#(Me stepping out of the shadows just to say this) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

novemberheart · 2 days

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{overview} Kyle wakes up

{warnings} fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, poly 141, short chapter, ghostsoap

Chapter 28 <- Chapter 29 -> Chapter 30

John had rubbed your back till you fell asleep again.

Not that you stayed asleep. Your eyes fluttered open, raw and sore. You peered over at Kyle. You feel like his anesthesia should've worn off by now. Has anyone even come to check on him?

“Gazza,” you mumbled softly. You pressed your lips against the bruise forming under his cheek. He didn't even twitch. You rubbed your eyes, carefully pulling yourself out of bed. You grabbed your phone, your hand resting against Johnny’s shoulder from where he slept on the floor.

“Yes, Bonnie?” he gasped awake, his hands held onto your thighs. He thought you were upset. You were, but that wasn't why you had woken him.

“I’m going to the bathroom. I want to find a nurse or doctor or something too,” you explained, your fingers straightening the sloppy bits of his mohawk. He yawned, nodding his head in agreement. He placed a kiss against your stomach before moving to get up. His back snapped as he stretched.

“Alright, peaches,” he sighed. “Thank you for waking me,” he added, giving your bottom a slight pat. “We’ll be back,” he said over his shoulder to the alpha who was just starting the sit up himself. Your eyes burned at the light from the hall, Johnny's hand resting above your brow to block it.

“Mac, this is the mens room,” you mumbled. Even through your squinting, you could see that.

“Aye, I have to go too. Don't worry I won’t let anything happen,” he affirmed. You shrugged, glad it was empty. You came out of the stall, trying your hardest not to look over at Johnny as you washed your hands.

A man entered. A big one. You could see his shadow moving behind you and you quickly kept your eyes trained on your hands. He took a few steps towards you and your head snapped over to Johnny wondering why he hadn't said anything.

You saw Simon’s reflection in the mirror. You squealed, not bothering to dry your hands, spinning on your heels. He grunted as you threw yourself at him, his hands gripping your sides as he hoisted you up.

“You lost, pup?” he grunted, letting you lift his mask and kiss at whatever skin you could reach. Johnny chuckled, pushing the two of you out of the way so he could wash his hands.

“That’s new,” you murmured against his jaw. He had a large, angry bruise where his jaw and neck met. You could feel him shiver. He hummed in agreement, pressing a firm kiss against your chin.

“Just a scratch,” he grumbled, nipping at your cheek. “Got a fever, pup,” he tsked, almost disapprovingly. His arm extended out, his hand resting against Johnny’s shoulder pulling the man towards him. Your mouth fell open as theirs collided. It was rough and needy and you forgot how to breathe just watching them. It was short, a string of saliva connecting them as they pulled away. Johnny swiped it away with his tongue. They turned to you, evil smirks on both their lips. They kissed your cheek softly, a mean comparison to how they were just acting. Simon didn't bother to set you down, carrying you back down the hall.

“Makin’ your beta better?” Simon asked, jostling you a bit. Your eyes grew wet suddenly, making him sigh. “S’alright, pup. The doctor says he’ll be fine. You're just here to speed up the process a bit so he doesn't hurt as long,” he soothed. You felt heavier in his arms, the weight of the pack on your shoulders. That wasn't for you to carry. It was his and John’s responsibility.

The room wasn't as dark before, John had turned on a soft lamp he had found somewhere. The machine was beeping faster than before. You tried to wiggle out of Simon's grasp and he let you.

“His heart rate picked up,” John spoke, his hand resting over his face. “I called a nurse. Should be here soon.”

Kyle's fever was back. His skin had lost its warm glow, and it would've looked cold to the touch of it were it not for the sheen of sweat covering his skin. You gained some hope when he started to twitch. It started with his good foot, then his fingers, the muscles on his face quickly following.

He didn't wake up.

Your hand reached out, your fingers tangling with his as you knelt on the bed. You swore you could hear him gasp, his body relaxing almost instantly.

“Kyky?” you questioned softly. You looked behind you at John, whose eyes were wavering back and forth between the two of you.

“Where’s the bloody nurse,” he growled, making his way out of the room.

“Stop holdin’ back,” Simon instructed, nodding his head downwards. You did as you were told, your cheek resting against Kyle’s shoulder. You breathed in his scent, a high whine leaving your throat. You couldn’t stop yourself this time. Your arms wrapping around his chest as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. Your legs tangled around his good one as you sobbed quietly against him. “That’s what he needs,” Simon grunted. Simon’s large hand rested against the back of your neck, giving you an encouraging squeeze. “Needs a push to wake up,” Simon continued.

Simon had been in Kyle's shoes before. Granted, at the time you hadn't known him yet, but he remembers what it was like to be trapped inside his body without being able to escape. He could hear everything, smell everything yet he had no way to express it. Kyle was trying. Trying to show that he was there and would be fine. All Kyle needed was a little push from you to gain the energy to come out of it.

It was what had woken Simon up that first day. The smell of you had infiltrated his brain, turning it into mush besides one lingering thought.

Wake up.

“His heart rate is goin’ down,” Johnny breathed a slight tremor in his own body. Simon shushed you gently, you growing restless from not receiving any comfort from Kyle. “Johnny get in next to her,” he commanded, his hand gripping his shoulder. Johnny obeyed, gladly cuddling up behind you. You sniffled harshly, your eyes peering at his over Kyle’s shoulder. He winced, his heart twisting painfully in his chest.

“It's alright,” was all Johnny could manage, his thumb brushing under your eye. Johnny didn't stay there for long, the nurse came back into the room.

“He’s responding?” she asked. You refused to pull your face away.

“When she leaves. Started twitchin’,” Simon explained.

“He was mumblin’ something too. Couldn't make it out though. Sounded a bit like your name though sweetheart,” John added. You gasped your head snapping over to meet his.

“Really?” you begged. John nodded his head, an affirming lift in his cheeks.

“That’s fairly common,” the nurse spoke. “He could tell you were gone and was trying to figure out where you were,” she explained. You tried not to feel any less special, curling your head under his chin. “Everything seems to be back to normal. Next time you plan on leaving let me know,” she sighed, patting the edge of the bed.

You couldn't go back to sleep. You requested Johnny curl up in bed with you. It hadn't helped.

“I need you to wake up,” you whispered. Your fingers danced over Kyle’s cheek, the skin twitching under the feathery touches. “I know you hear me. You'd probably smirk if you could,” you huffed. Despite that, you pressed a kiss against his cheek, which was probably feeling a bit raw with how little your lips had left it. When you pulled away you noticed the soft curve of his lips. “I knew it,” you grumbled with a relieved smile on your face.

His eyes fluttered open.

You wanted to squeal but you kept your mouth shut. You wanted a few moments with him alone.

“I missed you,” you murmured. Another soft smile graced his face. He leaned his forehead closer to yours, urging you to come closer. You rested your head between his and the pillow. “Are you hurt? Do you want me to go get a nurse?” you questioned, already beginning to pull away. He made a noise that sounded a bit like a strangled whine.

“Just you,” he croaked. Your body felt warm as you cuddled back up against him. “Price?” He groaned.

“He’s on the floor sleeping,” you explained softly. You felt his body relax. “Mac is here too,” you spoke, lifting the hand that was splayed across Kyle’s chest. “And Simon is hunting down breakfast somewhere,” you finished. You purred softly, breathing him in. His chest rumbled for a moment before he stopped himself, a small wince on his face.

“You were saying how much you missed me?” Kyle urged, making you roll your eyes.

“Would you like me to keep going?” You hummed. He hummed in agreement, a soothing warmth spreading through his chest.

You babbled on for a few moments. Taking a bit of pride when his heart rate picked up from your words.

“Food,” Simon grunted, entering the room again. His eyes softened when they met Kyle’s. “I’ll go get a nurse,” he murmured, his knuckles brushing over Kyle’s forehead. Your heart warmed at the interaction. As Simon left he patted John awake.

“You alright?” He asked instantly, his hands gripping onto the railing of the bed.

“Never better,” Kyle croaked, making you giggle. John rolled his eyes, his lips resting against Kyle’s hairline.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his jaw clenching. You bit your lip, adjusting yourself slowly so you were facing Johnny in an attempt to give them some privacy.

“Not your fault,” Kyle said slowly, his voice cracking. “Things happen,” he finished with a clear of his throat.

“Just came out of nowhere,” John sighed. “I-I,” he started. He couldn’t find the words. The feeling you get from watching a vehicle in front of you flip three times, knowing one of your greatest loves was in there without so much as a seatbelt was hard to put in words. “We’ll take care of you now,” John promised. “That situation has already been handled.” That sent a shiver up your spine. You knew first hand what John's idea of “handling” was. Yet if it was aimed at someone who deliberately hurt Kyle- you wouldn’t oppose it.

“I trust you,” Kyle groaned softly. You felt lips skim the back of your neck and you turned back over so you were cheek to cheek with Kyle. A happy rumble echoed through him before he cut himself off.

Simon reemerged with a nurse.

Hi everyone! Hope you enjoyed this short chapter! See you in four days for chapter 30!!!! Ahhhh! 🧡

#novemberheart #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #poly141 #price x reader #simon ghost riley #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #captain john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #poly141 x fem reader #poly 141 #poly141 x reader #cod a/b/o #a/b/o dynamics

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its-avalon-08 · 2 days

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im not giving up on you (dr3)

after the singapore gp, i was sobbing. danny, our sunshine danny might be leaving us and that broke my heart so entirely. here is to out honey badger, you made me love this sport, seeing your smile was the only light on some dark days. you made it, you lived your formula one dream and you will always be able to say that. for always making us laugh and find joy in the butterflies, we thank you daniel <3

✦ pairing - daniel ricciardo x female!reader

✦ genre - angst, losing his seat, tears, fluffy ending

The Singapore night was thick with humidity, the scent of burning rubber still clinging to the air long after the race had ended. Daniel Ricciardo walked through the now-empty paddock, the silence overwhelming. The once-vibrant energy that pulsed through the grounds was now replaced with nothing but the dull hum of the lights, casting long shadows that made the place feel eerily lonely.

Daniel had always been good at putting on a strong face. Smiling, joking, pretending everything was fine. He had perfected it over the years. But tonight, the facade had cracks — deep, painful cracks that threatened to break him entirely.

After the Singapore GP, the world knew. The news had broken: Daniel was losing his seat at V-CARB. Another seat lost. Another chapter closing. And it felt as though he had lost everything again. He couldn’t bear to face his team, his friends. Not even Max. So he stayed in the paddock long after everyone had left, sitting alone on a stack of tires, his head in his hands.

He didn’t hear the footsteps at first.

"Daniel?"

The voice was soft, familiar, and full of concern. He looked up, blinking through the blur of tears that stung his eyes. There she was — Y/N Verstappen. Max’s little sister.

She had always been around, always there, a comforting presence from the days when he and Max were teammates. She had been his friend, but it was so much more than that. They had danced around their feelings for years, never daring to speak the truth, both afraid of what it might mean.

Daniel quickly wiped his eyes, trying to pull himself together. "Hey," he said, his voice strained, cracking under the weight of his emotions. "What are you doing here?"

"I should ask you the same," Y/N replied softly, stepping closer. "It’s late."

"I couldn’t leave," he admitted, his eyes staring at the ground, unable to meet hers. "It’s just… a lot."

Y/N stood in front of him, her eyes searching his face. She could see right through him. "You don’t have to pretend with me, Daniel."

"I’m not pretending," he lied, letting out a shaky laugh. "I’m fine. It’s just another bump in the road, right? I’ll bounce back. I always do."

But even as he spoke, his voice trembled, and Y/N could hear the pain beneath his words. She sat down beside him on the tires, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him in the humid night air, but still hesitant to touch him.

"It’s okay to not be fine," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Daniel’s jaw tightened as he looked away, blinking rapidly. He didn’t want her to see him like this. He had always been the strong one, the happy-go-lucky guy who could handle anything. But tonight, the weight of everything was crushing him.

"I feel like I’m losing everything," he finally admitted, his voice breaking. "Like no matter what I do, no matter how hard I fight, it’s never enough. I’m never enough."

Y/N’s heart ached at the sight of him like this — so vulnerable, so raw. She reached out hesitantly, her hand gently resting on his arm. "Daniel… you’re more than enough. You’ve always been more than enough."

He shook his head, biting down on his lip as tears welled up in his eyes again. "I don’t know how to keep going. Everyone keeps telling me to just keep my head up, keep smiling. But I’m tired, Y/N. I’m so tired."

Her hand tightened around his arm, the warmth of her touch grounding him in that moment. "You don’t have to do this alone."

Daniel’s shoulders shook as he exhaled a deep, shaky breath. He didn’t have the strength to pretend anymore. The tears he had been holding back for so long finally fell, spilling down his cheeks as he covered his face with his hands, his body trembling with silent sobs.

Y/N felt her own tears start to fall as she watched him break down, the sight of him so utterly heartbroken making her chest ache. She couldn’t hold back any longer. Without thinking, she pulled him into her arms, wrapping him in a tight embrace.

"I’ve got you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I’ve always got you."

Daniel buried his face in her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her waist as he clung to her, the dam of emotions finally breaking. He sobbed into her neck, all the pain, frustration, and helplessness pouring out of him. And Y/N held him, stroking his hair, whispering soothing words in his ear.

"I don’t know what to do, Y/N," Daniel choked out between sobs. "I feel like I’ve failed. Again."

"You haven’t failed," she insisted, pulling back just enough to look at him, her hands cupping his tear-streaked face. "You’ve given everything, Daniel. You’ve fought so hard. You’re one of the best drivers out there, and no seat can take that away from you. Not now, not ever."

Daniel let out a long sigh, pulling away slightly from Y/N’s embrace, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. His voice was quieter now, but it carried a weight that hadn’t been there before, like he was finally allowing himself to speak the truth that had been buried deep inside for years.

"You know," he began, staring out at the empty paddock, "when I left Red Bull, I thought I was making the best decision of my life. I really did. I thought… this was it, you know? My time. I didn’t want to be second to Max — your brother’s an incredible driver, you know that. But I couldn’t sit there anymore, watching everyone around me believe I’d always be the second-best. I wanted to be number one. I wanted my own team to back me, to believe in me. And at the time, Renault seemed like that opportunity, like I could prove I could lead a team, that I could fight for championships."

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. "God, I was so naïve. I thought leaving Red Bull would be the start of my rise, not the beginning of my fall. Renault wasn’t easy, but I stuck it out. Then McLaren came calling, and I thought that was my shot. It was McLaren, you know? One of the biggest names in Formula 1. I thought I was stepping into greatness."

He paused, his voice trembling. "And then everything fell apart. From the start, it felt wrong. Like I didn’t belong there. I tried so damn hard, Y/N. I worked my ass off, but nothing clicked. No matter what I did, how much time I put in, it never worked. Every race, every session, I felt like I was slipping further away from the driver I used to be. And it wasn’t just the car — it was everything. The pressure, the doubts, the whispers that I’d lost it, that I wasn’t the driver I once was."

He swallowed hard, the pain of those years written across his face. "They treated me like I was broken. Like I was damaged goods. And I started to believe it. Every time I got into that car, I felt like a shadow of myself. They replaced me without a second thought, like I was disposable. And I tried to be strong, you know? I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter, that I’d bounce back. But deep down, it hurt. It hurt more than anything."

Y/N squeezed his hand, her heart aching for him, but she stayed silent, letting him speak.

"And then this year," he continued, his voice cracking. "I thought coming back to V-CARB was going to be my redemption. That this was finally going to be the moment where I’d prove to everyone that I still had it. But now… now I’m losing my seat again. And it just feels like the world’s telling me I’m not wanted. That no one believes in me anymore. Every time I think I’m getting back on my feet, I just get knocked down again. It’s like no matter what I do, no one sees me. Not as I am, not for what I can be. They just see what they think I’ve become — a has-been."

Daniel’s voice grew quieter, almost a whisper. "I feel… I feel like I’m unwanted, Y/N. Like I don’t belong anywhere anymore. I used to love this sport so much. It was everything to me. But now it feels like it’s slipping away, like I’m being pushed out, and I don’t know what to do."

He ran his hands over his face, the weight of his journey pressing down on him like a heavy burden. "I’ve given everything to this sport. Years of my life, my heart, my soul. I sacrificed everything to chase this dream. And now… I’m just scared, Y/N. I’m scared that no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be enough. I’ll never get back to where I once was."

There was a long pause, the silence between them thick with emotion. Daniel’s chest rose and fell as he tried to steady his breathing, but his eyes were red, his cheeks stained with tears.

"I just… I don’t know how to stop feeling like I’m failing. Like I’ve lost everything that mattered. And it’s killing me, Y/N. I don’t know if I can keep pretending like I’m okay, when inside, I’m falling apart."

Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, pulling him close. "Daniel, you’ve never been a failure. Not to me. You’re the strongest person I know, and no matter what happens, no seat, no team, no damn race can take away who you are. You’ve always been enough."

And this time, Daniel didn’t pull away. He sank into her embrace, the tears falling once again, but this time, it felt different. He wasn’t alone.

His eyes searched hers, filled with so much pain, so much doubt. "What if this is it? What if this is the end for me?"

"It’s not the end," Y/N said firmly, her thumbs brushing away the tears on his cheeks. "And even if it were, you’d still be Daniel Ricciardo — the man I…"

She stopped, the words hanging in the air between them, unspoken for years.

Daniel’s breath hitched as he realized what she was about to say. "Y/N…"

She looked away, her own tears threatening to spill over. "I’ve loved you for so long, Daniel. And I hate seeing you like this. I hate that you’re hurting, and I hate that I never told you sooner because maybe… maybe you wouldn’t have to go through this alone."

