#HIDING A BLADE UNDER HER LONG SKIRT | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zeciex · 8 months

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A Vow of Blood - 65

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 65: A Fool with a Fool's Honor

AO3 - Masterlist

Alerted by the distinctive sound of a cane tapping on stone and the shuffle of footsteps, Daenera’s senses heightened. She pressed herself deeper into the shadows, her heart pounding in her chest, her palms clammy. Despite the tense situation, she felt an overwhelming sense of coldness, as if no amount of warmth could penetrate her current state of shock and apprehension.

The doors creaked open, and Lord Larys Strong entered the room, leaning heavily on his cane. His voice was calm and soft-spoken, belying the gravity of the situation happening within the Red Keep.

“...Lord Caswell,” he finished his sentence.

“M’ lord,” another voice responded, followed by the distinct sounds of footsteps.

Concealed behind the curtains, Daenera peered through a narrow gap. She watched cautiously as Larys shut the door and moved across the room, the rhythmic tapping of his cane punctuating his every move. He settled into a chair, his back to her, and began to pour himself a cup of tea.

Seizing the moment, Daenera stepped out from her hiding place, her movements silent as she approached him. Her grip on the dagger’s hilt was firm, despite the sweat on her palm. Her heart raced as she positioned the blade against his neck, feeling him freeze under its cold touch.

“Where do your allegiances lie?” She demanded, slowly moving to where Larys could see her, all the while keeping the dagger pressed against his skin.

Surprise flickered across Larys’ face as his icy gaze took in her disheveled appearance and the dagger in her hand. “Princess…”

“Where do your allegiances lie?” Daenera repeated her question, her voice unwavering.

“Are you hurt?” Larys’ eyes scanned her, concern evident as they traveled from her bloodstained hand to her bodice.

Daenera glanced down at herself, noting for the first time the extent of the blood stains on her dress. The fabric of her dress, meant to mimic the modest attire of a servant, was starkly contrasted by the deep red stains that marred its surface. The spots, a grim reminder of the bloodshed she had witnessed, were particularly prominent on her skirts and bodice, where she had instinctively wiped her bloodied hands. She shook her head slightly, her voice wavering. “The blood isn’t mine.”

Daenera felt the acidic sting of bile threatening to rise in her stomach again, but she managed to suppress it. The last thing she needed was to lose her composure in front of Larys Strong, especially by vomiting on him.

Reflecting back on their past encounters, Daenera recalled Larys’ words in the Godswood and his counsel during the time she was advised to go to Storm's End. These memories brought a faint flicker of hope, despite her understanding that Larys was under no obligation to assist her now. Her voice was hoarse and strained as she spoke, the dryness of her lips making it difficult to articulate her words.

“You once told me to seek you out if I were ever in need of a friend,” she began, her thoughts momentarily drifting to the little girl she once was, who had lost her father and yearned for a connection to the man long gone. This man before her was her uncle, albeit only in blood and forever kept in secret. In her heart, she clung to the hope that this familial tie might still hold some meaning, some bond that could be called upon in her hour of need. “I am in need of a friend now.”

Larys regarded her with a measuring expression.

“So it appears,” he replied, gesturing stiffly towards the opposing chair. “Why don’t you take a seat, and we can discuss this matter.”

Daenera hesitated, her eyes betraying a hint of unease as she contemplated Larys’ invitation to sit. After a brief moment, she cautiously lowered herself into the seat, slowly withdrawing the dagger from his neck. Yet, she maintained a firm grip on the weapon, resting her hand on the table, letting the blade remain threateningly in the air.

Her gaze remained intently focused on Larys, observing his every move as he calmly poured her a cup of tea. The steam wafted up, carrying the distinct aroma of rooibos–a sweet, herbal scent that contrasted sharply with the scent of cobber that clung to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the gentle swirl of steam rise from the cup, her senses heightened and alert, ready to react to any sudden movement or sign of betrayal.

Larys observed Daenera with an air of composure, his gray eyes sharp and calculating. They held a cold, analytical quality, as if he were meticulously assessing every aspect of the situation unfolding before him, even as he presented her with a gentle, sympathetic smile.

“Viserys is dead,” Daenera declared, her voice raw with resignation.

“Indeed,” Larys acknowledged, his response laced with an undertone of intrigue, suggesting a deeper awareness of the events transpiring.

“And the Hightowers are seizing power,” she added, her voice sharpening with evident contempt for the unfolding power play.

“It certainly appears so,” Larys concurred, maintaining a tone that was deliberately vague, his face betraying little of his inner thoughts. His gaze remained fixed on her, observing her reactions closely, a vague sense of amusement to his eyes.

Daenera’s frustration became more pronounced as she echoed his words, her eyebrows knitting together in vexation. “Is that not what’s unfolding? Was that not the reason behind me being made a prisoner? Or the reason for your summoning to a secret council meeting in the dead of night?”

Tears threatened to spill from Daenera’s eyes, and she blinked rapidly to stave them off, her body shifting restlessly in the chair. Despite all her preparations for such a scenario, she realized she had always imagined it would occur in the clarity of daylight, with her fully awake and prepared. Instead, she had found herself grappling with these harrowing revelations in a state of exhaustion, jarred awake in the late hours of night.

“The council, where do they stand?” Daenera asked, her voice wivering with a mix of fear and urgency. Larys was the gatekeeper to the answers she desperately sought, and the uncertainty of the entire situation was eating away at her. She hated the feeling of being left in the unknown.

“It seems that the King had a change of heart regarding the succession in his final moments,” he said, delivering the news with a calculated calmness. Larys’ response was measured, yet it struck Daenera with the force of a physical slap. Her skin seemed to prickle with the sting of it.

Her expression darkened, a frown etching itself deeply across her face. The grip on her dagger tightening, her knuckles turning white under the strain as anger began to burn within her chest.

“He declared Aegon his rightful heir,” Larys added, the gravity of his words hanging heavily in the air.

Daenera grappled with the implausibility of Larys’s revelation. It simply did not align with everything she knew about her grandfather and his steadfast support of her mother.

She thought about how Viserys had reaffirmed her mother’s position as his heir, especially during the recent succession dispute over Driftmark. She recalled the effort it took for the ailing king to have navigated the Red Keep, the physical toll it took on him to climb the stairs to the Iron Throne to personally sit in judgment. Most tellingly, she remembered his decisive action in calling for Vaemond’s tongue to be removed, punishing him for his insult against her mother.

In every instance, King Viserys had demonstrated a clear, unwavering commitment to his decision regarding the succession. The idea that he would suddenly change his mind and name Aegon as his heir was inconceivable.

“Who told you this?” Daenera managed to ask, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“The Queen,” Larys answered succinctly, confirming the source of this pivotal information with a simple statement.

Daenera scoffed, her response laced with a mix of frustration and disbelief. “Of course she would say that. She’s always wanted her son on the throne. But Viserys… he would never have chosen Aegon as his successor.”

Larys regarded her with a steady, solemn gaze, imparting the gravity of the situation. “The council, however, has accepted this claim. They now stand behind Aegon as the rightful king.”

Daenera closed her eyes briefly, a gesture of weariness and disbelief, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over her, her head throbbing. She reopened them, her expression one of incredulity.

“Lord Beesbury was a staunch supporter of Viserys and his decision to name my mother as heir. It is unthinkable that he would forsake his commitment based solely on Alicent’s assertion,” Daenera said.

A somber expression settled on Larys face, almost pitiful as he delivered the news. “I’m afraid Lord Beesbury is no longer with us.”

Her eyes widened in shock as she absorbed the implication of his words. “He’s dead? How? What happened?”

Larys hesitated slightly before responding, as if searching for the words. “He had a… minor accident.”

“No,” Daenera cut in, her voice rising with a blend of anger and realization. “They killed him, didn’t they? They’re prepared to silence anyone who stands in their way. Deep within, they recognize my mother is the legitimate heir.”

Daenera fixed Larys with a sharp look. “You were present at the council meeting, as Lord Confessor.”

“I was,” Larys confirmed with a nod. He took a calm sip of his tea, his casual demeanor almost jarring.

“And where do you stand in all of this?” Daenera pressed, her voice firm with both inquiry and accusation. Her grip on the dagger tightened again, her palms sweaty. “You didn’t challenge their claim.”

“As you rightly pointed out, they are prepared to silence dissenters,” he responded, setting the tea cup down with deliberate calmness. “The council’s decision was unanimous, except for Lord Beesbury, to honor the supposed final wishes of the King.”

Daenera felt a tremor in her heart, a mix of disappointment and realization. “So, you stand with them. You’re supporting their usurpation of my mother.”

“I had no choice but to comply,” Larys stated. “The decision had already been made before I could influence it.”

A heavy silence fell between them. Daenera’s eyes stayed locked on Larys, searching his expression for any clue, any hint of his true intentions. Was he an ally in this dire situation, or yet another enemy?

In the dimly lit room, where the hearth’s flames cast a flickering glow, the light caught the intricately embedded gemstones on Larys’ cane, making them sparkle like elusive fireflies. Daenera’s eyes momentarily lingered on the finely carved silver firefly that adorned the handle, stirring within her a sense of wariness and foreboding.

“House Strong has been esteemed for its unwavering loyalty to the crown,” Daenera began, her tone deliberate and measured. “If you maintain your allegiance to the true Queen, your loyalty will surely be acknowledged and rewarded.”

She carefully navigated her words, aware of the implications they carried. “Your brother and father were men of honor, and I believe you possess the same integrity.”

As she looked at Larys, Daenera saw little resemblance to the man she remembered, sharing nothing but the dark hue of his hair. In his demeanor and presence, she found scant traces of the heritage and characteristics that she associated with House Strong–associated with his brother Ser Harwin Strong.

She paused for a moment, weighing her next words. “I ask of you, as a friend, help me.”

Daenera leaned in, her movements purposeful as she placed the hastily written note on the table before Larys, pushing it across the surface before withdrawing her hand. “It’s imperative that I inform my mother about the Hightowers’ betrayal. You have the capability to dispatch a raven. It’s crucial that she’s informed about the current situation.”

Larys nodded in acknowledgement and picked up the note. He studied it briefly, his gray eyes scanning the words with a careful gaze. After reading it, he refolded the note with precision and tucked it securely into his belt.

Daenera continued, her voice laced with determination, “I’m certain of the Hightowers intent to use me as leverage against my mother. I must leave King’s Landing. Reaching Dragonstone discreetly isn’t feasible, but I could head for Harrenhal or Duskendale and seek sanctuary there until Daemon can come for me.”

Larys offered a cautionary note to her plans, “Traveling the Kingsroad alone is perilous, especially for a woman in your position.”

“Then arrange for me to leave by sea,” Daenera responded firmly.

Daenera was acutely aware that her continued presence in King’s Landing played into the Hightowers’ hands. It was imperative for her to escape and alert her family, especially her mother, about the unfolding betrayal.

What allies she had within the Red Keep were in the same position she was in. The only person who appeared able to help her was Lord Larys Strong. He was her best chance of getting out.

“I understand the gravity of what I’m requesting, my lord,” Daenera began, her voice carrying a careful mix of resolve and humility. “To send ravens is one thing, but aiding my disappearance is quite another. Yet, you are the only person I can turn to. I have allies within the city who could assist me beyond the city gates if you cannot.”

She swallowed, before continuing. “Help me, I beg of you.”

An uneasy light flickered in Larys’ eyes, carrying a hint of something unsettling. Daenera couldn’t shake the feeling that he was deriving a perverse sense of satisfaction from the position she was in–having to beg for his help.

“I place my trust in you, my lord,” Daenera said, hoping that he would prove himself worthy of that trust. “Should you assist me in this matter, I will remain indebted to you.”

A subtle smile emerged on Larys’ face as he rose from his chair, his hand gripping the head of his cane a bit more firmly. “Allow me a moment to make the necessary arrangements, and I will secure your escape.”

Daenera watched him with a mixture of hope and trepidation.

Left alone in the room, Daenera felt a wave of anxiety wash over her. She felt the weight of each passing minute as she anticipated his return. The dagger was sheathed again at her waist, her fingers peeling off the hilt. She cautiously tasted the tea he had left for her, ensuring it wasn’t poisoned. Finding it safe, she drank deeply, soothing her dry throat.

