants to cry in embarrassment but also pride.

With three fingers inside him, Bucky curls them and grinds them deeper, deeper, curls, deep, curl, deep--

Steve's head is spinning. He doesn't even know what Bucky is doing to him. It just, it, it, ohgod, his eyes roll back so far, so hard it hurts, it feels so good. It's wrecking him. Whatever he's doing to him. Maybe it's Bucky's reckless thirst for him. Maybe it's the serum burning like venom in his veins. Maybe it's both of them mixing together into one harsh cocktail, so intoxicating it immediately makes him drunk.

The things Bucky is doing to his body make Steve want to shriek in pleasure. He's letting go of his wrists but it's not like Steve can move anyway and it's for good reason that he's not pinning him anymore because instead he's pressing down on his belly with that hand as he curls his fingers more, more, more, curling them towards himself hard, pressing so hard on that spot inside him that Steve doesn't even, he's not even sure he can comprehend the pleasure cutting through him, it's so much pressure building up inside him, taking more space than he realized he had even inside this bigger, stronger body, he can't, he's not strong enough, he--

Steve gasps and squirms, not understanding, wanting to babble, oh, oh, Bucky, what-I, I'm-! Wait! What is that feeling? Why does it feel like that? Wh--he can't, though, he can't say anything, his mouth stuffed.

He screams behind his teeth and--

Steve fucking whites out.

He's there one minute and then he's gone in a flash. Too much pleasure. Too much pressure. Too good. He's half convinced, totally out of his mind, that he's exploded or, or...

Oh.

As Steve returns to himself in bits and pieces, still shattered in the aftermath, he's almost sure he's lost so much control of himself that he's pissed himself. He's so fucking wet. Soaked down his thighs and down Bucky's wrist. If he has pissed himself, then he's given everything up to Bucky, his body entirely his lover's, every part of it, but then.

JesusfuckingChrist.

Then, Bucky's voice breaks through the ringing in his ears, and he's softly, quietly purring to him, mindful of their thin walls in a way Steve has not been while being stripped down to the bone in exhausting, overwhelming pleasure. Bucky's voice is all low and hot, too turned on as he works Steve through it, touching him much softer, nicer, lighter while he tells him how fucking hot that was, watching him, feeling him squirt around his fingers. And, holy shit, he's gonna make him do that on his dick. He will.

It's a promise.

Now that he knows he can make Steve squirt, he's gonna do it all. the. fucking. time.

Steve whines through his gag, his body trembling hard with his fading fever. Oh. It hits like a sledgehammer to the back of his head. He's going to die. Bucky is gonna kill him, making him squirt, making him writhe, making him want to crawl out of his own body, giving him too much gutteral, visceral pleasure.

Bonus:

I've had a draft sitting here on Tumblr for a while that simply says:

Lil pussy Steve domming big, beefy Bucky. Steve's wearing a pair of panties to a party, getting them messy in a closet or bathroom or... both... where Bucky fingers him until he cums, then, once they've finished and Steve is desperately wet, he makes Bucky put swap underwear with him. Bucky obeys because of course he's done--he's big and he falls hard. Steve's wet, dirty panties, though, they're much too tight and remind him for the next few hours (hours that Steve, the introvert, suspiciously makes them stick around the party for) exactly of what they did. How he made his dom squirt and make these panties wet and smell musky and hot like his pussy does. Ruin them. Ruining the panties, ruining Bucky.

Plus, the whole rest of the party, Bucky has to live with the fact that Steve doesn't have any underwear on because rather than put Bucky's boxers on, he shoved them into his pocket where he could take them out at any time. Fuck, they could fall out at any moment! Bucky can't focus on a single fucking conversation.

And it's not until they get home that Bucky gets to cum.

When they're finally, finally home, Steve pushes Bucky down onto the floor, mounts his lap, and grinds into his hard, hard cock bursting out of his teeny-tiny, too-tight panties. The underwear is so little and delicate, all wet lace, that Bucky nearly ripped them putting on his bigger body. Demanding him to cum and ruin them further, one of Steve's thin, bony hands constricts around his throat.

Oh, yeah, he owns this big, subby mess of a man.

So... do with that what you will 😏

#asks #fandomfluffandfuck #steve rogers #bucky barnes #stucky #pussy steve

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magicbystarlight · 11 months

Text

Before I Knew You - Part Ten

Bill Weasley x Reader

Masterlist, Part One

Thank you for reading, I love seeing the comments and appreciation for this story ❤️

Summary: You’ve spent years training under Madam Pomfrey in the hopes that you would join the Healers at St. Mungo’s at graduation. But in the aftermath of the death of Albus Dumbledore, you chose to join the Order instead. When you’re forced into hiding, you find yourself alone with Bill Weasley and his new wolfish tendencies.

Word Count: 4,037

Warnings: 18+, typical canon warnings, sprinkle in some miscommunication, age gap, questionable ethics from a medical professional. Minors DNI.

The ocean was louder than you remembered. Colder too.

Wet sand sank under your feet with each step, waves erasing the prints you left behind. The paper that morning had read August 30th. A month since the wedding. Six weeks since the farm. A little more than two months since the Death Eaters’ attack on Hogwarts. Eight months since you'd last seen your parents. A year since you’d kissed Cillian goodbye thinking there was a future together. Somehow that seemed too short a time for everything that had happened. All that'd you'd lost.

It had been easy to compartmentalize. Push it away and focus on anything else. But the holes were there. You missed the Cillian you'd known. You missed your parents and their excited, encouraging smiles. You missed Madam Pomfrey's complete trust in you and your abilities. You missed the days when you thought you had any control of tomorrow.

Three years working the Hospital Wing, two more being its frequent volunteer. All in hopes of a job at St. Mungos. You’d gotten it. A spot in the Janus Thickey Ward working with patients with spell damaged minds. The decision to walk away from it had been easy. You were no longer safe, yes, but that wasn’t why.

You could still remember his blood on your hands. The panic in Madam Pomfrey’s usually calm movements. His eyes finally opening, blue in a sea of red, and his hand gripping your wrist. He’d mumbled something. Impossible to understand. But he was alive and there was hope. He would live. Scarred and straddled with symptoms of an unknown severity, but there had been hope he could live his life mostly as he always had. Then Fleur had fled.

All he'd gotten was a letter. All you'd given Cillian was a letter. She’d sent back a ring, you’d sent back a bracelet. Maybe not the same, but they were kindred sentiments. And it was devastating to destroy something that in another time would have been forever.

The sand shifted as you sat. No wonder Bill hated the idea of you leaving. No wonder you had such a hard time actually wanting to leave. It was ironic how well matched you were. Poetic even. You his stand in for Fleur and he yours for Cillian. He could make you stay and you could stay. He wanted to protect people and you wanted to heal them.

But he wasn't Cillian and you weren't Fleur and this wasn't a relationship. This was two traumatized people trapped together in a war trying to keep each other alive.

High tide came while you watched the moon's reflection ripple in the water. The ocean couldn't combat the forces of the moon. How could you?

—

Bill sat, head in his hands, at the table when you returned to the cottage. Waiting.

"Thought you went to bed."

He looked up. Gods it wasn’t fair when he looked at you like that. Like he was relieved to see you. "Yeah, yeah I did, but I heard the door and I thought…”

He didn’t finish the thought. You had to look away. His sad eyes were for someone else. “I needed some air.” Had you looked like that when he left? Maybe the first night. Much worse the other three. "I wouldn't walk out on you." Not like he did.

"Right," was all he had to say.

Maybe you should have left.

"I'm off to bed then." You hadn't made it two steps before he pleaded for you to wait.

"Can we talk?"

It was too much. Your emotions were still raw, bleeding and blistering from the scab you’d picked away. It hurt. You were hurting. And he only cared because he thought you were going to leave. Gods, why did that make it worse?

"I don't fucking know Bill, can we? Cause I’ve tried. But every time you leave. Or we say ‘tomorrow’. But there’s never been a tomorrow, has there?” You couldn't look at him. If you did, you'd break. "I'm exhausted with this back and forth. Trying to manage being your Healer who understands how difficult this has been for you and being your friend who doesn't understand why you won't let me help you." You could hear him move, but you kept your gaze fixed on the stairs. "I can't keep doing this, having this same conversation with you. I know it's a lot, I get it, I do, but I'm terrfied I'm going to watch you die in this fucking cottage because your ego is too fucking big to let someone take care of you." He was standing right behind you. You could step back, let his arms wrap around you.

"I had nightmares." It was a fragile confession. An admission he didn't want to give. "Every night after that first one in the Hospital Wing. They always changed, but it was mostly just Greyback and Death Eaters coming after the people I cared about. Every night. Except the night Mad-Eye died. I thought maybe it was because I lived it that night, because they came back. And then we came here and it was so…peaceful. I just slept. Until I fucked everything up and left. The only night since then that I haven't dreamed of death and blood is the night I came back."

"You should have told me."

"What was I supposed to say? Sleep with me so I don't have bad dreams?"

You spun, shoving your finger into his chest. "And there's that fucking ego, Bill." "Ego? You think this has all been about my ego?"

"I know tonight was."

He started to say something, reconsidered, and said instead, "Alright you got me there. But, but, wait, please," he grabbed your hand as you'd begun to turn away again. "Think about this from my perspective, yeah? You’ve made it abundantly clear that you would do whatever it takes to make me feel even an ounce of relief.”

“Of course I would.”

“And don’t you see the problem with that? If I’d told you in the beginning that I needed to sleep with you and needed to fuck you, you’d have done it.”

“It would've taken me a bit to come around to it," maybe not as long as you'd like to admit, "but yeah. Yeah, I would have.”

“But not because you would have wanted to.”

He was wrong, but it only made you feel worse. “Do you realize how unethical it is for me to want to fuck you, Bill? It goes against everything I’m supposed to be as your Healer. You don’t have control over what’s happening to you, how your body’s reacting, and I’m supposed to be helping you through it, not taking advantage of you.”

“Taking advantage of me? I’ve got almost ten years on you. These last few months have been hell for you and now—now you depend on me for almost everything. What I want is depraved." He still held your hand, now clutching it against his chest. "I'm supposed to keep you safe and instead all I can think about half the time is…Merlin, you don't need to know. And maybe, maybe I can't help that, but I never had to drag you into it." Like you knew you would, you broke. Reaching up, you cupped his face. His scruff scratched at your palm as he leaned into the touch. "You didn't drag me into anything."

"I did, didn't I? Bringing you here? I should've taken you somewhere else with someone else."

"I think you're forgetting if it wasn't for you and Remus, I'd be dead. And if you hadn't been so quick at the wedding, I'd either been caught by Death Eaters or Cillian." His grip tightened on your hand, eyes clenched shut. "We've made the best choices we can, Bill. The ones that've kept us alive."

"It doesn't feel like there's been any choices."

"Well we have a choice now. We can figure out another living situation for me, with someone else and hope that alleviates some of your symptoms. Let me finish," you said as he opened his mouth. "We can do that. Or we can ignore how complicated and unethical it is for me to stay and we do what we need to do for each other. What we want to do to each other. But only, only if let me take care of you."

"So you do want me?" "Bill Weasley, did you hear any other words I said?"

His hand took hold of your waist, pulling you closer. "Every one of 'em. I'll let you run any test, answer any question, poke and prod whatever you need, follow every instruction you give. Promise. Just stay with me."

"I'm not doing this again. I won't have this conversation a third—" you paused and corrected, "a fourth time. If you can't—"

"We won't." His grip tightened, forehead pressing against yours. "We'll do it your way."

"Okay. Good." He felt so warm. "Maybe we should get to bed?"

“Yeah.”

“Together, right?”

“I do need you to keep away the bad dreams,” he mused before sweeping you into his arms. His amused chuckle as you questioned how he kept picking you up so effortlessly left you feeling breathless. “You’re light as a feather, love.”

It was only a few minutes later that he was breathing evenly beneath you in the small bed upstairs, an arm draped around your waist. He wasn't Cillian. You weren't Fleur. This wasn't a relationship. For now though, this was enough. One day it wouldn't be, but you closed your eyes and slept.

—

Nothing could have made you leave bed. It smelled too good, felt too warm. After weeks of terrible sleep, it was heaven. From Bill's steady breath against your hair, it seemed he wouldn't crawl out of bed anytime soon either.

Almost nothing could have made you leave bed.

Nothing but a loud pop, followed closely by another.

You were jinxed. You had to be. It was the only explanation for a Weasley horde popping into existence so early in the morning with Bill still wrapped around you in bed. Bill's wide-eyed terror mirrored your own as the shrill voice of Molly shrieked at the familiar laughter of Fred, George, and Ginny.

"...to Diagon Alley! Alone! To think I trusted you boys with her!"

"It was a quick stop," one of the twins insisted as you both fell out of bed and scrambled down the stairs. "Needed to grab something from the shop," said the other.

"And no one even saw me!” Ginny added.

“But what if they had! Don’t you think it would have raised a very dangerous question of exactly how you’d appeared there when no one saw you leave the Burrow? Hmm? They think they're watching our every move! We cannot have them question that!”

Five heads of fiery red hair came into view of the windows causing your own to whip around the house in case anything screamed, “We had sex last night!” Bill seemed to do the same. He dove for something on the floor that you couldn’t see from the table. He managed to straighten up just before the door burst open.

Fred—you knew it was him because he had both his ears—was the first of the brood to come through with George and Ginny close on his heels. “Mornin’ Bill! Mornin’ Gorgeous!”

“Merlin, Fred! Have no manners stuck in that head of yours?” Molly gripped as she followed. She turned from her son and fixed you with a softer, apologetic look. “Sorry dear. We didn’t mean to burst in."

"Oh, we most certainly did," Fred countered as he made his way to you and threw an arm around your shoulders. George added, mirroring his twin, “We were hoping to catch you two doing something naughty.”

"That's it! Both of you, back to the Burrow!"