Daniel was silent for a moment, his mind racing as her words sank in. He had always known. Deep down, he had always known. But hearing it, finally hearing it… it shattered something inside him.

"I’ve loved you too," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ve loved you since… since forever, Y/N. But I was scared. I didn’t want to lose you. I couldn’t lose you."

She looked at him, her heart breaking at the sight of the tears in his eyes. "You could never lose me."

Daniel leaned his forehead against hers, his breath shaky as they both cried, the weight of their unspoken feelings finally crashing down on them.

"I need you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"I’m here," she replied, her arms wrapping around him again, holding him as if she would never let go.

They stayed like that for a long time, clinging to each other, their tears mingling in the humid night air. And when the exhaustion finally overtook them, Daniel shifted, pulling Y/N down with him onto the bench beside the tires. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, their bodies fitting together perfectly as they lay there in the silence of the paddock.

Y/N rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as they both closed their eyes, the weight of the world fading away for a little while.

And in the stillness of the night, they finally found peace in each other’s arms, their unspoken love wrapped around them like a blanket, protecting them from the world outside.

the next day

The next morning, the sun filtered through the windows of the small café tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the paddock. Daniel felt lighter today. His heart still ached, the reality of his situation hadn't magically disappeared overnight, but there was something different. A quiet peace had settled inside him. Maybe it was because, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t carrying his burdens alone.

He glanced at Y/N across the table. She was scrolling through her phone, a soft smile tugging at her lips as she absentmindedly tapped her fingers against the table. His chest warmed at the sight of her. Y/N was always there, had always been there, but now it was different. Last night changed everything.

They hadn’t said much that morning, but they didn’t need to. She had been a constant presence at his side, making him feel like, no matter what, he’d be okay.

“So,” Y/N said, breaking the comfortable silence. “You ready for this?”

Daniel chuckled, taking a sip of his coffee. "Depends. Is Max going to kill me or just be incredibly smug?"

Y/N laughed, and Daniel could swear it was his favorite sound in the world. “He’ll be a bit of both, probably. But definitely more smug. He’s been calling this for years.”

As if on cue, Max Verstappen walked into the café, spotting them immediately. He made a beeline for their table, his signature serious expression betraying just the faintest hint of amusement. He slid into the seat across from them, a wry smile on his face.

"Morning," Max said, folding his arms across his chest, eyes flicking between the two of them. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here."

Daniel groaned playfully, rubbing the back of his neck. "Go on, get it out of your system."

Max leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, and grinned. "I knew it. I’ve known it since, what, the first year we were teammates? You two were practically inseparable. The way you used to look at each other…" He shook his head, pretending to be exasperated. "I can’t believe it took you this long."

Y/N blushed, rolling her eyes. "Alright, Max, don’t be so dramatic. It wasn’t that obvious."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Y/N, you’re my sister. You think I didn’t notice how every time Daniel was around, you’d act different? Or how he was always finding some excuse to come over when you were visiting?"

Daniel groaned again, leaning back in his chair. "Okay, okay, you were right. Is that what you want to hear?"

Max smirked, taking a long sip of his coffee. "Yes. Yes, it is." He paused, then his expression softened, his teasing giving way to something more sincere. "But seriously, I’m happy for you both. You’re good together."

Daniel felt his heart swell at that. Max wasn’t the type to dish out compliments easily, especially when it came to his sister. He knew how protective Max was of Y/N, and hearing those words meant more than he could express.

"Thanks, mate," Daniel said quietly, meeting Max’s gaze. "It means a lot."

Max gave a small nod before turning his attention to Y/N. "Just promise me one thing — if he does anything stupid, you’ll let me know so I can give him hell for it."

Y/N laughed, giving her brother a playful shove. "I’m pretty sure I can handle him, Max."

Max grinned. "I have no doubt."

The three of them fell into an easy rhythm after that, the conversation light, the teasing back and forth, just like old times. For a brief moment, it felt like everything was as it should be — like the weight of the past few months had lifted, even if just for a little while.

As Max droned on about the next race and the changes to his car, Daniel glanced at Y/N, who was laughing at something Max had said. She caught his gaze, her smile softening, and in that moment, Daniel realized that no matter what happened next — no matter how uncertain the future felt — he wasn’t alone.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he belonged. Not just in the sport or on the track, but with Y/N by his side. And whatever came next, they’d face it together.

"So," Max said suddenly, breaking through Daniel’s thoughts. "You’re both officially a thing now?"

Daniel smirked, his hand finding Y/N’s under the table. "Yeah, Max. We’re a thing."

Max raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. "Finally."

Y/N giggled, squeezing Daniel’s hand as they exchanged a knowing look.

Finally.

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novaursa · 3 days

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The Dragon's Right (15)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Paring: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: 14

- Next part: 16

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The sun hangs high over Dragonstone. The clanging of swords and the shouts of sparring echo off the ancient stone walls. You move with precision, your blade meeting Jace’s with a sharp clang, the force of your strike sending a shiver through your arm. He grunts, his teeth gritted in concentration, and steps back, his stance wary but determined.

“Good, Jace,” you praise, your voice carrying over the courtyard. “But you need to be quicker with your counter. Don’t just defend—respond.”

Jace nods, sweat beading on his forehead, his grip tightening on the hilt of his practice sword. Beside him, Luke and Joffrey watch intently, their wooden swords clutched in eager hands. You’ve been drilling them for hours now, running through new techniques and refining their form. It’s hard, grueling work, but they’re determined, and you’re proud of how far they’ve come.

You catch a movement out of the corner of your eye and glance up to see Daemon leaning against the low stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He’s been observing quietly for some time now, his sharp gaze taking in every movement, every correction you make to the boys’ stances.

“You’re being too lenient with them,” Daemon calls out, his tone teasing. “They’re growing soft.”

You smirk, parrying Jace’s next strike with ease. “I’d like to see you do better, Uncle,” you retort, sidestepping and tapping Jace lightly on the shoulder with the flat of your blade. “But I’m afraid you might end up in the dirt.”

Jace’s face flushes with effort and embarrassment, but he doesn’t falter. He launches forward again, his movements sharper now, more precise. You nod approvingly, meeting his attack and countering with a swift, controlled strike that sends his sword flying from his grip.

“You’re thinking too much, Jace,” you advise, lowering your sword as he bends to retrieve his own. “Trust your instincts. When you hesitate, you lose the fight.”

Luke and Joffrey shift restlessly, their eyes fixed on you, eager for their turn. “Patience,” you tell them with a smile. “You’ll get your chance soon enough.”

From the other side of the courtyard, the sound of laughter drifts over, and you turn to see Rhaena and Baela playing with Aegon and Viserys. The sight makes your heart swell—your family, all together, safe and thriving.

“How’s Rhaenyra?” Daemon asks, his voice softer now, his eyes following your gaze. “I heard she’s resting more these days.”

You nod, a shadow of concern crossing your face. “She’s well, just tired. The pregnancy has been harder on her this time.” You glance up at the stone keep where you know she’s resting, a hand absentmindedly drifting to your sword’s hilt. “The maesters say she needs more rest.”

Daemon’s expression darkens for a moment, then he pushes off the wall, striding toward you with that easy, confident grace that always seems to hang about him. “She’s strong,” he says quietly, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “She’ll be fine. And in the meantime, you’ve got these boys to keep you busy.”

He jerks his chin at Jace, who’s back on his feet, his jaw set with determination. “Well, go on then. Don’t let me distract you.”

You laugh, turning back to Jace. “Ready?”

Jace nods, his eyes locked on yours. “Ready, Father.”

“Then show me what you’ve got.”

The next exchange is faster, more intense. Jace’s strikes come harder, his form tighter. You meet each blow with measured force, letting him push you back step by step, testing his limits, his resolve.

“Don’t overextend,” you advise as he lunges forward, catching his blade and twisting, sending him spinning off-balance. “Watch your footing.”

Luke and Joffrey cheer him on, bouncing on the balls of their feet, eager to jump in. You smile at their enthusiasm, the warmth of it filling you. This—training them, seeing them grow strong and skilled, preparing them for the challenges they’ll face—is everything you’d hoped for when you left King’s Landing behind six years ago.

Daemon watches with a critical eye, his fingers tapping idly against the pommel of his own sword. “You’re teaching them well,” he says, almost begrudgingly. “Better than I would have expected.”

You raise an eyebrow, deflecting another of Jace’s strikes with a quick flick of your wrist. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise.”

Daemon chuckles, the sound low and genuine. “It is. Don’t get used to it.”

The bout continues, your focus split between Jace’s movements and the playful shouts of the younger children nearby. You’re aware of every detail—the shift in Jace’s stance, the tightening of his grip, the way his breath comes in short, sharp bursts. He’s pushing himself hard, testing his limits, and you can see the progress he’s made.

“Good,” you say, meeting his next strike and holding it, your blades locked together. “Now, what do you do?”

Jace hesitates, his eyes flicking down to where your swords meet, and you can see the answer forming in his mind. He shifts his weight, trying to break free, but you twist your blade, disarming him in one smooth motion.

“You hesitate,” you say, stepping back. “That’s the problem. Don’t think—act.”

Jace picks up his sword, his expression frustrated but determined. “Again.”

You nod, a smile tugging at your lips. “Again.”

From the sidelines, Daemon watches, his eyes gleaming with something like pride. “They’re growing up fast,” he muses, his gaze flicking to his own daughters, who are now sitting with Aegon and Viserys, pointing and laughing as they watch your sparring.

“They are,” you agree, your voice softening. “And they’ll need to. The world won’t be kind to them.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, thoughtful look. “No, it won’t,” he says quietly. “But they’ve got you, and they’ve got each other. That’s more than most.”

You nod, meeting his eyes. There’s an understanding between you, a shared determination to protect these children, to prepare them for whatever may come.

“Come on, boys,” you call to Luke and Joffrey. “Your turn. Show me what you’ve learned.”

They rush forward, faces alight with excitement, and you brace yourself, ready for the next round. As they swing their wooden swords at you, laughter and shouts filling the courtyard, you feel a rare moment of peace—a moment where everything is as it should be.

The chamber is quiet, the only sound the soft scratching of quill on parchment as Jacaerys painstakingly transcribes a passage from an ancient tome. The light from the high windows spills over the room, illuminating the rows of books and scrolls stacked neatly on the shelves. You watch your son closely, your arms crossed over your chest as he works. His brow is furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out from the corner of his mouth as he writes.

“Focus, Jace,” Grand Maester Geraryds murmurs, his voice gentle but firm. The old man stands beside your son, his eyes sharp despite the wear of age. “Precision is just as important as speed.”

Jace nods, his face determined, and adjusts his grip on the quill. You can see the effort he’s putting in, the desire to do well in his studies. It fills you with a deep sense of pride—and a quiet relief. As your heir, Jace will have to be more than just a skilled warrior. He must be learned, wise, and capable of navigating the complexities of the realm that will one day be his responsibility.

From the corner of the room, Rhaenyra reclines on a sofa piled high with cushions, her form graceful despite the weight of her pregnancy. Her ladies-in-waiting hover nearby, attending to her needs, while a servant girl fans her gently. Her eyes are on Jace, a soft smile playing at her lips as she watches him work.

You glance at her, the sight of her surrounded by such care stirring a mixture of emotions in your chest. There’s love, of course, and pride, but also a lingering concern. This pregnancy has been harder on her than the others, and despite her reassurances, you worry.

Jace pauses in his writing, glancing up at you with a hesitant smile. “Is this better, Father?”

You lean forward, scanning the parchment. The lines are more even now, the script clearer. “Much better, Jace,” you say, your tone warm with approval. “You’re doing well.”

Geraryds nods, his expression thoughtful. “Your progress is commendable, Prince Jacaerys. But remember, knowledge is as much about understanding what you read as it is about recording it. We’ll review the text together, and I’ll ask you questions.”

Jace nods eagerly, his eyes bright. “Yes, Maester.”

You smile at the exchange, feeling a swell of pride. Jace is growing into his role, bit by bit, and you can see the promise of the man he will one day become.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Daemon strides in, his presence as commanding as ever. There’s a faint smirk on his lips as he surveys the scene, his eyes lingering on Jace before shifting to you.

“Nephew,” he greets, his tone light but carrying an edge. “I come bearing news.”

You straighten, your attention sharpening. “What is it, Daemon?”

He hands you a folded letter, the seal of the king’s office unmistakable in the candlelight. “A message from King’s Landing,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “Viserys has summoned us all for a family dinner. It seems he wants to mend what he can while he still breathes.”

You take the letter, breaking the seal and scanning the contents. The words are brief, almost painfully so. Viserys’s hand trembles in the ink, the once-strong script now wavering and frail. He writes of wanting his family together, of wishing for peace in what time remains to him.

There’s a heaviness in your chest as you fold the letter again, your gaze lifting to meet Daemon’s. His face is uncharacteristically serious, his usual air of indifference replaced by something somber.

“There’s little life left in him,” Daemon says quietly, his eyes dark with a sorrow that he rarely shows. “Your father is not long for this world.”

Rhaenyra shifts on the sofa, her eyes wide as she looks between you and Daemon. You walk over to her, sitting beside her and taking her hand in yours. The contact is warm, comforting, but it does little to ease the ache that has taken root in your heart.

You exchange a long, searching look with her, the unspoken emotions passing between you like a current. No matter what bitterness or anger has grown in the wake of others’ actions, the love you both hold for Viserys remains. He is your father, her father, and the prospect of losing him—even after everything—is like a knife twisting in your gut.

“What will we do?” Rhaenyra asks softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil in her eyes.

“We’ll go,” you say firmly, your gaze steady on hers. “We owe him that much. Whatever else has happened, he’s our father.”

She nods, her grip on your hand tightening. “And the children?”

“We’ll take them too,” you reply, glancing over at Jace, who’s watching the exchange with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “They need to see their grandsire. It might be the last chance they have.”

Daemon makes a low, thoughtful sound, his eyes flicking over Jace and then back to you. “Are you sure that’s wise? The last time we were all together—”

“I know,” you cut him off, your voice firm but not unkind. “But this time will be different. It has to be.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow, a cynical smile touching his lips. “You’re too hopeful, nephew. But maybe that’s what we need.”

You turn back to Rhaenyra, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “We’ll go,” you say again, your voice softer now, filled with a quiet resolve. “And we’ll do what we can to honor his wish.”

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she nods, her expression determined. “For him,” she agrees.

You stand, turning back to Daemon. “Thank you for bringing the message, Uncle. I’ll make preparations for our journey.”

Daemon inclines his head, a glimmer of something like respect in his eyes. “I’ll see to the dragons, then. We’ll leave at first light.”

As he strides from the room, you look back at Rhaenyra, still holding her hand. The future is uncertain, and the wounds between your family and the Hightowers are deep. But for now, you will go to your father, and you will be the family he needs you to be.

For whatever time remains.

The Red Keep looms above you, its familiar silhouette outlined against a sky heavy with gray clouds. As your party makes its way toward the main gate, you cast a glance back at Rhaenyra, who rides beside you on her horse. Her face is composed, but you can see the tension in her jaw, the tightness in her posture. Behind her, Jace, Luke, Joffrey, while Aegon, and Viserys follow closely in a carriage with their nannies.

Daemon rides on the other side of you, his daughters, Baela and Rhaena, flanking him like shadows. The sight of the Red Keep should have been a welcome return, a homecoming, but there is an unsettling quiet, an absence of the grandeur and formality that should have greeted the heirs to the throne.

“No royal welcome for us, it seems,” you murmur, your voice carrying only to Rhaenyra and Daemon. “The King’s own son and heir, his daughter and grandchildren, and not so much as a guard to receive us.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze sweeps over the battlements, her lips thinning into a hard line. “They want us to feel unwelcome,” she says quietly. “To remind us whose influence holds sway here now.”

Daemon snorts softly, his eyes narrowing as he surveys the castle. “They’ve let the vultures roost on our bones,” he mutters. “But we’ll remind them who truly owns this place.”

As you approach the gates, you notice the heraldry of the Targaryens—the three-headed dragon of your house—has been replaced by the sigils of the Faith of the Seven. Banners bearing the seven-pointed star hang where the crimson and black should have flown, the sight of them making your blood run cold. It’s not just a sign of your father’s decline; it’s a proclamation of the Hightowers’ dominance.

You feel a surge of anger, your hands clenching around the reins of your horse. “They’ve turned our home into a temple,” you say, your voice thick with disgust. “This is no longer the Red Keep of the Targaryens.”

Daemon’s eyes flick to the banners, his mouth twisting in disdain. “They’d rather see this castle burn than in the hands of a dragon.” He glances at you, his expression sharp. “But we can’t let their games go unanswered.”

Rhaenyra leans forward, her eyes dark with determination. “We’ll go to Father. Let them see we’re not cowed by their petty displays.”

You nod, turning to the guards posted at the gate. They straighten at your approach, their eyes flicking nervously between you, Daemon, and your men and royal retainers that stand behind your group. “Take us to the King,” you command, your voice brooking no argument. “Now.”

The guards hesitate, exchanging uneasy glances before the senior officer steps forward. “Of course, my prince. If you and your family would follow me.”

As you dismount, you place a steadying hand on Jace’s shoulder. “Stay close,” you murmur to him and the rest of your children. “Keep your heads high.”

Jace nods, his young face set in a determined expression. Luke and Joffrey stand on either side of him, their eyes wide as they take in the unfamiliar surroundings. Aegon and Viserys cling to Rhaenyra’s skirts, their small hands gripping the fabric tightly.

You cast a glance back at Daemon, who gives you a curt nod. His presence is a reassuring weight at your side, a reminder that you are not alone in this viper’s den.

The walk through the keep is a painful reminder of all that has changed. The once vibrant halls feel dim and cold, the energy drained from the very stones. Servants scurry past with bowed heads, their eyes avoiding yours. You can almost feel the judgment and resentment simmering beneath the surface, the unspoken tensions hanging in the air like smoke.