Drawn to the windows, Daenera observed the early morning light breaking into day. The sky was painted in shades of crimson, eerily echoing the bloodshed of the night, as if the heavens mourned the fallen–a bled for them.

Daenera’s fingers danced nervously on the hilt of her dagger, echoing the anxious beat of her heart. Doubts clouded her mind about seeking Larys’s aid, yet her options were distressingly limited. The allies she might have counted on within the Red Keep – Lord Caswell and his daughter, Tris, Lady Fell, and Kaylys Beesbury – were essentially captives in their own right, likely confined to their chambers and unable to offer any assistance. And Ser Finan, her trusted confidant within the City Watch, was either patrolling the city’s labyrinthine streets, or inaccessible somewhere within the Red Keep’s walls, far beyond her reach. The thought of combing through the Keep to find him seemed a venture doomed to futility–a venture that would get her caught.

With a tight swallow, Daenera’s gaze swept over the horizon, contemplating if a solitary escape through the tunnels would have been preferable, despite the risk of getting lost and the even greater risk of encountering guards stationed at every exit. If she succeeded in escaping the Red Keep, the challenge of fleeing the city loomed large before her. She would have to leave the city before the Hightower’s discovered her absence and ordered the city’s gates sealed and its harbor closely watched. Mysaria might offer sanctuary and aid in her escape, but even then, Daenera would find herself pursued relentlessly–like the young fox leaping through the forest as the hunters chased after it.

Larys represented her most viable escape route. His past assistance and warnings against the Queen, coupled with his advice to leave King’s Landing and bring her husband to Storm’s End, lingered in her memory. It could have been a trap, but it wasn’t.

Her heart continued its restless thumping, a sense of ominous foreboding weighing heavily within her. The uncertainty of her choice twisted her stomach into knots as time inexorably marched forward, each moment amplifying her unease.

Daenera’s reliance on Larys was not grounded in definitive trust but rather in hope, a fragile and capricious ally in uncertain times.

Upon his return, Larys presented her with a new cloak. It was a welcome sight, free from the grim reminders of violence. She removed her own cloak and draped the new one over her shoulders, noting its generous length that trailed behind her as she moved. The cloak carried a scent of smoke and an intangible warmth, offering a small comfort amidst the chaos.

“Is everything arranged?” Daenera asked, her gaze intently fixed on Larys.

“Yes,” Larys responded succinctly, his steps hastening towards the door, his cane echoing rhythmically against the stone floor. “I’ve arranged for a transport to Harrenhal where you will be safe. I will lead you to the exit where my man is waiting for you. He will escort you on your way.”

Daenera gave a terse nod, feeling a surge of apprehension within her.

Pulling the hood of the cloak over her head to conceal her identity, she followed Larys into the eerily silent corridors of the Red Keep. Her gaze remained lowered, vigilantly following Larys while maintaining a cautious distance. Her hands clutched the cloak’s edges tightly, using the garment as a shield to cover the grim display of her dress.

She was acutely aware of every sound, listening for the slightest hint of movement or the approach of footsteps, which were almost drowned out by the loud thumping of her own heart as it beat rapidly within her chest.

As they moved through the normally bustling halls of the Red Keep, the absence of activity was once again unsettling. The corridors remained desolate, the morning light spilling in through the windows, as they turned down another hall and further into the depths of the Keep.

Daenera closely followed Larys as he guided her through a rarely frequented wing of the Red Keep. This section, typically only used during grand celebrations and tournaments, lay just as deserted as the rest of the Keep.

Larys stopped in his tracks, holding up a hand for her to be quiet. He stopped so unexpectedly that Daenera nearly bumped into him.

In the quiet, she could hear the distant but distinct sound of heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. A surge of fear rushed through her, her heart pounding loudly in her chest as she tried to steady her breath.

Seeming to recognize the imminent danger, Larys acted swiftly. He moved to one of the chamber doors and opened it with haste, gesturing urgently for Daenera to enter.

Daenera quickly entered the dim chamber, where the absence of windows left the room shrouded in shadows and the air thick with a stale, musty scent. The space, haunting in its stillness, was filled with furniture draped in white sheets to ward off dust, creating an eerie semblance of silent watchers. Her gaze was drawn to the small hearth where newly lit fire flickered, its flames seeming to mock her.

The sight struck her as odd. Why would there be a fire in an unused room?

A chilling wave of unease washed over her as she pieced together the truth. Her throat tightened, and she spun around to confront Larys, her eyes wide with a sense of betrayal.

Larys stood in the doorway, exuding a calm, collected demeanor as he delivered his words, his tone devoid of genuine remorse. “I am sorry, Princess.”

A heavy feeling of dread descended upon Daenera, the gravity of her situation becoming painfully clear. The air seemed to escape her lungs as she faced the grim reality.

“I couldn’t allow you to leave,” Larys stated, his voice resonating with a chilling finality. His declaration was underscored by the entrance of two guards who took their positions on either side of the door, effectively sealing her fate.

Daenera felt the sting of tears in her eyes, and she swallowed thickly as she stared at him in outrage. The harsh truth of Larys’ loyalty became undeniably evident.

“Why?” Daenera demanded, her voice thick as she tried to contain her emotions. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I am your friend,” Larys insisted, his tone unwavering. “However, I serve the Queen. I am familiar with her ways, and I know she will reward me for my loyalty.”

Daenera’s response was a sneer, “My mother would have shown you gratitude.”

“Regrettably, your mother offers nothing I desire,” Larys replied coldly, his gaze briefly shifting to one of the guards, signaling him to advance.

As one guard firmly grasped Daenera’s arm, the other began a systematic search. Her cloak was removed, exposing the bloodstained fabric of her dress and revealing the dagger fastened at her waist. Daenera clenched her jaw in frustration and helplessness as her only means of defense and her pouch containing valuables were removed.

While they searched her, Daenera observed the guards’ attire – worn leather and cloaks of blue, distinct from the Kingsguard, the City Watch, or the Red Keep’s own guards. She surmised they were Larys’ men, a suspicion confirmed by the small firefly pins adorning their chests.

Her breath hitched as she felt the laces of her dress being undone. She turned to Larys, who watched impassively as she was stripped down to her underdress. The servant’s dress pooled cruelly at her feet, a puddle of crimson fabric. The coin that had been hidden within her bodice clinked loudly as it hit the floor.

Daenera wrapped her arms around herself, seeking to preserve some semblance of dignity.

There, clothed only in the sheer fabric of her underdress, Daenera was painfully aware of her defenselessness. The penetrating gazes upon her evoked a surge of deep humiliation, constricting her chest and sending shivers across her skin. Goosebumps dotted her flesh as the room’s chill cut through the slender fabric of her garment. It strangely reminded her of the night her husband had ripped her dress from her body–the fire crackled nearby, causing her to jump, its heat barely reaching her, doing little to chase away the icy dread that had settled deep within her bones.

The guard gathered her clothes and presented the coin to Larys. He examined it with a hint of curiosity before his gaze returned to Daenera. She looked back at him pointedly, lips pressed in a firm line.

She watched as Larys tapped his way towards the hearth with his cane. Holding the note she had written earlier, he locked eyes with her, a silent message in his gaze, before he callously fed the parchment to the flames, destroying her last hope of warning her mother.

“You have no honor.” Daenera’s anger flared as she faced Larys fully, her words seething through clenched teeth. “Your father and brother would be ashamed of what you’ve become. A traitor to the realm.”

“I do not concern myself with ghosts,” Larys dismissed her words with the wave of his hand. “And they should not concern you either.”

Her glare intensified as Larys stepped closer, resting both hands on the head of his cane, her coin hidden within one of his palms. Her spine straightened, refusing to cower before him.

“The dead are gone, Princess. And with them, they take their honor.”

Daenera ground her teeth, felt a surge of rage pulse through her, her fingers itching with the desire to grab Larys’ cane and pummel him to death with it.

Larys continued, a hint of disdain finding its way into his voice. “I loved my brother, but he was a fool to think no one would question his devotion to Princess Rhaenyra. A fool with a fool's honor. And my father, while well-meaning, lacked ambition to elevate and assert our House.”

Daenera glared at Larys. “Ser Harwin was a good man. He was honorable and loyal.”

For an instant, Daenera’s mind conjured the haunting image of Ser Harwin’s lifeless body, suspended by a noose, his face gruesomely disfigured by burns, making him almost unrecognizable, and around him, fireflies glowed eerily.

A dark thought flickered through her mind – would Larys’ face be similarly disfigured if she were to thrust him into the flames?

Larys’ voice, devoid of any emotion, broke through her thoughts. “He was a good man, indeed. Good and foolish and dead.”

As Larys gave a subtle nod, the guards obediently filed out the room, their departure closely followed by Larys himself. The tapping of his cane echoed through the room, each click resonating like a shard of ice piercing Daenera’s back.

Shivering with cold in the vast, empty chamber, she was surprised not to see her breath hanging in the frigid air. A bitter taste lingered in her mouth, and the heavy, suffocating staleness of the air clawed at the back of her throat.

“Do not mistake my actions for a lack of concern, Princess,” Larys spoke with a cold, measured tone, his voice serving as a stark reminder of his detachment from his brother’s warmth. “I did care for my brother, and in the same vein, I believe it’s necessary to shield you from your own foolishness.”

Daenera’s response was a mixture of scorn and incredulity. “You call this protection?”

“The Hightowers will not harm you, you’re far too valuable for that,” Larys said as though it offered some sort of comfort. “If war breaks out, this is the safest place for you to be. Take solace in knowing that here, at least, you’re out of harm's way.”

His hollow assurance left her feeling more isolated than ever.

“Let me keep the coin,” Daenera demanded, her voice betraying her as it waned into a desperate thing. “Please.”

Larys briefly considered the coin, seeming to weigh the option of taking it, then nonchalantly flicked it towards her, letting it clatter to the floor near her feet.

As the door closed with a definitive click and the sound of the lock sealing her fate, Daenera felt her strength wane. Her legs gave way, and she found herself collapsing to her knees before the hearth.

Daenera stared at her hands, where the blood had transformed into a dark, crackled brown, stubbornly lodged beneath her nails and smeared over her skin. Stains the same somber hue had seeped through her underdress, marking her knees with the haunting reminder–Joyce was gone. Dead.

The coppery tang of blood filled her nostrils, the smell making her stomach turn. Once again she felt the rise of bile, but there was nothing left in her stomach to spill and she swallowed thickly against the feel of it.

Shivers rippled through Daenera’s frame, her entire being shaking as tears spilled freely from her eyes, dripping onto her quivering hands and the cold stone beneath her. A choked sob broke from her lips, followed by another and another until there was no stopping it.

A weak, almost inaudible noise escaped her throat, a sound of grief as reality came crashing in around her. Her mind raced with thoughts–how many more dead? Was Fenrick still alive? What of Patrick and Jelissa?

The chill from the stone floor beneath her seemed to pierce her very bones, amplifying the numbing coldness of her situation. By the time she left this room, would her family be dead? The uncertainty of their fates added a deeper layer of dread to her sorrow.

She found herself trapped and utterly alone.

Daenera wrapped herself in the cloak that had been left to her, and stained the fabric with her tears.

Aemond found Ser Criston Cole at the foot of the imposing, grand staircase of Maegor’s Holdfast. The newly appointed Commander of the Kingsguard was dressed uncharacteristically in civilian clothes, a stark departure from his usual armor. His normally gleaming, intricately designed plate was nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by a plain tunic of unremarkable brown. The famous white cloak of the Kingsguard was substituted for a nondescript brown one, and atop his head sat a simple hat, the sort one might expect to see on an ordinary townsman.

Without the grandeur of the Kingsguard attire, Ser Criston Cole looked like the stewards son he was born as.

In sharp contrast to Ser Criston’s humble garb, Aemond presented himself in a black training doublet that had seen many days of use. The fabric was coarse and tough, designed to withstand the rigors of combat, held together with straps of worn leather. A cloak, long enough to reach his ankles, was fastened at his throat with a chain of simple iron. The belt around his waist, though utilitarian, cradled a sword and a dagger, both of which were of exquisite craftsmanship, their luxurious details a silent testament to his status.

Upon descending the last step, Aemond was met with a curt nod from Ser Criston. The greeting, though brief, carried the weight of formality and respect due a prince.