Whining shouts of protests came from the three younger Weasley siblings as you were released. “It was a joke!” “Can’t anyone have a good laugh these days?” "But it's my last day!"All you could do was hope that nothing in your face gave away the very naughty things they'd have caught you doing if they'd come by the night before.

As the argument continued, Arthur took the opportunity to break away. He approached Bill, his expression markedly more subdued than the others. He whispered something into his son's ear. Bill's gaze flitted to you—in worry? Horror? Embarrassment? Oh gods, did Arthur know? Did they all know? An uncomfortable bubbling in your stomach grew as the two disappeared into the bedroom Kingsley had occupied the day before.

“One more toe out of line and I will send you back, do you hear me?”

Your gaze snapped back to the others. No. They didn’t know. Fred and George would certainly never let you live it down if they’d known. Molly would not be looking at you with any kindness if she thought you’d taken advantage of her son. And Ginny… you didn’t want to know what she would do. You’d seen the aftermath of her hexes.

"Now outside. The three of you."

Ginny gave you a small wave as she followed her brothers outside. Definitely didn’t know.

"Again, very sorry dear," Molly said kindly. “It was just supposed to be Arthur popping over, but Ginny overheard and well, she heads off to Hogwarts tomorrow and she’s been wanting to come.”

“Of course, yeah—yeah. I think Bill mentioned he wanted to have everyone over. Before, you know, Kingsley and all that. Something about fighting chickens?”

“Chicken Fight. The kids do love that game.”

“Right, yeah. So, um, has something happened?” Your fingers picked at your lip as you nodded towards the bedroom. “You know, since Arthur was coming by.”

Molly hesitated before giving a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Just normal Order business. Nothing to fret about.”

When you'd gone off to the farm, you hadn't really thought about bringing along a swimsuit. Molly, the ever prepared mother, had brought along an extra one-size-fits-all swimsuit for you. So you spent hours on the sand and in the water with the Weasleys doing your best to act like everything was completely and utterly fine.

Like you weren’t worried about what had happened between you and Bill the night before, or worried for his health, or worried about what that horrified look meant, or worried about Ginny going to Hogwarts the next day, or worried if Kingsley was alright, or worried if someone else was going to show up on the verge of death again.

You were fine.

Completely and utterly fine.

“You alright?” Fred asked as he sat next to you on one of the towels. His hair still dripped, his siblings continuing to toss around a Quaffle in the water.

You gave your best attempt at a smile as you pulled your knees tighter against your chest. “Yeah, of course.” You'd never been good at acting.

“Really?”he asked with a raised brow and skeptical tone. "Cause I don't think I've seen you crack a smile at all today."

Resting your chin on your arm, you watched Bill get tackled and dragged down into the waves by Ginny and George. Arthur was passed out a few feet away turning a shade that would rival his hair and Molly was sitting peacefully under an umbrella reading. Bill and Arthur had come out of the room like nothing had happened. Joking, playing, teasing with their family with an uncomfortable force. They wanted everyone distracted for the day.

"Maybe not alright. I'm worried about Ginny and all the other kids going off to a castle crawling with Death Eaters," you conceded. A half-truth. It would be Madam Pomfrey's first time completely alone in the Hospital Wing after three years of your help. She didn't need you, of course, she was more than capable of doing her job before you'd even been thought into existence. But you could imagine this year would be more of a strain than any other she'd experienced.

More than the year He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hid behind the turban of Qurrial.

More than the year the Chamber of Secrets opened and petrified Muggleborns.

More than the year dementors roamed the grounds.

More than the year of the Triwizard Tournament.

More than the year Dolores Umbridge tortured kids in detention.

Even more than the last year that ended with Death Eaters storming the castle.

“We’re all worried,” he said, shielding his face from his siblings to hide his frown. “I—I tried to talk her out of going. Told her we wouldn’t mind going into hiding. But she’s stubborn.”

“Stubborn is a famous Weasley trait, isn't it?” It was meant as a joke, but it came out too dry. If there was anything you knew it was how stubborn a Weasley could be.

“Suppose it is.” He laughed softly as his sister ramed her shoulder into George's side, sending him toppling into the water. "Can you do me a favor?"

You side eyed him, knowing not to trust anything he asked of you. You'd seen plenty of people in the Hospital Wing after doing favors for him and George.

"Forget about it all for a few hours. Try to enjoy what's left of today." You looked back to the water. George and Ginny squabbled over the Quaffle. Bill was standing to the side, his face turned towards where you sat at the beach. "If not for yourself, then for Ginny."

Fred stood then, sand sticking to his trunks. Extending his hand, he smiled expectantly. "Let's go challenge Ginny and George to a chicken fight, yeah?"

Your response was automatic. "George is not cleared to have that sort of pressure on his ear."

"He's totally fine though!"

You scoffed, finally taking his hand to stand. "He is not! He has a hole where his ear should be."

"Oh, come on, love," he said, watching as you dusted sand off yourself, "can't we be a bit ear-responsible today?"

A smile fought to take hold of your lips and you had to look away from his triumphant gleam. "No George. But Bill did promise me a game."

"Oh, Ginny'll be stoked about that." He took your hand again, dragging you into the cold water. "Oy, you lot! Time for a good ole' game of chicken fight, yeah?" George cheered. "Not you though, Georgie Boy. Our little healer says you've got to sit this one out." George booed.

"She's with me," Bill said, nodding at you.

Fred tugged you closer, throwing an arm over your shoulders. "Fat chance on that, mate!"

"Does no one want me as their partner?" Ginny pouted. She didn't seem very serious, but it was enough for Bill to concede. It wasn't enough, however, to keep him from warning his brother that one inappropriate joke would end up with him sent back to the Burrow. Fred's promise of good behavior did little to soften the eldest's irritation.

He was jealous.

Ridiculously jealous.

Ginny suffered for it. What should have been an easy win for her, turned into a struggle with Bill constantly losing balance in the waves sending them both crashing down with the slightest push. Ginny still managed to bring you down a few times, but Fred was steady on his feet. It was Ginny, pushing hair and water out of her face as she stood back up again, who suggested a partner change.

Fred was reluctant to let you go. Didn't the two of you make an excellent team, after all? But you worried Bill might snap, the blue in his eyes barely visible with how wide his pupils had grown.

"It's just a game," you reminded him lowly before he knelt down in shallow water to let you climb on. He gave no response beyond a content hum when your thighs pressed against his face. This time it was Bill who suffered. More so than Ginny had. How, exactly, were you supposed to focus on a game when his hands were on you?

Fred took the wins with all the modesty of a Gryffindor. His boasting you could handle, but his attention focusing on you, trying to flirt like he always would was detrimental to Bill’s health. And his.

It was Molly’s fretting over George getting sand in his ear that gave a perfect excuse to ease the tension. Physicals. Everyone needed one. See how George's ear had been healing, check no one had come under the Imperius Curse. It’s what you were supposed to do in the morning with Bill, anyways. One by one you examined the Weasley's in the room you'd occupied upstairs. Molly was the first, voicing her concerns over each of the others. Arthur came next. He was silent, only answering questions asked. Then it was Ginny. She cried. She'd tried not to, but she was sixteen and the world had fallen apart around her. A small drop of Essence of Dittany cleared up the redness in her eyes before she returned to her family. Fred and George were together, amusing themselves with their banter.

And last was Bill. The door hadn't been shut more than a second before you were pressed against it.

"It's all in my head." His kiss was soft, but desperate. "It's all in my head," he repeated against your lips. Your fingers brushed a strand of his hair back into place. "It's just Fred being Fred. He doesn't know."

"Maybe we should tell him."

You chuckled, but he didn't. "Bill."

His response was to trail kisses along your jaw.

"Bill," you said firmer, pushing lightly against his chest. "We're not telling him. Or anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because how do we explain…this?"

"We don't have to explain. We tell them we're together and that's all."

Your heart clenched. It was one thing for you to know that you were filling the voids left by the war, but for the world to see that? No one would believe you were together for anything beyond convenience and desperation. It would be easier to explain the truth. "I'm not going to lie to everyone about what this is."

He pulled back, turning away and running a hand through his hair. "Right." He plopped on the bed. "You're right. You're not going to lie to anyone that we're together when we're not. I'll keep my emotions in check."

"It's not like we're going to have people here often. We'll be alone again in a few hours."

He nodded, blinking up at you in a neutral expression. "You're right. We should get on with the physical. It's part of the deal for you staying, isn't it?"

“Fine.” You went through the motions, checking him over. He was fine, a little better than normal even. His heart rate was accelerated, but considering his day that wasn’t much of a surprise. His mood has somewhat recovered before you returned to his family, thanking you with a searing kiss.

An extra chair had been transfigured from some old driftwood to add a seventh seat at the table for dinner. Fred and George had tried to take the side with three chairs, hoping to trap someone between them. But Molly was far too used to their antics and sent them to the other side to sit by themselves. Ginny was a buffer between you and Bill, his father beside him and Molly next to you at the ends. Ginny kept you talking throughout most of the meal Molly had made, asking as discreetly as she could about healing spells.

“It was so nice to come here today,” Molly said, dabbing a napkin under her eyes. “I’m so glad you suggested it, Ginny.”

“It was lucky dad needed to come today.”

George asked, mouth full. “Why did you need to come today?” Fred, needing to be part of the conversation too, asked, “Yeah, what’d ya have to tell Bill?”

You were going to let it be a family squabble, but Arthur made the mistake of looking at you and averting his gaze too quickly. “Bill?”

“I don’t think now is the appropriate time to discuss it,” Arthur said.

Bill disagreed. “Cillian went to his office. Asking questions about you.”

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lemoncherrypop · 5 months

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seventeen x harry potter au

deatheater!seungcheol x gryffindorprincess!reader summary: The war has finally come and your entire world falls into ruin. After a surprise attack from the Death Eaters, you barely escape with your life and find refuge in a faraway safe house. Everything would have been fine, all things considered, except for the fact that you had fallen right into the snake’s pit. notes: hello :'))) i am back from the dead. i can not apologize enough for the three year hiatus. i went through some family stuff, some mental breakdowns, and also just life in general made me not want to write anymore. but all the messages and comments I've gotten throughout the years have been so heart warming and touching. your words of support have genuinely made me want to get back into this again, so thank you thank you thank you. all your likes, comments and shares really kept me going, sometimes I felt like I was writing into the void, but knowing that others read and enjoyed my story was a very validating and heartwarming feeling. again, I am SOOO sorry for the extremely late update, but if you are still around, I hope you will enjoy this next chapter! i love you all <3 P.S if you prefer AO3 viewing, it will be linked in my Series Masterlist :) word count: 4.3k

Series Masterlist

One l Two l Three l Four l Five l coming soon...

Chapter Five

The bed is warm when you wake up, but you can not move.

“If you try to get up, I will incarcerous your ass.”

The air smells bitter and burnt, and it makes you want to gag at how strong it weighs in the air. Blinking past the candlelights, you find Jean sitting in a chair next to your bed.

Groaning, you try and curl your fingers, but you find yourself unable to. Not even needing to look down, you could feel the thick bandages wrapped around your whole chest and the entire length of your left arm.

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t,” you grumble, voice feeling raw and dry in your throat. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“What did I do to you?”

“I can’t fucking move!”

“I bloody well put you back together in one piece!” Jean snapped and you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen so much anger in your friend’s eyes. “You nearly got yourself killed, and you’re complaining about a couple of bandages?!”

“A couple is enough to render me completely useless?!”

“You’re not useless.” Jean rolls her eyes. “You’re just forced into recuperation.”

“Well, it’d be fucking nice if I could at least scratch my nose.” You scrunch your nose unpleasantly.

“Your right arm still works, you know.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Right.”

Jean sighs deeply and goes back to focusing on something on your night table. Feeling awkward, you stretch out your right arm the best you can and reach up to scratch the itch on the bridge of your nose.

“What’s that?” You point at the stack of small withered leather pouches and tiny vials of potions.

She lets out a grunt of frustration. “It’s your medicine. You lost so much blood, I thought you turned into a bloody ghost.”

“Well, blame that on—”

“It’s both of your faults,” Jean cuts you off with a sharp glare. “Don’t go blaming Seungcheol when you put him in an equally bad position.”

You can’t help but smirk at the news. “He strapped down onto his bed just like me?”

Glass bottles click and clatter as Jean slams down your medicine. “Wake up! This was all meant for training, not to cut each other’s throats and bleed each other dry.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn away to avoid her glare. “Did you give him the same lecture?”

“I’m serious, can’t you just listen to me?”

“It’d be nice to not, but I don’t think I have a choice.”

She scoffs. “We’re not at school anymore. There’s no more petty house rivalry, no house points to fight over, or exams to stress over. We’re on the same side of the war, we can’t keep fighting with the boys.”

“Don’t be a fool.” You snap back at her with furrowed brows. “You want me to trust these boys? Thought you were supposed to be the smart one—”

A click— the door opens and Wonwoo walks in as if he were coming in like routine.

“Ah,” he says in quiet surprise. “You’re up?”

A brow quirks. “What are you doing in my room?”

Jean clicks her tongue and goes back to refilling your medication.

He holds up an amber glass bottle. “To heal you back into a functioning human.”

You place your good arm under the back of your head and prop yourself up a little to get a better view of your two housemates.

“Jean’s already got my medicine here.” You nod over to the glass vials on your night table.

“Yes, but this one—” Wonwoo holds it closer to your face, the clear glass has no label but contains a sticky, thick liquid. “—is for those cuts that Seungcheol gave you.”

“Of course,” you groan, rolling your eyes. “Even the cuts he gave me aren’t ordinary. I need a special potion just for that?”

Wonwoo takes a seat at the end of your bed. “You lost a lot of blood.”

“A lot.” Jean glowers.

“Stop worrying,” you chide. “I feel fine!” You cough, embarrassingly, your throat still raw and dry.

“Fine my fucking arse,” Jean curses, and you know she’s truly mad because when was the last time your friend has ever cursed? “Fine isn’t being completely incapacitated for days. I had no idea when you would even wake up.”

“Wait a sec—” Your forehead wrinkles as your face contorts into confusion. “How long have I been out?”