Rhaenyra’s hand brushes against yours as you walk, her touch grounding you. “This place feels like a tomb,” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“It’s not ours anymore,” you reply, your tone grim. “They’ve let it wither, just like they’ve let Father.”

As you pass through the corridors, the shift in atmosphere becomes more pronounced. Every corner, every archway, is marked by the influence of the Faith. Priests and septas move about, their solemn faces and plain robes a stark contrast to the opulence you once knew. You scoff under your breath, the sound harsh in the silence.

“They’ve turned this place into a sanctimonious prison,” Daemon says, his voice a low growl. “They’ve done everything but chain him in his chambers.”

“And now they call us back,” Rhaenyra says, a bitter edge to her voice. “To witness what? To watch him die while they hold the reins?”

You stop outside a set of large, imposing doors, the entrance to the King’s private chambers. The guards posted there glance at each other nervously as you approach, their hands shifting on their weapons. The senior officer gestures for you to wait, then moves to knock on the door.

You take a deep breath, your eyes locking with Rhaenyra’s. There’s a moment of shared understanding between you, a recognition of the love you both still hold for your father despite everything. This place, these people, have tried to tear you apart, to destroy the bond that should be the strength of your house. But they have failed.

The doors creak open slowly, and you feel the weight of the moment settle over you like a shroud.

Daemon’s hand settles on the hilt of his sword, a habitual gesture of readiness. You nod to him, then turn back to Rhaenyra, giving her a reassuring squeeze of her hand.

“Whatever happens,” you murmur, your voice firm despite the knot of anxiety in your chest, “we’re here for him. For us.”

She nods, a fierce light in her eyes. “For our family.”

With that, you step forward, ready to face what awaits inside.

The door creaks open, and you step into the low lit chamber, your family following close behind. The room is filled with the heavy, suffocating scent of incense, mingling with the stale air. It’s a space suffused with shadows, the flickering candlelight casting long, eerie shapes across the walls. In the center of it all, surrounded by heavy drapery and silk cushions, lies your father.

King Viserys, once so strong and vital, is now a frail, gaunt figure against the expansive bed. His body seems to have withered away, skin stretched thin over bones, his once proud features now sunken and pallid. The sight of him, so diminished and fragile, makes your heart clench painfully. He is more ghost than man, the vitality of the king replaced by a husk clinging to life.

You move forward slowly, each step feeling heavier than the last. As you draw nearer, Viserys’s eyes flutter open, clouded with pain but still holding a spark of recognition. For a moment, it seems as though he’s looking past you, his gaze searching for something beyond the room. Then, those eyes settle on you, and a flicker of clarity cuts through the haze.

“My son,” he whispers, his voice barely more than a rasp, but there’s a hint of the old strength in it. “My firstborn… my heir.”

The words strike something deep within you, a surge of emotions you can’t quite name. You kneel beside the bed, leaning closer so he can see you clearly. “Father,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady. “I’m here. We’re all here.”

His skeletal hand trembles as it reaches out, the effort of the movement almost too much for him. You take it gently, holding it between your own, careful not to squeeze too hard. His skin is cold, the bones beneath it brittle and frail.

“Good… good,” he breathes, his lips curving in a faint, weary smile. “You’ve come… as I hoped.”

You feel a presence at your back and turn slightly to see Daemon standing there, his face a mask of grim control, though his eyes are soft with something like sorrow. He steps forward, laying a hand on your shoulder before leaning down to speak to his brother.

“Viserys,” he says, his voice low and steady, “you look terrible.” It’s an attempt at levity, a feeble joke in a desperate moment, and Viserys’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smile.

“Daemon… always… the charmer,” Viserys wheezes, his chest shaking with the effort of speaking. “Still… a rogue.”

You glance back, and Rhaenyra is there, her face pale, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She moves to your side, slipping her hand around your arm, her touch grounding you in this surreal moment. She leans over, her voice barely a whisper. “Father,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “We’ve come as you asked.”

Viserys’s eyes shift to her, a spark of recognition and love in his gaze. “Rhaenyra… my bright girl,” he murmurs. “So… beautiful.” He struggles to lift his other hand, and she takes it gently, holding it close to her chest.

Behind you, the children stand in a somber line, their faces a mixture of confusion, fear, and sadness. Jace and Luke exchange glances, their young faces tight with worry. Joffrey stands beside them, his eyes wide as he stares at the frail figure of his grandsire, trying to reconcile the man he’s heard stories about and little he remembers of him, with the man now before him. Aegon and Viserys, too young to fully grasp the situation, clutch at the skirts of their older cousins, their little faces peering out with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

Viserys’s gaze shifts past you to them, his eyes softening further. “The children… let them… come closer.”

You turn, nodding to the boys, and they step forward, moving cautiously toward the bed. Jace reaches it first, his movements careful, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace of the room. Luke follows, then Joffrey, each of them looking to you and Rhaenyra for guidance.

“They’ve grown so… strong,” Viserys breathes, his voice fading. “Like their… parents.”

He tries to lift his hand again, but the effort is too much. You squeeze his hand gently, your voice catching in your throat. “They’re strong because of you, Father.”

Viserys’s eyes find yours again, a faint, wavering smile touching his lips. “You’re… a good man. I knew… you would be.”

Emotion surges in your chest, and you swallow hard, fighting to keep your composure. “And you’re a good father,” you say, your voice thick. “We’re here because we love you.”

He blinks slowly, as if the weight of those words is too much to bear. His gaze flickers to Daemon, then back to Rhaenyra. “Keep them safe… all of them,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “Promise me.”

“We will,” Rhaenyra vows, her voice strong despite the tears shining in her eyes. “We promise, Father.”

The room seems to close in around you, the air filled with the gravity of the moment. There is so much to say, so much left unspoken, but the words won’t come. You can only hold his hand, feeling the fragile pulse beneath his skin, knowing that time is slipping away.

For now, all you can do is be here, by his side, holding on to what remains of the man who was once your strength, your king, your father.

You stand by the window, staring out at the gardens below, your thoughts a turbulent sea. Rhaenyra sits on a chaise, her hands resting protectively over her swollen belly, her eyes distant as she looks at the fire crackling in the hearth. Daemon paces restlessly, his gaze flicking to the door every few moments, his expression set in a hard, unyielding mask.

The children had been taken to their quarters by servants, their confusion and fear hidden behind obedient nods and reluctant steps. You had watched them go, a part of you aching at the thought of how they must be feeling, drawn into this conflict that they can barely comprehend.

The door opens with a soft creak, and Queen Alicent enters, her presence as tightly controlled as ever. She’s dressed in somber hues, her hands clasped in front of her, her face carefully composed. But the moment her eyes meet yours, she hesitates, taken aback by the intensity of your gaze.

You step forward, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Why were we not properly received, Queen Alicent? Why do we wait here, like strangers in our own home?”

Alicent’s composure falters for just a moment before she gathers herself, her chin lifting slightly. “There were pressing matters of the realm that required attention,” she replies, her tone measured, almost rehearsed.

You scoff, the sound sharp and bitter. “I am the heir to the Iron Throne, the Prince of Dragonstone. What matter could be so urgent that it overshadows my return?”

Her lips part as if to respond, but she falters again, clearly searching for the right words. Before she can speak, Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the room, cold and accusing. “We’ve seen my father, Alicent. What are you doing to him?”

Alicent’s eyes flick to Rhaenyra, a flash of something like guilt passing over her face before she forces it away. “The King is in great pain,” she says quietly. “The milk of the poppy is the only thing that grants him any peace.”

Daemon, who has been watching the exchange with growing fury, steps forward, his voice laced with contempt. “Peace, or stupor?” he sneers. “You and Otto have drugged him into a living corpse, all while you rule in his name. You’ve desecrated the Red Keep with your Faith, turning it into a shrine to your ambitions.”

Alicent’s face pales, but she stands her ground. “You know nothing of what he suffers,” she retorts, her voice trembling slightly. “His pain is—”

“Spare us your platitudes,” Daemon snaps, his eyes blazing. “You’ve poisoned him, hollowed him out until there’s nothing left. All so you and that snake of your father can control everything.”

You feel a cold, hard resolve settle over you, your anger solidifying into something sharper, more dangerous. “It won’t be like this much longer, Uncle,” you say, your voice low but carrying a dangerous edge. “When the throne is mine, I’ll tear every seven-pointed star out of this castle if I have to do it with my own hands.”

Alicent’s eyes widen, shock and fear flickering across her face. “You cannot mean—”

“Oh, but I do,” you cut her off, your gaze unwavering. “And I imagine you’ll be quite eager to return to Oldtown. I’m sure you’ll find it far more comforting than staying here once I am crowned.”

The silence that follows your words is felt, heavy with the weight of the threat you’ve just issued. Alicent’s face drains of color, and for the first time, you see real fear in her eyes. She stares at you, as if seeing you truly for the first time, not as the young prince she once knew, but as the man who now stands before her—a man forged in fire and loss, no longer swayed by the gentle ideals of his youth.

“You’ve changed,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “You’re not the same…”

“No,” you agree quietly, a steely calm in your voice. “I’m not.”

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, her eyes fierce as she looks at Alicent. “We will not let you destroy what is ours, Alicent. Not our father, not our home, and not our children’s future.”

Alicent’s gaze shifts between the two of you, and you can see the realization sinking in—the understanding that the balance of power is shifting, that the control she and Otto have wielded for so long is slipping through their fingers.

Her voice is thin, almost pleading. “The King—”

“Is dying,” Daemon finishes, his voice cold and unyielding. “And you’ve hastened it with every lie and every drop of that poison you call mercy.”

Alicent’s mouth opens, but no words come. She takes a step back, her hand clutching at the front of her dress as if she can’t quite catch her breath.

You watch her, your expression hard, unrelenting. “This is your last chance to show some dignity, Alicent. Stop hiding behind your piety and your pity. Stop pretending this isn’t about power.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. The room seems to hold its breath, the silence stretching taut and fragile.

Daemon crosses his arms, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “I suggest you start preparing for your departure, Queen Alicent. It’s clear you’ve overstayed your welcome.”

With those words, the last semblance of calm shatters. Alicent turns, almost stumbling in her haste to leave the room, the door swinging shut behind her with a resounding thud.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning to Rhaenyra. She’s watching you with a fierce pride, her eyes shining. You lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s time to take back what’s ours,” you murmur, your voice firm, resolute.

Daemon’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as he nods. “And burn anything that stands in our way.”

The dining hall is aglow with candlelight, the flickering flames casting warm hues over the long table set with platters of roasted meats, fruits, and fine wine. Despite the opulence, there’s a tension that underlies every gesture, every forced smile. The Targaryen family sits divided, an invisible line running down the center of the table, separating what should be a united house.

Viserys, at the head of the table, looks more at peace than you’ve seen him in a long time. The shadow of pain still lingers in his eyes, but for tonight, it seems dulled, replaced by a fragile contentment as he gazes around at his family. His thin frame is swathed in the royal colors, and he smiles faintly, his eyes lingering on you and Rhaenyra, then shifting to Daemon and the children.

You’re seated beside Rhaenyra, your eldest sons—Jace, Luke, and Joffrey—lined up next to you. They sit straight and tense, their eyes darting cautiously between their cousins across the table. Daemon, his face a mask of calm, sits at your other side with Baela and Rhaena, who watch the scene unfold with the quiet intensity of those too young to understand but wise enough to sense the undercurrents.

Opposite you, Alicent is seated, her expression strained but polite. Otto is beside her, his eyes sharp and calculating as ever, taking in every word and gesture. Aegon slouches in his seat, his gaze unfocused, while Helaena hums softly to herself, her fingers playing with the delicate golden bracelet on her wrist. Aemond sits straight-backed and still, his single eye moving slowly between you and Luke, his gaze intense and unreadable.

The dinner begins, the clinking of utensils and soft murmurs filling the space. You make small talk with Rhaenyra, your hand resting lightly on hers, trying to ignore the simmering resentment that prickles at your skin. Viserys’s presence is a fragile bridge, holding this fractured family together for one last time. For his sake, you force yourself to maintain the facade.

Viserys’s voice is weak but warm as he speaks, breaking the strained silence. “It brings me joy,” he says, his words slow and deliberate, “to see you all here, together. My family.” He pauses, his breath hitching. “I know… there have been disagreements, misunderstandings. But we are all blood. We are Targaryens.”

Rhaenyra nods, her smile gentle but strained. “Of course, Father. We are here to honor you.”

Alicent offers a tight smile. “Yes, Your Grace. We are grateful for this opportunity to be together.”

The words are hollow, and everyone knows it. You catch Aemond’s eye across the table, and his gaze is cold, calculating. There’s something simmering beneath the surface, something dark and unresolved, but for now, he holds his tongue.

You focus on the food, the rich flavors tasting like ash in your mouth. Jace shifts beside you, his discomfort palpable. “Father,” he murmurs under his breath, his eyes flicking to Aemond and then back to his plate. “This doesn’t feel right.”

You squeeze his shoulder gently, leaning in. “I know,” you whisper. “But we do this for your grandsire. For him.”

Jace nods reluctantly, his jaw clenched. You glance at Luke, who is picking at his food, his face pale and tense. You know he feels Aemond’s gaze on him, the weight of that unspoken animosity pressing down like a physical force.

Viserys raises his goblet, his hand trembling. “To peace,” he says, his voice wavering but resolute. “To family.”

Everyone lifts their cups, the toast a murmur of voices that lacks any real conviction. You exchange a look with Rhaenyra, a silent acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all. Peace, for now, is a hollow word.

As the dinner progresses, Viserys’s condition starts to deteriorate. His head droops, his breathing becomes labored, and the color drains from his face. You can see the pain creeping back into his eyes, and it’s clear that he’s struggling to keep himself composed.

“Father,” Rhaenyra says softly, concern etching her features. “You should rest.”

Viserys shakes his head weakly. “I’m fine, my dear. I want to… to be here. With all of you.”

But it’s obvious he can’t continue. He slumps forward slightly, his hand slipping from his goblet, and a murmur of alarm ripples through the room. Servants rush forward, helping him to his feet, and Viserys grimaces, his body trembling with the effort.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “I’m… I’m tired.”

They begin to escort him from the room, and you watch, a heavy ache settling in your chest. This might be the last time you see him like this, trying so desperately to hold his family together, to remind you all of what once was.

As soon as Viserys is out of the room, the fragile mask of civility shatters. The silence that follows his departure is taut, brittle. You can feel the shift in the atmosphere, the unspoken tensions that had been held at bay now breaking free.

Aegon leans back in his chair, his lips curling into a lazy, mocking smile. “Well, that was cheerful,” he drawls, his words dripping with sarcasm. “The great family reunion.”

Jace’s head snaps up, his eyes narrowing. “Show some respect,” he says, his voice tight. “He’s your father too.”

Aegon’s smile widens, more of a sneer now. “Oh, don’t be so serious, nephew. We’re all one big, happy family, aren’t we?”

Luke shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Aemond, whose single eye is still locked on him. “We should just leave,” he mutters to Jace, but the anger simmering beneath his voice is unmistakable.

“Leave?” Aemond’s voice cuts through the room like a blade, cold and sharp. “Running away again, are you, Lucerys?”

Rhaenyra stiffens beside you, her eyes flashing with anger. “That’s enough, Aemond.”

Aemond leans forward, his gaze never leaving Luke’s face. “Tell me, nephew,” he drawls, his voice dripping with mockery. “How does it feel to know your father has to constantly shield you from the truth? From who you really are?”

Your blood turns to ice, and you see Luke’s hands clench on the table, his face flushing with anger. “Stop it,” you say, your voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

Aemond smirks, but before he can speak, Rhaena interjects, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “You have no right to speak to him like that. You’re nothing but a coward who hides behind his words.”

The tension in the room escalates, the hostility crackling in the air like a storm about to break. Alicent’s face is pale, her eyes darting nervously between her children and yours, as if realizing how close to the edge this all is.

“Enough of this!” she snaps, her voice strained. “We are here to honor the King’s wishes, not to fight.”

But it’s too late. The façade has crumbled, and the old wounds are bleeding anew. Jace’s voice is taut with barely restrained rage as he turns on Aegon. “Maybe if you spent less time whoring and drinking, you’d understand what family actually means.”

Aegon’s eyes flash with anger, and he rises from his seat, his hands balled into fists. “You little—”

“Don’t,” you say sharply, standing as well. “We won’t do this.”

But even as you speak, you can see the fear and anger in your sons’ eyes, the way Aemond’s smirk twists into something cruel.

The room then erupts into chaos. Aegon lunges across the table, his fist aimed at Jace’s jaw, while Luke shoves Aemond back, his face twisted in anger. Shouts and cries fill the air as the boys collide, chairs scraping across the floor, goblets and plates crashing to the ground.

You’re on your feet in an instant, moving toward the melee. You see Aemond’s hand grasping at Luke’s tunic, yanking him forward with a vicious snarl. The rage in Aemond’s single eye is visible, a dark fire that seems intent on consuming everything in its path.

“Get off him!” you shout, reaching out to seize Aemond by the collar, pulling him away from Luke with a sharp jerk. Aemond stumbles, his grip loosening as you push him back, your own anger flaring.

“Control yourself!” you bark, shoving him toward Alicent and Otto, who stand frozen in shock. “Keep him in check!”

Aemond straightens, fury blazing in his gaze. He recovers quickly, his expression twisting with a hatred that sends a chill down your spine. “You think you can command me?” he sneers, his voice low and venomous. He takes a step forward, eye locked on yours, his intent clear.