Aemond’s attention was captured by a grim but expected scene on the ground–a dried, dark brownish stain of blood, an implication of the violence that had occurred and had not yet been erased. Close by, another stain disrupted the stone’s integrity, its smear suggesting a violent draggin, leaving behind a woeful trail.

He spared no questions for the sight; the recent events were clear in his mind. Ser Criston and the Red Keep guards had apprehended Daenera amidst her bid for freedom, a confrontation that undoubtedly did not end without resistance. Ser Criston’s earlier discussions with his mother had confirmed Daenera’s current confinement within her chambers.

He would have guarded her himself, did his mother not need him.

Following Ser Criston, Aemond stepped into the sunlit inner courtyard of Maegor’s Holdfast. His eye briefly met those of the Lord Confessor, deep in conversation with his men, who were similarly dressed in the muted garb of discretion, their expressions rigid with purpose.

As they moved past this assembly, Lord Lary’s voice reached out, distinct and authoritative. “Lord Commander…”

Ser Criston came to a halt and turned to face Lord Larys, whose approach was underlined by the distinctive sound of his cane tapping against the stone. Larys’s demeanor was one of calculated composure, his expression carrying that all-too-familiar hint of cunning that seemed to be a permanent fixture of his face.

“It’s been quite a chaotic morning,” he observed, his fingers nonchalantly wrapped around his cane’s handle, his keen eyes reflecting a penetrating intelligence. “It appears the Princess resisted capture, evidenced by the bloodshed. Yet, it seems you failed to detain her.”

Ser Criston, with a demeanor as stoic as tone, replied, “The Princess’s guards were rather… resistant to disarming and following quietly–”

“My remarks were not about the guards,” Larys clarified, his attention shifting between Ser Criston and Aemond. “It seems the Princess has managed to slip past her guards and out of her confinements. As we speak, she’s in my quarters, eagerly awaiting a chance to flee the Keep.”

Aemond maintained a composed facade, yet beneath it, apprehension surged at the notion of Daenera’s flight. He clenched his jaw, attempting to conceal his disquiet. The prospect of both Aegon lost within the city’s expanse and Daenera slipping away to alert her mother, all before they could put the crown of Aegon’s head, was a complication they could ill afford.

Ser Criston, with a furrowed brow and a defensive edge to his voice, asserted, “I personally oversaw her confinement and stationed guards outside her chambers. She couldn’t have escaped.”

Aemond’s thoughts raced, filled with an understanding that those around him lacked. He knew Daenera. He knew she was cunning, resourceful, and above all, spiteful. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that she made another attempt at escape–nevertheless, it aggravated him.

He exhaled sharply in frustration, his attention momentarily diverted by a commotion. From the corner of his eye, he saw the two guards on the second level of the cloister, manhandling a bulky item before unceremoniously letting it fall to the floor. The object hit the ground with a solid thump. Then, they set about fastening a rope around the bannister, trading sharp quips as they quarreled over the correct method to tie the knot and determine the length of the rope.

“The castle’s walls offer more secrets for escape than merely the front doors,” Larys answered, bringing Aemond’s attention back to him.

The sudden awareness of the hidden passages struck Aemond with an intensity akin to a blot of lightning. Amidst the chaos of the day, this critical detail had eluded him, a lapse that now festered within him as annoyance for not considering it earlier. It was a glaring mistake; he ought to have ensured there were no avenues for escape, that she remained protected–safe within her chambers.

“Is she safe–secured?” Aemond asked, his voice steady, not betraying the underlying worry that wretched through him.

“She remains unharmed,” Larys responded, a hint of self-satisfaction tinging his smirk, which only served to aggravate Aemond further. “And she will be secured.”

“You left her alone, you did not think to call the guards?” Ser Criston asked sharply.

“I intend to relocate her to a more secure chamber myself, one without the means to escape,” Larys answered, unconcerned in the slightest of having left her alone. “Furthermore, I’ll ensure any weapons are removed, as well as her bloodstained attire.”

Aemond turned a sharp look towards Ser Criston Cole, his irritation brewing into a potent mix of concern and ire. “Did she suffer any harm during this ordeal?”

“The blood isn’t hers,” Ser Criston stated, his words slicing through Aemond’s rising alarm, providing a momentary solace in the storm of his frustration.

Aemond’s attention shifted back to Larys as he methodically began to divest himself of his cloak. With careful movements, he peeled the heavy, textured fabric from his shoulders, offering it to Larys. “She must be kept safe and unharmed. We cannot afford to lose her.”

“Understood, my Prince. Her safekeeping is paramount,” Larys responded, his expression unmoved, his hands remaining on the head of his cane, showing no intention to take the cloak. Aemond, however, remained firm, keeping the cloak extended towards Larys with a determined glare.

With a hint of reluctance, Larys finally took it, folding it over his arm with a nod of acknowledgement.

“It’s time we moved on,” Ser Criston interjected, his expression etched with concern.

As Aemond and Ser Criston Cole made their way out of the towering shadow of Maegor’s Holdfast, walking towards the expansive outer yard, Aemond felt a sense of agitation linger beneath his skin.

“What transpired when you apprehended Daenera?” Aemond asked, his tone measured, betraying none of the tumultuous emotions that churned beneath his stoic exterior. The prince felt the weight of Ser Criston’s gaze, sharp and discerning, as it swept over him, probing the layers of his seemingly indifferent inquiry for hidden depths.

Ser Criston, with a visible strain of frustration creasing his brow, recounted the events that followed the council’s gathering. “When the council adjourned, I dispatched the twins to secure the gates and ensure the stables were under our control. Simultaneously, orders were given to confine Princesses Rhaenys and Daenera within their chambers.”

His voice was tinged with wariness as he continued. “It appears the Princess was forewarned of the King’s condition, for the guards encountered resistance in the corridor. Her escorts were subdued and brought to the dungeons, yet Princess Daenera managed to evade their capture. When I found her near the grand staircase, I implored her to return to her chambers willingly. However, she chose resistance over compliance.”

In Ser Criston’s account, Aemond detected the subtle notes of vexation at Daenera’s defiance.

Aemond absorbed the details with a nod, his mind weaving through the implications of Ser Criston’s words, and his query about the aftermath took on a sharper edge, his irritation simmering just below the surface, “And what of the bloodshed?”

Ser Criston’s response was stark, devoid of any attempt to soften the blunt reality of his actions, though it held a certain amount of deflection, “I was forced to kill one of her guards–the elder handmaiden was given a chance to step aside, but she drew a weapon. Had she not resisted, I would not have taken her life. Their deaths were a direct consequence of the Princess’s resistance. Had she heeded my command, this unfortunate outcome could have been averted. Their death’s lie with her.”

As they approached the formidable gates of the Red Keep, Aemond paused, allowing the gravity of their conversation to settle just as the guards labored to open the massive doors, their hinges groaning under the weight. Aemond faced Ser Criston squarely, the morning light casting long shadows behind them. “You should have sent for me.”

Ser Criston’s rebuttal was immediate, his expression darkening with exasperation, “And why should I have done that? The situation was under control.”

“Evidently not, given you killed the elderly handmaiden,” Aemond responded shortly, his voice laced with both a conviction born of frustration and a keen sense of what might have been. “Had I been apprised, I could have ensured her secure detention–a measure from which she could not have found escape.”

He would have escorted her to his chambers, taking it upon himself to ensure her safety. There, he would have kept a close watch over her. Aemond was under no delusion about her reaction; fury would have been her immediate response. She would have unleashed her anger in a torrent of accusations, her threats echoing off the walls. Her frustration would have made her cruel, her words would have become a blade aimed to slip beneath his armor and breach his defenses–and they would have been venomous, meant to poison him. And he, in turn, would have endured it, knowing the necessity of it all.

Ser Criston stood his ground, his voice firm, yet tinged with defensiveness. “I escorted her back to her chambers myself and stationed guards at her door. If I had been aware of alternate exits, those too would have been secured.”

His stance was clear; he refused to shoulder the blame alone for the oversight.

Leaving the confines of Maegor’s Holdfast, they proceeded towards the castle gates. Impatience overtaking him, Aemond reclaimed a cloak from a nearby guard and swiftly wrapped himself in it, pulling the hood forward to shield his distinctively Targaryen hair.

As they embarked on their mission through the city to find his brother, Aemond forced his concerns for Daenera to the back of his mind, concentrating solely on the immediate challenge before them.

#aemond targaryen #a vow of blood #house of the dragon #aemond fanfiction #hotd aemond #hotd #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond x oc

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alaynasansa · 1 year

Text

‘ She knew how to dress ’

Sansa already looked her best. She had brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone, and picked her nicest blue silks

Sansa I — A Game of Thrones

Sansa was dressed beautifully that day, in a green gown that brought out the auburn of her hair, and she knew they were looking at her and smiling

Sansa II — A Game of Thrones

Sansa had put on a lovely pale green damask gown and a look of remorse

Sansa III — A Game of Thrones

She chose a simple dress of dark grey wool, plainly cut but richly embroidered around the collar and sleeves. Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she struggled with the silver fastenings without the benefit of servants

Sansa IV — A Game of Thrones

She was dressed in mourning, as a sign of respect for the dead king, but she had taken special care to make herself beautiful. Her gown was the ivory silk that the queen had given her, the one Arya had ruined, but she'd had them dye it black and you couldn't see the stain at all. She had fretted over her jewelry for hours and finally decided upon the elegant simplicity of a plain silver chain

Sansa V — A Game of Thrones

When the time came to dress, she chose the green silk gown that she had worn to the tourney. She recalled how gallant Joff had been to her that night at the feast. Perhaps it would make him remember as well, and treat her more gently

Sansa VI — A Game of Thrones

Knowing that Joffrey would require her to attend the tourney in his honor, Sansa had taken special care with her face and clothes. She wore a gown of pale purple silk and a moonstone hairnet that had been a gift from Joffrey. The gown had long sleeves to hide the bruises on her arms

Sansa I — A Clash of Kings

Sansa threw a plain grey cloak over her shoulders and picked up the knife she used to cut her meat. If it is some trap, better that I die than let them hurt me more, she told herself. She hid the blade under her cloak

Sansa II — A Clash of Kings

I have to look pretty, Joff likes me to look pretty, he's always liked me in this gown, this color. She smoothed the cloth down

Sansa III — A Clash of Kings

Dress warmly, Ser Dontos had told her, and dress dark. She had no blacks, so she chose a dress of thick brown wool. The bodice was decorated with freshwater pearls, though. The cloak will cover them. The cloak was a deep green, with a large hood. She slipped the dress over her head, and donned the cloak, though she left the hood down for the moment. There were shoes as well, simple and sturdy, with flat heels and square toes

Sansa V — A Storm of Swords

The dress she picked was lambswool, dark brown and simply cut, with leaves and vines embroidered around the bodice, sleeves, and hem in golden thread. It was modest and becoming, though scarce richer than something a serving girl might wear. Petyr had given her all of Lady Lysa's jewels as well, and she tried on several necklaces, but they all seemed ostentatious. In the end she chose a simple velvet ribbon in autumn gold

Alayne I — A Feast for Crows

Down below, Alayne must dress modestly, as befit a girl of modest birth. It makes no matter, she told herself. I dared not wear the best clothes even here.

Gretchel had stripped the bed and laid out the rest of her clothing. Alayne was already wearing woolen hose beneath her skirts, over a double layer of smallclothes. Now she donned a lambswool overtunic and a hooded fur cloak, fastening it with an enameled mockingbird that had been a gift from Petyr. There was a scarf as well, and a pair of leather gloves lined with fur to match her riding boots. When she'd donned it all, she felt as fat and furry as a bear cub. I will be glad of it on the mountain, she had to remind herself

Alayne II — A Feast for Crows

Sansa Month 2023 : day nine — wardrobe

#sansa stark #alayne stone #asoiaf fashion #source: a game of thrones #source: a clash of kings #source: a storm of swords #source: a feast for crows #sansamonth2023 #sansastarkappreciationfest2023

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ihavemanyhusbands · 1 year

Text

Santa Comunione

Part II // Hannibal Lecter x Fem!Reader

Also on AO3

Part I

Summary: Hannibal Lecter often does things just to see what happens… and seducing a holy woman is one of those things.