“Only three days,” Wonwoo sighs, and uncorks the bottle in his hand. “He’s just as immobile as you, thought you’d be interested to know.”

“That is good to know.” You can’t help the grin spreading on your face. Jean’s scowl only deepens.

A cup is conjured out of thin air, and Wonwoo pours some of the amber liquid into it. “This is going to be hard to swallow, but drink the whole thing, okay?” He hands you the cup.

It looks even darker in the cup and moves like molasses. “And what is this supposed to help with? All the blood that I lost?”

“It’s to make sure your wounds heal completely,” Jeans explains. “Unfortunately… you won’t be able to get rid of the scars, but at least they’ll be completely closed.”

“That spell he used on you…” Wonwoo says quietly, his face looking serious as he tries to word it properly in his head before saying it out loud. “It’s— it’s not a spell to take lightly. Obviously, it would have been best to use the counterspell right after you got hit, but you continued fighting—”

“Absolute blockheads, the both of you!”

“— and the lacerations only went deeper and deeper as they spread. It’ll take a few days of rest before you’re fully healed, but just hold your nose when you take the potion because it—”

“Tastes like fucking shit!” You gag.

“— tastes pretty awful…”

Mandatory bed rest for the rest of the week.

Those were the orders from apparently everyone else in the house. Sneaking out was not an option because there was a spell that made the entire house ring when you tried to sneak out. It was equally both embarrassing and frustrating, seeing as how you couldn’t even take a piss without having Jean come over to help you over to the bathroom.

The only good thing about being imprisoned inside your own room was Wonwoo’s cup of tea.

He brought you a cup of tea every morning. Earl grey. Always piping hot, and with just enough cream and sugar to make anyone else’s tongue curl from the sweetness.

It was the perfect cup of tea.

The damn snake was slowly creeping his way up your ladder that goes from enemies to acquaintances to just barely being friends. He was still low on the ladder though, just marginally above the other snakes.

But the cup of tea did nothing to make you feel any better. Any less useless.

The wounds have healed completely when you finished up the rest of the amber liquid, and the bandages were finally all released with permission from Wonwoo and Jean, but no one allowed you back into another round of dueling. Not yet at least. They all said it's because you needed more time to get better, but you knew it was because they all thought you weren’t mentally stable enough to go back.

“You almost died!” You remember wincing in pain when Jean readjusted your bandages.

No matter how many times you insisted that you were feeling better and thinking more clearly, she stayed firm in her decision.

“Not. Yet.”

You can only hope that the same was happening to Seungcheol.

Minghao sips on his glass and the candlelight illuminates the grimace on his face. “This is not what I meant when I said they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off each other.”

“I was hoping they’d just fuck each other’s brains out,” Mingyu shrugs. “But I guess this is another way of them taking their anger out on each other.”

“How could you joke like that when they both nearly died?” Trinh scowls, smacking the back of his head for the comment.

“Hey!” Mingyu rubs his head with a groan. “You think I wanted that to happen? I nearly shit myself when I saw the amount of blood in here!” He shudders dramatically. “But they’re both healed now, yeah?”

“Doesn’t make the situation any better.” Trinh tiredly rubs her eyes. “We can never pair them up again for training. I refuse to clean up that much blood again.”

“The reality is,” Minghao sighs, reaching over to pet her hair. “They fucking hate each other. I’m sure they’ll find another excuse to get into another bloody fight.”

“As much as I hated the fight as well, I can’t say that I’m not surprised.” Mingyu sighs. “This was a fight years in the making. We put those two together without any supervision of the professors, and what did we expect? Sunshine and chocolate frogs?”

“Their fighting in Hogwarts was child’s play compared to this,” Trinh groans, looking more tired by the second.

She shifts in her chair just enough for her to lean her head on Minghao’s shoulder, and he suddenly laughs. “Remember that time he spiked her ale with some babbling beverage right before potions class?”

A light chuckle comes from Mingyu. “Or that time she used locomotor mortis right before he leaned in for his first kiss with that Gryffindor girl and he fell right into her breasts?”

Minghao throws his head back with a loud snort. “Then there was that brilliant prank where he charmed her quill to write everything backwards during our O.W.L.S!”

“See? I’m telling you, they just need to fuck.” Mingyu lays his finger on the table to make his point. “They’ve already beat each other bloody.”

Minghao’s laughter slowly fades until his smile is no more, and reaches for his glass again. “Yeah, but he’s not the same boy as before.” He takes a final swig and downs the whole drink. “He’s changed.”

“We’ve all changed.”

Their heads all snap up to see Wonwoo standing at the end of their table. Minghao grimaces, and all traces of laughter have disappeared from his face. Looking forlornly into his half-empty glass, Mingyu stays silent as well.

“Done drinking for tonight?” He asks the trio, looking just as solemn as his crew of snakes.

Trinh throws her head back to finish hers and slams it back on the table. “Now I am.”

Mingyu holds up an empty glass for Wonwoo in offerance. “How are they doing? Still, being stubborn?

Wonwoo declines with a shake of his head and sits down to join them. “I don’t know what I expected from either of them,” he sighs. “She’s still fighting tooth and nail to get out of the room, and Seungcheol’s… well, you know how he gets when he’s moody.”

“Got the temper of a five-year-old.” Trinh shakes her head.

“But thankfully the medications are working well,” Wonwoo continues. “Wounds are pretty much all healed. I still think they need more time to mentally recover from their fight.”

“I’ve got high hopes for the Princess, but Seungcheol? Like that stubborn dickhead has any space in his thick skull to even comprehend how to do that.”

“Mingyu.” Wonwoo places a firm grip on his shoulder. “We’ve got to do something. He can’t keep going on like this, he’s only going to get worse.”

“Well, what do you suggest then?” Mingyu snaps. “Like he’ll listen to any of us.

Minghao’s expression is grim. “I’m afraid the only way he’ll get any better is if he is dead, my friend.”

Days and weeks flew by in the cottage and the house was slowly coming into action once again. Mingyu and Jean were still flirting around in every room, Trinh could be found giggling away with Minghao whilst pretending to not care about anyone else.

And yet, you haven’t exchanged a single word with Seungcheol. It was harder than you expected, pretending like someone doesn’t exist under the same roof as you, but you were determined to see past him like a ghost. Unsurprisingly, he had shown you the same courtesy. Seungcheol even ate his meals alone in his room or in the room down in the basement.

Walking around the house post near-death-fight was an even bigger pain than before. There was an unspoken mutual agreement between the two of you, and that was to be completely oblivious to each other’s existence. Although the entire household was pushing for the both of you to make amends, it was clear that they have all underestimated both your stubbornness. You bet you could go months, maybe even years, pretending like Seungcheol didn’t exist within the same home as you.

While the lack of contact with the miserable imp was nice, the tension still weighed heavy in the air, and you knew it was beginning to suffocate the others as well. But as much as you felt bad for your housemates, they were the ones who forced you into this whole situation in the first place.

And so, he continued to act as if you were nothing but an echo in the hallways. He didn’t even sneer or frown, or show any physical signs of threats or discomfort. He simply acted as if you didn’t exist.

And you were fine with that.

Until, well, everyone else wasn’t.

The night hung heavy, and the moon cast a haunting glow on the house as you readied for sleep. You were seconds away from slipping under your covers when a timid knock echoed from your door. Wearily, you trudged over to answer, revealing a Wonwoo poised to knock again.

“Wonwoo?”

“Hi.”

“Can I help you?”

Wonwoo’s arms fall to his sides, his body rigid and expression wavering with hesitance. It was clear from his eyes that he was unsure of his presence at your door, especially at this late hour.

The past few weeks have admittedly been easier with the help of Wonwoo’s presence. He took care of you in little ways that you did not expect. He brought medicine with a cup of hot tea on the side for you every day. He would accompany you in silent book readings in the common room, discreetly sitting across from you in your favorite armchair to keep you company. And whenever you felt yourself about to be overcome with anxiety, somehow, almost miraculously, Wonwoo would appear to chase that sinking feeling of fear in your chest away.

Most times, he would ask if you’d like to accompany him in some tasks, like baking muffins for breakfast the next day, or flying on the broomsticks to help clean up the roof, or even picking flowers outside to make bouquets around the cottage.

Other times, he would make you a cup of tea and simply just sit by your side. He would make small talk if you felt like talking, but if you didn’t, he would just sit in silence with you. Sometimes, you would sit in silence for so long that your tea would grow cold, but by the time you noticed, Wonwoo had already gotten up to make you a fresh cup of tea to replace the cold one in your hands.

He had such a keen sense of your anxieties, you wondered if it was because he had the same fears as you.

A heavy sigh escapes you, heart feeling pity for the boy who has diligently stayed by your side everyday since the duel. “What is it?” Your voice is soft, speaking low to not be heard by others. “I was just about to go to sleep.”

“Oh— I’ll come back another night then—”

“Nonsense. Come inside.”

“I… I don’t want to take up too much of your time…”

“You spent the past three weeks putting me back together. You are allowed some of my time.”

He still seems hesitant. A jitteriness that was now making you nervous.

“What is it?” You ask in a tense whisper. “Did you get any news? Has someone else—”

“No! No, not at all,” He waves his hands quickly, immediately banishing the thought of losing yet another classmate. “I just— well, I’m not sure if this may come as a shock to you, but you must know that your fight with Seungcheol is making everyone else in the house deeply uncomfortable—”

You let out a deep sigh of relief. “Is this what you came in the middle of the night for?” Turning your back on him, you wave your hand back, motioning for him to leave your room. “Go to bed, Wonwoo.”

He grabs your left hand, making you halt in your tracks. Turning to face him, you saw the strain etched into his expression. His other hand pauses for a second before reaching over to pull up your sleeve. “Look at what's happened to you.”

Your hand whips out of his and you bring the sleeve down in a defensive rage. “What are you here for, Wonwoo?” You demand this time.

He gathers in a shaky breath as if he were afraid to speak another word out loud. “Have you ever heard of that spell?” His voice drops to a whisper, making sure that you are the only one that can hear him. “That was dark magic, nothing like what we were ever taught in school. Who do you think taught him that spell?”

“You think I care where you learned all your demented spells from?”

“Well you should! I know there’s been a difficult history between our houses, but we’re all here together now. We’re all classmates here, why can’t you just—”

“Just what? Want me to pretend like everythings okay? Like the outside world isn’t burning up all around us? Want me to forget what he’s done to me?”

“I’m not asking for you to forgive him or any of us, but I am asking you to just… accept the situation that we’re all in. Whether you like it or not, we are on the same side now.”

“Acceptance doesn’t come that easily, it’s something to be earned.”

His face falls. “Haven’t I?” Wonwoo’s eyes turn soft, yearning and desperate. “I was hoping that— that at least I am…”

Your heart clenches with guilt. “No… you’re right.” Shaking your head, you reach over to grab his hands in yours. “You’ve— you’ve been a great friend to me the past few weeks, and I can’t ever deny that, it wouldn’t be fair to you.”

His shoulders relax, and he gently returns your grasp. Giving him a faint smile, you guide him into your room as he quietly closes the door behind him. Taking a seat together on your bed, facing each other, a sense of solemnity settles between you.

“This situation in the house…” Wonwoo’s voice is still cautious. “I felt like I needed to come to you, and tell you… if you and Seungcheol continue on this way, it will break us all apart.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“People are starting to walk on eggshells around here, and it’s because of you two.”

“Did you give him the same talk, or are you just lecturing me?” You snap, unable to hold down your annoyance at how everyone’s been treating you since the duel. That loathsome fuck was the one who almost killed you, and yet everyone’s coming to you to try and make amends?

“Oh, trust me,” Wonwoo almost chuckles. “He’s getting lectured by both Mingyu and Hao. You got the lucky end of the stick.”

You bit back a smile at that.

“But you know it’s true. We have to split up with dueling practice, we don’t gather anymore to hear Jun’s nightly news, and we just eat our meals separately now. There needs to be some unity between us in order for us to work together.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Since when did you become so pragmatic?”

“I’ve always been,” he responds in exasperation. “I might be friends with those idiots, but don’t lump me in with their antics.”

“You’ve revealed your true self to me six years too late,” You say wryly.

Wonwoo reaches over to grasp your hands again. “I know, and that’s exactly why I refuse to let this chance slip away.” His look is so serious, your smile drops. “Besides, haven’t you ever noticed? I was always the one to pull the boys out of the fights.”

You pause, genuinely considering his words. “I can’t say I have.”

Wonwoo scoffs lightly. “Course not. Your attention was always elsewhere.”

“Like where?” You raise a brow.

“You know where,” he raises a brow back at you. “But now your attention is needed here. I came here because I need you to understand.”

“Understand what, Wonwoo.” Frustration starts to build. “That we’re all in this together now? That we aren’t enemies anymore because we’re fighting on the same side? I get it,” Your voice is dripping with sarcasm. “I still hate the bloody ass, but we’re stuck in this damned house for the same reason.”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “Glad to see that you’re not in denial anymore, but it’s important you know why we ran away in the first place.”

“Because your malevolent Dark Lord is out there murdering people left and right?”

“You’re not wrong,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Believe me when I say that even his most devoted followers feared him. It might have seemed like we were just taking Dark Magic lessons from the Death Eaters, but we were prisoners there. We— we were taught all these different ways to torture, sometimes even forced—”

Your face contorts in confusion, a sick feeling starting to settle in your stomach. “Have you ever…”

“Never.” He shuts you down before you could finish your question. “But… we came close a few times.”

Your hands draw away from his as a chill runs down your spine. Wonwoo looks ashamed, his hands clenched into fists.

“They trained us to be like them. They wanted us to just be another soldier. They taught us how to fight, how to torture, how to kill. They tried to poison our minds.”

A familiar panic starts to fill in his eyes, and guilt washes over you. The fear you’ve developed since running away from the Death Eaters was nothing in comparison to what he went through. How could anyone come out of that normal?