But before he can make another move, Daemon steps in, his presence like a wall of iron. He stands beside you, his gaze steady and unflinching as it meets Aemond’s. “If you’ve any sense, you’ll stand down,” Daemon warns, his voice dangerously calm. “You’re outmatched, boy.”

Aemond hesitates, his eye flicking between you and Daemon, weighing his options. His face twists with frustration, but he doesn’t advance, his fists clenching at his sides.

You take a deep breath, your own fury simmering beneath the surface. “This ends now,” you say firmly, your voice carrying over the din. “We’re leaving. We’ll return to Dragonstone until it’s time to come back.”

You turn to Alicent and Otto, who are watching the scene with wide eyes, the shock slowly giving way to something more calculating. “Keep your son in line,” you tell them coldly, your gaze hard and unyielding. “Or there will be consequences.”

Alicent’s face blanches, her eyes darting to Aemond, then back to you. You can see the memory of your earlier words flicker across her face, the promise you made—the warning of what would happen once you were crowned. Fear and something else—regret, perhaps—cloud her expression.

“No, wait!” she says, her voice rising in desperation as she takes a step toward you. “Please, don’t leave like this. We can—”

Rhaenyra is beside you in an instant, stepping between you and Alicent, her gaze like a shield. “There’s nothing left to say,” she states, her voice cold and final. “This was a mistake. We shouldn’t have come.”

Alicent’s eyes flash with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “You can’t just—” she begins, her voice breaking. “Please, I’m asking you—”

Rhaenyra’s expression hardens, her chin lifting defiantly. “You’re asking for what can never be given. The Prince you knew is gone, Alicent.”

Alicent looks past Rhaenyra, her gaze searching yours, pleading with a desperation that seems to come from the depths of her soul. “You were once kind,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “You weren’t like this.”

You stare at her, the woman who once sought to win your favor, the girl who had idolized you. But that was another lifetime, another world, and that person no longer exists. “I was a fool then,” you say quietly, your voice firm. “I’ve learned too much to be that naïve again.”

Alicent flinches as if struck, her face crumpling with a sorrow that she can’t hide. Otto steps forward, his hand on her arm, his expression unreadable. “It’s done, Alicent,” he says softly. “Let them go.”

For a moment, you see the struggle in her eyes, the hope that something can still be salvaged. But it’s a fleeting illusion, and she knows it. Slowly, painfully, she takes a step back, her hands falling to her sides.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, her strength and resolve bolstering you. You glance at Daemon, who gives you a curt nod, his eyes gleaming with approval.

“Let’s go,” you say, your voice steady. “We have no place here. For now.”

You turn, guiding Rhaenyra toward the exit, your children following closely behind, their faces pale but defiant. As you leave the hall, you feel the weight of Alicent’s gaze on your back, the unspoken pleas and regrets trailing after you like ghosts. But you don’t look back. This chapter, this farce of reconciliation for the sake of your father, is over.

The path ahead is clear, and your course is set. Whatever comes next, you will face it on your own terms, not theirs. And when the time comes, you will reclaim what is rightfully yours, no matter the cost.

The council chamber of Dragonstone is swarming with a charged energy. Maps and scrolls clutter the large table at the room’s center, the flickering candlelight casting shadows over the faces of those gathered. You stand at the head of the table, surrounded by your advisors, Rhaenyra seated to your right and Daemon to your left. Discussions of defenses, alliances, and plans have filled the air for hours, the stakes rising as the realm teeters on the brink of turmoil.

But now, a heavy silence has settled over the room, anticipation thick in the air. The door bursts open, and a breathless messenger rushes in, his face pale and drawn. All eyes turn to him as he stumbles forward, his gaze locking onto yours.

“Prince,” he gasps, his voice strained with urgency. “My lord, I bring grave news.”

You feel your heart tighten, a sense of foreboding creeping over you. “What is it?” you demand, your voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a knife.

The messenger hesitates, his eyes flicking to Rhaenyra and then back to you, as if unsure how to deliver the blow. “King Viserys… your father… he is dead.”

The words hang in the air, echoing through the chamber like a death knell. For a moment, there is nothing but silence, a stunned, suffocating stillness that seems to freeze everyone in place. Rhaenyra’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock, while Daemon’s expression darkens, a shadow falling over his face.

“My brother has been slain,” Daemon says, his voice low and full of barely contained rage. His fists clench at his sides, and there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes, a fire that promises retribution.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens on your arm, and you turn to her, seeing not just grief in her eyes but something else—something deeper, a pain that seems to be more than just the loss of her father. “Rhaenyra?” you murmur, concern threading through your voice.

Before she can respond, the messenger continues, his voice trembling. “There is more, my lord… Aegon the Elder has been crowned king. It was done in King’s Landing, before the masses, by High Septon Eustace.”

A wave of shock ripples through the chamber. Your breath catches in your throat, the words striking you like a physical blow. The Hightowers had moved quickly, far too quickly. The realization of what this means, of what has been stolen from you, tightens in your chest, a cold, burning rage building inside you.

“They have usurped my birthright,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, disbelief mingling with fury. “They’ve stolen the crown.”

Chaos erupts around you as your advisors begin to shout over one another, voices rising in anger and shock. Some call for immediate retaliation, others demand caution and strategy. The room fills with a cacophony of voices, the noise rising and falling like the tide. Daemon, ever the warrior, slams his hand down on the table, his eyes blazing. “This is war,” he declares, his voice ringing out above the din. “They’ve declared it by this act of treachery. We cannot let this stand!”

But your attention shifts from the tumult of the council to Rhaenyra, who suddenly lurches forward, her hand gripping the arm of her chair, her face contorted with pain. “Rhaenyra!” you exclaim, fear spiking through you as you move to her side, your hand reaching for hers.

She gasps, her breathing ragged, her face pale as she struggles to compose herself. “The babe…” she whispers, her voice trembling. “It’s too soon…”

Your heart drops like a stone. “No, it’s not time yet,” you murmur, panic rising as you look down at her, your hand hovering over her belly. “It’s too early.”

She shakes her head, her eyes squeezing shut as another wave of pain washes over her. “The babe is coming,” she chokes out, her voice strained.

The room falls silent as everyone turns to look at her, the shock of the news momentarily forgotten in the face of this new crisis. Daemon’s eyes widen, and he takes a step closer, his earlier rage replaced by concern.

“Get the maester!” you shout, your voice echoing through the chamber as you turn to the nearest guard. “Now!”

The guard rushes from the room, and you turn back to Rhaenyra, your heart pounding with fear and helplessness. She grips your hand tightly, her fingers digging into your skin, and you can feel her trembling. You lean closer, your voice soft but urgent. “Hold on, Rhaenyra. Hold on, my love.”

She nods weakly, her breaths coming in short, painful gasps. “I’m trying,” she whispers, her eyes meeting yours, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “But it hurts… Gods, it hurts…”

You glance at Daemon, his face set in a grim mask, then back to Rhaenyra, your mind racing. The chamber is still buzzing with shock and confusion, but all you can focus on is her, the terror in her eyes, the way she’s clutching at you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the world.

“Stay with me,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to hers. “We’ll get through this. We have to.”

But even as you speak, you can’t shake the dread that’s curling in your chest, the sense that everything is unraveling, that the world is shifting beneath your feet and there’s no solid ground left to stand on. And outside these walls, the realm is already starting to burn.

The screams reverberate through the halls of Dragonstone, a haunting, guttural sound that twists the gut and chills the blood. You sit beside Rhaenyra, your hands clenched tightly around hers as she writhes in agony, her body arching with the pain that seems endless. Her face is slick with sweat, strands of her hair plastered to her forehead, her eyes glazed with exhaustion and torment.

“It’s been three days,” you murmur, your voice hoarse with worry and helplessness. You brush a damp cloth across her brow, your heart aching with every labored breath she takes. “Please, Rhaenyra… please hold on.”

She grips your hand with a strength that belies her frail state, her nails digging into your skin. “I will not die,” she rasps, her voice raw, each word a battle. “I will not leave you. I will not leave our children.”

Tears burn in your eyes, but you force them back, leaning closer. “I’m here, my love. I’m not leaving you.” It’s all you can say, all you can do. You’ve been here for days, refusing to leave her side despite the pleas and orders of the maesters and midwives.

The room is stifling, the air thick with the smell of blood and sweat, the sounds of Rhaenyra’s suffering echoing off the stone walls. You can hear the whispers of those gathered outside, their voices hushed with fear and speculation. The door remains shut, guarded by loyal men, but you know the weight of this moment is not lost on any of them.

Beyond these walls, Daemon and Jacaerys have taken charge of the war council. With the news of Viserys’s death and Aegon’s usurpation, the realm is poised on the edge of chaos. But here, in this room, there is only Rhaenyra, her pain, and your helplessness.

She gasps, her body tensing as another wave of pain wracks her. “It’s wrong,” she whispers, her eyes wide with terror and agony. “Something is wrong.”

You press your lips to her knuckles, your voice breaking. “You’re strong, Rhaenyra. You’ve always been strong. You can do this. Please, just hold on a little longer.”

She shakes her head, a sob tearing from her throat. “No… the babe…” Her voice cracks, her grip on your hand tightening even more. “Something’s wrong.”

You look up at the midwives and maesters, their faces pinched with worry and resignation. They’ve seen it, too—the signs of a labor gone horribly awry. But they’re as helpless as you are, caught between the duty to their patient and the horror of what is to come.

Rhaenyra’s cries echo in your ears as she fights against the agony, her body convulsing with each failed attempt to bring your child into the world. You don’t know how long you’ve been here—time has lost all meaning, stretched into an endless cycle of hope and despair.

And then, finally, after what feels like an eternity, there is a terrible, wrenching scream, a sound that seems to tear the very air apart. Rhaenyra’s body goes still, her face pale and slack with exhaustion and pain. And in the silence that follows, a cry does not come.

The room is frozen, every breath held as the midwives move, their hands trembling as they lift the still, silent form from between Rhaenyra’s legs. The babe is small, too small, its skin pale and twisted, malformed. Your heart clenches with a pain so fierce it threatens to tear you apart.

“No…” you whisper, your voice breaking as you reach for the tiny form. “No, please…”

Rhaenyra turns her head, her eyes clouded with tears as she looks at the child cradled in your hands. “Visenya,” she whispers, her voice a broken breath. “Her name… is Visenya.”

You stare down at your daughter, your heart shattering as you take in the sight. The tiny, twisted limbs, the malformed face, the scales that dot her skin—a cruel mockery of the dragon she was meant to be. A sob tears from your throat, and you pull her close, your tears falling onto her still, silent form.

Rhaenyra’s body shakes with sobs, her hand reaching out to touch Visenya’s cold cheek. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

You can barely breathe, your grief a weight that threatens to crush you. But even through the pain, there’s a spark of something else—something dark and fierce, a fire that burns deep in your chest, igniting a rage that you can barely contain.

“They did this,” you whisper, your voice shaking with fury. “The Hightowers. They killed her.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, her tears mingling with sweat as she looks at you, her face a mask of grief and despair. “What… what are you saying?”

“They took everything from us,” you say, your voice rising with each word, the anger boiling over. “They stole the throne, they murdered my father, and now this. They killed my only daughter. Our daughter.”

The room is silent, the weight of your words pressing down on everyone present. The midwives and maesters exchange fearful glances, their faces pale with shock and horror. But you don’t care. The rage has consumed you, and there is no turning back now.

“I swear,” you say, your voice steady despite the fury that blazes within you, “I will make them pay. Every one of them. I will burn their houses to the ground, tear their families apart, until there is nothing left but ashes and blood.”

Rhaenyra’s grip on your hand tightens, her eyes shining with pain and anger. “We will avenge her,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “For Visenya.”

You nod, your gaze never leaving your daughter’s lifeless form. “For Visenya. For all of them. Fire and blood.”

The vow hangs in the air, a dark promise that seems to echo through the room. And you know, in that moment, that there will be no peace, no forgiveness, until the debt has been paid in full.

The war has begun, and you will not rest until every one of your enemies has felt the wrath of the dragon.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #rhaenyra x you #rhaenyra x y/n #rhaenyra x reader #rhaenyra x male reader #house targaryen #the blacks #the greens

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solxamber · 2 days

Text

Date(?) Night- Rook Hunt x reader

Rook is convinced that you have feelings for him after your "date". You have no idea what he's talking about, considering you never went on a date

You’re minding your own business in the tranquil courtyard, taking in the morning sun, when suddenly, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a familiar figure approaching—Rook Hunt. His feathered hat tips with the breeze, his eyes twinkling with mischief. You've come to learn that when Rook has that look in his eyes, it means he’s up to something. Something involving you, most likely.

"Ah, ma chérie, the morning sun pales in comparison to your beauty today!" Rook announces as he strides over, his voice dripping with theatrical flair.

You sigh but can’t help a small smile creeping up your lips. “Rook, it’s too early for this.”

“Non, non!” He gasps dramatically, clutching a hand to his chest as if wounded. “It is never too early to admire the exquisite masterpiece that is before me.”

It’s his usual routine, something you’ve gotten used to over time, though it never ceases to catch you off guard when he throws in a new metaphor or an unexpected compliment. Today, however, there’s an extra glint of mischief in his eye, and you know he’s building up to something.

“And yet,” he says, his tone dropping as he leans a bit closer, “how can you sit here and pretend that last night was nothing?”

Your brows knit together in confusion. “What are you talking about, Rook?”

“Ah! You play coy!” He grins, crossing his arms, clearly delighting in your perplexed expression. “How can you tell me you don’t have feelings for me when we went for a long, romantic walk together last night?”

You blink at him, stunned. “Wait…what?”

“Oui, oui!” he nods enthusiastically, his smile wide and radiant. “The moonlit path, the rustling leaves, the gentle wind carrying the scent of flowers… Surely, you remember our intimate stroll under the stars.”

“We never went for a walk together, I walked home alone last night” you say slowly, trying to decipher whatever strange game he’s playing at.

“Ah, but we did,” Rook insists, eyes sparkling like he’s revealing the grandest secret. “I was there too! Behind the the trees. How could you not notice me?!”

You gape at him, mouth slightly open. He says it so casually, so cheerfully, as if his behavior was completely normal. And of course, with Rook, it kind of is.

“You were... hiding?” you ask, half-laughing in disbelief. “Stalking me from the trees?”

“Stalking?” He looks scandalized, shaking his head dramatically. “Non, non, non! I was merely observing! Like a hunter admires the grace of a deer as it glides through the forest. Every movement, every glance—it was all so enchanting! How could I resist?”

“Rook,” you say, rubbing your temples, “you can’t just follow people from the shadows and call it a romantic walk. That’s not how this works.”

“But of course it is!” He steps closer, eyes gleaming with intensity. “I was there, every step of the way. Witnessing your grace, your every thought etched upon your face as you gazed at the stars. How could that not be a shared moment?”

You let out a disbelieving laugh, crossing your arms. “A shared moment usually involves, you know, both people being aware that it’s happening.”

Rook simply smiles, unfazed. “Details, details. The heart understands what the mind does not.”

“I’m pretty sure my mind understands that I was alone,” you reply, trying to keep a straight face but failing miserably.

“And yet,” Rook continues, undeterred, “your heart knew I was there. It called out to me through the night. Even in your solitude, you must have felt my presence, my devotion.”

You shake your head, though you’re smiling now. "I didn’t feel anything, except maybe the wind. Are you sure it wasn’t just your imagination?"

Rook places a hand over his heart, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "Ah, mon trésor, do not wound me so. My feelings are as real as the stars we gazed upon—albeit, from different vantage points."

You can't help but laugh at his earnestness. Only Rook could make something so absurd sound so heartfelt. He’s watching you now, eyes still twinkling, clearly waiting for you to respond in kind.

“All right,” you say, crossing your arms, “so let me get this straight—you think I have feelings for you because you stalked me during a walk I took by myself?”

Rook gasps again, this time more softly. “Mon amour, you wound me with such harsh terms. I was merely accompanying you, albeit from a respectable distance. It’s not my fault you didn’t notice the hunter in the shadows.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “So, what now? Are you going to follow me on all my walks and claim we're having romantic dates?”

“Only if you wish,” he says brightly, as though it were a reasonable offer.

You blink at him, taken aback. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Why not?” Rook grins, stepping closer, his presence almost overwhelming as he peers down at you. “But! If it would please you more to be aware of my presence—”

“Yeah, I think I’d like that,” you interrupt, chuckling. “How about you actually ask me on a date next time instead of lurking in the trees like some kind of... I don’t know, cryptid?”

Rook’s face lights up with a dazzling smile. “Ah! A formal invitation, then! Très bien, ma douce! Consider this my official request—will you grace me with your presence on a proper date, where we both walk together, side by side, beneath the moonlight?”

His eyes are so full of sincerity that it takes you a moment to respond. You weren’t expecting this to go anywhere serious, but Rook has a way of making the ridiculous seem… oddly romantic.

“Fine,” you say, smirking as you hold out your hand. “But only if you promise not to hide behind trees this time.”

Rook beams, clasping your hand in his and bringing it to his lips with a soft, gallant kiss. “You have my word, mon trésor. From this moment on, I shall walk beside you, in full view, where you can witness my admiration in all its glory.”

You can’t help but laugh, but there’s a warmth spreading in your chest as he continues to hold your hand, his gaze never leaving yours. For all his theatrics, Rook’s affection is genuine. He’s not just playing a part—he truly does admire you, even if his methods are a little… unconventional.

“Okay, then,” you say, squeezing his hand before letting go. “Tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night,” he repeats, his voice soft but full of excitement.

You shake your head, unable to wipe the smile off your face as you turn to leave. But before you take more than a few steps, Rook calls out to you.

“Ah, but wait! One more thing!”

You stop, turning back to him with a curious look. “What now?”