WC: 6.1k words

Overall Warnings: MINORS DNI THIS FIC IS 18+, Corruption, Blasphemy (?), Religious Imagery, Italy arc (Rome instead of Florence), Canon divergence, Self-Harm, Some whump, Angst, Eventual smut, religious trauma (i think?), I’m not a religious expert btw tho i grew up Catholic, mentions of wounds and scars, Ofc Hannibal has a God complex, Vague Catholicism, reader is a nun lol, lmk if i missed anything!

----

“Like a lily among the thorns,

So is my darling among the maidens.”

-Song of Solomon 2:2

The note, just like all the others, had been neatly folded and tucked into a hiding spot you were sure to find. It had become like a game at that point, even if you always knew where to look.

This time, you found it right at the base of the statue of St. Teresa, near the petrified swish of her marble skirts. It seemed significant enough to make your heart skip a beat, especially given the message.

Though he never signed his name, you’d memorized his elegant penmanship, swooping and yet also contained in its preciseness. It made the words feel more powerful, somehow. You gingerly traced your fingers over them, as if hoping to find more pieces of him there.

At first, the notes were wholly platonic. Mostly verses that were meant to inspire in some way or another, but sometimes snippets of poems found their way in, too.

Over time, they got slightly more daring, even if they were from the same source. You had always admired boldness, as he well knew. You could even imagine the sly upturn of his lips while you read them, over and over again.

Had he suspected that a tingle would begin between your shoulder blades, quickly suppressed before becoming a full shiver? Or that heat would creep up your neck and flush your cheeks?

He wouldn’t be too far off.

Something tender had been blossoming within you, but instead of weeding it out, you found yourself… nurturing it. Succumbing to it, even.

Could something like that really be so terrible? It was certainly worth the pain of the aftermath.

You tucked the note into a hidden pocket in your shift, biting your bottom lip to keep your excited grin under control.

On the days you received notes, he’d show up later in the evening to walk you home. You knew that as a doctor he led a busy life, but he always made time to see you at least twice a week.

You never asked what he was up to whenever he was absent, but sometimes you did wonder. Whenever you were together, though, you settled for simply enjoying every second of his company.

You’d walk at a languorous pace, sometimes even braving to hold onto his arm, but that was the extent of your physical contact. Without counting the time he’d patched you up, of course.

Despite how things had progressed, he was still a gentleman. He understood the importance of discretion as well as you, and that only made these rendezvous more exciting.

The last few hours of the day were torturous, especially since you kept glancing at the clock. Its slow, steady ticking seemed to mock you, so you tried distracting yourself as best as possible.

By closing time, your hands were trembling in anticipation. Still, you pretended to be busy wrapping up as you heard his patient footfalls cross the threshold.

“Almost done,” you called over your shoulder, offering a covert smile that was reserved for only him.

You went to grab your belongings before quickly re-emerging, and he pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he sighed, further driving his point across by drinking you in.

You averted your gaze demurely, guiding him out into the warm evening air. “Long day?”

“Longer than I care to admit, but suddenly it doesn’t seem to matter.”

This made you look up at him, and your eyes snagged on something uncharacteristic.

“It explains why you’ve not matched your tie and handkerchief today,” you pointed out teasingly.

He let out an amused huff, offering you his arm. You threaded your hand into the crook of it without thinking, pressing just a little closer.

“There’s a reason for that, actually,” he said. “You happen to have the matching handkerchief.”

“Oh, I do, don’t I?” You mused, pretending to have forgotten about it, even if it was in your satchel at that very moment. “I apologize, it slipped my mind. I’ll get it to you next time we see each other.”

“Will you?” He tilted his head to one side, raising an eyebrow.

You pursed your lips for a moment, frowning. Before you could pull away, he lightly pressed his arm against his side, effectively trapping your hand in place.

You let out an irritated huff, staring ahead.“So you think me a thief now?”

He chuckled. “Not at all. I was merely curious.”

“Seems like you feel that way about me most of the time.”

He studied your profile, still grinning. “Can I ask you an uncomfortable question?”

“Sure, why stop now?”

“Are you clinging to this material possession because it’s a reminder of the kind gesture behind it?”

You thought about it for a moment, unsure of how to answer. The way he posed the question made you suspect he already knew it, but he wanted to hear what you would come up with.

You opted for being honest, still feeling like you’d been caught red-handed.

“I suppose… It has brought me some comfort, the same way my rosary does. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Your cheeks were ablaze under his amused scrutiny, but you still didn’t meet his eye.

“I was hoping it was something of that nature,” he said finally, arm relaxing.

You didn’t withdraw, but your pride made you remain obstinate. “Now I must insist on returning it as soon as possible.”

“If you’re so adamant… Why don’t you come to my apartment tomorrow? I’ll be around all day taking care of some things,” he offered. “Plus, I need to see how your back is progressing. Some privacy would be nice, don’t you think?”

You weighed the offer, both thrilled and terrified at how big of a step it would be. You definitely didn’t want the madre superiora to start asking questions about the checkups, so this was the only other option.

Besides, you trusted him. He’d taken his time to earn it, despite your skittishness. With his gentle care, his steady patience, and his efforts to truly see you. The one hidden beneath layers of armor and biting remarks.

And so, the words left your mouth with little reluctance. “Yes, tomorrow works.”

——

It wasn’t until you were in front of the mahogany door, fist raised to knock, that you remembered missing a crucial part of that day’s meeting — setting up a time.

On the one hand, he did say he’d be home all day, but on the other… would he find it in poor taste that you showed up unannounced? Though to be fair, it’d be even more rude not to show up at all…

Before you let your thoughts spiral further, you decided to just suck it up and get it over with. After all, you didn’t really want to leave after making the trip all the way there.

At the first few knocks, the door creaked open slightly, but no one was behind it. You peered through the slit, only seeing the edges of a lavishly decorated living room.

“Hannibal?” You called tentatively, pushing the door further open.

No response, just an eerie silence.

You took a step inside, quickly glancing around. No one seemed to be around, and there were no signs of a break-in, which only confused you further.

You thought it might be best to leave his handkerchief along with a note explaining what happened, so you searched for a pen and paper in a nearby cabinet.

In an adjacent room, you could suddenly hear a light thud. It was quiet again for a moment, but then another thud followed, loud enough for you to confirm you weren’t imagining things.

Curiosity overrode your senses and you slid closer to the source of the sound. Just a little down the hallway, you were met with another half-open door — the bifold kind, made of wood and intricately etched glass.

Through a small gap, you could see just a fraction of what seemed to be Hannibal’s bedroom, with the aforementioned sitting at the edge of his bed. His back was to you as he gazed out the window, shoulders slightly hunched forward.

Without thinking, you started to reach for the door’s handle, but a new sound startled you — Labored breathing, interrupted only by a soft, needy whimper.

You blinked, not daring to believe what you’d heard. It had to be a hallucination; A lustful dream. Perhaps your spirit had risen while you slept and wandered the darkness to find him.

But no, the chill that went through you was as real as day. Your entire body turned to stone as you registered the placement of his hand, and how it was moving at a slow, steady rhythm.

Your first instinct should have been to turn away, make your presence known and wait in the safety of the other room. To fight against the siren’s lure of his voice in such a vulnerable, uninhibited state.

Instead, you covered your mouth with one hand, unable to tear your gaze away. A tingling sensation began in your extremities as another moan escaped him, followed by what seemed to be an obscenity in a language you did not know.

You shifted infinitesimally, trying to get a better look while remaining hidden. You gripped the doorframe with your free hand, fearing your legs would give out.

Unbeknownst to you, Hannibal had smelled you as soon as you’d walked into the apartment — soap and incense and just a hint of rosewater.

His grip on himself tightened as he noted the heady, unmistakable scent of your arousal.

How he wished that he could bury his face at the source of it and get utterly lost in you;To feel his head cradled by your thighs while he showed you what real paradise was.

His breaths began coming out in short pants, his movements becoming more frantic and desperate. His hips rolled, too, bucking up to meet the movements of his hand as he chased his release.

You could only see part of his profile, his eyes closed and his mouth slack in mindless pleasure. His hips stuttered and he made a sound like a man agonized, weak to his carnal desires. A word that sounded suspiciously close to your name spilled from his lips as he climaxed, the image searing into your mind forever.

It continued to sing in your veins as you snapped back into reality. Your heart was pounding in your ears, so loud you feared it might give you away.

Automatically, you extricated yourself away from the door and scurried back down the hall. In your haste, you failed to notice his handkerchief falling out of your pocket, right in the middle of the living room.

You shut the front door as quietly as you could, hoping no neighbors saw you making your escape. As you navigated through the streets back home, it all replayed in your mind over and over again, keeping you alight.

You kept your head down the entire way, avoiding eye contact at all costs, lest somebody see the fire in your gaze.

———

A week passed, and there was no word from him. You did not try to reach out to him, either, engulfed in an amalgamation of conflicting emotions.

Your days were spent trying to keep your mind blank, so you took on twice as many tasks. But whenever there was a lull between them, your thoughts would unerringly return to him.

Even in dreams, you were plagued by the memory of him. Most nights, you’d wake up with thighs slicked together, but you hadn’t done anything about the pulsating issue between your legs. You kept your windows open so that the nocturnal breeze might soothe your feverish skin, but it only helped marginally.

At mass, you wondered about the taste of him as you drank communion wine; The feel of his warm skin on your tongue as the wafer was placed upon it.

You’d become a real heathen, it seemed. Or perhaps you never stopped being one, not even after years of donning the costume of innocence.

Your longing was so vivid that sometimes, the breeze felt like an echo of his touch. It caressed your skin coolly, leaving goosebumps in its wake. It was in those moments that it was easiest to close your eyes and let your mind drift.

Your hand would wander, resting on your inner thigh — close enough, but still on the safe side. You could feel the heat emanating from your core, further enticing your fingers to inch closer. Possibly the hardest test of your self-restraint, but you weren’t too sure it was making you any stronger.

What made things worse, you hadn’t noticed the handkerchief’s disappearance until you’d made it back to the convent. In a panicked frenzy, you’d retraced your steps looking for it, praying that it was somewhere on the road.

But, just as you deserved, your prayers hadn’t been answered.

You’d made it all the way back to his apartment, but this time, the door had been firmly shut. It made dread pool in your stomach, and his subsequent absence only exacerbated it.

Was it really the end? You wouldn’t blame him if he never spoke to you again.

Still, you searched all the usual hiding spots for notes every day, but always came up empty. It felt like a spear through the heart each time, but you tried to bury it deep within.

Until one night, when your self-restraint was at its most fragile and you were trying to digest the idea you might not see him again, your resolve simply shattered.

Your fingers crossed into forbidden territory, and at the first tingle of pleasure, your movements became frantic and desperate. You surrendered to it, losing all other sense. It had been much too long since you had last done it, and all the times you had suppressed yourself had accumulated inside you.

Once you’d started, it was hard to stop. At the same time, the release wasn’t delayed at all. In fact, it hit you hard and fast, but it did not seem like enough. If anything, it seemed to only whet that yawning appetite of yours even further.

In the morning, you’d scrubbed your skin raw under a hot stream of water. You attempted to erase any sort of trace of the sins clinging to you, incensed by the fact that you didn’t even think it had been worth it – not at your own hands.

But how could you ever confess to such a thing? You could barely even—

“May I see it? I’ll need you to take your shoes off so I can assess the damage, Sorella.”

You stopped in your tracks, petrified in the middle of the hallway. You’d recognize that voice anywhere, but it seemed surreal at that moment, especially drifting out of one of the other nun’s rooms.

You spotted the madre superiora stepping out of said room, and you approached under the guise of benign curiosity.

Peering into the room, you saw Hannibal kneeling next to the bed. One of his legs was propped up and the sorella carefully set her swollen ankle on his thigh. He examined it delicately, his fingers featherlight on her tender skin.

A sharp bitterness coated your throat and when you swallowed hard, you felt it spreading to your stomach. You tried to control your breathing, trying to keep your grip on your mask of concern.

“Everything okay, Francesca?” You asked her in Italian, keeping your eyes on her. “What happened?”

“Tripped and twisted my ankle,” she responded in the same language, grimacing as he moved her foot slightly to look at it from another angle.

He didn’t look up, but he was still keenly aware of your presence. He smelled the soap and the incriminating scent beneath it, which made him tense a little.

The ghost of a smile barely made the corners of his lips twitch, but you weren’t sure if you were imagining things. You plastered on a sympathetic grin of your own.