“They made us watch every night. We watched every single muggle, muggle-born or “traitor” be tortured until death. The Death Eaters were creative for sure, I watched some of their bodies be twisted in ways they shouldn’t and others lose their sanity. And on nights where the Eaters had a bit too much to drink, they would make us test the curses out on each other.”

A silence falls on your face, horror-stricken.

“One night… I saw him, Seokmin’s father. I recognized him from the platform before boarding the train. Seokmin looked just like him, the same eyes and smile… I had no idea he was a Muggle. I tried to help him escape.”

Your hands finds his again, gripping his fingers, apologetic for pulling away in the first place. The panic slowly rising in Wonwoo’s eyes.

“I had no idea he was a muggle,” he repeats, the pained look in his eyes begging you to believe him. “I thought we were almost out, but I got caught. Cicero— he was the one who caught me.”

His fingers felt cold in your hands.

“That was the last time I saw his father,” he murmurs. “And Cicero took me away.”

He pulls one hand up to his buttons on his shirt, a slight tremble as he starts to undo them. “Right here,” he guides one of your hands up to the center of his chest. “Is where I have the same scars as you.”

Your heart shatters at the revelation.

He laughs bitterly as you trail your fingers down his disfigured skin. “We all have them. Mingyu has them on his chest as well. Minghao is growing his hair longer to hide the ones on his back, and Seungcheol…” he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never knew… I never imagined… the things you’ve been through,” your words fracture, not knowing what to say.

He’s back to smiling, a maddening reassurance you know he’s trying to give you despite the panic still in his eyes.

“Jean and I may have mended you back together, but Seungcheol cast the counterspell. He’s the one that saved you.”

“Seungcheol? But he’s the one who—”

“I know,” he nods. “He’s the one who used it on you in the first place, but when you were bleeding out in the common room, shirt torn apart and lifeless, it woke something back up in him.”

You shook your head, not saying anything. You didn’t want to believe him, but there was a quiet stirring in your head.

“He was the Dark Lord’s favorite. He trained the most out of all of us, the Dark Lord wanted to use him for his plans, and after months and months of enduring his training… he just couldn’t take it anymore.”

Tears start welling up in his eyes, his voice a mere whisper. “Something inside him… just snapped.” A tear falls from his face. “He didn’t want to kill the headmaster, but he had no choice. He had to. My closest friend is broken now because of it, and— and I don’t know how to fix him.”

Your chest crumples at the sight before you.

“He’s made the Unbreakable Vow.” Wonwoo reveals. “I needed you to understand. He just wanted to live.”

#scoups scenarios #seungcheol scenarios #seventeen scenarios #seventeen #scoups fic #seungcheol fic #harry potter au #seventeen x harry potter #seventeen harry potter au #seventeen x reader #seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo fic #wonwoo scenarios #wonwoo fanfic #wonwoo angst

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endless-ineffabilities · 2 years

Text

Labyrinth

Aemond Targaryen x f!Reader

It only feels this raw right now

Lost in the labyrinth of my mind

Break up, break free, break through, break down

You would break your back to make me break a smile

(+ uh, oh, I'm falling in love)

An imagine loosely based on the song Labyrinth of off Midnights by Taylor Swift ▪︎ read more Daemon & Aemond midnights imagines here: masterlist

themes: Aemond loses his eye at an older age (near the end of this) + there is no war (Rhaenyra is Queen), fluff, angst, mutual pining / warnings: language, mention of violence / word count: 5k

You and Aemond dance around each other for a long time, unable to make your feelings known to the other. Until an incident occurs, which makes him realize how important you truly are to him.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

It's a calm morning in King's Landing, and Prince Aemond makes his way throughout the castle, on his way to visit his dear sister Helaena and her children.

Aemond has proven to be a doting brother to her, as well as a caring uncle to Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor. It can even be said that he has seen these children grow, more than their own father, his frequently inebriated brother, Prince Aegon.

Aemond shakes his head in disappointment, as the thought of his brother crosses his mind. Surely, he doesn't expect to find him in Helaena and the children's chambers.

He walks through the half-open doors, and hears an unfamiliar voice reading to the children. Your voice. He sees you sitting on the floor, the toddlers in varying positions in front of you, your dainty hands holding a heavy book that you surprisingly looked comfortable propping up.

You get to a passage about a dragon, and promptly make a Roarrr! sound to the children, as if you were acting out a performance. Aemond can't hold back the amused snort that he lets out.

You raise your head, and hurriedly stand, curtsying to the prince, "Prince Aemond, your sister did say you might be visiting this morning." You feel flushed, embarrassed that he most likely heard you.

"Hmm," he takes you in fully, mildly pleased with what he sees, "and where is my sister?"

"She's gone on a stroll with the Lady Alicent, my prince."

"And who might you be? Just last week it was Alyanna who was attending to the children."

"My name is y/n, I am her newly instated handmaiden, my prince. Mistress Alyanna asked to take leave, sadly, I think due to unfair treatment from Prince Aegon."

Aemond nearly rolls his eyes in exasperation, and reminds himself to have a word with his brother about this later.

"I can leave you with the children, if you wish to have time alone with them?"

Normally he would order his sister's appointed handmaiden to wait outside, as he prefers not to have someone hovering over him. But he looks at you intently, hearing nervousness in your voice, and decides, "No, stay, please. Continue."

"E-mon!" the children squeal, noticing their uncle's presence.

You feel warm inside as you watch him lower himself to the floor and hug the children. They seem very comfortable with him, which only says a lot about how he treats them.

"Good morning, sweetlings," he sits among them, Jaehaerys plopping himself on his lap.

You're unsure if you should sit with them. Would it be proper?

"Y/n, please sit," he orders, "the children wish to hear the rest of the story."

"Of course, my prince." You sit, careful with your skirts.

As you take the book in your hands, the prince adds, smirking, "And so do I."

Oh, gods. You swallow, nerves settling in your stomach.

Slowly, you pick up where you left off, although the prince notices that your tone has changed. Rather flat, more careful.

He decides to have a bit of fun with you, testing to see how you would fare, "If you don't mind, my lady, continuing in the same inflection as you had before? The raw emotion in your voice was truly something to hear."

You groaned in protest, and your hand flies to your mouth when you realize how rude that might have seemed.

"I apologize, my prince, of course I'll... uhh... read in the same- "

His hand rests on yours before you can finish your sentence, and you swear you can hear your heart pulsating. Oh for gods sake, he's just the Prince, not some bloody deity.

"It's no matter, go on," he says smoothly, applying the slightest pressure on your hand, before pulling away.

He could pass for a deity, though, due to his striking beauty and the way he holds himself. It almost... eerie. In the best way.

"Okay," collecting your thoughts, you recount the story, doing your best to focus on the children, who watch you in awe.

You could not shake off the fact that their handsome uncle was watching you as well, the pressure of it nearly weighing you down. His intent gaze effectively raising goosebumps on your exposed skin.

Moments later, much to your relief, you reach the final page and you're able to say, "... and The End. That's it, my darlings."

"Hmm." There is a pleasant upturn to the prince's lips, and you find yourself admiring its prominent shape. Looking down quickly, you try to avert your eyes so he doesn't notice your staring.

Though you find yourself saying, "Amused, are we, my prince?"

His smirk widens. Maybe you did have some fire in you.

"I am," he tilts his head, "you should be flattered, my lady, as it takes quite a lot to amuse me."

"I should be flattered that you find amusement at my expense?" You raise an eyebrow. You briefly wonder where you're finding the gall to speak to the prince in such a way, but you can't explain it. It's as if he's eliciting it out of you.

"Why?" he counters, "wouldn't you want to amuse your prince?"

"I suppose," you close the book, and put it aside, taking the wooden toy Maelor was handing to you, "I would. Given that he amuses me, just the same."

You stare at each other, your heart in your throat, arrested by his sinister, bright, blue eyes.

Until Jaehaera gets up, and puts her arms around her uncle's neck, demanding attention with one loud, "E-mooon!"

"My love," he laughs, and you find yourself wishing this wouldn't be the last you'll hear of the sound.

My new station might not be so bad, after all.

Aemond attends to Jaehaera, while you play with her brothers, until a smiling Helaena walks in the room.

"Aemond," she greets pleasantly, "you've met y/n."

You both stand, and Aemond places a kiss on his sister's cheek, "Hmm, I have," he looks back at you, before adding in a lower voice, but one he made sure you still could hear, "if I had half a mind, dear sister, I would have her attend to me, instead."

You can't help but smile at that, and Helaena does too, looking between you and her brother, then she muses, eyes glazing, "Lovely blue stone casting its glow, uniting tormented loving bones."

"Uhm," confusion shows on your face.

"Don't fret," Aemond says to you, "she does that often. My dear sister." He lovingly wraps an arm around her, before excusing himself to go attend to the council.

"It was a pleasure, lady y/n." He nods to you.

"The pleasure is all mine, my prince," you curtsy, one final time, before he leaves the room.

As Aemond walks to the council, he feels much lighter, and one thing's for certain. He's going to have to a word with his brother that you were not to be messed with, in any way.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You walk through the streets of the Red Keep, Prince Aemond a steady presence by your side. Normally, you'd have Princess Helaena's sworn knights accompany you while you carry out the tasks she set out, but ever since a few months ago, Aemond has taken it upon himself to watch over you as well.

The two knights still follow, as per their duty, some distance behind the two of you, so you're not sure why Aemond continues to take useful time out of his agenda, just to walk with you.

But you didn't mind, all the same. You found yourself feeling at home in his company.

Since that day when Aemond walked in on your enthusiastic storytelling, which you still feel flustered just thinking about, he has visited Helaena and the children's quarters more often.

And by extension, by the grace of whatever gods exist, this means that he's around you a lot.

You've been able to see him as more than just a handsome prince to fawn over, more than a royal to pledge fealty to.

You've been able to see Aemond, who he truly is, as much as he has allowed you. And, he's been getting to know you as well, but you unknowingly brush his efforts off as him showing mere courtesy to the caretaker of his niece and nephews.

That is, until Helaena one day said, absentmindedly, "I'm happy Aemond visits nearly every day now."

"Princess? Hasn't he always done this anyway?"

"Hmm, well, yes, he did so, around once or twice a week if his council duties allow him the time."

You nodded, knowing that Prince Aemond held a valuable position in Queen Rhaenyra's great council.

She continues, "But now... he finds the time every day, even just for a few minutes, to stop by. I'm pleased about this little change."

You smiled, sharing in Helaena's delight.

Then she added, "I might have to thank you for that."

"M-me, princess?"

"Mhmm," she just smiled giddily, before turning away to work on her embroidery.

The memory replays in your head, as Aemond walks beside you, so close your hands brush each other once in a while.

If he notices, then he must not mind. You don't, either.

Today, you are tasked with picking up silks for the Princess' new dress. You and your company walk through the market, the people parting when they notice the Prince heading their way, knights in tow.

You don't notice the man coming from around the corner, carrying a huge straw basket on his shoulders, which nearly swings against your head.

But Aemond was quick to act, taking your hand and pulling you out of the way, close to him.

The man mumbles his apologies, to which you say, "It's alright, I'm okay."

But you look up at Aemond who seems to be glaring at the man, his voice cold when he speaks, "Watch yourself next time."

"Of course, my prince. Sorry, my prince." He scurries away in a rush, clearly fearing the prince's wrath.

As you walk on, you find that the prince has held on to your hand, even rubbing his thumb on it soothingly from time to time, and you don't protest.

You briefly think of how the two of you must look, hand in hand. Almost like lovers.

You turn away, your thoughts making you feel bashful. Aemond gradually halts, and with gentle fingers on your chin, turns your head to face him.

"Something the matter?" he asks coyly.

Oh he knows what he's doing.

His hand still grips yours firmly, while the other holds your face.

"Nothing, my prince."

He smiles, satisfied, and you continue on.

"I thought I told you to only call me by name," he says, "No need for the formality."

"It just doesn't feel right, prince Aemond."

"Why not?"

"Because you're the prince, and I'm just, well, me."

He doesn't say anything, simply walking on, until he says, almost to himself, "I believe you're more extraordinary than you allow yourself to think."

You look at him, appreciating his words, believing them. You realize just how much you've grown to trust Aemond.

At this point, you reach your destination, so say, "We're here... Aemond."

He smiles at you brightly, the sight of it so overwhelming, "Hmm."

Hmm, indeed.

You hand the tailor the scroll on which Princess Helaena listed what she needs, and he abruptly gets to work, retrieving materials from all around the stall.

You look around, Aemond doing the same on the other side of the room. Then you come across a tray of jewels, stones of different hues and sizes. The one thing that caught your eye was a deep blue sapphire, so beautiful it made the other stones look plain in comparison.

You pick it up, weighing it in your hand, smiling to yourself.

"See anything you like?" Aemond comes up behind you.

"Oh, yes, well. This is beautiful, isn't it? It reminds me of a pendant my mother once possessed. It also contained a sapphire, which I must say is my favourite stone. Blue is my favourite colour, you know?" You study the sapphire, bringing it up to look at it closely.

"Yes, I know, you've told me." Aemond smiles, his heart feeling tender as he listens to you musing out loud.

You speak up again, raising the sapphire to his face, "And look, it even matches your eyes. Equally beautiful."

His face lights up, "You flatter me, my love."

My love.

You're interrupted by the knight, entering the stall, addressing the prince, "My prince, might I remind you of the materials for your new royal cloak, as ordered by your Lady mother."

"Ah yes," Aemond says, face falling, "go see to it."

The knight nods, and goes off to speak to the tailor.

"Something wrong? Not elated at having a new cloak?" you ask playfully, thinking it to be just a light matter.

"Hmm? No, I suppose it's just... where I will have to don it for."

You become confused as to why his disposition has fallen, so you continue to ask, "A ceremony? Some tedious banquet?"

Aemond had told you once about how little he cared for the feasts and banquets, empty processions with no true objective.

His voice grows solemn, and he looks at you directly, as if to make a confession, "I am to have a courtship ceremony. My mother wishes to have me wed very soon."

"Oh."