Rook places a hand over his heart, bowing slightly as he gazes up at you with that intense, adoring expression of his. “How shall I dress for our moonlit rendezvous? Shall I wear the colors of the night, to blend in with the shadows, or shall I shine like the stars themselves, to match the radiance of your beauty?”

You roll your eyes but can't help the chuckle that escapes. “Just… wear something comfortable. We’re going for a walk, not a runway show.”

Rook gasps as though you’ve said something scandalous. “Comfortable? Ah, ma chère, there is no such thing as comfort when in the presence of such beauty. I must be at my most elegant, my most refined, my—”

“Rook,” you interrupt, laughing. “Just wear something normal, okay?”

He grins, eyes glinting with amusement. “As you wish, mon trésor. I shall endeavor to be ‘normal’ for you.”

With a shake of your head, you turn to walk away, this time managing to get a little further. But even as you leave him behind, you can still hear the faint sound of his voice, calling after you one last time.

“Tomorrow night, my dear! And this time, I promise—I’ll be right beside you!”

Masterlist

#rook hunt #rook hunt x reader #rook x reader #twst x reader #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland

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fuzzythoughtsblog · 23 hours

Text

I had a fantasy that I went to a best friends sleep over and ended up reading her older sister's diary :

Truth or dare

My friend says to me. I look in her eyes and I know I can't choose truth. She'll will come up with the most vile secert to get out of me.

"Dare !" I spit out in fear

"I dare you to sneak in to my sisters room read her diary and report back. " she says with a smirk.

Fuck me I tell her that , she's so childish. And that were on break from college.

"To bad, you pick dare or are you pussy? " she retorts saying the one thing that would convince me to go.

I'm not scared of her sister. She's only a 6'7 grunge base player who is 3 years older. What there to be scared of? It's not like whenever I'm here she rolls her eyes and slams the door. It's not like she refuses to eat dinner with us. Yeah and she wasn't to scary when she yelled at us after sneaking out to a slutty Halloween party. Fuck she hates me and I'm about to sneak into her room.

I decided to just swallow my fear and go for it besides she's not even home she has a gig.

I creep to the basement where her room is. Slowly the fear begins to still as before I enter her room I see the walls covered in electric guitars. Every color and style I could imagine. I stop to admire all the other equipment she has records, picks, amps and even some Cassettes.

I let out a breathe of relief as open the door to her room and she isn't there. Now all I got to find is that damn book.

I first go to her night stand and begin to peer in. I taking a moment to process what I'm looking a, Lacy lingerie. Upon realizing its contents I quickly shut the drawer. Embarrassed I move on desperate to get this night over with. I look at the bottom drawer and am left starring. Toys so many toys in different shapes and sizes. But what left me shocked wasn't just the various toys. I mean were both adults.

It was the was the paddle. Wooden and bigger that my hand I wondered why she would have something like this. With stupid curiousity I lift it up to examine it. The paddle was in perfect condition, like it had never been used. The thing has hearts cut into it and says in big black bold letters "Scream". I begin to put it back but as I do to other items that it was hiding catch my eye. A pair of metal hand cuffs and a strap harness. I can't help but imagine who she's been using these on. At that thought I quickly put the items back in and close drawer.

If she doesn't hate me, she'll definitely hate me now. I went through her stuff and I hadn't even found the book. I sigh before moving over to the other night stand and open the drawer. This time though jackpot the book was sitting in plain sight. As I pick up the black leather book I curse myself for not looking through this one first.

For a second I hesitate, this is total over step of her boundaries. Besides I could just go back and lie that I read it. I decided that a good idea but as I'm about to put the book back I think about how I could figure out why she hates me. I ponder for a moment but I got to know what I did. I open the book.

It turns out the book is less of a diary and more of a shadow journal. I begin to flip until I find a page about me. The prompt reads " What is your toxic or most obsessive desire? "

Slowly I take in what she writes. "If I had a second alone with my sisters best friend I think I'd devour her. " my eyes stretch wide as I keep reading. "The things I want to do to her body are just ... I want to see her begging and crying under me. I want to punish her for being so damn tempting with those little skirts and short shorts."

I bite my lip but flip through more pages until I see something that mentions me. The prompt "What is a bad financial decisions you've made recently? " I can't help but lean closer while reading. " I was checking in on one of the local sex shops I frequent when I saw a cute little paddle. I couldn't help myself not when I imagine her below me pleading. I imagined pulling her hair and telling her to shut up and asking if she was a good girl. She said "yes daddy" and fuck did that just scratch the right itch in my brain. I told her then she needs to take her punishment like a good girl. Before laying down on her ass while she screamed and cried. Of course I gave my pretty girl kisses after I bit her ass. I have to remind her who she belongs to. And now I want to buy her a collar. "

I'm horrified by what I just read but I couldn't put the book down. I continued on. "What is the most fucked up fantasy you've had recently? " "I imagine her coming to my house and asking for my sister like always but this time I walk her to my sisters room even though she's not home. I lock the door behind her and get really close while she backs up. She looks so cute and she's wearing that tight purple dress she wears. I grab her and begin to kiss her while she pushes me away. I bite her lip and she crys into my mouth while I shove my tongue down her throat. She fights me as I throws her on the bed. But I'm stronger and able to hold her down. She begins to cry as I rip off that stupid fucking dress and kiss down her neck to her perfect tits.

I then slide my hand down to her pretty panties and rub her clit through the lace. She makes a noise and trys to squirm away which cause me to hit her. I tell her to be a good girl and this will all be over soon. She fucking whimpers but stops struggling. I continue to play with her cute clit till she soaks her panties. I whisper "see you want this." Before ripping her panties off of her. And sink a finger in. She's so fucking wet. I slide another finger in and then another. Till I'm three fingers deep. She makes the most beautiful noises while I take her apart on my hand. The more I take her the more wet and docile she becomes. I fuck her like this until she's dripping down her leg and begging me to stop. She pleads so cutely I can't help it. I pull down my pants revealing my biggest strap. Pushing it in while she just lies their limp like a perfect toy. I slam in and out of her taking both her virginities on her best friends bed. By the time I cum she's quivering and her cunt is unrecognizable. I take a picture and drag her to my room leaving her juices on my sisters bed. So the most fucked up fantasy I've ever had is raping my sister's best friend on her bed for hours and its reoccurring. I'd never do it of course I want her to enjoy and consent to it I'm not a monster it's just a fun fantasy. "

I begin to rub my legs together at that last one. I put the book back having had my fill when I see her sister standing right there in the door way causing me to scream.

She looks pissed and close the door and locks it behind her.

"How much did you read? "

"Nothing" I shout frozen to where I stand.

"Bullshit" she says stalking closer

"Just the crush thing and it's okay!" I say as she gets even closer.

"Lier"

"Okay I read the thing about the paddle but that's it!" I wince

She grabs my shoulders and looks at me. A chill run down my back. I flinch.

Squeaking out a "Please, don't!"

She sighs and let's go of me before sitting on the bed.

"You read the fantasy? "

I nodded slowly.

"The rape one. "

I nodded again

She sighs "Fuck, this is not how I wanted you find out! Actually I was hoping you'd never find out! "

She puts her hands on her head.

"Sit down, I'm not going to actually do any of that to you. "

I sit beside her. While she remains still before taking a deep breath in.

"So you read it, why? "

I meekly say "A dare"

"Fuck! It was my sister wasn't it? I'll kill her. "

I stay quite she knows the answer.

She sighs "So what do you want to ask me? And then I'm gonna ask you some questions, okay.

I nod.

" How long?" I ask

She breathes "Since your freshman year, of course I wasn't going to act on it. It's just, I thought I thought of you like another little sister and then I started watching out for you. Which turned into watching you and before I knew it I couldn't look away. "

"Is that why your we're mad at us on Halloween that one year ? "

"Are you kidding me? You were basically wearing lingerie. I mean a skimpy pink bunny suit, I know you were a senior but still what if someone tried something? And on top of all that you guys snuck out! You know I had to hide that from mom and dad so you could stick around. "

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, you looked... amazing. Look I don't just like you because of your body, I mean don't get me wrong it's a plus but I also love your laugh. How your the first one to try to help. Even when my sister started doing her project last minute you where there to help. I love the way you melt around animals and your stupid dance. I like you okay. Not just what you have to offer." She says while looking up at me and holding my check.

We're so close. I lean in to close the gap but she pulls away.

"Don't do that, don't give me a pitty kiss! "

I lean forward "I'm not, I just want to try this. "

Our lips finally connect and its like electricity I feel it from my head to the tips of my toes. I shiver we break apart to breathe then begin again. It feels amazing, but not close enough. I crawl closer until I'm sitting on her lap and kiss her while wrapping my arms around her neck. The kiss begins to get more and more dangerous as we go on. Her hand begin to wonder and grip. While I rock into her lap. Soon she breaks the kiss.

"Hey, I don't know if I'm getting mix signals but can I touch you? " she says with her pretty eyes.

I pause for a minute then get a sly idea "Yes, daddy! " I whisper into her ear.

"Fuck " she says before pressing me down to where my back touches her bed. "Who knew you'd be such a damn brat. " she says while kiss down on my neck

I whine as she bites my shoulder. "What's the matter ? You've never been touched like this? "

She lowers her hand down my skirt and begins to rub while I stutter "No, then again no ones touched me. "

She pause "What?"

"You guessed right. "

"Are you sure you want to do this because we don't have to. I can... " I quiet her

"I'm sure , I trust you. In fact I want you to do to me what you wrote about in your little book. Y'know the thing with the paddle. "

"Are you sure that's a little advanced. "

"I'm sure, do you not want to? "

"No I want to, fuck I want to" she says while reaching into the night stand.

"Good, how do you want me, daddy? "

"Fuck your going to be the death of me. Across my lap baby. "

I lay across her lap. And give a wiggle.

"Let's see, how many spanks? Maybe 4 spanks for your 4 years of teasing. Plus 3 for the 3 pages you read. Plus 5 for that slutty fucking costume that had me salivating for weeks. So 12.“

I whine

"Don't whine or I'll make it 15."

I stop.

" That's a good girl. " she says while ruffling my hair.

"Now we're going to use the stop light system, along with a safeword. Do you know how the stop light systems work and have a safeword in mind?"

"Yeah my safeword is rock. And the stop light systems works like red means stop, yellow slow down or change what your doing and green means keep going. "

"Correct, now I'm not going to be upset or disappointed if you safeword or want to stop okay. "

"Okay."

"Good now, count. "

The first hit stings

"One"

The second one burns

"Two"

The third positively aches

"Three"

The rest hurt but for some reason it leaves me feeling dizzy and so good.

"Twelve"

"Good girl are you, okay? "

"Yes."

"Okay how are you, are you okay to continue? "

I nod

"No girl I need a verbal answer what's your color? "

"Green, don't stop I want you to fuck me"

"Fuck, okay baby. " she says before digging in her drawer and strapping into her strap.

I flip around and spread my legs out and put my arms up.

"Wait babygirl, I have to make sure your prepped. " she says as she dips a cloused finger in while I whine

"Fuck baby your soaked. Did my girl like spankings that much? "

I nod

"Poor girls all layed out like a pretty little toy. "

I begin to moan as she adds another finger and begins pumping them in and out with her thumb on my clit. Then she goes fast and pumps in and out harder.

"I know baby it's so much, my fingers are so much for you. " she says while working me harder and harder until fuck... She stops.

"Not yet sweet heart, your gonna cum undone on my cock pretty girl. " she says as she pushes in slowly so slowly.

After bottoming out she waits a minute and I nod. After I nod she thrusts shallow slow thrusts. That feel amazing but leaves me wanting.

After a few minutes of that I grab her shoulders "Daddy, harder!"

"Fuck." She says while rolling her hips.

She lifts my legs up higher to my confusion before slamming in hard. The thrust again and again while I just take it letting her use my body.

"There you go baby. Sorry daddy though you wanted to fucked like a princess. I forgot how much of a slut you are. " she says while still pounding into me

And then she begins to rub my clit. It's so fuck much. Fuck I begin to cry and whine.

"That's it babygirl, cry on daddy's fucking dick" she begins rubbing my clit harder causing me to scream.

"Daddy, I don't want to get pregnant yet. " I say through dazzy tears

"Aww " she says while rubbing and thrust like she was trying to milk more nosies out of me "Don't worry baby you'll look so nice with my kids. "

I feel my body shake and arch and then everything thing goes limp. And my vision goes white. I hear a soft buzzing and for that moment I have no fucking idea what my name is.

"Comeback to me baby" she says my head barley follows her eyes

"Was it good? "

I nod

"Good." She says as she pulls out while I hiss. "It's okay. "

She then lays down beside me and holds me while I begin to come back down.

"You back? "

"Yeah" I say voice horsed

"Okay we'll put cream on you and clean you up later. Okay. "

I nod and cuddle closer

"Okay and baby you can not tell my sister yet. "

#wlw nsft #wlw ns/fw #sapphic ns/fw #lesbian ns/fw #lesbian smut #sapphic nsft #lesbian nsft #wlw noncon #wlw blog #cnc wlw #wlw breeding #wlw scenario

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ihavetoomanyocsdealwithit · 2 days

Text

As much as Yuu tried, she still ended up in trouble in trouble sometimes. Be it with Ace and Deuce, or just running late from acting as Crowley’s unofficial gopher, it was something. The punishments usually weren't that bad though, sometimes even relaxing.

Like right now, it was a little bit of a trip down memory lane as she scrubbed the statues down on Main Street. It was odd, having the dreams that she did that painted the Great 7 in shadows instead of light, but it felt...right. Balanced.

A story about a maid who would be going to a ball was the current dream cycle, though she didn’t get the feeling this one was going to relate to any upcoming overblots. While they didn’t happen as often, she occasionally just dreamt of things like this. While there was a lot to ruminate over, like the stepmother and Professor Trien, right now it was just a catchy little song sung by the fairy stuck in her head.

“Put it together-” The King of Beasts statue wasn’t in bad shape at least, “and what do you got-” Just had to get the moss out of his eye, “Bippity Boppity Boo!”

The eye blazed green, cracking open with a clap of thunder!

Yuu fell, catching herself with her hands. Shit! Did she break it? Damnit, she couldn’t afford-

Wait. It looked fine. Just a wet statue.

“Maybe I just need to finish this up.” She muttered. “Lack of sleep must be getting to me.”

The atmosphere had changed, the tension of a storm about to break open. As she finished the King of Beasts, she clocked her progress and ran, feeling like eyes followed her until she turned the corner.

Malleus must be in a mood, she thinks, watching the dark clouds forming and the green smoke that seems to be spilling out the fence of Ramshackle. It isn’t the right shade of green though, more muted and not as...saturated? The gate creeks ominously and it doesn’t take her long to notice the figure sitting on the porch of Ramshackle.

He is hunched over, a shawl tossed over his head that was once bright with color and design, now faded to grays, browns and darker reds like blood. His left eye is as green as the Diasomnia mage crystals, clear and unclouded, and the right faded as the green smoke around him. A gnarled staff is gripped in his hands, a gourd tied to the top with a handful of what might be rib bones along with some sort of dried fruit she thinks.

This isn’t a harmless man, her instincts can say that much, but...he doesn’t feel like a threat. He could be. He’s choosing not to.

“How can I help you?” Yuu asks, getting a bit closer. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Are you a teacher here?”

He chuckles, making the pointed beard shake, but it’s not cruel. “I suppose that depends on you. I think you are in need of a teacher. And I am in need of a place to stay.”

“What do I need to learn?”

“Magic.”

“Ha!” Yuu can’t help it, barking a laugh. “You are mistaken. I have no magic of my own.”

“No, cub, you have magic, just not Wonderland magic. You have the Old magic, older even than General Lilia, the same as I. These teachers cannot help you, but I can.”

He removes the shawl’s hood from his face, revealing a pair of brown lion ears and a mane that puts Yuu’s hair to shame. Even braided in parts to keep it out of his face, the long black hair stretches all the way down to his curved spine. A tail thumps against the dusty steps,

“Afterall, you freed me, didn’t you?”

It takes some explaining, a quick meal shared on her dining room table that feels even more rundown than usual with actual royalty sitting down. Thank the Seven that Grim was asleep beforehand, his new Spelldrive practices tiring him out in the evenings.

“So, are the others...the same? Petrified?”

“Yes, though you aren’t ready to free us all just yet. I was an accident, correct?”

She flinches, nodding. “I mean, I guess? Sometimes I have dreams. Alternate tellings of the stories around here it feels like, or added details? Most of the time they follow an Overblot, but this one just felt like a non-threatening one. I don’t have these as often.”

“Precognition is a dangerous magic, especially with no guiding tools.”

“I dont know if-”

“You dreamt of mine, did you not? Leona Kingscholar? The Phantom still was a part of me, drawn from my form and magic.”

Yuu blinked, shrugging. “I mean, it didn’t stop it.”

“No, but you were more prepared. You were willing and ready to accept Leona’s trauma and show compassion because you witnessed me make the exact follies and look at how that ended.” he huffed, taking a sip from his water.

She hadn’t considered that really. It just felt natural, to show them kindness after all of it. But they were alike. Really alike. And the actions Leona had taken paralleled his perfectly.

“Do you think if somebody had done so with you, you would have listened?”

“Oh cub!” He laughed, and this one felt harsher. “I would not have. I was far too hardened. But Leona...he will be better.”

“Well, I better try and at least get a bed ready for you.” She said, taking both of their dishes. “What do I call you though? King of Beasts is a bit of a mouthful.”

He tilts his head, as if considering. She gets the dishes loaded and leftovers put away before he finally answers.

“Taka. My Mother’s Son.” he says. “That’s who I wish to be now.”

Yuu smiles, sticking out her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Professor Taka! I look forward to learning from you.”