“You’re in good hands, I’m sure you’ll feel better in no time,” you said through your teeth, and you thought you saw him glance through the corner of his eye at you.

“Grazie, Sorella.”

With a nod, you continued on your way, heading down to the kitchen. It was your turn to help with dinner prep, so you’d have some time alone while everyone else worked.

The old kitchen had stone walls and floors, which preserved coolness and provided relief from the heat outside. It was quiet and cozy, probably the best place for you to be in at that moment.

You started a fire on the old stove and placed a large copper pot full of water atop it. You tried to let your thoughts slip away as you washed and peeled carrots and potatoes. All the years of training yourself to go into autopilot certainly helped, but that same bitter taste was still coating your insides.

It was after a couple of minutes that you heard footsteps descending the stairs into the kitchen. You didn’t think much of it, staying focused on your task, but then you registered a tall figure stop at the threshold.

“It seems that I missed you the other day,” you heard him say. “Regardless, thank you for the handkerchief.”

Your gaze snapped up to him, eyes wide and flickering with a primal sort of fear. For a moment you could only stare, caught like a deer in headlights. He only stared back, challenging.

You tilted your head slightly to the side, resuming your task, your grip all too strong. “Don’t you have a patient to attend to, Doctor?”

“I needed to get some ice for Sister Francesca’s foot,” he explained. “Though I am glad I can also check in with my favorite patient. I haven’t been able to see the progress of your wounds for some time now…”

You shrugged, petulant. “I’m in one piece, am I not?”

There was a momentary pause in which the tension was becoming more and more palpable.

He broke the silence. “I sense you’re upset with me about something.”

“I am not upset. Merely working, as are you.”

“I see… Well, would you mind showing me where I can get the ice, please?”

“Allow me,” you sighed.

You set down what you were working on and stood up from the rickety wooden stool you sat on. Wordlessly, you had him hand you the small bowl he carried and slipped over to the freezer. You bent down a little to reach the ice, still silent as you filled up the bowl for him.

“Here you go, Doc—”

As you turned around, you nearly bumped right into him. You let out a startled gasp, given that you hadn’t even heard him approach behind you. You took a small step back, nervously glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one else was coming.

“Thank you kindly,” he said, taking the bowl back but not moving an inch otherwise.

His amber eyes held yours, incandescent once more with desire. You swallowed hard, a knot twisting in your stomach riotously. You clenched and unclenched your fists at your sides.

“Is that it?” You whispered.

He took a step closer and you backed up once more, your back pressing against the freezer. Your heart leaped to your throat — an appropriate response for a cornered lamb with almost nonexistent chances of escape.

“No, I don’t think I’m quite done here yet,” he responded, his voice equally low.

You shuddered. “What is this? What are these games you’re trying to play with me?”

He tilted his head in silent question.

“You know what I’m talking about. All along, you have charmed me. You have led me astray by the heartstrings and—and you have incited sinful ideas in my mind, tainting me!”

He had the gall to smile slyly, eyes narrowing slightly. “And how, pray tell, have I done that?”

You pursed your lips, having already spoken too much for your own liking. He smiled, a little too smug.

“No? You don’t wish to tell me?” He pressed. “I know why. You wouldn’t be able to deny that you hid behind my door, silent as a church mouse, and watched me during a most intimate moment?”

He leaned in closer, effectively looming over you. “You wouldn’t deny it, because you were taught lying is a sin.”

You let out a pitiful sound, something between a sharp exhale and a whimper. The two of you stood there in the charged silence, searching each other’s gazes. He reached down for your hand and slowly brought it up to his face, only closing his eyes as he inhaled deeply.

Then, you felt the gentle brush of his full lips against the pads of your fingers, kissing softly. You felt his tongue lightly trace your ring finger and sparks shot down your spine, threatening to make you spasm violently.

“Was this the hand you used when you thought of that moment?” He murmured.

You couldn’t react. You couldn’t move. You could barely even breathe.

He pressed one more kiss on your hand before calmly letting it go at your side. You opened your mouth, wanting to say something and yet also unsure of what it should be. He understood all the same, seeing everything he needed to know written on your face.

“Thank you again for the ice,” he said with a wink.

With that, he departed, leaving you still trying to pull your thoughts into order.

——

“Therefore, behold, I will allure her,

Bring her into the wilderness,

And speak kindly to her.”

-Hosea 2:14

His very first note. You’d read it over and over again. His words had always been clear, but you’d willingly chosen to overlook their intentions and play along.

It was easy to get away with it when it was that simple: just words on paper. The rest was merely skimming the surface, speaking around the things you actually wanted to say. Communicating subtly through gestures and lingering eye contact.

You looked up at the moon — only a sliver of light, like a winking eye. You felt like a live wire, muscles taut and a restless spirit. At that point, you didn’t think you could be subtle any longer… and you didn’t want to be, either.

And so you ran in the cover of night, only a thick coat and a sleeping shift covering you. You felt, for the first time in a really long time, the wind tousling your hair. It felt strange being so exposed, but an almost frightening sense of freedom came along with it.

What could this say about you? That all along you were beyond saving, no matter how much you wanted to pretend otherwise?

At least, you never pretended not to be easily swayed — At the first delicate word or piercing glance; The first stab of hunger, adoration, need. Easily malleable, body and soul.

You hurried up the steps of his apartment building, trying to keep the sound of your panting breaths to a minimum. Your fist connected with his door immediately, urgently, and you couldn’t even worry about what time it was or if you were being terribly impolite.

Then he opened the door, eyes wide and hair slightly disheveled. Next thing you knew, you were crashing into his arms, reaching up to bring his face to yours. You slid your lips over his in a searing, desperate kiss. Your knees buckled, but he held you up, pulling you closer.

His mouth eagerly captured your soft, dizzied whimpers, his tongue coaxing more of them. He maneuvered the two of you past the threshold, closing the door behind you.

You let your coat fall to the floor, one less unnecessary layer between you. You broke apart to catch your breath, his forehead leaning against yours. It took a moment for the two of you to register it wasn’t a dream, hands touching each other’s faces, necks, and shoulders; Solidifying together.

“Cara mia,” he rasped, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone. “It has become unbearable, has it not? Trying to untangle the thorns of our affections?”

“Truly sacrilegious. Perhaps that torment was our punishment.”

“Only a cruel God creates pleasure but forces his creatures to abstain from it,” he said, his hands ghosting down your back.

His hot breath fanned over your lips, so close and yet so far. You planted a kiss on his enticing top lip, still holding his gaze, your eyes obsidian in the darkness of the room.

You’d let the serpent wrap tightly around you, hissing your darkest desires into your ear. Why, then, must you heed another God when you were becoming so devout to this one?

“Show me,” you breathed.

With careful, patient hands, he slid your night shift off your shoulders and down your arms. He kept his eyes on yours, anchoring you to the moment. The tips of his fingers traced little lines of fire on your skin. You wore no undergarments, so you were quickly bare for his appraisal, in complete contrast to his dressed form.

Almost unconsciously, you reached for the buttons of his pajama shirt. He stood absolutely still, letting you slowly uncover him as well. Once the last button was undone, you pushed it off, hands experimentally roaming over the expanse of his chest.

Then you were kissing him again, unable to help his gravitational pull. Your bare skin against his felt electric, and all you wanted to do was press even closer. He pulled you up into his arms and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you to his bedroom, gently setting you down on the edge of the bed.

He broke the kiss in order to turn his bedside lamp on, more than eager to get a better look. His eyes slid over the expanse of you, desirous to familiarize himself with every single inch. The intensity of it felt like he was already caressing you, but his hands were currently at his sides.

“There has never been a more beautiful sight,” he murmured reverently. “Not the rising sun or a saint’s statue. Not even Venus emerging from the sea.”

Heat crept up your neck and towards your face. You shifted, suddenly feeling a little prudish under his assessment. Old habits died hard, you supposed, but you wouldn’t let them overtake you.

One of his hands made contact with your leg. He caressed up your calf and stopped at the knee, slowly pushing one leg apart from the other. You sighed softly, arching in a silent plea for more.

“Yeah?” He rasped, a feline sort of grin on his handsome face.

Impatient, you reached for his hand, pulling him towards you. His lips found yours for a moment before moving to your jaw and down the slope of your throat.

His hands roamed all over, mapping out every curve, every plane, every dip, and swell. You found yourself submitting amiably to the pleasure of his touch, beating down that guilt that had been forcibly rooted in you.

His mouth continued to trail downwards, teeth grazing the fleshiest parts. He delighted in your twitching and the hums of pleasure you tried to contain. Licking around your navel, he made your whole body shudder, hips bucking.

“H-Hannibal,” you gasped.

“You can tell me if you want me to stop at any point,” he said, looking up at you.

You nodded in understanding, urging him closer by pressing the heel of your foot against his back. He chuckled, kneeling on the floor by the bed and kissing your inner thigh with a fondness that melted you.

And when you felt his breath on your slick folds, you knew you were a lost cause. You wanted to arch again but he wrapped his arms around your thighs, pulling you even closer, his mouth sealing over your most sensitive bundle of nerves.

Your mouth fell open in a silent scream at the initial shock of pleasure, eyes wide as saucers. Oh, you’d forgotten what ecstasy a skilled tongue could bring, but never before had you experienced one quite like his.

He was voracious but unhurried, tongue lapping at you with gusto. You trembled underneath him, burying your hands in his hair, holding on for dear life, and yet also not wanting him to pull away.

At first, your moans were restrained, kept behind your bitten lip. He knew you were holding back, trying to keep yourself away from the edge, and he simply couldn’t allow that.

“You taste divine,” he rasped, looking up at you. “I could sup on you for days.”

Your eyes met his for a moment before you quickly looked away, blushing deeply once more. You covered your face with one hand, embarrassed at being so wanton, so obscenely disheveled in his presence.

“Why do you hide, Tesoro?” He purred. “Are you afraid of showing me just how much you’re enjoying yourself?”

“I—”

But before you could utter another word, his tongue dipped into your cunt, his nose slightly brushing against your sensitive clit. A loud moan escaped you at that, and he groaned along with you.

“That’s more like it,” he pulled away for a moment to give you a sly grin before diving back in.

“Hannibal, please, I don’t think I can…” Your panting words faded into a sharp exhale as he found your sweet spot.

He was relentless now, strategically targeting the spots he discovered made you react more.

You squirmed at the lewd sounds your body made as he ravished you, but more and more you were lost in that blissful haze. The muscles of your abdomen tightened and you felt yourself steadily climbing to the peak of your pleasure.

As you got closer, you began to chase it with wild abandon, bucking your hips and grinding against his face — a much better replacement for your own hand. Your moans and hitching breaths were music to his ears, and the sight of you coming utterly undone for him forever seared in his mind.

You rode out waves of unadulterated euphoria, feeling it all over your being like licking flames. He’d only been the kerosene to that spark that had been growing inside you, and it wouldn’t be so simple to extinguish.

As you lay there in the aftermath, still panting from the intensity of it all, he kissed his way back up your body. You tasted yourself on his lips, growing ravenous at the mere thought of the communion of your beings.

“I need you,” you whispered. “I need all of you.”

“I’m yours for the taking,” he said earnestly, like a vow that he’d never break. “How do you want me?”

“Just like this,” you said with a rising fever, bringing your knees to his hips. “I want to forget where you end and I begin.”

The words seemed to unleash something within him, a sort of primal response that flickered in his amber gaze. He claimed your mouth once more as if intent on consuming you completely. His body was firmly pressed to yours, his weight a welcomed comfort. Then, you felt him push into you ever so slowly, the stretch both foreign and yet also familiar; Something you recalled from eons past, but never like this.

A lot of things felt new with him, completely reawakening you in ways you’d never thought possible. You gasped into his kiss, clawing at his back as he fully sank in. His pace was slow at first, savoring the closeness, pelvis grinding against yours. He was intoxicated with your warmth, your smell, your taste. Driven wild by it, even.

You responded with equal fervor, the two of you intent on marking each other in any way you could. Completely surrendering to just physical sensations, a mindless sort of ecstatic violence. The wolf’s arrival to its most anticipated devouring.

Soon you were pleading with him for more, to go faster, harder. He obeyed your every command seamlessly as if already understanding what your body needed. He kissed and sucked at the sensitive flesh of your neck, teeth and tongue on your pulsating artery.