You turn away, placing the sapphire back down, and desperately try to distract yourself with something else. You suddenly feel foolish for even imagining the two of you as lovers earlier. For ever reading too much into the prince's kindness.

Of course he will be married. And even if... even if... he actually desired you, he wouldn't choose you. You were a lady, yes, but your House was one of the smaller ones in Westeros. A small and humble, dormant stronghold in the Westlands.

Noone of any significance, at least, when compared to a Targaryen prince.

"Say something, my lady," he implores you.

You try to steady your voice, and it comes out cold, "That's good news, my prince. I wish you would find a fruitful union."

"Do you?" he matches your tone, almost mockingly.

"Of course."

Aemond suddenly feels irate at your coldness, but mostly, he hates that he may have caused it. It wasn't his fault, after all, was it? He's merely fulfilling his duty to his House, to his family. Who are you to make him suddenly feel wretched about the whole ordeal?

But he does. He feels empty, at the sight of you now, at how your smile has faded.

Aemond speaks again, his tone biting, "Thank you for your well wishes, my lady. I do want for myself a beautiful, noble wife."

"Sure, my prince."

"Fuck's sake, y/n, call me Aemond." he spits out, exasperated.

"My prince, we have acquired everything. We can leave now if you wish." The knight is back, with the goods held under his arm.

Aemond looks at you expectantly, and you're not sure what for. You say nothing, your mind still reeling at his impending betrothal.

"Very well." Aemond walks out first.

When you make your way back to the castle, Aemond walks faster, some distance ahead of you the whole time.

And you want nothing more than to return to your quarters, busy yourself with taking care of the children, and completely forget about their soon-to-be-wed uncle.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

You're in your private quarters, which are adjacent to Princess Helaena's, in case she might need to call on you.

You feel downtrodden, and you barely left the room today, asking leave from the Princess, stating that you felt rather ill. Helaena, kind and generous as ever, was quick to agree and even ordered the Maester to bring you some medicinal tea.

It has been days since your ill-fated visit to the Red Keep. This morning, Prince Aemond's courtship ceremony took place, and you had woken up with a sense of dread.

It must have finished already, I wonder who it was he chose. She must be beautiful, indeed, a highborn lady from an important House. A valuable ally to House Targaryen.

You try to focus on reading your texts, but your mind keeps drifting back to the Prince and whoever his chosen consort might be.

You worry about how it will feel, seeing him constantly when he visits the Princess and her children. Knowing all the while that you can never have him.

Why am I fooling myself? I never could have had him, and it had been that way since the beginning.

A knock echoes. Three, sure, raps on the wood, making you jump, not expecting anyone at such a late hour.

"Princess Helaena?" you ask, although you're fairly certain it isn't her, as she has already gone to bed much earlier. And, she usually calls out as well.

Nothing. The knock repeats, sounding more urgent.

You walk to the door, and you've only just opened it an inch, when it's pushed open wide. All at once, you're enveloped in Aemond's arms, his distinct scent intoxicating your senses, so close. So close.

Before anything can be said, he presses his lips to yours.

Everything else disappears. Suddenly, he isn't to be married, you didn't have an argument days ago, you no longer feel despondent, the pressure you feel about your lesser birthright is gone.

He is just Aemond, and you're just you. Lips dancing with each other, heartbeat pounding in your ears. Your hands reach up to each other's face, carressing blindly, like a fight on who will cover more ground.

It feels so good, so right, that a tear threatens to roll down your face.

He breaks away, only because he's out of breath, your face held like treasure in his hands, his forehead pressed to yours.

His eyes are shut, and lips are parted. His brows are furrowed, reflecting his frustration, impatience, his longing.

Then he opens his eyes, that endlessly arresting blue.

"I'm afraid... that I... have fallen in love with you."

"Aemond." The tear that you were fighting back, finally rolls down, and he catches it, looking at you in wonder.

"I would wed you if I could. If only I could," his voice breaks, all his emotion pouring out.

"I know." You feel numb, like you're floating on air. Both exalted and overjoyed, as well as broken by the impossibility of what you want.

"I fucking hate this," he seethes, feeling out of control, the one thing he's ever wanted, he can't truly have.

Then he spins on his heel, letting you go, hastily leaving out the door.

You had no idea that it would also be the last you would see of the prince, for a long while.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

News of the battle of the Stepstones spread like wildfire. The Targaryen and Velaryon armies were victorious in defeating the infamous Triarchy.

Apparently, it had been Daemon and Aemond Targaryen who served as primary catalysts for victory, their prowess in battle and their dragons tipping the scale over to their cause.

There were plenty of casualties, as is the outcome of war, but unfortunately, you had received word that Prince Aemond also suffered a grave injury.

The messenger did not specify on his condition, and simply heeded Princess Helaena that she may visit her battle-worn brother.

You and Helaena rush through the hallways, arm in arm, and you try your best to comfort her, but you feel dread yourself. Aemond dwells in your thoughts, taking over everything else. Is he alright? You're sure that you won't know peace until you find out.

You reach his quarters, the knight opening the door and announcing Princess Helaena's arrival.

The room is engulfed in shadow, and you catch a glimpse of him, facing away from you, sitting in front of his hearth.

You didn't understand. What was he afflicted with?

"Aemond..." Helaena starts to approach him, hands clasped nervously in front of her.

"Just you, sister. Your handmaiden is not needed."

Helaena turns to you, eyes widening, unsure of what to say. Sweet Helaena did not have it in her to just send you away, when she knew you were also concerned for her brother's wellbeing.

"Aemond," you call out to him, not able to see his expression.

"Leave us," he orders, clearly directed at you, and you're left with no choice but to follow. The knight ushers you out of the room, and when the door slams, you feel hollow inside.

He had pushed you away. Why?

You pace in front of the doors, as you wait for Helaena to come out.

A long while later, when she does, you take her hands immediately, "My princess, is Aemond alright?"

She turns her head, "Y/n, I cannot say."

"What do you mean?"

"He will... be fine. But that's all I can say, forgive me. I promised him." She pulls her hands away, and walks back to her quarters, expecting you to follow.

If there were no guards posted outside, you would barge inside and demand answers from him. Your heart ached for Aemond, and whatever pain he may be feeling. You wish desperately that he would let you be of any help, and you would do anything.

But the doors remain closed, with the guards looking at you pointedly, so you use what little strength you have left, and follow Helaena.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Aemond has barely left his quarters since the injury, tormenting himself with self-doubt and feeding his rage.

For a prince who studied the sword nearly all his life, for a fighter who pore over countless battle strategies and combat methods, he was still overpowered.

And, by the fucking Crab Feeder, of all people.

The wretch paid his debt with his life. Aemond made sure to give him a torturous death, even with blood spilling out of where his left eye used to be, looking every bit of a madman as he felt in that moment.

Each time he glances his reflection, his bright red scar commands his attention, like a reminder of his weakness. His faults in battle.

Perhaps my visage has finally reflected the monster within.

Amidst his incessantly negative, obsessive thinking, you also manage to plague his mind, every now and then.

He remembers that night, before he was called off into battle, when he made his confession to you.

Was it all for naught? I am to be married, after all, mother already having picked the top prospects for me. Perhaps, I should just commit to my duties, and cease all this fanciful dreaming. Of her. Of... love.

But one thing that he also can't deny, was that it was your image that flashed by his eyes, like one last glance offered by his heart, when the knife struck him in the face, and he fell to his knees. Fearing it was the end, for just a moment, it was you whom he thought of.

How can you even look at him now, with the same admiration? Aemond's loss also bred a darkness inside him, simmering beneath the surface, and he fears he's no longer the same man you wanted.

But... but he's almost certain, that if he lets you go, it just may torment him all of his life. Haunted by what could have been.

No.You're inside of me now. The only man I want to be is the man whom you love. I need to know if you still see me, for who I am, after all this.

He slips out of his quarters, while the castle sleeps, with only you in his mind.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

Someone knocks at your door, in a familiar pattern. You don't need to call out to know who it is.

With bare feet, you walk soundlessly towards the door, stopping just before it.

A moment passes, nothing.

"Aemond," you say, "I know it's you."

You walk closer, and rest your head on the wood, your hand coming up as if to reach through. You think you can feel him, on the other side.

"Y/n," he finally speaks, his voice sounding hoarse.

"Aemond," the both of you stand there, yearning lovers separated by a mere divide, neither one making a move.

"Don't... don't open the door."

"I won't," your heart breaks at how he sounds. Almost scared.

"I don't want you to see me like this."

As much as you long to see him in that instant, and how you know it doesn't matter how he appears, you grant his wish, letting him have this, "Okay."

"Would you like to sit?" you ask.

"Sit?"

"Yes, we can... sit with our backs to the door, and just... talk."

"Oh," is all he responds.

"Only if you want, of course." you say hurriedly.

"Well," he whispers. Then you hear shuffling from the other side, and a low thud that may be from his back hitting the wood.

You follow suit, and just sit, letting the comforting silence wash over.

"I'm sorry," he says.

"What for, Aemond?"

He responds dryly, "For this shit. I know it's not ideal."

"Oh my love," you whisper, and Aemond leans back, relishing the way you addressed him, "I'm happy to have you, however you'd let me."

For the first time since the battle, Aemond Targaryen actually smiles.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

For many nights, across the coming weeks, that is how you and Aemond would enjoy each other's company. He would come to your door, the hallways partially under the blanket of moonlight, and the two of you would simply converse. About your days. About stories. About his niece and nephews, whom he haven't yet visited since his injury.

Sometimes, you would just sit, with nothing needed to be said. Just content with the mere presence of the other.

One night, Lady Alicent heads to her daughter Helaena's quarters, wishing to leave something for her grandchildren. When she hears a voice down the hallway, one which she clearly recognizes to be her son's.

Alicent has been preoccupied with Aemond since the battle, worrying that he has been of low spirits, almost never leaving his quarters. Never allowing anyone inside, and letting them glance at his face, apart from herself, the maester, and his siblings.

He didn't want to see pity reflected in people's eyes, he had said blankly.

It pained her deeply to see her son so wounded, so lifeless. Aemond has always been a quiet boy, preferring to observe rather than to partake. Although, he is every bit a dragon as his name suggests, his fire revealing itself in his determination, in his relentless, tactical pursuit of his objectives.

And now, as he has suffered a damning blow, he remains quiet in a different way. One laced with self-loathing and dissatisfaction.

Which is why Alicent almost cannot believe her eyes, when she spies her son, casually sitting back against a door, speaking to whoever is on the other side.

And she is even more astounded when she hears it clearly. Her son, Aemond, lets out a laugh. Genuine, and light-hearted, the rare sound like music to her ears. She struggles to remember when she heard him laugh in such a way, even before the battle.

Alicent determines whose quarters her son sits by, right down the hallway from Helaena's. She had heard of you in passing, from Helaena, who had hinted at her handmaiden catching Aemond's eye. She did not think much of it at the time, and assumed it was merely a passing fancy. Her second son has never devoted much attention to such things, after all, unlike Aegon. Which is why she arranged for his courtship ceremony, in hopes that it might help him select a suitable consort, but his mind was somewhere else that morning. And now, she knows it that was on you.

She wonders what kind of a woman you might be, if you've been able to affect Aemond in such a way.

She turns around, and heads back to her quarters, so as not to disturb the both of you. A plan forms in her mind, and tomorrow, she would relay the news to her Aemond.

▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎ ▪︎

The next night, you hear him knock, and you prepare to sit by the doors yet again. But then Aemond calls out, "May I come in, my love?"

You swallow, both excitement and nervousness settling in your bones, "Yes, come in, Aemond."

He enters slowly, and your eyes can finally feast on the sight of him again. You look at him thoroughly, walking around him, ignoring the confused expression on his face.

"My love?"

"That's what you were afraid for me to see? Your eye?"

He swallows thickly, "Uh, well, the wound has healed much since the battle, and the maester has just crafted this eyepatch for me today," he says, pointing to his face. "It was horribly worse before, when I first visited you, and-"

You cut him off gently, "Oh, Aemond. I wouldn't have cared. My heart breaks for you, yes, and I wish you didn't have to suffer this injury but..." you move closer, reaching up to caress his sculpted cheekbone, "if anything, this only adds to your beauty."

"What?" he breathes out, smiling.

"Hasn't it been said that battle scars can add character?" you smile.

He blinks at you, like he doesn't believe what he's hearing, then just turns away, walking over to your bed, and uncermoniously plopping himself down on it.

"Fuck."

"Aemond?" you worry that you might have spoken out of turn, and walk over to him.

"You... you're amazing."

You laugh dryly, "Thank you?"

"I thought you would pity me, feel sorry for me. I thought you might be afraid."

You take a deep breath, and sit next to him. "I could never be afraid of you."

He nods, understanding now, and says, "I would like you to see something. Well, two things, actually."

"Okay."

With deft hands, he lifts his eyepatch, revealing the sapphire glowing beneath. With bated breath, he waits for you to speak.

"A sapphire," you breathe out in wonder. It truly was beautiful, and in some way, befitting of Aemond.

"There were several options, but when I was presented with this, I knew. It reminded me of you."

"Aemond," you whisper affectionately, "you're beautiful."

He smiles, "Hmm, and another thing." He then reaches out of his pocket and pulls out a chain, or rather a metallic necklace.

"Turn around."

You do as he says, awaiting the feeling of his gift on your skin.

Afterward, you look down, studying it, an interlocking silver sequence with a central pendant. And on the pendant...

"It's a sapphire, made out of the same exact stone as my eye. This way, my love, you will always have a part of me with you."

"Oh, Aemond," you continue to stare at your new necklace, the sapphire being the thing that warms your heart the most, "It's beautiful, thank you."

You can't help but reach for his face, and bring his lips to yours. He returns it eagerly, and he pulls you in closer by the waist.

"Oh, and another thing..." he pulls away, smirking.

"Another?" You're fairly certain he's surprised you enough tonight.

He smiles at you widely, his eyes sparkling at the thought of what he's about to divulge.