For just a moment, he sees Simba, and Nuka and Kovu and Vitani. He sees Shenzi, Banzai and Ed. He sees naive and friendly and believes in him, for as little he has to offer, and still finds him worthy.

He shakes her hand and hangs his stone heart to air out.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Twst Yuu #Disney twst #twst wonderland #twst The Great 7 #twst great 7 #Stone Heart AU #I have been consumed now you have to deal with this for a minute

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iyohme · 2 days

Text

and i know that you mean so well;

but i am not a vessel for your good intent!

("Tongues and Teeth," - The Crane Wives)

my serotonin got jetpack bursted into the stratosphere with this blurb by OP. Your brain is so juicy and moist and wrinkly OP. Godspeed. I'm not even into DC but the whole "Burnt out and neglected, and now a bunch of people driven by guilt guilt guilt want me back so they can feel less guilty?" just made the racoon in me rub its hands menacingly hoho

Just imagine not even living your best life; just a shadow in the lives of the illustrious Waynes, a ghost in a castle, visible only to the loyal servant and the occasional curious paparazzi who shrugs and looks away--after all, there was no mention of you in any occasion: must be the kid of in-house staff. How nice of Brucie Wayne to allow even the children of in-house staff the opportunity to study at such a high-end college! (The reporters chortle and snicker at your barely-passing marks, sighing at such a wasted opportunity. Oh well. And then they move on to the tabloid topic of the week, after the strutting socialites and the rich and the arrested Rogues.)

You gather things.

You gather pieces of a cracked dream, a single plastic teacup you had brought into the cavernous mansion the day you held Alfred's old, gnarled hand. Ears ringing and slippers still stained with your parent's blood as they were gunned down before your very eyes. You gather your things, what made you before you were "Wayne," so to say. Your mother's old cigarette box, smuggled from the crime scene, your one memento of the woman who you could not forget but never forgive.

A juxtaposition of love and hate, forever crucified. The image of the Virgin Mary inside the tin box seems to be a mockery of faith, across from her image lying cheap cigarettes.

You gather test papers, all barely passing and with more reds than blacks, and grind them up into strips with the shredder you had brought; just one time the black card Wayne had given you, and it left the bitterest, sourest aftertaste in your mouth. They burn so cozily on the school Bunsen burners, especially when sprayed with alcohol, immediately immolating like timelapse sparkler videos. You gather your name before the Incident, you cherish it, and you repeat the syllables in the dead of night, spilling past your mouth. Even if it was the name of a child-abusing monster, it was still yours, and it was still of use.

And use it, you would.

While they go and be a family, you work to begin yours.

You gather funds: it's easy to take on odd jobs when people do not suspect you. You tuck away that black card at the bottom of your study table drawers, forgotten there like scribbled-out pages of an essay, an unfinished drawing, and leftover candy wrappers. It's a bit-by-bit work, but you know the Waynes wouldn't even see it happening. Your brothers and sisters (an absurdly alien concept, as they don't even acknowledge you exist ninety-five percent of the time) are prodigies paraded around at every event. You are the unseen ghost flitting through their shadows.

Graduation comes and goes. It's laughably easy to falsify having lost your social security number and other documents--Gotham is that much of a shithole, you suppose. The man in the cowl notwithstanding. His efforts are admirable, but weak. Recidivism is common in this place, as if there were some sort of pull that incited the people in Gotham to cruelty, to madness.

It's absurdly Lovecraftian, in its own way.

You are not even living your best life, and yet you are free. Alfred knows; he always knows. If you are The Ghost, then the aged butler is a man one step between the doors of death, and he sees you every time you move. Your room is empty, and he raises an eyebrow at your satchel: all your items already stored elsewhere or given away.

("I suppose this was a long time coming, Little Master."

Tap tap tap. Footsteps on marble floors, setting sun.

You shrug. "Eh. The Waynes gave me a roof and education. It's all good."

You grunt. "Well, people change. Like you know, how kids being gifted stop being gifted when they grow older." You say, instead of 'Well, if a child doesn't get any praise or attention if they do good and probably even less if they were bad, why even bother?')

A pause. "Your academics were not so lackluster when you were younger."

You promise to try and stay in touch. (You crossed your fingers behind your back.) You leave, sunset on your face.

The nap you had in a dingy hotel with far too many odd stains and not enough locks you could put on was the soundest you've ever slept in years.

Freedom smells like summer air and the last rays of sun, followed by the cold blue hour.

It takes three months for an out-of-state college to accept you. It's far from Gotham. It has a dormitory. Excellent. While you were indeed a mediocre academic student, you had banked everything on band scholarships.

Who knew more than a hundred clarinet players had unclaimed scholarships yearly? Packing up your small life in bags, you take a train upwards to another state.

(Meanwhile, in Gotham, there is an odd sense of unease as Bruce Wayne stops by an inconspicuous door. It's relatively clean, as expected of his manor, but the worn out brass on the handle suggests that someone had lived there before. He opens the door. Steps in. A bed, a dresser, a study table. Bare bones.

The unease intensifies. But who?)

Someone had lived in here, yes.

#yandere batfam #YEAHOOOOOOO #wrote this instead of sleeping #FUCKING HELL #I HAVE WORK TOMORROW #dc x reader #yandere batfam x reader #anyways hmmmmmmm #my crack scenario here is reader moves into gravity falls and becomes honorary pines because you KNOW the pines are all about that found fa #reader becomes the new Mystery Shack employee; shenanigans ensue and they heal bit by bit with Pines Exposure Therapy #Meanwhile Bruce in Gotham is getting the most deadpan scathing commentary from Alfred he's received in years. One child he had forgotten;#a child who had become so skilled in hiding and pretending that even /he; BATMAN/ did not pick up on them. Even /Damian/ hasn't #and dude is a born and bred apex assassin which says a LOT about reader's skills. Dick is all wincey and guilty and hand-wringy #probs rooting around the room for clues and evidence of what kind of person this mystery sibling was again.

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redroomreflections · 1 day

Text

Sorry For Your Loss

Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: What if WLWD met TLH but even more tragic?

Note: I was fighting my sleep to write this. Enjoy and don't hate me lol

Warning: Super angst, mention of drunk driving, major character death.

ONLY READ IF YOU LIKE PAIN

Note: I’m too excited for my flight in a couple of hours. I was itching to write when this came into my head.

The house feels suffocatingly quiet, an eerie stillness settling over every room. The absence of laughter and playful shouts from the children creates a palpable void that echoes in Natasha’s heart. It’s too quiet. The walls, usually vibrant with the sounds of life, now seem to absorb the sorrow that hangs in the air like a heavy fog. The television flickers in the background, casting an unnatural glow across the room, but no one is watching. It’s just noise—an attempt to fill the silence with anything, but it fails miserably. The news anchors drone on, their voices muted by the weight of grief that envelops them.

The clock ticks ominously in the background, reminding everyone that the funeral is only an hour away. The anticipation hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the scent of fresh flowers and the faint smell of coffee that no one seems interested in drinking. The cars would be arriving soon. Six children and a host of in-laws—how would they all fit into the designated family car?

Chase, your older brother, paces restlessly near the door, glancing toward the driveway. “Where’s Natasha? We need to get going,” he mutters, frustration seeping into his voice. No one has a real answer. They can feel the tension thickening around them, a shared anxiety that clings to the group like a shroud. Melina rises from her seat and walks toward the master bedroom, her hand poised to knock when Natasha emerges from the house's shadows. Her face is fresh and unreadable, an expression honed by years of practice in concealing emotions. The light from the doorway casts a soft glow around her, but her eyes betray nothing—no hint of the storm roiling within.

“Is everyone ready?” she asks, her voice steady yet distant.

Melina pauses, taken aback by Natasha’s calm demeanor. “We’ve been waiting for you. The car will be here any minute,” She replies, her tone softening. Natasha nods and walks past her, her steps silent against the hardwood floor.

"Where are the boys and Paige?" Natasha takes a headcount of the children in front of her. There are several but a few of hers are missing. She spots Cara cuddled into her Nana's side.

"They're upstairs," Peyton announces lowly. "They're refusing to come down."

"What do you mean they're refusing?" Natasha's eyebrow quirks.

"Exactly what it sounds like, Tasha," Yelena pipes up from her spot on the couch.

Natasha narrows her eyes at her sister and turns on her heels, climbing the stairs with determination. She ignores the pictures lining the walls. She doesn't bother looking at your photos. It hurts too much. The house feels cavernous and hauntingly silent, the absence of laughter amplifying the thud of her heart as she approaches the children's rooms. She can feel the tension coiling in her chest.

At the top of the stairs, she glances down the hallway, her mind racing with thoughts of what you would say in moments like this—words of encouragement, perhaps a reminder that it was okay to feel vulnerable. But today, she is the rock, and she cannot falter.

“Boys! Paige!” she calls out, her voice firm yet gentle. “You need to come downstairs. It’s time.” She waits, hoping for some sign of movement, a response that might break through the cloud of grief surrounding them.

Silence.

“Please!” she adds, softer this time, her heart aching for them. She thinks of how you would have approached this, with warmth and understanding, coaxing them out with stories or gentle humor. But those tools feel out of reach for her right now. The air in Paige’s room is thick. Natasha stands at the doorway, taking in the sight before her: Luke, just three years old, is perched on the edge of the bed, his tiny legs swinging rhythmically as he absentmindedly fidgets with his loose tie. Beside him, James, eight and usually so full of energy, sits slumped against the wall, staring blankly at the floor, his tie hanging loosely in his lap.

Paige sits in the center, the picture of a little girl trying to be brave. She wears a sleek black dress that flares slightly at the waist, her hair intricately styled in braids adorned with delicate black clips. But it’s the hot pink sneakers on her feet that draw Natasha’s gaze, a stark contrast to the somber attire they all wear. They were the last pair you had bought for her, a small gift meant to brighten her day, and now they feel like a painful reminder of the joy that has been snuffed out.

Natasha's heart aches at the sight, a wave of grief crashing over her. She wants to break down and cry, to let the tears flow freely, but she holds herself together, knowing she must be strong for her children. The weight of their loss presses heavily on her chest, and she feels a knot tightening in her throat.

"Hey, what's going on?" She kneels before them.

“We are not going,” Luke answers first, his tiny voice filled with defiance, his brows furrowing as he crosses his arms tightly over his chest.

“No. We are staying,” Paige declares with an earnestness that stabs at Natasha's heart, her small body taut with determination.

James pulls at the collar of his button-up shirt, a look of sheer discomfort painted on his face. “I’m not wearing this,” he complains, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Why not?” Natasha asks, her voice cracking just a bit, betraying the emotion she’s trying so hard to suppress. “You all look so beautiful.”

James shakes his head vigorously, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t want to look beautiful,” he replies, his frustration spilling over. “I want to stay here!”

“We don’t want to say goodbye to Mommy,” Paige supplies, her voice trembling as she fights back tears. The admission hangs in the air, heavy and painful.

“No, no, no,” Luke utters his agreement, kicking his feet against the bed, each thump echoing his dissent. “I want Mommy to come home!”

Natasha feels the tears pricking at her eyes as their innocent cries pierce through her heart. “I know, I know,” she whispers, her breath hitching. “But this is how we show her we love her. By saying goodbye.”

"But why?" Luke asks, tears streaming down his face as he becomes increasingly upset.

Natasha sighs, her heart breaking for her young son. "Because that's what happens when we love people. Sometimes, we have to say goodbye. Remember where I told you Mommy is?"

Luke sniffles. "With the angels."

"That's right, baby. She's in a place with lots of love. But we still have to say goodbye." Natasha strokes his cheek softly.

"Will she be okay?" Paige looks at Natasha with wide eyes, her chin quivering as she struggles to keep her composure.

Natasha smiles weakly, her eyes misty. "Of course, she will. And we will too. Because she'll always be with us, right here," she places her hand on her heart, a gesture that was so you, and one they were familiar with.

"I already lost two Mommies now," Paige says solemnly. "It makes me sad."

Natasha takes a deep breath, trying to maintain her composure. "I know, my love, but your mom will never be gone. She's always going to be right here with us." She taps her chest again. "If you really don't want to go I won't force you. I will, um, I will see if we can get one of the neighbors to come and stop in. Whatever makes you happy. Where's Charlie?"

"She's already downstairs," Paige says quietly, her shoulders slumping.

"Okay," Natasha nods. "I, um, gosh. I'm sorry. I don't really know what to say right now." She admits.

"But you always know what to say?" James tilts his head. "Are you sad too?"

Natasha swallows, fighting back tears that threaten to spill. “I am,” she replies, her voice shaking slightly. “I would like to say goodbye to your mommy because it brings me closure. It gives me peace.” The words feel heavy on her tongue, laden with the weight of the reality they all face.

James looks thoughtful, his small brows knitting together. “Will it help you feel better?” he asks, searching her face for answers.

“I hope so,” Natasha says gently, placing her hand on his leg. “It’s important for us to honor her and remember all the good times we shared. It’s okay to be sad, but it’s also okay to remember the happy moments.”

“Like when she taught me how to ride my bike?” Luke pipes up, his voice brightening just a bit. “And we went so fast?”

“Exactly!” Natasha encourages, her heart swelling with love for her children. “And all the times she read you stories before bed. Kissed your booboos. We can share those memories today.”

Paige perks up slightly at the mention of stories, a small flicker of interest sparking in her eyes. “She always made the best pancakes, too,” she adds, her voice softening.

Natasha nods, grateful for the direction of the conversation. “Yes! And how she would let you pick the toppings. Do you remember that one time she made a huge stack and put ice cream and strawberries on top?”

“Yeah!” Luke giggles, his laughter a small, bright note in the heavy atmosphere. “And then I spilled syrup all over my shirt!”

"Exactly," Natasha breathes. "She's the reason we have all these memories. It's not goodbye forever. I promise. And she will always watch over us. It will never be goodbye." She reassures. "Just a see you later."

Paige seems to think about it, her expression contemplative. She looks down at her pink sneakers and then back up at her mother, a question forming on her lips.

"Can we tell everyone a memory at the funeral?" she asks quietly, her voice wavering.

"Of course, you can," Natasha says. "Everyone will love to hear."

"Good. Because Mommy loved stories."

"She did."

"How about you go and find your sisters and I'll help your brothers finish getting dressed," Natasha suggests. "The car should be here soon."

"Okay, Mama," Paige slips off the bed and makes her way out the door.

Natasha takes a deep, shaky breath, exhaling slowly as she turns her attention to her sons. She does Luke first and he doesn't put up a fight. He's quiet the entire time. Her youngest is still processing the grief.

Natasha moves to James. "Hey, kid. Let's get you looking good for Mommy. Do you want your black shoes or not?"

"Can I wear the ones Mommy bought for me too?"

"Of course, baby."

"The spiderman ones?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll go get them."

James runs off to the closet and Natasha turns her attention to Luke. "We're almost ready. How are you feeling?"

"Sad."

"I know."

“Mama, is Mommy sad?” Luke asks, looking up at her with wide, innocent eyes.

“What do you mean? Is she sad where she is?” Natasha asks, her voice gentle but steady, hoping to guide him through his thoughts.

He nods slowly. “She probably misses us so much. That’s what she always says when you go on vacation.”

Natasha feels a lump rise in her throat at his words, the reality of your absence cutting deep. “You’re right,” she replies, brushing a thumb over Luke’s cheek. “I know she misses you. She loved you so much, and I know she wishes she could be here right now.”

Luke looks down, the sadness etching deeper into his young features. “Will she come back?” he asks, his voice trembling.

Natasha swallows hard, knowing that this is one of those moments she wishes she could shield him from the harsh truth. “No, sweetheart. She won’t come back. But she’ll always be with us in our hearts, in our memories. And we can talk to her whenever we want. We just have to think of her and remember all the love she gave us.”

Luke furrows his brow, contemplating her words. “Like when I think about her making pancakes?”

“Exactly,” Natasha encourages, her heart swelling with pride for her son’s understanding. “You can always remember those moments. They’re special.”

Just then, James returns, a pair of Spiderman shoes in hand. “Can I wear these?” he asks, excitement creeping back into his voice despite the heavy atmosphere.

“Of course, baby,” Natasha smiles, relieved to see a spark of joy return to his eyes. “Let’s get you looking sharp for Mommy.”

As she helps James with his shoes, Natasha reflects on the gravity of the day ahead.

"Mama, why do there have to be drunk drivers?"

"I don't know, buddy. I really don't." Natasha attempts to focus on getting his feet in his shoes.

"That's what killed Mommy."

"Yeah. It is."

"I don't understand."

"There's a lot in this world we will never understand."

"Why?"

"Sometimes, life is cruel. And unfair." Natasha begins. "Sometimes people make bad choices that they have to live with."

"What if they can't live with it?"

"Then they can't change it. No time machine can turn back the clock. All we can do is remember your Mommy for the kind, loving, warm, funny, and brilliant woman she was." Natasha says.

"And how much she loved us."

"Yeah. She really did. And she was proud of all of us."

"Did we make her happy?"

"Very," Natasha nods. "Now, are we all ready?"

"Yes," James takes a deep breath just like you practiced.

"Good," Natasha exhales. "Let's go then. We can't miss Mommy's funeral."

Luke is the first to grab her hand. He squeezes her fingers tightly, the small gesture conveying a depth of emotion that words could never express. James joins in, holding onto her other hand as they descend the stairs together.

"I did Charlie's hair," Cara offers as they meet at the bottom of the stairs. "She was a little upset about it but I did it."

"Thank you," Natasha murmurs, squeezing her daughter's shoulder.

The doorbell rings, breaking the fragile calm.

"It's here," Melina announces, her voice thick with emotion. "Time to say goodbye."

As they gather by the front door, a heavy silence settles over the family, the enormity of the moment weighing heavily on their shoulders.