You fell apart under him once more, face twisted in rapturous agony, his name on your lips. But that didn’t stop either of you, too frenzied from all the longing, all the time you had to restrain yourselves. It was a marvel, really, that you had held off for as long as you did.

He rolled onto his back and pulled you on top of him. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips as you gyrated them, head thrown back in ecstasy. He let you set your own pace like that, content with watching you continue to unravel atop him.

The rest of the night was like an opium dream, stretching infinitely and intensely. No corner of the bed was left untouched, your bodies twisting and bending and colliding in all sorts of positions.

Not once did you extricate yourself from one another, not even as exhaustion overtook you, plunging you into the best sleep you’d ever had.

———

Rolling green hills and vast plains sped past the window beside you, a few farmhouses and groups of cows scattered between. The metallic shuddering of the train dimly filled your ears, accompanied by soft conversations. Your mind was far away, beyond the idyllic visage unfurling before you.

It was the first time you’d ever been outside of Italy. It was a drastic change, one that was a little frightening, but a welcome one, too. So far, the French countryside was an appealing mystery that you wanted to uncover, and you had all the time in the world.

Your eyes then focused on your faint reflection in the window, not recognizing yourself for a moment. You were still getting used to wearing regular clothes again, especially when you showed more than you used to, even if it was all still modest. Your eyes seemed clearer, more alive, and the dark crescents underneath them were slowly disappearing.

Guilt still reared its’ ugly head from time to time, twisting your stomach into knots. But it was losing some of its viciousness, and you had help escaping spiraling thoughts and physical punishments. You’d been healing nicely, or at least you were in the process of it, anyway.

You felt Hannibal’s finger tracing down your bare arm, and you looked away from the window to face him. He smiled as your eyes met, noticing how you almost instinctively leaned closer to him. You brought your hand to his, and he looked down at the golden band around your finger.

“What are you thinking of, Cuore mio?” He asked, voice low and intimate.

His tone made you think of the way he’d recited his vows to you on that late night under the stars, when the two of you decided you could never be parted; Something only for you to share, no one to prove your love to.

“How everything seems so endless now, stretching farther than I ever could’ve fathomed,” you said, looking around you. “Nothing seems contained. I can no longer see the edges. Does that sound absurd?”

He kissed your hand, smile widening. “No, not absurd. At our crossroads, a new path made itself clear to me. There is no end in sight, but I intend to follow through.”

The truth was you could scarcely see the division between the two of you; Blurred in such a way that it was like living through each other. You felt him sitting amidst the pews of your ribcage, listening to the hymns of your heart. Your flesh was his flesh, your breath his own.

And even stranger… it felt a little too much like freedom, which he had presented to you on a silver platter.

You leaned in and kissed him softly, almost chastely. When it came down to it, you liked to savor him slowly, letting the anticipation build over time. The look in your eyes was adoring, but there was also that feverish glint that he’d come to recognize.

“How long until we’re there?” you murmured.

He chuckled lightly. “You’ve become quite insatiable, haven’t you?”

“Can you blame a poor sinner like me?”

The tip of his nose grazed yours. “Not when I am so keen on indulging you.”

The announcer’s voice came on over the intercom, listing the remaining stations. You recognized the name of your destination, at the very end of the train’s line. You rested your head on his shoulder as the two of you continued to gaze out of the window, savoring the beginnings of your new life together.

The sun continued its slow trail across the sky, its rays lengthening and bathing everything in golden light. In your eyes, this was the real Paradise, the place you’d been searching for most of your life.

And it was even more beautiful than you had ever envisioned.

---

#hannibal lecter fanfiction #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter x fem!reader #minors dni

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glendajackson · 1 year

Text

RIP Glenda Jackson (1936-2023)

Glenda's love affair with acting began in her teens. Near Hoylake, in the North Country she comes from, there were three neighborhood cinemas, each showing two films a week. She hardly missed a one, and very quickly in her growing up, Bette Davis and Joan Crawford became her ideals.

They still are, and she longs to meet them. "They had incredible style and ability," she says. "They knew their medium and what they could do with it. They had a superb sort of arrogance. When they walked, they ground the poor beneath their heels." (When she was told of Glenda's devotion recently, Joan Crawford asked, "Who's Glenda Jackson?") Glenda remembers every film Joan Crawford made; and that she wore a different gown in every scene, no matter how humble the character she was playing. And, when her husband died, "the marvelous, tight-fitting black dress and widow's weeds she wore to the first board meeting of his company after the funeral."

For years, hunger was a commonplace in the lives of Roy and Glenda. They had five shillings (about 70 cents) between them when they were married 12 years ago. Their first flat was so inhospitable that they spent their nights in a "super four-poster," center stage in the London repertory theater where they were both working, and the bed was one of the props. An understanding carpenter would bring morning coffee when he awakened them. "It was the largest bedroom I ever slept in," says Roy.

It was the beginning of two years in which the only steady work either of them could get was waiting on tables, working in factories and pubs, selling in shops, where Glenda would steal little things like food or packages of razor blades that she could hide under her skirt. They don't apologize for this now. "It kept us alive," Roy says. "The terrible part about hunger" says Glenda, "is that you can never see when it will end."

Despite this hiatus in her career, Glenda has somehow managed to appear in about 200 productions, which could go far toward explaining why she is so skillful and adaptable as an actress. Often, when she was in repertory, she did a new play every week, seven shows plus morning and late-night rehearsals for next week. She would double as assistant stage manager, which meant sweeping out the theater at night, scrounging props and stage furniture, painting scenery.

Glenda was, she says, the first actress in London to go on stage completely nude. It was a play in which, incredibly, she was both Christine Keeler on her way to jail, and Jacqueline Kennedy at the funeral of her husband. Christine's bathtub, overturned, became the President's coffin. The whole skit lasted only four minutes.

Since then she has been willing to act in the nude, "as long as the purpose is not spurious or sensational." Clothes, she feels, like stage sets, often only hamper and distract from the action. "You can't equate nudity and sex," she says. "Actually, the greatest intimacy between two people doesn't depend at all on whether they can lie together naked."

What does she regard, then, as a convincing way to evoke intimacy? "Maybe a couple cutting their toenails. No one ever does that in public." In any event, she is delighted that "the whole enormous hang-up about sex is well and truly smashed, and a much saner attitude is around."

#glenda jackson #</3 #interview is from 1970

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middleearthpixie · 9 months

Text

Brilliant Disguise ~ Chapter Twenty-Two

Summary: Speech therapist Josephine Asharm has been brought into Erebor to work with Bifur, but trying to find her place among people who eye her suspiciously would be difficult enough under normal circumstances, but when Sophie finds herself caught between the king, his most trusted lieutenant, and the dwarf she’s there to help? She’s certain no good can come of it. Being of Man, not only does she stand out in the dwarf kingdom, she’s not entirely certain she’s actually welcome there at all.

Thorin only agreed to allow Sophie to live amongst them out of a sense of duty to Bifur, who is recovering from an odd head injury (is there any other way to describe having an axe blade lodged in one’s head, only to have it later dislodged during the Battle of the Five Armies?) Before the battle, he spoke only khuzdul. But since it? He’s regained the ability to speak Westron—if only he could but remember any of it. As for Thorin? He’s trying his damndest to ignore the speech therapist, not to mention his own growing feelings for her, even as he is also recovering from his near fatal wounding in the same battle.

Both Sophie and Thorin are haunted by their pasts and are uncertain of their futures, but sometimes, chances must be taken…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x OFC Josephine (Sophie) Asharm

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 4k

Tag List: @mrsdurin @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @arrthurpendragon @exhausted-humxn-being @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-mer-6195 @sherala007 @enchantzz @knittastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy @medusas-hairband @guardianofrivendell @jotink78 @sorisooyaa @ruthoakenshield @frosticenow @quiall321 @dianakc @msjava1972 @buckybarnes-thorin @glassgulls @evenstaredits @heilith @asgardianhobbit98 @albionscastle @absentmindeduniverse @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms

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Previous chapters can be found here.

Dwalin scowled. “This is a waste of time.”

“We’ve been here but ten minutes,” Thorin told him with a scowl of his own, “so relax a bit, won’t you?”

Dwalin’s scowl deepened as he reached for his tankard to lift to his lips. “I see neither hide nor hair of our new friend, Jora, either.”

Impatience kinked Thorin’s gut, mingling with the sour burn of disappointment. He also had seen no sign of the street lad since they set foot inside Lucy’s. He tried not to think about it, however, as he lifted his own tankard for a long swallow of hearty stout. It hit his stomach with a hint of warmth, a welcomed warmth, indeed, as the pub was a bit drafty and the air held the promise of snow.

“Thorin, we need—”

Thorin sat up straight. “There he is. Come.”

“What?”

“Jora. Along the back wall.” Thorin pushed back his chair to rise. “Are you coming with me or not?”

“Of course.” Wood scraped as Dwalin shoved away from the table and Thorin winced as in his haste, Dwalin then proceeded to bump the table and sent his water goblet crashing onto its side.

Jora hung in the shadows along the back wall, waving an impatient hand toward them. Rolling his eyes as Dwalin threw his napkin over the puddle spreading across the tablecloth, Thorin said, “Just follow me when you’ve finished wrecking the table.”

“Blasted uneven table,” Dwalin grumbled, grabbing Thorin’s discarded napkin as well to mop up the spilled water.

Thorin skirted the table and ignored the curious stares of the other patrons as he wove through the tables to the lad in the back of the room. “I was wondering if you’d lit out.”

Jora didn't look at all fazed by Thorin’s irritation. “Some of us are workin’, you know. Now, do you want me to take you to him or not?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.” Jora turned back toward the dining room, where a serving girl had joined Dwalin and Thorin was rather sure she was flirting with him instead of helping him clean up. Jora broke into his reverie. “Is your man coming or not?”

As if he’d heard them, Dwalin looked over in their direction and bobbed his head when Thorin gestured for him to join them. “He is.”

The serving girl looked fairly crestfallen as Dwalin excused himself and joined them. “Sorry.”

“You can come back another night and sweet talk her,” Thorin told him with no little impatience. “Unless you’d rather just remain here and I’ll go alone.”

“Ye’ll do no such thing,” Dwalin growled. “Let’s go.”

“Quiet,” Jora growled, although his voice was only just barely above a whisper. “If he hears anyone coming, I’ve no doubt he’ll run.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s sneaky that way.” Jora gestured for them to follow him along a dark, narrow corridor, past the kitchens, to the rear door, leading them out into the narrow alleyway behind the pub.

A hint of apprehension twisted Thorin’s gut. He didn't know this boy and for all he knew, Jora was about to lead him into a trap of some sort.

A sidelong glance at Dwalin showed the same apprehension on his lieutenant’s face as well, which did nothing to ease the discomfort bubbling in the pit of his belly. Without thinking, he reached down to rest his hand on the Orcrist’s grips.

Thick clouds blotted out any hint of moonlight, the air cold and heavy with the scent of snow. The first flakes fell as Jora led them toward the east side of Dale, overlooking the Long Lake. The stone buildings rose three stories on either side of the alley, with shops below and flats above and as they moved further away from the center of Dale, the buildings looked more rundown and sketchy. Somehow, Thorin wasn't at all surprised Sten Asharm would be hiding down here, like a rat in a hole. He’d expect no less.

“Quiet, now,” Jora whispered, and Thorin jumped as the boy grabbed him by the wrist. “He’s the last door on the right.”

Thorin glanced down at the thin hand that was like an iron band about his forearm, and then back up at the lad. “Take your hand from me.”

“Oh, sorry.” Jora let go and then gestured with his thumb to a door with peeling black paint. “That’s his flat there. You want I should bring him out?”

Dwalin’s hand came to rest on Thorin’s shoulder. “Should we do that or should we take him by surprise?”

“Bring him out. I’d rather face him on more neutral ground.”

“I’ll get him for you.” Jora stepped up and without waiting for them, rapped firmly on the door.

Thorin stepped back, his heart unexpectedly speeding up and his belly filling with apprehensive knots. He really hadn’t thought about what he’d do, once he came face to face with Sten. Especially since this wasn't how he thought it would happen. Somehow, he’d thought that when he tracked Sten down, it would be at the end of a dark alley like this, but that Sten would be quaking in fear from having been chased down.