"What is it?" you press on, keen to know what it is that's uplifting him so.

"My mother, Lady Alicent, has agreed for us to be wed."

🖤🖤🖤

Aemond Taglist: @dazecrea @ladystardvsts @afro-hispwriter @poohkie90 @cleverzonkwombatsludge @lilostif16 @deeeeexx @nephitis @minicikasworld @livimulati @the-orions-belt @stillinracooncity @lawlerek @missusnora @wickedbutlovely @umavvitch @claudie-080102 @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @puredicks @crazylokonugget @lj127 @icarusignite @darylandbethfanforever9 @highexpectationsgurl @whitejuliana1204 @caught-in-the-afterglow @witchmoon @meilikki @carlottalhn @ravenclwna @xcinnamonmalfoyx @ietss @writer-lee5 @solacestyles @noneedtosearch @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @vensidia @xinyourdreamsx @mikariell95

I didn't plan for this to be that long, holy hell.

Everyone, I am so gone, after seeing that finale, all I can think about is Aemond. I need professional help.

Only if Aemond is the professional.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #midnights

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charmingsoa · 4 months

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■ Bring it On Home to Me (two) ■ John Egan x OC ■ ■ Multi chapter story ■

⚠ Chapter warning ⚠ Mentions of sexual content, cursing, use of slurs, mention of abuse.

Author's note: Hello again! So, first of thank you so much to everyone that has read the first chapter! I really appreciate it. I've been kind of in a slump with this story, having so many ideas, and trying to figure out how to piece everything together. It's definitely a work in progress. I have added past and present as well in this chapter, but going forward, I kind of want to time jump. Like I want to jump around their relationship instead of each chapter being in the same time period. Would you all be okay with that or would it be too confusing. Like I could add time stamps if that would be helpful? Please just let me know whichever you all prefer. Again, you guys are amazing and I thank you all ❤️

✪ If you would like to be tagged, just leave a comment ✪

I watched from the corner as he slept peacefully – the turmoil of war erased from his gorgeous features as the night slowly crept into daylight. Our time together was quickly coming to an end – an end that would more than likely be terminal. He was an American soldier – a major – a pilot that would either soar like an eagle or crash like so many before him.

John Egan was a charming man – one that could sweep you off your feet with just one look. I had gone to the bar down from Louella’s, the night too slow for any business. She had sent most of us home, choosing to close for the evening. Rumor had it, she was expecting one of her “high ranking” gentleman friend – a German that didn’t want to be identified.

I didn’t want to go back to Aunt Beatrice’s – already knowing that she wouldn’t approve of a cashless night. All I wanted to do was nurse a drink or two – maybe get a dance from a lonely attendee. I wasn’t looking to get into anyone’s bed, let alone spend the whole night making love in the shadows of the bombs that were exploding on the outskirts of town.

Watching as he made his way further into the bar, I couldn’t help but take sneak peaks. His uniform fitting him just right – the chip on his shoulder being held up nicely by his cocky attitude. His drink of choice was whiskey – raw whiskey. One glass after another – his body holding a tight grip on sobriety.

The way his lips tasted of the liquor made me want more – more of his lips, more of his touch. This wasn’t a fuck and pay situation – Louella was not in charge of this union. I think what made it that more powerful was the fact that there was a high chance we would never see one another again. He was an American who just so happened to be sent to the city for some reprieve – a night away from the battlefield to unwind and relax. A time that most soldiers would come into Lou’s for an hour to two of pleasure – their wives or girlfriends back home oblivious to what happened behind the closed doors of the bordello. As soon as their time was over, they would go back to their hotels and call their significant others – whispering sweet nothings in their innocent ears.

As my time with John progressed into the night, the thought of never seeing him again remained in my mind. His promise, whether it was from the liquor or his grandiose illusions, of taking me away from all this was left as an empty promise. This man didn’t know me from Adam, only the tracking of my body as his head found its position between my legs. Many had come before him promising the same – a beautiful life back in the states – a life away from Louella’s bordello and Aunt Beatrice’s abuse. I would just smile and go on – both of us knowing that once they left those doors, everything would be forgotten.

Quietly, I rose from the chair, tiptoeing in the darkness as I started collecting my wardrobe. Each glance at John’s sleeping figure making my heart race and ache simultaneously. How I wanted to just stay locked in those strong arms, listening as he spoke of what he had seen on the frontline or stories of his childhood. He was the first person I had opened up to as well – speaking of my late mother and father – the living situation that I was in now as with Aunt Beatrice being the only family left. All this talking happening in between sessions of love making – a short intermission as we let our bodies rest up for the next round. The tone of his voice creating a fire in my core as it got huskier as the octaves lowered.

“You leavin without saying goodbye?”

Stopping dead in my tracks, my eyes darting over to the bed as John stared back at me. “it’s not nice to fuck and run, darlin.”

I watched as he picked up the pack of cigarettes, the sheet lying low on his hips as he leaned against the headboard. His hair was disheveled from the pillow, his tired eyes watching my every move as I shifted around. “It’s better off that way.”

He let out a sigh, releasing a plume of smoke between his pursed lips. “Says the one who’s running away.”

I slowly pulled on my undergarments, taking a seat on the side of the bed as his eyes bore into my frame. “I’m not the woman you need in your life, John.” My voice low. “It’s not fair to either of us to keep acting like we’re gonna see one another outside of these walls again.”

“Wow-“He chuckled annoyed. “Sounds like you're killing me off – telling me that I’m not making it back home.” My face expressionless as I looked at him. “You obviously don’t know me very well, little girl.”

I shook my head, “That’s not what I’m saying but I’ve seen it enough to know that that could be the case. But, even if you do make it, survive this hell that we’re all in, I’m sure there’s a beautiful American girl waiting back home for you.” The tears forming in my eyes. “A girl who’s not tainted by the spills of other men –“

“I don’t want that-“His hand grabbing onto mine. “You’re the one that I want – you’re the one that I want to see standing on that front porch when I get home from work. I want to be able to wake up next to you every damn day. I want to watch you waddle around the house as our children grow in your stomach. I want you to get annoyed at me for every little thing.” A sad smile forming on my face. “ I don’t know a damn thing about you, but I know that you’re the one that I’m bringing back to the states come hell or high water.”

We stayed still for a moment – no words said between the two of us – just silence filling the already quiet room. I wanted so badly to cling to his every word –to just go off into the sunset with this strange man that I had known for less than six hours.

My hand pulled from his as I stepped away from the bed. I quickly pulled my dress back over my head, buckling my heels as I stood in front of the mirror. His reflection could be seen plain as day, his head hanging low as tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye – a goodbye that I didn’t even want to think about saying. What if his plane were to go down one day – the thought of just leaving with no words would eat me alive if I ever found out he had passed.

“John?”

His head slowly lifting in response as I stepped back to where he sat. His strong arm instantly pulling me into his chest as I wrapped my arm around his neck, my lips faintly connecting to his skin. We sat there way for a moment before I pulled away, his gorgeous blue eyes glassed over with tears.

“You take care of yourself, Major Egan.” The pad of my index finger lightly tracing his plump lip.

He didn’t say anything, just nodding his head as his grip on me loosened. If this wasn’t my chance to leave, then I would have stayed for the rest of eternity. I didn’t bother with one last kiss or one last hug – I simply pulled away from his touch for the last time, marching out of the hotel room before I could change my mind.

I watched as Aunt Beatrice sat next to the fireplace, the flame running low due to the dampness in the small room. I shifted nervously as she remained silent – not even an expression on her aged face. I already knew that my news would not be taken well – Loella basically throwing me out of the building once I told her. Telling me that she was just keeping me around because she felt sorry for me. – not like I was one of her top earners among the servicemen. I had left John back at the hotel – letting him know that this needed to be done in private. If Beatrice caught wind of John being around, that would only set her off even more.

“You’re running off to your American dream and I’m being left here to rot.” Her voice low. “After everything I’ve done for you, Vanessa.” Her piercing green eyes whipping in my direction. “After I took you in when you had no one – I put a roof over your head when you should’ve been wasting away on the streets like everyone told me to do.”

“You made me sell myself – made me give up my virginity so you could have your bills paid.” I began to speak. “Had me out there working for Lou every night just so you could sit on your ass and collect the money in the morning. Do you even know what some of those men made me do in order to earn that money?”

“Bullocks!” The packed ashtray shattering against the wall behind me from the force of her throw. “I didn’t hear you complaining when those men were buying you fancy dresses and expensive jewelry. You were sitting pretty every single night just asking to be fucked like the whore you are. You could have quiet at any time – took a job anywhere else – in those factories down by the river – but no. Don’t act like you were keeping me up, sweetheart. If it wasn’t for me, you would be dead and buried somewhere just like your fucking parents.”

This was going nowhere – there would never be a resolution between her and I. It was pointless to keep the argument going because there was no way, even if there were proven facts, that she would backdown and forgive and forget. She was a hateful and spiteful woman.

When Aunt Beatrice passed away, I didn’t find out until four months later. I had been living in the States for almost two years by that point. She had told the hospital that she didn’t have any living family members – saying that they all died years ago. She was buried in a pine box at the poplar cemetery with all the other individuals that didn’t have the means for a proper burial. No tombstone – no marker. It would take many years after the fact for me to forgive and forget myself.

I ran a hand through my hair, the frustration boiling over as I pulled at the strands in silent anger. "You truly are a miserable old bitch," the words spilled out, a release of pent-up emotions that had been building for far too long. "Always wanting those around you to be just as miserable as you are. Well-"

I closed the distance between us, stepping closer until our faces were mere inches apart. The fire in my eyes matched the intensity of my words. "I'm no longer that little girl who's afraid of you. You can't use that cane or ash shovel to beat me anymore. You can't call me hurtful names or tell me that my parents died because they didn't want me as their daughter."

The air crackled with tension as I held her gaze, unflinching. The weight of years of abuse and manipulation hung heavy in the space between us, but I stood tall, my resolve unshakeable.

"And when that rent payment is due," I continued, my voice low but filled with a newfound strength, "you will never have me pinned down to the mattress as those bastards from the bank have their way with me."

The creak of the floorboard caused us both to look up as John stood in the doorway, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression unreadable. Beatrice's body stiffened, her eyes narrowing as she processed the words I had just spoken.

"Well," she began, a sickening smile spreading across her face, “Looks like we have ourselves a visitor.” I felt a surge of anger rise within me, but I forced myself to remain composed. Stepping forward, my heels clicking against the floor, I took my place next to John. His arm wrapped protectively around my middle, a silent gesture of support and solidarity in the face of Beatrice's barbed words.

"If it isn't the little tinker soldier coming to whisk the distressed maiden off to a great new world." Her tone was laced with sarcasm, each word cutting through the tense silence of the room. “Tell me, Major.” She struggled to stand. “How does it feel knowing that ever soldier from here to Russia has had a taste of your little tart’s pussy? Knowing that your dick and hundreds of other dicks have been in the same hole – a stretched-out hole for someone who’s only 19 years old.”

John's tall frame began to move forward, his muscles tensing with anger as Beatrice's cruel words hit their mark. I acted on instinct, my arm reaching out to stop him from advancing any closer towards her. I could feel the heat of his rage radiating off him, his jaw clenched tightly as he struggled to contain his emotions.

Beatrice stood her ground, her expression unreadable, almost daring John to lash out at her. The tension in the room was palpable, thick with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts that hung in the air like a heavy fog.

I held John back, my grip firm but gentle, silently urging him to stay his hand. Despite the torrent of emotions swirling within me, I knew that violence was not the answer, no matter how much Beatrice's words cut deep.

"Don't," I whispered to John, my voice barely above a breath. "She's not worth it. Let's not give her the satisfaction."

John's gaze flickered to mine, a storm of conflicting emotions raging in his eyes. Slowly, he began to relax under my touch, the tension in his body easing as he took a deep breath to steady himself.

With a final, defiant glare at Beatrice, John stepped back, his fists unclenching at his sides. The standoff between them remained unbroken, the silent confrontation speaking volumes of the deep-seated animosity that simmered just beneath the surface.

"Go get your stuff," John's voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding. His words were a clear directive, a signal that it was time to leave this toxic environment behind.

I glanced between John and Beatrice, their silent standoff continuing as I quietly shuffled past Beatrice, determined not to engage further in her games. With purposeful strides, I made my way to my makeshift room, the weight of the impending departure settling heavily on my shoulders.

I wasted no time in gathering my belongings, selecting only the most essential items and packing them into the duffle bag that the army had provided John during his service. The meager possessions I owned were carefully chosen and placed with care, each item a precious link to a past I was preparing to leave behind.

As I sifted through my belongings, a mix of emotions washed over me - sadness, anger, but also a glimmer of hope for a new beginning. I knew that I would have to leave behind most of my things, the material possessions that held little value compared to the memories they carried.

Clothing could easily be replaced, but the mementos that my parents had given me were irreplaceable. Each trinket, each keepsake held a piece of their love and guidance, a reminder of the family I had lost but never forgotten.

As I slung it over my shoulder, ready to embark on the journey ahead, I felt a sense of liberation and determination take root within me. The road to America beckoned, and I was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, armed with the strength of my resolve and the unwavering support of John by my side.

John gently removed the pack from my shoulder as I reentered the living room.

"You're making a grave mistake, Vanessa," Beatrice's tone filled with contempt as she spoke. Her eyes bore into mine, searching for any sign of doubt or weakness. "Do you truly believe that this man will fulfill his promises of calling you his wife and providing you with the perfect life in America?"

I remained silent, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a response. The doubts that she tried to sow in my mind were like seeds of discord, but I refused to let them take root. I knew the strength of the bond between John and me, and I held onto the hope of a better future with unwavering conviction.

A bitter smirk played on Beatrice's lips as she continued, her words dripping with disdain. "If you believe in such fairy tales, then you are even more of a mug than I thought you were. Don't be blinded by false promises and empty dreams, Vanessa. Reality has a cruel way of shattering illusions."

I met her gaze steadily, refusing to flinch under the weight of her scorn.