Natasha feels her heart racing, the tension coiling in her chest like a spring, ready to snap. She feels an overwhelming sense of emptiness settles in her chest. The warmth of Luke and James's small hands in hers provides some comfort, but it feels inadequate against the crushing weight of grief. Even with her family surrounding her, she feels more alone than she ever did when she was a spy or on the run, moments that, in hindsight, felt almost thrilling compared to this void.

The door swings open, and they step outside into the cool air. The family car awaits. Melina moves to help the younger ones, but Natasha remains still for a moment, staring into the distance as a rush of memories floods her mind—laughing with you in the kitchen, planning birthday parties, marking anniversaries that now feel like distant dreams.

Her heart aches at the thought of the anniversary circled in big red on the kitchen calendar, a day they had planned to celebrate together. Now, it serves as a painful reminder of the life that was supposed to be, a future now out of reach. The promise she made to you—to keep your family together—echoes in her mind, a vow she knows she must honor despite the challenges ahead.

“I can’t do this alone,” Natasha whispers to herself, though the words feel heavy and hollow. She hasn’t slept in her own bed since you passed; the sheets still smell like you, and the thought of facing that emptiness alone is unbearable. Her appetite has vanished, save for the muffin Cara brought her this morning—an attempt to nourish herself that felt almost futile.

“Are you okay, Mama?” Luke asks, his innocent concern snapping her back to the present.

Natasha forces a smile, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m okay, sweetheart. Just thinking about how much your Mommy loved all of you.”

James looks up at her, his face serious. “We can make her proud today, right?”

“Yes,” Natasha responds, her heart swelling for what felt like the millionth time today. “We will make her proud.”

As they approach the car, Natasha feels the weight of her family behind her, their collective grief palpable but also a source of strength. She knows she has to find a way to keep moving forward, not just for herself but for all six of the children depending on her.

mentioning that this is completely au and purely au and not real.

#natasha romanoff #black reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanov #black widow x female reader #natasha x you

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apocalypse-shuffle · 2 days

Text

AGATHA HARKNESS (mcu | agatha all along)

—

“A Witch’s Bargain” (Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader) and (mentioned Rio Vidal x Fem!Reader)

| Once you find out a witch as infamous and powerful as Agatha is seeking you out you decide to go to her before she can pull one over on you; an attempt was made.

| SFW, obeah, flirting, hints at immortality, reader has something going on with both Agatha and Rio, -caribbean!reader & witch!reader

| pic source: Agatha All Along (2024)

| Note, the Reader-Insert is speaking with an accent but I didn’t write the particulars of it down bcs that would’ve been a lot to parse through even for me. Also, happy less-than-forty days till Halloween!

| 2k+ words

“Oh my,” you drawl, leant back against a large tree near Westview’s local psychic shop and nearly lost in its shadow, “this is…underwhelming.”

A whopping three people — only two witches, one of which was currently powerless — pause in front of you on the sidewalk, your words ringing even truer at the way the boy amongst them jumps at your abrupt entrance.

Lips pursed, you look him up and down with little favor. If this was to be the makings of Agatha Harkness’s “great coven” the pickings truly must’ve been slim.

The very witch you came to see turns to you, her hair falling into her face with the movement like she’s in some big brand shampoo commercial. Without another word, you watch on with an opposing stillness, your heart remaining steady.

Interesting.

For a woman you’d all thought dead Agatha looked well. Hair not clumpy, skin not worn or leathery. Even the way she held herself still bellied her comfort in mysticism, even dressed like a modern day woman as she was.

“Mm,” she hums shortly, turning in place with a few unhurried steps until she can cast narrowed eyes onto her apparent newest tag-along. Matching her stare head on you lean into the sun’s light a little more, your own thick curls brushing across a few low hanging branches where your hair is wrapped in cloth atop your head. “I don’t recall asking for an Obeah Woman,” she announces, tone bitingly light.

A scoff falls past your lips.

“And I didn’t expect the whispers for a coven would lead me to you, like this,” you twitch, letting your smile spread your plush lips thin, “broken and without your gifts.”

“I wouldn’t test me, New Girl,” she parries, and you hold your palms up in surrender.

Though your expression doesn’t sober.

The smile that rises to match your own in response to that is lopsided and sharp. Years worth of condescension she’d grown too used to falling back on without caution due to the magic coursing through her coming to the surface.

Agatha Harkness’s name in whispers had sent you into a fit at first — a witch of her caliber and age with your name on her mind never meant good — but looking at her now you could only tilt your head.

On the other hand, the boy with her seems eager to shake apart with laughter that grinds upon your nerves. Luckily, one look from the Salem veteran keeps him quiet.

Mostly.

In seconds she too is cackling, however — the boy’s muffled laughter acting as background noise — and you don’t bother stopping your sneer then.

“Oh, I see. You think you're hot shit,” she draws out, voice dropping an octave. “Don’t you operate a failing apothecary out of your apartment?”

Lips flattening, you step from the shadow, your face fixed without obvious malice to the best of your ability.

“It’s a side hustle,” you sniff. “And still better than being sentenced to 100 lashes and persecuted by the Danish; if I ever see the inside of a Christianshavn prison again I’ll frig up more than a few rum distilleries.”

“Of course. Now you just get persecuted by American Authority instead,” she says, the cut of her mouth sly.

With a flourish you wave her off. “Wretched as your worry is, it’s unneeded. Poison is no different than an elixir when you make it backwards.”

“Okay,” she simpers, shrugging herself, voice light and eyes never straying from your form as you glide closer over the concrete.

Powerless or not, something beneficial could surely come of making the occasional acquaintance of such a renowned woman.

Movement in your peripherals catches your attention though, and you stop moving to turn your head to find who you can only assume is the cause of your blight today.

Your sneer situates itself right back over your lips.

“Lilia,” you announce, the woman stops in her tracks and cuts you a brazen look out of the corner of her eyes. You take caution to only let your molars grind together for a second, releasing the tension in increments as your gaze narrows on her and you stand taller. “I should cut you down where you stand.”

The psychic huffs, shawl sliding a bit down the slope of her shoulder.

Slowly pulling the covering back into place she tuts at you, “Or…you could not. I mean, let’s face it, you would’ve been drawn here regardless of if I gave Agatha your name.”

“Unlikely,” you snap, words ground out like you’d rather spit on her than keep to something so civil as using mere words to express yourself.

And you would if you weren’t in such mixed company. Lilia was only meek when she was playing some angle after all.

You didn’t like anyone else making your moves for you, forcing you to speed up your timeline. Your own plans be damned.

“Witches, witches!” Agatha cuts in, holding her hands out to keep you and the psychic apart despite the way she’s only looking your way. “Let’s not tear each other apart just yet, hm?”

She eyes you from head to toe, taking her time to pan down as she takes in your flowing clothing and lightly clacking beads, before giving you a wicked look. “We wouldn’t want to mar anything too pristine before things really get interesting, now would we?”

Knocking your gaze to Lilia for a second you clock how she initially meets your glower, but keep your gaze steady regardless, just up until she finally twitches in discomfort. Only then do you ease up, tossing a grimace of a smile her way, before watching Agatha closely once more as the psychic wanders off somewhere out of sight with a few muttered curses you pay no mind to.

Meanwhile, Agatha’s expression has changed, having lost its begrudging appraisal and turned furrowed.

You raise your brows, “Harkness?”

She squints, obscuring fine cut hazel.

“I know you, don’t I?”

“Ah,” you grin without teeth, shoulders shaking, “so you can’t tell your porridge from your oats either I see.”

She rolls her eyes.

“The ‘wise sage’ sage act is very annoying, I have to tell you. It’s really ruining an otherwise beautiful package and I think you should work on that.”

“Should I?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“Oh, alright,” you examine your bare nails, twisting your wrist this way and that to get a ‘better’ view of your cuticles, “you’ll have to put the request in with my secretary first, though, I fear.”

Agatha’s pet’s head pops up from over her shoulder, his face screwed up, “You have a secretary? …No offense.”

Sighing, you drop your hand back to your side and make a point of rolling your eyes hard enough to nearly make yourself dizzy.

“No. I don’t,” you tell him finally, though you don’t look away from the actual witch in front of you even as you do.

Immediately after you raise your brow at Agatha, however, “As for you, you know full well that I’m better than any sage, and that passing me up would be a waste when you need a potion maker. Regardless, no we haven’t met, but your backside is just as unpleasant as people describe.”

“Hm,” she hums in agreement, moving to toss her round brunette curls around to her back with a wink in your direction, “unpleasantly beautiful, you might say.”

“Worthless more like it,” you correct.

Agatha stops putting on her little show so quickly you might as well have just lashed her across the face.

Briefly, her eye spasms, “Watch it.”

“I might,” you say, “so long as you prove me wrong. Now, if we could get back on track.”

“Huh,” she scoffs, glaring at you now. “Fine. How bout’ this, unless you can make an elixir to make me invincible from every witch closing in on me, then scram. I’m dealing with enough ameatures as is.”

Head thrown back for a second, you laugh, letting your fervor echo throughout Lilia’s forever vacant parking lot.

“Oh, make no mistake, Harkness, I can do that...” you say eventually, voice easy in a way that gives the other woman pause. You jerk a brow up, briefly mirroring the way her interest seems to physically jump up to stare at you, “…for a price.”

Gaze finally brightening she moves to knock her male companion on the shoulder, gesturing your way afterwards before plastering a much “nicer” smile on her face.

“Teen’s got the money. Give the woman whatever she wants, come on.”

“Oh no, I don’t want money,” you cut in with a flick of your hand at the grabble she’s making for the boy’s wallet.

Agatha pauses in the middle of silently arguing with Teen, glancing your way from her slightly bent position.

“—You don’t?”

“I might not call myself a witch, but that in no way means I’m confused as to what you witch them does do.” You get closer to her, and how she straightens to meet your advance makes you preen. “I want a favor. A binding one.”

“As if,” the boy cuts in with, “A witch of her caliber doesn’t do binding spells, they’ll only hinder her.”

Oh my—

“You well fucking rude,” you say distastefully, giving him a harsh look. Irritatingly, his forward ass only lays his hand over his heart with a gasp.

For her part all Agatha does is laugh, knocking you lightly on the shoulder as if you’ve told a particularly funny joke, and taking you right out of your stare down. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Dear. Cause you sure are delusional.”

She snorts.

You suck your teeth.

This back and forth routine was getting far more tiresome than you’d anticipated.

“The only lucky one here is you,” you deadpan.

She opens her mouth to respond, that same dismissal in the curve of her mouth, but then pauses. Expression twitching, she leans even closer to you to inhale.

Frowning, you pull your upper half away from her.

“What—?”

“—I should’ve known,” Agatha exclaims lowly, pointing her finger at you. “You reek of her psycho, that's why you seemed so familiar. What have you been dabbling in, I wonder, to smell so thoroughly of Rio? Joining her plot against me?”

You shake your head, looking away from her. You’d only hung around Vidal for the same reasons you were hanging around Agatha: to gain connections and, better still, favors you could cash in on if you ever found yourself in a bind due to your own ventures.

You hadn’t been lying earlier when you’d said you’d start making drastic moves if you saw the inside of a cell again, you didn’t care where it was. You’d burn it all down until they had to put you down before you’d waste away imprisoned ever again.

“Absolutely not. Whatever melee that went down between you two is yours alone. All I’m worrying about is my deal.”

To the displeasure of your heightening pulse, however, Agatha doesn’t just look passingly interested or even admiring any longer. She looks like she’s been given a puzzle, and like she likes it.

“Too late,” she chirps, fluttering her lashes, “Rio is far too picky about the company she keeps for your involvement to be left unexplored.”

Hand coming up, she runs her nails along your jaw. You stave off a flinch from the ticklish sensation her touch elicits. “You’ve played with too hot a fire, Darling, situating yourself in the middle of our fight,” Agatha finishes, clicking her tongue, before walking her digits back up the umber expanse of your skin to press the pads of them into the hinge of your jaw.

You swallow roughly, hope she can’t hear it.

Agatha smiles, pressing in until she can force you to meet her eyes again. They’re roving, almost manic when paired with her smile.

“Yes,” she breathes, eyes alight. “Maybe I do need an Obeah Woman after all. We’ll be going to the Witch’s Road, won’t you come with?”

No. It’s on the tip of your tongue. The feel of Rio’s blackened energy still a hot, sizzling brand across your lips.

One deal had been made already, yes, but were you sure about pursuing this one as well with the inevitability of getting caught in the middle of a centuries old rivalry so probable?

Unfortunately, your, “Fine,” slips past your lips before you can stop yourself, and rather than deal with the indignity of walking your agreement back you stay quiet.

Watching for her move. Reasoning with yourself that there were still benefits here despite this new hiccup, if only you played your cards right.

She doesn’t make you wait long.

A shiver rises over you as her presence does the same, her steps carrying her till there’s hardly a whisper between your bodies. Even without her magic, being this close to Agatha Harkness allowed her to snake herself across your soul same as Rio Vidal had when you’d also unintentionally peaked her curiosity a while back.

“Wonderful,” she coos, the pad of her thumb gliding up your cheekbone as her hazel bores deep into your brown, “let’s see about that deal then.”

Dammit to hell; this had better be worth whatever Agatha and Rio’s combined interest would do to you.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!

Fun fact, actually, I wrote this when I’d only watched episode two up until Agatha and Teen left Lilia’s place, and so didn’t know that Jen (gorgeous as she is) would be who they went to for poisons (or that that was in any way a requirement in the first place) so that was a fun little coincidence. Otherwise, the setting of this oneshot I just pulled out of my ass fr.

Also, character motivations are a bit funky but I can’t pinpoint the exact reason and really want to post this tonight so we’ll all have to deal.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

—

Caribbean word of the day (i.e.,the glossary): “Frig” - an alternative way to say ‘fuck’. so ‘frig up’ = ‘fuck up’.

“Melee” - drama or gossip.

*remember, though, that dialects are regional so the words in this glossary aren’t used by every caribbean*

EDITED: 9/26/24

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hunnysahara · 2 days

Text

˗ˏˋ 𝒲𝒽𝓎’𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒪𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑀𝑒 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝐻𝒾𝑔𝒽? ˎˊ˗

Hamzah x fem!reader

It's harder and harder to get you to listen, more I get through the gears. Incapable of making alright decisions and having bad ideas.

Premise: Your ex friends with benefits calls you in the middle of the night and you know before you answer why he’s ringing you.

CW: cannabis usage / suggestive / crude + sexual language

WC: 2.6k

The soft glow of your phone screen fractures the darkness like a sliver of unwelcome light, casting long shadows across the room. It's the dead of night when the world holds its breath in a hush, yet here you are, wide-eyed, heart knocking gently against your ribs. You had been unpleasantly woken from your sleep by the sound of your phone vibrating itself off your bedside table.

Hamzah's name lingers on your screen. The messages spill one after another, frantic and garbled, like a stream you can't dam—misspelled words, scattered thoughts like he had thrown scrabble tiles together to form texts.

You aren't even able to fully read one message before it's replaced with another. You throw your phone down beside you on your bed, running your hands down your face and grumbling. It had been months since you heard from Hamzah.

The two of you had a very casual friend-with-benefits relationship though you took the initiative to end it when there was a landslide shift and the unceremonious hookups turned into mumbled confessions against your neck. It was too intimate, it breached the contract the two of you initially agreed on.

Though here he was, blowing up your phone like he would die without another word from you.

The phone buzzes again, his caller ID taking over the screen of your phone. You groan, your thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether to answer just to tell him to stop, to leave you alone. Maybe then, maybe if you hear the slur in his voice, the edge of something broken and far away, he'll finally understand that you're not his to call anymore.

The phone lights up again, and this time, you answer.

"Hamzah, stop."

"I knew you'd pick up," His words are thick like velvet, his voice groggy and coarse.

"Why are you calling me?" You ask, voice sharp like a bullet through skin.

"I just wanna hear your voice," On the other end, you can practically hear the smile in his voice. The way the words drowsily fall from his lips brings you to one conclusion.

"You're high?"

"Perchance," He takes a sharp inhale. After a moment of virtual silence, he giggles and coughs eventually settling down "Fine, you caught me. I'm very high."

"What do you want?"

"Why are you being so mean? I just wanted to say hi," There's a hint of playfulness in his voice and you can imagine him sprawled out in bed, hair a mess and glassy eyes half drawn.

Your head throbs as he jumps from one half-finished thought to another, rambling through memories like they're fresh scabs he needs to pick at, unravelling every thread you've tried so hard to tie up neatly. "Maybe I'm being mean because you called me at three AM."

"Yeah, that's kinda annoying," He laughs to himself. His voice filters through the phone, slick with an edge of playfulness that sends a ripple of irritation through you. "It's been too long since I've seen you," Hamzah says, drawing out the word in a lazy, teasing way that always used to make you laugh. But tonight, it feels grating like sand paper against your skull.

"Not long enough." You press the phone tighter to your ear, walking barefoot across the cold floor to the kitchen. The hardwood creaks under your steps, and the cool air feels sharp against your skin.

"Oh, how you hurt me," He adds a tinge of melodrama to his sarcasm.

"Hamzah," you sigh, but he barely gives you a second to speak.

"Did I wake you up?" He pauses to take a breath and you can hear the blunt crackling, and paper shuffling in the background.

"Yeah, you did."

"My bad, my bad-" He coughs again "What are you wearing? Is it that Grateful Dead shirt that hangs off your shoulder?"

You look down at your pyjamas, you were in fact wearing the Grateful Dead that hung off your shoulder and draped past your hips. "No." You lie through your teeth.

"Damn," He mutters before his brain hooks on another ramble "Remember that time—God, you were wearing that little white sundress, you remember?—and we went to that park with the swings? You kept pretending you were too good to be on a swing, but you ended up laughing like a kid when I pushed you too high."