“I don't like this,” Dwalin told him under his breath, sidling up to him.

“I don’t, either,” Thorin admitted.

The door opened then and his gut kinked sharply at the low rumbling voice that growled, “Who goes?”

“It’s me, Mr. Asharm. You got a minute?”

A low sigh. “What do you want?”

“You got visitors.”

Thorin tightened his fingers about Orcrist. The flutters calmed and his heartbeat returned to normal as Jora stepped back and Thorin found himself face to face with Sten Asharm.

Pale eyes widened in surprise and before Thorin had the chance to draw his sword, a bright white flash exploded inside his skull and a thick blackness screamed toward him.

“Thorin?”

Dwalin’s voice, heavy with concern, slit through the thick, almost cottony fog that enveloped Thorin’s head. Pain pulsed through his temples and his left cheek felt damp. He slowly opened his eyes, and immediately regretted it as the pain that sliced through his head was on par with the pain that had accompanied Azog the Defiler’s blade when it slit through his belly on the ice floe at Ravenhill.

“Ohhh…” It was the only sound he could muster, and even so, he winced and screwed his eyes shut once more.

“Can ye at least sit up?”

“Dwalin, I might just die if I attempt it.”

“Try.”

Swallowing hard, Thorin slowly sat. A fine layer of snow covered everything, including him, and there was no sign of the boy or Asharm. Rubbing his forehead with one hand, Thorin swallowed hard again and managed to mutter, “Do I want to know what happened?”

“He must’ve suspected that whelp was up to something, fer Asharm had something in his hand. He swung it so fast, I didn't even see what it was. I just heard the thunk, saw you drop, and—”

“He and Jora are gone.”

“I see that whelp again, and I’ll turn him inside out fer his trouble.”

“Not if I see him first.” Thorin winced at the sharp pains slicing through his head with each beat of his heart. “Did you at least give chase?”

“No, I didn’t give chase. Are ye mad, laddie? I wasn't about to leave ye unconscious in an alleyway.” Dwalin crouched and caught him at the elbow. “Let’s get ye back and have Narnerra take a look. Yer bleedin’.”

Thorin probed at the dampness along his temple, hissing softly as his fingertips brushed the cut just above his left eye. He drew his hand away to see the blood smearing his fingers and a hint of nausea turned his belly. “And how do I explain this?”

“We’ll think of somethin’. Come. It won’t be long before we’re freezing our arses off out here.”

As if nature listened in on their conversation, a frigid wind swirled down through the alley. Much as he wanted to go in search of both Jora and Asharm and let them both know what he thought of their actions, his head was about to split in two and to be honest? He wanted only to have Sophie fuss over him for a while.

They didn't speak much as they made their way back to Erebor, and as he stood outside the door to her flat, he hesitated. It was nearly ten at night and he didn't wish to wake Heather.

Still, his head ached and he was exhausted and had no desire to sleep alone, and so he gently rapped on the door.

“Who goes?”

He smiled at the sound of her voice. “It’s me, Sophie.”

“Who’s me?”

“Sophie.”

“Thorin? Is that you?” She tugged open the door and her smile melted as her gaze fell on him. “What happened?”

“I found Sten.”

Her eyes went almost perfectly round. “What?”

He nodded. “I found him. But, he was ready for me. But, you needn’t worry. Narnerra said I will be fine in a few days.”

“Thorin, you’re bleeding!”

“Again?” He reached up to press his fingers against the bandage Narnerra had laid over the cut where Asharm’s cudgel had split his skin against bone. “She said head wounds bleed and that it should also stop before much longer.”

Instead of the sympathy he thought he’d get, Sophie rolled her eyes at him and caught him by the elbow to tug him into the flat. “Take care, mesmel,” he said softly. “I’ve the worst headache I’ve had in years.”

“Well, I beg your pardon, of course. But what were you thinking, going off to find Sten on your own? Why didn't you take anyone with you?”

He winced as the closing door’s clang reverberated within his skull. “Please, take care… it’s like having the worst hangover ever.”

“Sorry.” She took his arm again and steered him toward her bedchamber. “But, I am curious.”

“I did take someone with me. For all the good it did.” He draped his arm about her shoulders, then bent to brush her temple with a kiss. “But, I know where to find him now and—”

“And you think he will remain there?”

He sighed softly. “No,” he replied, shaking his head slowly, “I don’t. But, I know he’s here and that Heather saw exactly who she thought she saw.”

It might have been only his imagination, but Thorin thought her arm tightened about his waist. “So, he’s in Dale, then?”

He nodded. “And do not even think about going and confronting him yourself.”

“I am not nearly mad enough to do such a thing.”

“Good.”

He slipped away from her as they crossed the threshold into her bedchamber, and he sighed softly, propping Orcrist in the corner alongside what he’d come to think of as his side of the bed. Then, with a heavier, far more grateful sigh, he sank onto the edge of the bed. “I hope you do not mind my calling so late.”

“Of course I don’t. I’m only thankful you didn't wake Heather.”

“Had I, I’d have gotten her back to sleep.”

Sophie came around to his side, crouching before him. “I have no doubt at all that you’d do just that. You seem to have the touch where she is concerned.”

“I have come to care for her, to think of her almost as my own, as I’ve said. And when this is over and you and I are free to marry, I would like to officially make her my daughter. That is, if you have no objection.”

“No,” she shook her head, her smile soft and wide, “I have no objection. If you’re certain, that is.”

Without thinking, he reached down to curve his hand against her cheek, the pain in his head, the aches in his body forgotten. “I am indeed certain, mesmel. I do not ever want her thinking she is less my daughter than any other daughters—or sons—you and I might have.”

“Thorin?”

“For I want children with you, Sophie. And not only because I enjoy the way one goes about getting them, either.”

It was a bit of a risk, but her smile widened and her hand came to rest on his knee. “As do I, Your Majesty.”

He caught her hand and gave a gentle tug to draw her in to meet his kiss. She melted against him, sliding an arm about his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, and in that moment, every last ache and pain ceased to be in his body.

****

He was being watched.

Thorin opened his eyes just enough to peer through the fringe of his lashes to see Heather standing alongside the bed, her elbows resting on the mattress, her chin propped on her fists. He bit back a smile as he let out a loud snore and she giggled in return.

He snored again, this time stretching as far as his arms would reach and flopped over onto his back. This time, she giggled and said, “Are you a bear, Mister Thorin?”

Although holding back his smile was difficult, he managed, and let out another snort, this one louder still.

Heather growled right back, slamming her hands against the bed in her enthusiasm, which made smothering his laughter even more difficult. He remained as still as he could, almost holding his breath as she gave the bed a gentle shake. “Mister Thorin?”

He cracked one eye. “Rawr.”

“Rawr.”

She let out a silvery laugh and stood straight. “I know you’re awake, Mister Thorin.”

“I am awake now.”

He opened his eyes all the way and instantly regretted his words when he saw her visibly shrink before him. Casting her gaze at the floor, she shuffled her feet and murmured, “I’m sorry, Mister Thorin. I didn't mean to wake you.”

Rising onto his elbow, he shook his head. “No, raklûna, you didn't wake me and you’ve done nothing wrong, so you needn’t be sorry.”

When she didn't lift her head, he reacted for her, gently catching her beneath the chin to tilt her face up. “Miss Heather, look at me.”

She slowly obeyed, her eyes wide and shadowed with a fear that broke his heart. Letting his thumb slip along her jaw, he shook his head again. “You did nothing wrong, uzbadnâtha. I promise you, you didn’t.”

“I woke you.” She jerked back, out of reach. “I’m so sorry.”

“Heather,” he sat up then, and held out his hand, “come here, won’t you? I promise you, I’ll not yell at you.”

Her eyes went wider still at his splayed hand, then she looked up at him. “I’m sorry…”

“Raklûna,” he lowered his voice into the most soothing pitch he could manage, “I promise you, you are safe and you are not in trouble. Please, give me your hand.”

Her bottom lip trembled but she carefully laid her palm against his. Gently, he closed his fingers about hers and drew her closer. “It’s all right, Miss Heather. I promise you, it is.”

He caught her beneath the arms then, lifting her onto the bed alongside him and smoothed her tangled back curls away from her face. “I am not angry with you, raklûna. I promise you I’m not. And even if I was—which I’m not—I would never raise my hand to you. I give you my word on that.”

She stared up at him with wide, shimmering eyes and he couldn't believe how much the sight of those gathering tears troubled him. The last thing he wanted was her to be afraid of him. With that in mind, he offered up a smile. “Do I look angry?”

“No.”

“Do I sound angry?”

“No.”

“Because I’m not and you didn't wake me. I was already awake and just pretending to be asleep.”

“You were?”

He nodded. “I was. If anything, I should apologize to you for making you think you did wake me.”

“My papa used to get angry when I woke him,” Heather told him softly, glancing up at him as if to gauge his response. “He didn't like it when I made noise and I always made a lot of noise.”

“I am not going to get angry over that and I find it hard to believe a tiny thing such as you can make much noise at all. Maybe if you and Gimli were together and racing about, you might, but on your own? I highly doubt it.”

“You won’t yell at me?”

“I won’t yell at you.”

“Thorin? Is everything all right?”

He looked up at Sophie, standing in the doorway, and nodded. “Everything is fine.” He smiled down at Heather. “Isn’t it, Miss Heather?”

She nodded. “I woke Mister Thorin but he was pretending to be a bear so I didn't really wake him at all.”

Sophie chuckled. “Why don't you let Mister Thorin be, love? You need to get washed and dressed so I can take you down to Miss Oakmane’s.”

Heather nodded, then looked back at him and to his surprise, threw her arms about his neck. “I love you, Mister Thorin…”

Those words, uttered with such soft emotion, hit him harder than any foe ever could and he folded her into his arms and whispered, “I love you, too, uzbadnâtha…”

She leaned away from him. “What does that mean?”

He smiled. “Princess.”

“I like that.” She offered up a pearly smile, planted an unexpected kiss upon his cheek, and then climbed down to scamper from the room.

He looked up at Sophie. “I was not expecting that.”

“Her coming in here?” She pushed away from the doorjamb and crossed over to sink onto the edge of the bed.

“No, her words.” He glanced back at the doorway. “I didn’t mean to frighten her. I was but trying to play. I didn't stop to think she would think me angry with her.”

“It’s all right, Thorin.” Her hand came to rest atop his and she gave his a gentle squeeze. “She shouldn’t have been in here to begin with.”

“I don't mind that. And I want to make certain she knows she never need fear me.”

“She will in time. Worry not, Thorin. She knows and eventually, she will forget she ever thought she needed to be afraid.”

“I do hope so.”

“She will.” She gave his hand another squeeze. “Now, why don't I see her down to Miss Oakmane’s and give you a chance to wash and dress and then perhaps we can go into Dale.”

“Go into Dale for what?”

“To find Sten.”

His gut kinked and he shook his head. “You are not getting anywhere near that alleyway, Sophie. My head still aches from my dealings with Sten. I’ll not have him do the same—or worse—to you.”

“Thorin, I want to see him with my own eyes. And there are a few things I’d like to say to him, as well.”

“Absolutely not.” He threw back the quilts and reached for his trousers, hurriedly slipping into them in case Heather returned. “I will deal with him. You needn’t worry about it.”

“Needn’t worry about it?” She folded her arms and offered up a long look. “I’m not asking you, you know. I am going and you can either come with me or I will go alone, but either way, I am confronting him.”

He didn't trouble to hold back his irritated sigh. It wasn’t his place to forbid her, not to mention it would obviously do no good to even attempt to do so, and yet he wasn't at all comfortable with the notion of her being anywhere near Sten Asharm.

Still, he also had come to know Sophie well enough to know that she would do just as she said and he also knew that she had every right to want to face Sten as well. “Sophie—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupted softly, rising from the bed to slowly pace around it. “But, I want him to know exactly what his actions caused, and to ask him why he thought nothing of treating us both the way he did.”

“Think you it will do any good?”

She let out a soft, somewhat shaky sigh. “I don't know. And I know I should just let it go, to just let the past lie and to look to the future, but at the same time… I just want to know why he hated us so much.”

He stepped in front of her, catching her by the shoulders. “Will it change anything for you?��

She lifted eyes of swirling pewter to his. “No, of course not. But, I just want to see if he’d even have the courage to answer me truthfully.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“I’m no worse off than I am now.”