"Any place that's away from you and this godforsaken place will be considered a fairytale ending,"

#john egan imagine #john egan x oc #john egan x reader #john egan #callum turner imagine #callum turner x reader #callum turner smut #callum turner fanfic #callum turner #masters of the air imagine #masters of the air fanfiction #masters of the air

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arabellasleopardcoat · 1 year

Text

Head in the clouds (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: My take on Modern reader meets Daemon Targaryen. Here we have the meeting.

Chapter warnings: Canon character death. Kidnapping. Mature language.

A/N: I’m so excited to share this story with you. I had so much fun building it. This series will be updated every sunday.

Next part here

Beneath the covers, there is a girl. Brown haired, dark eyed. A smile that could light up the whole room. Etched into your memory, carved a place inside your heart. Forever living there.

“Does it not bother you?” You had asked her. “Being nothing more than a wife?”

“Am I a wife?” Her laugh was sharp. Strong. She didn't cover her mouth with her hand like other women did. She was so sure of herself, tiny things didn't bother her. There was no time to worry if her teeth were perfect or if it was unladylike to cackle in laughter.

Alive. So alive it hurt.

Two girls. Curled mirroring each other in the bed. Sharing secrets, and giggling. But never touching. It was not allowed, you see.

This was how women loved. Raw, all electrified wires and emotions. Bared. Never taught to fear each other.

A naked, creamy shoulder. A mole, right above her sternum. Heart beating fast.

Shining. In a sunny field, rushing after a stag, spear in hand. Predator, never prey. Vibrant with color. Rich browns and earth tones. The sun hitting the left side of her face just right.

The memory is etched in your eyelids. The girl, laughing. Dancing along to an imaginary song. A field full of golden flowers. Her voice in your thoughts.

Now gone.

Rhea had passed, or so the other serving girls had told you. Runestone was going to her husband. After four years, the man was finally back from war.

The apron you were wearing was clean, and so were you, despite your face being puffy from too much. Rhea had been your only friend. The only other person in the castle that had been able to read.

The Common Tongue had a striking similarity to English. There were few books, and you had struggled to read them at first. You soon realized that the Common Tongue was not a different language, but Middle English. It made sense. People in the Middle Ages didn’t know they were living in the Middle Ages.

You had met Rhea when she realized one of the serving girls was spending her time in the library. It was not forbidden, but unusual. No one had thought to forbid it. The ratio of literacy among the common folk was low, or better yet, nonexistent.

Her dexterous hands. Aim that always rang true. Her hair, cascading down her back, perfect and smooth.

It had lightened your burdens, this friendship with her. Since arriving in the Middle Ages, the feeling of alienation had been too much to handle. And being the Lady’s favorite meant that your time spent at the kitchens was more and more scarce.

Rhea and you had turned into something more than friends, by the end of it. Two lonely, unsatisfied women. One left behind by a husband that had spent years at war. Another out of time.

A pointless war, she had said. She had an interest in politics, your Rhea. They called it a manly pursuit. She called it doing whatever she pleased.

Your lips, tracing her temple, her cheekbones, and a whispered word, muttered back. “Sister.” You couldn’t call it anything but.

Afternoons, spent using each other’s lap as pillows. Every memory since meeting her, tinted in gold. How you regretted never speaking words of love more often, when you found out about her death. An odd one, when she had been such a strong rider and hunter…

A sudden flurry of movement started in the front of the room. Your contemplation was not allowed any longer. The rows of servants in front of you were all bending their knee, prompting you to do the same. Finally, your new lord was here.

The man made others wait for him. You had been gathered in the courtyard for hours, under an unusually bright sun. The air was warm. A golden, beautiful summer day to say goodbye to a beautiful, golden woman.

Your dress clung to your skin, the garment heavy and restricting. Despite being made of soft cotton, you still felt hot and sweaty. You missed shorts and miniskirts. Fucking purity culture.

Fuck the Middle Ages, too. For they had taken Rhea. It had not been cruel enough, to make her suffer scorn and ridicule from her husband, they had to take her too. She would have prospered in a modern world.

Some nights, searching for a solution, you thought of taking her back with you,

The row of servants in front of you lowered. You bent your knee, keeping your eyes lowered. It was about time. Your hips and legs were starting to get sore. Hopefully, you would be overlooked.

Rhea’s husband would surely want to replace some servants in favor of his most trusted people. He was an important man, or so you had gathered. She avoided mentioning him, often unhappy.

A Prince. He should have given her the world. He had arrived too late.

The servants kept quiet, organized in neat little rows. You waited for the command to rise, but none came.

Instead, an angry voice, and the unmistakable sound of boots stomping on rock.

“Bring forth the girl!”

A brave guard stepped forward. You heard his armor cling and clang, and you shivered. You hated the sound of metal scratching against metal. It did something funny to your teeth.

You kept your eyes trained on the floor. You were not supposed to look nobles in the eye, in these times. Rhea had taught you that, and all you knew about manners here.

“Which girl, my Prince?” The guard asked. You didn’t recognize his voice. Rhea kept a scarce household. She hadn’t like the fuzz her husband always brought.

Most of the guards she had were outside the castle, and they didn't mix with the servants. They were bastards or second sons of minor houses, who thought themselves too above you. Rhea didn't care enough about them to worry about it.

“The one she cared about.” The man answered, and you shrank down on yourself. Your uneasiness was turning into fear. Who else could he be referring to, but you?

The servants started muttering among themselves. None dared answer Rhea’s husband. They all knew he was referring to you, but were hesitant on betraying you.

“Well?” He asked, tapping his foot against the floor.

A beat of silence. You kept your eyes down. Finally, the guard spoke. His voice was shaky.

“She is one of the kitchen maids. The ones in white aprons.”

The boots stomped against the rock once more. Rhea’s husband was on the move, prowling between the rows of servants.

A girl shrieked. You dared not lift your eyes, frozen into the spot.

“Milord… I…” That voice, you knew. It was Mina, one of the girls who worked with you in the kitchens. You peeked out of the corner of your eye, catching the silhouette of a man, grasping a girl roughly by the arm. His back was to you, but by the hard set of his shoulders and the sword hanging at his belt, you could tell he meant business.

Tears started gathering in your eyes. You were afraid. Whatever this man wanted with you, it was not good.

“No, I don’t think so.” He let go of her arm, roughly pushing her away. You quickly looked down, but it was too late. The man was already approaching you.

You saw his boots first. Dark and well polished, unlike those of any guard. You keep your eyes on them. Despite your best attempts, you were starting to shake. Were you not so terrified, you would have thought his voice familiar.

“I am certain I have found my prize.” The man lifted your chin with a finger. You looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Ah. I have. Care to tell me why my wife has left you all she had?”

Your lower lip wobbled. You tried forming words, but none came up. Because the man who was looking at you was a Target version of Matt Smith. Which meant…

“You killed her.” You whispered. Your heart was beating so hard you were afraid he could hear it pounding against your rib cage. You brushed your sweaty palms on the skirt of your dress, trying to dry them.

This was not the Middle Ages, not at all. This was Westeros, a fictional world not meant to exist. And if this was Rhea’s husband, then it meant Rhea, your Rhea, was the wife of Daemon Targaryen. You remembered little about him. But what had struck in your mind about him was that he had killed his wife.

There had been a golden girl, once. And a fool looked at her and thought her bronze.

You should have noticed sooner. You had always found it odd, that Rhea’s priest wore a seven pointed star instead of a cross. She had not been very religious. Other than her, you neverspoke to others about matters deeper than how to cut the potatoes. You had rationalized it as being another symbol of Christianity. After all, they had used a fish as a symbol, once.

Your voice was not low enough for him not to hear, unfortunately. Daemon’s eyes widened. Then, he grabbed at your face, roughly.

“What did you say?”

You glared. The hold he had on you was too painful for you to even whisper a word. You pushed at him, trying to get him off you, but his grip was strong. He laughed, amused.

“My, aren’t you a willful thing?” Daemon pushed you towards a guard. “Seize her and place her in my chambers. We have a lot to talk about.”

The guard, the same one that had said you were a kitchen maid, caught you.

“My Prince, if what you say is true and your wife left Runestone to her….”

Had she? Brilliant, crazy woman. Passing over her husband's claim. You weren't sure you wanted the responsibility of being a Lady, but you weren't about to complain. The position would provide you with comforts unlike any other.

“That's utter madness, and you know it.” Daemon took you from the guard's arms, roughly holding you by the shoulders. You started to struggle immediately. “A serving girl cannot inherit.”

“But a bastard can.” Another guard pitched in, stepping forward. His hand was at his belt, ready to draw a sword. Mutters broke out among the crowd, the servants on the verge of a riot. “The Lady called her sister.”

“Well, then. If you don't act against your Lady…” Daemon took a pair of manacles from the guard's belt and grabbed at your wrists. “I will.”

You screamed and kicked, trying to get back to the safety of the crowd. If the guards thought you were their Lady, you were not going to complain. Not if it meant this psychopath let go of you. You still remember one of the last scenes of the season. The decapitation of the guy who called Rhaenyra a whore.

“Let go of me, you asshole!” You pushed at Daemon, and he cursed in a language you didn’t understand. Valyrian. Old, or High, or whatever the name of what Targaryens spoke. He cuffed one of your wrists, then the other. You screamed louder.

The guards moved, as if to step in. They had taken your resistance as an order. Those men had been ready once, to defend Rhea. Willing to kill for their Lady. Now, they were willing to kill for you.

Daemon could sense it too. The air was charged, a fight about to break out. One he wouldn’t win. Not against that many guards. Not against the servants, who looked ready to raise in arms for one of their own. He had to do something drastic.

He took his sword out and pulled you towards him by the cuffs. Your back hit his chest, hard enough for it to hurt. Your wrists, trapped between you and him, ached. But Daemon seemed to pay no mind to the pain. He raised the sword in front of you, keeping the guards away.

The guards exchanged looks. One gestured at the others. Daemon placed the tip of the sword at your neck. You blinked back tears.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t do that. One wrong move, and your Lady dies.” His voice was calm, too calm. You remembered the battle at the Stepstones, and whimpered.

The guards stepped forward anyway. Daemon dug the blade deeper into your throat, until you felt it pierce skin. You raised your hand, palm extended in front of you. The universal halt gesture.

“Good girl.” Daemon pulled the blade slightly back. Then, in a raised voice. “Caraxes!”

A deafening roar shook the courtyard. A big shadow made the servants cower in fear, and duck for cover. You looked up and right in front of your eyes, there was a dragon.

It was a gigantic, red beast, that looked much like a reptile. It felt surreal to watch, as the man holding you hostage ordered it to land and stand guard. You didn't oppose resistance when he started to tug you towards the inside of Runestone.

“Come, Lady Cuffs.”

No one moved to help you. Daemon Tragaryen had played his trump card. He might not own Runestone, he might not be the King. But he had a dragon.

“You and I have much to speak about.” He said, as he locked the door to Rhea’s chambers behind him. Daemon pushed you to the bed, making you bounce on the mattress.

“I have nothing to say to you!” You screamed, as you scrambled back. Your back hit the pillows. They still smelt like Rhea. It made you want to cry. You wished you could roll around in her scent, disappear beneath her covers.

“I happen to disagree.” Daemon sat down at the edge of the bed. You tried to kick at him, but his hand caught your foot before it could make contact. His grip on you was punishing. It felt as if he wanted to crush the delicate bones there.

“I have nothing to say to a killer.”

“I would like to know how you found out, Lady Cuffs.” A bit more pressure on your ankle, enough to be sure that they would bruise. It doesn’t have the intended effect. You are too blinded by his admission to be able to worry about your pain. You are angrier now. Did he have the nerve to admit it to your face?

You want him to hurt. To feel the same fear that's suffocating you, that forms a knot in your throat and doesn't let you breathe. The same fear Rhea must have felt, helpless, as he killed her. Monster. Monster. God awful monster.

“You killed her. You killed her, but know what? It doesn't matter because you are going to die!” And you are not thinking, of course. You just want to see him suffer. The consequences of what you are saying don’t cross your mind, at all.

“Oh?” Daemon looks amused. To him, your threats are empty. He is so privileged and self-assured, he probably thinks it’s like a giant getting threatened by an ant. It annoys you more because you are being serious.

Even if she was a supporting character in a fictional world, to you, Rhea had been a friend. More. And it had felt real, what you had lived with her so far. Were it not for Daemon’s arrival, you would have still thought you were in the Middle Ages and not Westeros. This has been your life for the past two years. She had been yours. And he had taken it all away.

“I googled it! I remember. Your nephew, the one with the eye patch. You die fighting him. And I hope it hurts, plummeting to your death from…”

It fills you with satisfaction, speaking those words. But he is not taking you seriously. You want, no, need, to twist the knife deeper.

“My nephew?” Daemon echoes, mouth agape at your outburst. Still, the smirk doesn’t leave. He seems amused by what he believes to be the ramblings of a madwoman.

“Aegon, Aemond what’s his name! You are going to die, and it’s all pointless, but you will rot in that lake.”

“Oh?” Daemon arches an eyebrow, on the verge of laughing. You glare.

“And you will marry that little girl! The one who is the daughter of Corlys… Something! And she dies too, and it will be her dragon that kills you!”

It's that, what makes his face change. From amusement, to disbelief. Daemon steps forward, hand cupping your cheek. His thumb taps at your bottom lip, twice.

“So you are a dreamer. A pretty one, for a Royce.” His thumb caresses your mouth as if you are nothing more than cattle, ready for his inspection. When he tries prying open your mouth, you bite him. And not in a sexy, playful way. In a hurtful way. Daemon takes his thumb away, and winces, before continuing. “I had told no one of my intentions with Lady Laena.”

Your heart sinks. A dreamer. A fancy way of saying witch, you guessed. Or seer. His expression is greedy, enough so you know what he will say next.

“This will please my brother, for we can keep the Vale and gain a dreamer. You will no longer be a bastard, girl. Rejoice.”