You roll your eyes, frustration simmering beneath the surface. His tone is light, and flirtatious, like he's trying to conjure up a nostalgia that never quite sat right with you. The kitchen light flickers to life as you reach for a glass, the soft hum of the fridge barely audible over his rambling.

"Hamzah," you cut in, more firmly this time, holding the phone between your ear and shoulder as you twist the tap open. The sound of water hitting the glass is oddly soothing, something real and grounded amidst the chaos of his voice. "You're not making any sense."

"No, I think I'm making sense. You just don't wanna admit it." There's a slurred chuckle on the other end. "Come on, don't be like that. I know you're smiling right now. You miss this."

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes your skin crawl. You take a sip of water, trying to quench the heat building in your chest. He always does this—twisting every conversation into something flirtatious, something playful.

"I'm not smiling, I’m frowning if anything," you reply flatly, setting the glass down with a little more force than necessary. "And you really need to stop calling me in the middle of the night. This isn't funny."

"But it's not the same during the day," he says with a laugh that feels too close, too familiar. "Night's that thing in that one song- made for saying things you can't say another day," He paraphrases poorly. His voice lowers, taking on that soft, honeyed tone he used to use when he wanted to get his way.

Your jaw tightens as you lean against the counter, fingers tapping impatiently against the cold surface. He's pushing, and it's infuriating how easily he slips back into this—this game of his, like he can flirt his way out of the chaos he's caused.

"Hamzah, I don't have time for this. You're high. Again."

"And you're still talking to me, aren't you?" he teases, his voice laced with a kind of smug satisfaction. "You didn't have to answer. Y'know there's this magical button on your phone that makes it so I can't message you? I think that you want to talk to me."

The audacity in his tone sends a spark of anger through you, your fingers curling around the edge of the counter. He always knows how to toe the line, to keep you teetering between frustration and the pull of something that's sweet on your tongue but now feels like quicksand.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "Hamzah, I'm not doing this. You need to hang up and sleep this off."

There's a pause, and for a second, you think he's going to listen. But then he chuckles softly, voice dripping with mischief.

"You're so hot when you're mad at me."

You nearly groan aloud, the exhaustion catching up with you in waves. This is pointless. You've been here before, hearing the same lines, feeling the same tired tug of emotions you've long since buried. But there's a part of you—a small, quiet part—that almost misses this, misses the ease with which he used to reel you in. And that's what makes it worse.

"Hamzah," you start, your voice sharper now, "go to sleep. Seriously."

"What if I told you that I really missed you?" He adds like it sweetens the deal.

"I would tell you that I don't care."

"When did you turn so cold on me?"

You pause, the phone still pressed against your ear. "Hamzah," you mutter, exasperation thick in your voice. The glass of water in your hand feels heavy, like a tether pulling you back into his orbit, even as you stand there in the dim kitchen, staring out at the quiet darkness outside the window.

"Just hear me out," he says, voice too smooth for someone who's supposed to be slurring. "I think me and you should do something together."

You don't answer, your hand moving on autopilot as you rinse the glass and set it down in the sink. There was always a certain ease between you and Hamzah, but that was before it got complicated, before the lines blurred. You clench your jaw, stepping away from the kitchen and into the hall, eyes scanning the house for some chore to distract you, to keep your mind from wandering back to those nights.

"Come on," he continues, undeterred. "I know you heard me."

You sigh, frustration buzzing beneath your skin, but your feet carry you to the living room where a few stray magazines and an old blanket still sit crumpled on the couch. Might as well tidy up while he babbles. Maybe if you let him talk himself out, he'll fall asleep or something. You grab the blanket, folding it with quick, jerky movements as he keeps talking.

"Can I come over?" He asks abruptly.

"No?" You furrow your eyebrows "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Damn, I really thought that would work."

As you sit down at the kitchen table, leaning your head into your hand, you notice the faint hum of traffic coming through the phone—tires on wet pavement, the distant growl of an engine passing by. Your brow furrows and a flicker of concern sparks through your irritation.

"Where are you, Hamzah?" you ask, voice sharper than you intended. It's late, and the sound of traffic at this hour doesn't fit into the picture of him sprawled out in bed, half-asleep and rambling, like you'd assumed.

"Why do you want to know?"

"So you don't show up at my house."

He chuckles to himself "Why on earth would I do that?"

"Maybe because you're obsessed with me?"

"I'm not- no, yeah. I am obsessed with you." There it was, the confidence that he so lacked when he was sober. With the help of cannabis, his tongue was as loose as his morals.

You press your lips together, gaze flicking toward the window, though the night outside your house is still and quiet, completely unlike the soundscape on the other end of the line. You disregard his admission "So, where are you?"

"I'm... walking. Clearing my head or whatever."

Your chest tightens, frustration mixing with a flicker of something you wish wasn't there—worry. "Walking where?" you press, though part of you already knows he's not going to give you a straight answer.

"Just around. Nowhere dangerous, alright? You don't have to freak out." He tries to sound nonchalant, but there's an edge to his voice that betrays him.

"Hamzah, you shouldn't be out right now. It's late, and you're—" You pause, choosing your words carefully. "You're not in the best headspace to be wandering around." You're caught between the urge to scream at him or call Martin to pick him up and haul him home.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," he cuts in, that cocky smile returning to his voice. "I'm always fine, babe. You worry too much."

You want to hang up, to cut the thread between you and the mess that is Hamzah, but the thought of him alone, on some random street at this hour, makes it hard to press the button. "Go home," you say softly, barely above a whisper.

"Stay on the phone with me a little longer, alright? I'm almost home anyway," Hamzah pleads, voice taking on that boyish, playful tone you've heard too many times.

You rub your temples, eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall. It's well into the night, and here you are, listening to him stumble through whatever story he's trying to spin. "You always say that," you mutter. "But somehow, you're always ten minutes from home."

"Hey, it's not my fault time slows down when I'm talking to you," he says with a sly grin you can practically hear. "Like, relativity or something. I saw that in the Spider-Verse movie."

You roll your eyes, walking back toward the kitchen to grab another glass of water, your mouth feeling particularly dry. "You would know."

"Didn't we see that together when it came out?" He asks to no answer. "We should watch it again."

"I don't think so," You lean against the counter, cradling your glass as his words wash over you.

"I want to see you, I like the way you laugh," He humbles "That's why I was such a goof around you. I didn't mind embarrassing myself because it made you smile and god- that smile..."

"I don't really care what you want."

Hamzah lets out a low whistle "And yet, here you are," he shoots back quickly. "Still on the phone. Ah- I got you there."

You lean back against the counter, the weight of his words sinking in. He's right, of course. You're still here, still wrapped up in this bizarre late-night conversation, still listening as he spirals through his endless stream of nonsense. There's an odd comfort in the banter, as much as you hate yourself for it, there's safety in the familiarity.

"Yeah, yeah," you say finally, shaking your head. "You know how to run your mouth. That's about the only thing you're good at."

"Hey, don't forget I'm a man of many talents," Hamzah quips, the humour softening just a little. "And one of them is keeping you on the line way longer than you should be."

"Trust me, I'm very aware," you mutter, though there's a strange warmth behind your words now.

"Yeah, but you still picked up," he says, almost gently this time, his voice losing some of that playful edge. "That's gotta mean something, right?"

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"Do you miss me? Like at all?" He asks, the words falling from his lips with ease "You can be honest."

You roll your eyes, though there's a slight warmth blooming in your chest despite your irritation. "Please, Hamzah," you deadpan, pacing slowly across the kitchen. "Do you ever stop?"

A knock sounds from your front door, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, turning toward the noise, the sound cutting through the warmth of your late-night banter like a cold breeze. Your heart skips a beat, the suddenness of the interruption making your stomach twist with an uneasy kind of tension. "Hang on," you mutter into the phone, already moving toward the door. "Someone's at my-"

You trail off, eyes narrowing as another knock echoes through the quiet house. Your pulse quickens, a strange feeling creeping up the back of your neck as you grip the phone a little tighter.

As you open the door, the cold air hits you first, followed by the sight of someone standing on your doorstep. Your breath catches for a moment when you see him. There, leaning casually against the doorframe with that signature lazy grin, is Hamzah.

"What the fuck," You draw out.

"C'mon, don't be like that," Hamzah says, giving you a crooked grin. His phone is still pressed to his ear—well, it is until he lowers it slowly, that playful glint in his eyes growing even more mischievous as he hangs up, ending the call without a word. “So- are you gonna let me in?”

#hamzah #hamzah imagines #hamzah x reader #hamzah x y/n #hamzahthefantastic #martin and hamzah #slushy noobz #hamzahthefantastic x reader

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betweenstorms · 3 days

Text

Where Silence Blooms

CHAPTER 1/1 of SKIN OF THUNDER

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

“Your kindness is the softest thing I’ve ever felt, like a breath that never touches the ground. It cuts through the storm in me, where the skin of thunder shivers, tearing through flesh, bringing light into the darkest parts of my heart.”

The early morning sunlight filtered through the narrow windows of the military base, casting long shadows across the dull, utilitarian corridors. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley moved through the halls with his usual silent purpose, his presence almost unnoticed despite his size. Dressed in civilian clothes, he still commanded attention. The skull-patterned balaclava covered his face, just as it always did, leaving only his eyes visible. Hazel, but sharp, always scanning, always wary. His broad shoulders and powerful frame carried the weight of decades spent in combat, and even in this quiet corner of the base, his mere presence felt like a storm waiting to break.

He stepped into the HR office, a space that instantly felt too small for someone like him.

He needed leave forms.

Price had insisted on a few days off, pushing Ghost into a rest he neither wanted nor needed. The mere thought of rest grated on him, gnawing at his sense of purpose. Relaxation wasn’t really in his nature, it made him feel useless, stripped of the edge that kept him sharp. He was forged for motion, for the relentless grind of action, not the stillness of downtime.

The HR office was empty in the early hours, its sterile quiet amplifying Ghost's irritation. But then he saw you. The annoyance that had coiled in his chest loosened, if only for a moment. You were immersed in your work, unaware of the storm that had just stepped into the room. The morning light from the window filtered through your hair, casting a soft halo around it, as if it were aglow—almost like the ethereal shimmer of an angel's glory.

Ghost had noticed you before, though only in passing.

Your presence was a little more than a shadow at the periphery of his awareness. For now. You were new, an HR assistant with an energy that felt out of place, almost foreign in a world like his. Too bright, too unburdened by the gravity of what lay beyond these walls. He wasn’t sure if he even knew your name, but something about you lingered—an unmistakable sense of someone who still believed in the good things.

He didn’t like dealing with civilians, but his mind cataloged your features anyway.

He wasn’t likely to forget you.

As Ghost approached your desk, he felt the subtle shift, the way your posture straightened as you registered his presence. It was the reaction he was used to. The unease and the instinctive discomfort. But this time, something was different. Instead of the usual avoidance and fear, you blinked and met his gaze, offering a small, genuine smile. It caught him off guard.

“Hi, good morning,” you greeted, your voice soft but hesitant, as if unsure whether it was the right thing to say. “How can I help you today?”

Your accent carried a gentle rhythm that Ghost noted but couldn’t quite place. He could sense the undercurrent of nerves in your voice, however, you didn’t look away. His gaze bore down on you, his presence looming, heavy enough to fill the entire office. Yet, your cautious smile held steady, unshaken by the oppressive weight he carried like a second skin.

“Leave forms,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. He was in no mood for conversation, the forced time off already wearing on his nerves.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his abrupt tone, but recovered quickly. “Ah, of course,” you said, your voice wavering just slightly as you stood and moved toward the filing cabinet. Your fingers fumbled briefly before finding the right document. “Here,” you offered, placing the paperwork in front of him with a shy yet sincere smile. “If you need any help, just let me know.”

Ghost’s hazel eyes tracked your movements as you placed the forms on the desk before him. He noticed the subtle way you seemed to shrink under the weight of his stare, yet you stayed composed—polite, helpful. He hated how the whole situation made him feel. Awkward and out of place. He didn’t belong in places like this, dealing with paperwork and assistants.

But something about you made him pause, a quiet pull that unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain. It was like the calm before a storm. The kind of softness that slips beneath the skin, where thunder has long since settled, and stirs something fragile in the wreckage he thought was buried for good.

He sat down, the chair creaking under his weight.

His posture was stiff, his annoyance palpable. He filled out the form quickly, his handwriting harsh and deliberate, as if each letter required forced focus.The quiet stretched between them again. You busied yourself with something Ghost didn’t care about, but he could feel your occasional glances, as though you were quietly studying him, trying to size him up too. Bloody hell, how he loathed small talk and despised these kinds of interactions—and people who couldn’t sense when to leave well enough alone.

“You’re Lieutenant Simon Riley, right?”

Your tone was friendly, almost too friendly for someone talking to him. His hand paused, pen hovering just above the paper.

“I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The admission hung in the air, breaking the silence. He wasn’t sure how to respond to the fact that you knew of him—knew what he did, or at least, what people said about him. It wasn’t approval he sought, nor recognition.

No, in truth, it grated on him.

And yet, the sound of his name on your lips made him pause, drawing his gaze to your face. You flushed slightly under the weight of his stare, but he dismissed it, focusing instead on the strange feeling that stirred within him at the way his name sounded coming from you.

“It’s... really impressive, what you and your team do,” you said, your voice softening as a hint of awkwardness crept in. “I mean, it must be really… difficult. Dangerous, too.” Your words faltered, laced with a quiet shyness, but there was a hint of respect behind them.

“Just doin’ my job,” he muttered, his voice edged with indifference. Most people would take the hint and move on. But you didn’t. Instead, your smile grew as you kept talking.

“It’s still admirable. Not easy work, I’m sure.”

Admirable?

Ghost couldn’t help the small scoff that nearly escaped. Admirable wasn’t the word he’d use. Brutal, necessary, violent—that’s what it was. But no one ever called it what it really was, did they? No, to outsiders, it was always impressive, always dressed up as something noble. He grunted in response, the tension in his shoulders never easing, even as he filled out the forms.

And yet, something about your tone was different. It felt strange. He didn’t know how to deal with it, so he didn’t. He focused on the rest of the paperwork, quickly scribbling his name at the bottom with more force than needed.

After a long silence, one he hoped would stretch on forever, he found himself speaking before he could stop. “Why HR?”

He immediately regretted the question as soon as it left his mouth. It wasn’t a question Ghost particularly cared about. He didn’t care about your life, your choices. And it wasn’t like him to make idle conversation, especially not with someone like you.

Yet, there was a pull, a curiosity he couldn’t quite place.

You glanced up, clearly caught off guard by the question. For a moment, hesitation flickered in your eyes, as though you weren’t entirely sure if you should respond. But then, a small, almost bashful smile crept across your lips as your fingers absently fidgeted with the edge of a folder on your desk, a quiet nervousness betraying your calm demeanor.

“I like helping people,” you began quietly, your voice gaining strength as you settled into the explanation. “It’s just... something I’ve always wanted to do, you know. And I suppose, even as an assistant here, it feels like I’m making a small difference, right?”

Ghost remained silent, letting your words linger in the stillness, his gaze fixed on the forms in front of him, unmoved yet listening.

Helping people. Understanding them. That was something he couldn’t wrap his head around, not in the way you meant. His job was about helping, but not in the clean and polite way you seemed to believe. He’d seen what people needed, craved even, in the worst moments of their life, and it wasn’t something you could give with kindness. Helping people, for Ghost, had always meant violence, brute force, removing threats before they removed him or the people he worked with. The concept of understanding felt foreign, almost naive to him.

He didn’t respond, simply grunted, hoping that would be enough to end the conversation. But you didn’t seem fazed by his silence. If anything, you looked more comfortable, as if his lack of words somehow reassured you. You must have thought he had agreed with you.

“Sometimes it's the small things, right? That can really make a difference.”

You continued to smile, a gesture so simple and unguarded that it almost irritated him.

Almost.

Yet there was something in the way you looked at him—not with fear or awe, but with an honest kindness—that stirred something unfamiliar within him. But he’d seen too much, lived too long in the darkness to believe in small things. They didn’t matter. They never lasted. All the smiles in the world couldn’t protect someone from the horrors he’d seen. But yours lingered, slipping through the surface, like a thread of light that dared to touch the parts of him still clawing for air.

Ghost finished signing the last line of the form and shoved the documents toward you, eager to be done with the whole thing. His mind was already shifting back to his daily duties, to the missions waiting for him, to the violence that felt like home.

“Thanks,” he muttered.

You glanced down at the forms before meeting his gaze again, your expression softening with an even warmer smile. “You're welcome, Lieutenant Riley. If you ever need anything else, feel free to stop by.” Your tone was gentle and inviting, carrying a sincerity that felt unforced, almost natural in its warmth.

He gave a brief nod, his lips pressed into a tight line beneath the mask.

Anything else. Yeah, right. Ghost almost snorted at the absurdity of it. There wasn’t anything else someone like you could offer to someone like him, not in the way you meant anyway. But he nodded, knowing he would probably never take you up on that offer.

As the door closed behind him and the cold, empty corridor swallowed him up once again, Ghost’s mind churned with thoughts he didn’t want to have. Your words lingered, echoing in his mind as he tried to shake them off. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the unsettling feeling you’d left him with. He pulled the balaclava tighter against his face, his jaw set. He moved through the base with his usual silent intensity, the lingering thought of your smile following him, despite his best efforts to shake it off.

Even if the little things did matter, they definitely weren’t meant for him.

"Where silence blooms, it takes root in the cracks of all that’s unsaid. It wraps around the heart like quiet thorns, soft but aching, a stillness heavy with storms yet to come."

Skin of Thunder Chapters

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost x you #simon riley x you #call of duty #ghost cod #cod x reader #betweenstorms #stormy writes #cod #skin of thunder

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