“What?” The change of topic confuses you. You are not a bastard because such a thing didn’t exist in your time. Rhea apparently put you in her will, and that means something to these people. But will or not, Westeros is a feudal society. Big thing about feudalism? There are no rags-to-riches stories because there is no social class mobility.

“You will be my wife, of course. It’s as your sister wished.” At that, you kick at him with your other foot, hard. The nerve. The nerve to threaten you so. After he killed Rhea. No way you are marrying him.

You curse all those times you read those spicy romance novels. The ones with the mafia boyfriends, like 365 DNI or those Wattpad stories you used to read. Or the ones where the girl is sold into an arranged marriage. As the protagonist of one, you are starting to feel like it's not very fun.

Absurd, where the mind might go to protect herself. From the memories, and the pain. Rhea. Dead, by his hand. While your mind whirls and jokes around.

“You are insane and I hate you!” It's not very creative. But your entire world has shifted in a matter of hours. You deserve a freak-out. “I will never be your wife, you monster!” You kick at him some more, but he catches both of your ankles and drags you through the bed and towards him.

“Oh, Lady Cuffs. You flatter me.”

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon x y/n #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen smut #divine intuition series #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon x reader #daemon fanfic #daemon targaryen

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fruitsoxs · 1 year

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omg i like you work about vash & wolfwood getting jealous and upset.

anyway, can i request both of them conflict with the reader they word make her hurt/cry then the reader tries to run away from the gang (obviously that is useless) and how they try to fix it up?

thank you for reading this have a nice day! anyway I really like your work

of course!!

pairings; vash x (GN) reader , wolfwood x (GN) reader warnings; angst, swearing, a bullet wound that gets cleaned up in wolfwoods notes; how about some hurt with a little bit of comfort eh? hope this is okay! I did Vash's part with 98 Vash in mind but I left it kind of open !

Vash

Your eyes are super focused on the blonde at the market as he leans down over a stall, eyeing all the goods they have in stock. On the other side, a girl giggles a bit and leans forward in her seat, pointing at a biscuit or something. You find yourself gearing up for war, your face fallen as you take a step forward. Something grabs the back of your shirt, and you turn around ready to take all your anger out on whoever is grabbing you.

Wolfwood lets out a low whistle when he sees your face, eyebrows arching. “Jeez what’s got you all twisted up.” He grumbles letting go of you so you can fully face him. “I was pretty sure you were about to just commit a murder on some random pastry girl over there- and now you’re lookin at me like you wanna tear off my head.” He breathes out a bit of smoke. “Calm down. It’s not like Spikey is yours, eh?” He’s got a silly little grin on his stupid face, and you find yourself turning bright red.

He’s right.

Vash isn’t yours. At least, the two of you have never outright said that you were together. This idiot priest doesn’t know about the secret hand holding under the table though. Or, how you sit so close that your knees touch. He doesn’t know that sometimes at night Vash will slink over to you and lay down so his head rests on your chest. He doesn’t see how you run your hands through Vash’s hair as the wanted criminal falls asleep in your arms- the only place he feels safe enough to sleep.

Vash keeps all those moments secret. He pulls his hand away when others look, and leaves your bed before the sun can rise. He gives you the same amount of attention and love around everyone else, while whispering his devotion behind closed doors. It’s something you’ve never questioned, always assuming he was too shy to show your love off. Now though, watching as a girl bats her eyelashes at him while he leans closer…

You’re starting to doubt it all.

“It’s none of your business.” You growl at Wolfwood who just shrugs. “Just seems like you’re a little jealous s’all.” He points out patting your head. You shake his hand away and glare at him. “Maybe you should just talk to him.” he sighs, and you soften your look. It kind of feels like Wolfwood is trying to be…helpful? That’s weird for him. He’s right, again, though. You should just go talk to him.

So you do. You wander off in his direction, grab his arm, and pull him off into some secluded alleyway to talk. He lets out a choked “huh?” put lets you pull him along. When the two of you stop, he smiles his signature smile at you and tilts his head. “What’s up?” He asks casually, reaching out to rest his hand on your waist. Of course he’s willing to touch you now that you’re hidden. You pull away, and his face falls when he realizes something is really wrong.

“We…” You start off and then shake your head. “Why aren’t we a couple?” you outright ask. His eyes widen and he looks at the floor. However, he stays quiet. “I mean- I just- We always hold hands in secret, and you always sleep with me in bed. We kiss sometimes, and you are always saying how much you care about me…why aren’t we together?” You continue on, frowning at his lack of response.

“Mayfly I…” He trails off. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I thought you actually cared about me.” It comes from your lips, raw with emotion. Why is he doing this to you? Is he just using you so he can get some comfort? Is that all you are to him? To you, he’s the moon and the stars. He’s your everything, Maybe that’s why you were willing to let him do this to you. You don’t know if you’re more angry or hurt. He looks so guilty, like he’s done something he regrets. You wonder if he regrets hurting you, or doing it at all.

“I do care about you.” he starts off. “But, being together officially is a bad idea. You could get hurt and I-” “I could get hurt walking outside right now! I could get hurt just being your friend, or being someone that you used to know. I could get hurt even if I had never met you. That’s no reason to lead me on.” You yell. “Face it Vash, you’re a goddamn coward” You whisper harshly. “If you can flirt with other people in public, but not me…then…” You trail off, tears in your eyes. He rushes toward you but you shake your head and push him away. “You’re a coward.”

You walk away, and he doesn’t follow you.

You spend the rest of the day in some random bar in this random town, crying your eyes out. Wolfwood tries to talk to you, but you refuse to say anything about what happened. He ends up just buying you a drink and leaving you to yourself. The other two won’t even approach you, just staring at you from afar. Vash hasn’t been seen since.

That night you start shoving everything you can into a small black bag. You’ve had enough. He’s led you on long enough, and you need a break from Vash. You tried talking to him, and he gave you nothing but a flimsy excuse. He’s told you how much he needs you too many times to pull a stunt like that and you’re done.

Just as you open the door to leave, you slam the wooden thing against a person who lets out a groan. Your eyes widen and you step back as Vash appears, holding his now red forehead. “Vash?” You ask, reaching out to make sure he’s okay. You stop yourself, remembering you're mad at him. He probably deserved that a little bit. He looks up at you, eyes your back and jumps forward. “Hey- Don’t Leave- Please I need to talk to you.” He begs hurriedly. You back up and sigh. “I already tried talking to you and you gave me nothing Vash.” You grumble, trying to push past him. He stops you, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Please.” The look he gives you is so serious and pitiful. You can’t help but give in. “Fine.”

He sighs in relief and lets his hand drop. The two of you stand awkwardly for a second before you go. “Talk.” He lets out an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck shamefully. “Ah- Sorry I’m just- Okay.” He sighs and looks at you with a serious expression.

“I’m sorry.” He finally says out loud. “I messed up I- I shouldn’t have kept my feelings for you a secret. I really do love you. The truth is, sometimes I can hardly get through the day. There’s so much going on…and those little moments with you are the things that keep me going. I’m selfish.” He starts to tear up a bit, “I think you’d be safer away from me, but I need you. I need your touch to get through the day. So I can’t just let you go.” He admits. “You are my everything, and I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m a huge coward- or I was a huge coward. I don’t want to be anymore. I want to be with you even when people are looking. I want everyone to know I am yours….I promise.”

You’re tearing up by the end of his rant. You drop your bag to the floor and wrap your arms around him. He grunts from the force, and hugs you back. He rubs his hand along your back and shoves his face into your hair. “I’m sorry.” he whispers over and over again as you both hug each other and cry. After a while you pull away from him sniffling. “You promise?”

“I swear to you.” “I believe you.”

He smiles and pulls you in for another hug. “I love you.” And you love him too. You both move to the bed and fall asleep as you always do. The next morning, as the sun comes up, he’s still in bed with you. He holds your hand as you meet up with the others, and Wolfwood gives you a knowing smile.

Wolfwood

It starts with a stupid kiss. He’s got his arm around you, sitting on top of the car as the two of you watch the sunset over the horizon. He pulls you close, and you tilt your head up to look at him instead, He looks down at you, and smiles. His hand draws circles in your arm, and he pulls you even closer. Then, his lips touch yours. Ever so softly, just a small graze, before he pulls away. At first you’re ecstatic. Your heart is beating in your chest, and you feel like you’re walking on air.

Then he whispers something under his breath so quietly you have to strain to hear it. He says “I’m sorry.” before getting up and walking away. You watch him leave, your heart breaking a bit. What did you do wrong? You didn’t kiss him, he kissed you! That’s not fair. You sit there for a bit, before getting up and joining everyone by the fire again. Wolfwood stays a few feet away from you, refusing to even look in your direction.

The next day you almost die.

A few bounty hunters find you, and start chasing after everyone. You jump in front of a few bullets that are headed for Wolfwood, and a bullet grazes your side- it could have so easily lodged itself in your abdomen if you had been only a couple of meters to the left. The pain is searing, but you fight through it to get away from the bounty hunters. Vash is safe, and everyone else is alive. That’s all that matters to you as you struggle to stay standing. You hold the wound, blood seeping from in between your fingers. Wolfwood is by your side within a second. The moment he sees the wound he’s shouting at you to lean on him, his arm flying around you.

He gets you into the car and keeps your focus on him as they rush to some random inn. It’s too risky to take you to a doctor in this city, but Vash can fix up wounds pretty well. The two men sit you down on the bed, They get some clean towels, some needle and thread, and alcohol. Wolfwood holds your hand as Vash applies the alcohol to the wound. You scream against the rag in your mouth, and Wolfwood squeezes your hand.

“It’s okay angel. Just take a few deep breaths- it will all be over soon.” The man whispers in your ear. He stays with you until the wound is all stitched up. He helps wrap a bandage around it, and eventually Vash leaves to give you two some space. After Vash is gone, Wolfwood sits across from you and sighs. “What were you thinking?” he asks, his voice wavy. “Oh? So it’s my fault some guys decided to shoot at us?” you yell back. “You took bullets meant for me! I saw you!” he shouts, his voice rasing. “So?”

“So? So? I can take bullets, angel! You can’t!”

“How many bullets does it take before you can’t get up anymore! Besides, it just grazed me!”

He growls and stands up shaking his head. “You think I’m stupid? If it hit just a little bit more to the left you’d be dead.” he points out, pointing at the wound. “Don’t EVER do that again or I will shoot you myself.” he snaps.

“You seem awfully worried for someone who ignored me all day.”

“Shut it.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You want to ask about the night before, but is it the time? He’s finally talking to you again. It’s probably the only chance you'll have. Finally, the question comes out. “Why did you kiss me?” You ask, suddenly making his nervous pacing stop. He looks at you, and his face shows a number of emotions. Surprise, confusion, fear, then anger. “What?”

You sigh and repeat yourself. “You heard me. Why.Did.You.Kiss.Me?”

He clenches his fists and looks away. “Because you wanted me to.” He finally says. You stay quiet, and he keeps going. “Because you looked desperate.” He adds on, his voice a deep growl. Your eyes widen, and you feel your hearts shatter. He watches as your mood crumples before him, and you see the regret in his face immediately.

“I…”

But you don’t give him a chance. “Get out.” You snap. He looks at you, sad and unsure of what to actually do. “I said GET OUT!” you scream, and he leaves. He walks through the door, and as soon as you hear it click shut you start crying. Soft sobs that echo through the room and out the door where Wolfwood can hear.

As soon as it gets dark, and you’re sure everyone is gone, you begin shuffling around the room. You grab whatever you can and leave. You limp and stumble around, still pretty hurt, but you manage to make it away. With the little money you have, you buy a ticket to head out of the city. Two days later as you’re trying to buy a drink cursing at your now empty purse, a hand slaps some double dollars down and you curse.

He found you.

Wolfwood spins you around in front of the entire room and looks at you. “The hell is wrong with you?” he sneers. You look around at the prying eyes and nudge him away. “Why don’t we do this somewhere else.” you beg. He sighs and grabs your arm, carefully leading you away. Once you’re in a private area, he repeats himself again.

“What the hell is wrong with you? You run out in the middle of the night, hurt, and without a word? You know how worried everyone is?” He looks pissed. He doesn’t even have a cigarette in his mouth, which is usually how he deals with stress. “How did you even find me?” you ask, sighing softly.

“How did I find you? Did that bullet graze your brain too? Make you forget who exactly I am?” He lifts the punisher up a bit. “Of course I fucking found you.” he sighs and calms down a bit, anger disappearing. He looks you up and down, eyes landing on your side. “I’m fine. Now go away.” you mumble turning away.

“No.” “No?”

He shakes his head. “I did that once- I’m not doing it again.” He says simply. He sets the giant cross down, leans it against a wall, then faces you head on. “I need to tell ya something.” He says, guilt in his voice. You bite the inside of your cheek and nod. You want to hear what he has to say, even if you’re pissed at him.

“I’m sorry.” He admits. You look up at him surprised. “What I said to you that night…I shouldn’t have said it. The thing is I…” he trails off and sighs. “I’m bad at my feelings. I kissed you cause I wanted to. I just saw your face in the glow from the sunset and couldn’t help myself. I got scared though. Had this sinking feeling it would end in you getting killed- and then you tried to kill yourself for me and I got even more scared…and I just wanted to say something to get you to drop it...I think…” He reaches a hand out and cups your cheek. “I think I love you or something.” It comes out so softly that you almost don’t believe he said it. But he did. You fall into his arms, and he holds you close. He kisses the top of your head softly. “I love you too.” you mumble into his chest, and he squeezes you a bit tighter.

"Have you been cleaning your wound?" he asks pulling away. You nod, but he doesn't seem to believe you.

He pulls you along to meet up with everyone else, who are all happy to see you. After that he forces you to room with him and cleans your wound softly. It goes unsaid, but there's a relationship shift. When he kisses you again, he doesn't pull away.

#wolfwood x reader #nicholas d wolfwood x reader #vash x reader #vash the stampede x reader #wolfwood drabble #vash drabble #request

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