“And if he does?”

“It might stop the question of why I wasn't good enough for him.”

“Not good enough—” Irritation flared in his gut. “You are good enough, you are too good for him. I wish I could make you understand that.” He released her shoulders to catch her face in his hands. “He isn’t fit for you to wipe your boots on, mesmel. Don’t you see that?”

“Thorin—”

“You’ve won the heart of a king, remember. And kings are notoriously choosy about their queens.”

“Thorin.”

Her expression was stern, but he saw the corners of her lips twitch. “We are.”

“Thorin.”

He smiled at the heavy sigh woven through that one word. “We will face him together, then.”

It was her turn to sigh as she slowly nodded. “Very well. Together.”

“Good.” He bent to brush her lips with his, then drew back. “I need to go and see Narnerra to change this bandage, but if you’re free later, we can go up to Dale then.”

She nodded. “I have nothing going on today, so that works.”

“Go and take Heather to Miss Oakmane and I will meet you by the front gate in an hour.”

“You aren’t going to leave without me, are you?”

“Sophie, I would never be so underhanded.”

“Thorin.”

“I won’t. I promise.” He brushed her lips with his once more.

“Mama?” Heather rounded the corner and halted in her tracks. “Oh, I’m sorry!”

Both he and Sophie broke out laughing at the horror in her voice and Sophie turned toward her. “There is nothing to be sorry for, sweetling. Are you ready to go to Miss Oakmane’s?”

Heather nodded, her curls bouncing merrily. “I am, Mama. Mister Thorin, will you be here later?”

“I don’t know yet, raklûna. I have a busy day ahead of me.”

“Well, if you do, I promise I won’t wake you again.”

“Miss Heather,” he skirted Sophie to scoop Heather up, “as long as you don't pounce on me when I’m asleep, I care not about you waking me. Do you understand?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Pounce?”

“Jump on me without warning. I only ask you do not do that.”

She offered up a solemn nod. “I won’t.”

“Good. Now, you go and have fun and I will see you at supper.” He bent to set her on her feet, then turned to Sophie. “And I’ll see you in an hour or so.”

“Yes, you will.”

Another quick kiss, which made Heather giggle, and then they parted ways, with Sophie and Heather going to Miss Oakmane’s while Thorin made his way to his own flat. He had no intention of allowing her anywhere near Dale, no matter how furious it made her. He was also not about to let Asharm get anywhere near her, and while she’d be furious with him, he’d deal with that later.

Keeping her and Heather safe was the only thing that mattered and in order to do that, he had to make sure Sten Asharm no longer walked amongst them.

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #Thorin Fic #Is it hot in here?#Romance #Richard Armitage

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jjungkookislife · 2 years

Text

Spooky

pairing: upskirt!jungkook x original character

genre: established relationship, smut [21+]

summary: Scream is Alejandra’s favorite slasher flick and Jungkook aims to please in his Ghostface costume and pretty rainbow knife.

wc: 4.9k

warnings: PLEASE read the warnings! this is a Halloween fic and content may be triggering to you!!! proceed with CAUTION! ghostface!role play, consensual knife play (with pre-established consent), use of a knife specifically a pocket knife, dom/sub undertones, thigh-highs, pierced!jungkook, tattoed!jungkook, BD!jk, long hair ytc!jungkook, marking (hickeys, scratching, biting, bruising), hair pulling, jungkook licks the knife, mask kink (?), Alejandra hides and JK searches for her in typical scary movie fashion, quotes from the movie used as dialogue, mention of JK being sadistic, blade is pressed to Ale’s neck/throat a lot as well as the rest of her body, spit kink, degradation, oral sex (f. giving and receiving), rough oral sex (cock slapping, gagging, deep throating), mention of temperature play, fingering f. (receiving), manhandling, spanking, unprotected sex, cum eating

date: October 29, 2022

Alejandra had gotten dolled up in her favorite black skirt, with chains that dangled and shined when the light hit them perfectly. Her chunky Demonias with bat wings drew her boyfriend’s gaze almost as much as the thick thigh-high socks that rested on her thighs beautifully. He resisted the urge to sink his teeth into the softness of them. Perhaps he would when they got home.

“Babe,” Jungkook says to draw Ale’s attention as she pushes the shopping cart slowly, admiring everything on the shelf in front of her. Pumpkins of all shapes, sizes, and colors greet her. Her manicured hands are done up for the season, pink and black with little white ghosts and spiderwebs. Jungkook’s the same, only shorter. At their next appointment they’ll do black and white, perhaps add some tiny little bats. Jungkook will keep his nails short so he doesn’t hurt her when he’s knuckle deep in her soaking wet cunt.

“Look,” Jungkook grins from the spot he’s wandered to at the end of the aisle. He holds up a Ghostface mask and Alejandra beams with excitement. After all, Scream is one of her favorite films.

“Fuck,” she curses as she walks toward her boyfriend. He holds the mask up next to his face, his smirk making her feel many emotions as she leans in to press a kiss on his cheek.

“Put it in the cart,” her voice is low as she walks away from Jungkook, swaying her hips as if he weren’t already looking at her ass. He’s spent most of the drive with his hand between her legs, fingers warming from the heat between her thighs.

Jungkook does as he’s told, smiling to himself as he walks back to his girlfriend. Easily, Jungkook wraps himself around her, his chin resting on her shoulder and his hands around her stomach, careful not to squeeze too much. Today is a bad day for Ale, she’s feeling a little insecure about her body but Jungkook’s spent the majority of the day devouring her in kisses, complimenting every bit of her, and writing every reason he loves her that has nothing to do with her physical appearance.

Ale has never felt more loved than today. She’s grateful for such an amazing boyfriend, such as Jungkook, even more so when she sees him in his Ghostface costume.

Halloween finally rolls around in their household. Ale plans on handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters until it’s time for them to head to Jimin’s Halloween bash.

Alejandra’s decided to be a sexy witch. Her dress only reaches mid-thigh while her thigh-high boots cover everything except a sliver of skin that Jungkook places his large hand on.

“You look hot as fuck,” he states when he sees her.

“You too,” she says before her lips are on his. His tongue easily slips between her lips, moaning when her tongue meets his.

“We don’t have to go to the party,” Jungkook assures her as his hands slip under her dress, feeling the thin material of her lace thong donned on only for the party. Normally, she’d go commando, a recent development that Jungkook seemed to love.

“Oh?” Ale grins as she grabs Jungkook. “Wouldn’t they wonder where we are?”

“Fuck them,” Jungkook growls as he bunches Alejandra’s dress up to her hips, exposing her thong. “Don’t pretend that’s such a significant loss.”

“It’s not,” she chuckles.

“Come here, Ale,” Jungkook can’t contain his arousal. Seeing his girl in her costume is more than enough to get him riled up. The thought of her thigh-high boots wrapped around his slim waist has him palpitating. He wants her to squeeze him between her thighs, make him drool on her soft skin and maybe cum from a lazy blowjob. Who knows?

“Babe?” Alejandra calls, waving her manicured hand in front of his face.

“Hmm?” Jungkook hums once he’s brought out of his daydream, his mask covering his face. “What, baby?”

“You zoned out,” Alejandra pouts as she kicks off her boots, leaving her in just her thigh-high socks. Something Jungkook had mentioned he loved seeing on her. Just looking at them made his mouth water. It had been a good minute since his pretty lips had sucked on her skin, leaving his mark for all to see. Maybe he’d decorate her pretty tawny skin once again, leaving nothing but red and purple bruises behind.

The thought leaves his cock throbbing.

“Kiss me,” Ale demands as his fingers grip the long strands of his hair, pulling him closer as she pushes the mask off his face enough to kiss him. Jungkook kisses her easily, melting under her touch. It’s easy for him to switch into his role-play like they had agreed to beforehand, scheduling it right before the party. They were cutting it close.

“Run,” Jungkook growls.

Alejandra blinks.

“What?”

“Run!” Jungkook instructs, showing his shiny knife, one he’d swapped out his fake one for this moment.

Alejandra bites back a moan. Instantly, she takes off, sliding on the wood floor as she runs out of the room while Jungkook licks the end of the knife that won’t split his tongue in two.

Taking his cell phone out, Jungkook hits his girlfriend’s nickname on the screen; Baby Girl <3.

“Hello, Alejandra.”

“Leave me alone! Who are you?!”

“Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough!”

The line goes dead, and Jungkook cackles.

Enough games. Jungkook shakes his head as he slowly makes his way through the house with his costume and mask on. He smiles to himself when he hears the creak of a floorboard. He clutches the handle of his knife tightly in his hand as he steps forward.

Silence.

Jungkook continues forward, slowly and cautiously checking each room, but comes out blank. He runs his hand over the straight end of the knife, a pretty little rainbow blade that had made his girlfriend’s eyes sparkle when she’d seen it online. Who was he if he didn’t aim to please?

“I’m coming for you, Alejandra,” he says loud enough to be heard throughout the house. He chuckles when he hears a soft squeak and more running. Jungkook smirks, cock already hard in his pants as he moves forward, knife dragging on the wall as he approaches the bathroom.

With silent footsteps, he steps inside. He turns his head to the side, smiling underneath his mask as he looks at his reflection. He takes his cell phone out of his pocket, raises his mask to unlock it, and puts it back in place before he snaps a picture to send to Ale.

Jungkook listens intently for the soft vibrating of her phone but hears nothing. He grins as he turns to face the shower curtain, slowly pushing it back with the edge of the knife. The hooks screech annoyingly as he moves them to the other end of the tub.

Empty.

“Hmm,” Jungkook clicks his tongue. “I do enjoy the chase.”

There are only so many places his girlfriend can hide. Jungkook is unbothered as he leaves the bathroom, stepping back into the hallway.

“Come on, Alejandra. Come out, come out, wherever you are!” he sings as he steps into the spare room. He strains his ears, trying to listen for any sounds, but hears nothing except the low ticktock of the wall clock that sits on the opposite wall from the door.

Cautiously, Jungkook steps further into the bedroom. His first stop is the closet, opening it rather loudly, only to come out empty.

Footsteps are heard behind him, and he cackles.

“Baby! You’re making this too easy!” he calls out, voice nearly a growl as he slams the closet doors shut.

Quickly, Jungkook is back in the hallway, catching a glimpse of Ale’s dress as she rounds a corner. He leans against the wall as he toys with the knife in his hands, admiring his nails as he gives her a few minutes to find a new hiding spot.

“Fuck,” Jungkook leans his head back, his free hand palming his erection over his pants. His skin is flushed, his body heated, and yearning for Alejandra’s touch. Wants her on her knees for him, wants to hear her sweet moans when the icy blade touches her skin and makes her shiver.

Jungkook decides he’s had enough chasing. He needs Ale more than ever. Pushing off the wall, he takes a few slow steps forward, deciding to head to the shared bedroom. He’s positive Alejandra is hiding somewhere in there.

As Jungkook enters the bedroom, he heads straight for the closet. Raising his hand, he drags the knife along the door before opening it slowly and sticking his head in. Alejandra covers her mouth to muffle the gasp as her heart races after hearing Jungkook in the bedroom.

It’s only a matter of seconds before he finds her.

“Alejandra,” Jungkook sings as he shuts the closet doors. “I know you’re in here, baby.”

Alejandra remains silent as Jungkook approaches with heavy footsteps. He looks at the nightstand, making sure the first aid kit is sitting there and ready in case it is needed. After all, safe play is the best play. He doesn’t intend to hurt Alejandra, but her safety will always be the utmost priority.

Jungkook chuckles as he checks beneath the bed, humming to himself. He smirks when he spots his girlfriend as she wiggles out from underneath.

He’s generous. He allows her ten seconds to escape before he’s chasing her with his knife. Her screams fill the home, fueling Jungkook’s sadistic self as he chases after her. He cackles when she slips on the kitchen floor, socks making it hard for her to run as she slides on the laminate flooring.

“Please!” Alejandra cries out as she falls on the floor, crawling toward the island, seeking shelter. Jungkook cackles as he approaches slowly. His thick boots meet the floor and it echoes in Ale’s ears. She holds her breath as her boyfriend presses edge of his knife to her neck, the cool blade sending shivers down her spine.

“What’s the matter, baby? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Jungkook quotes one of her favorite lines (with an adjustment) of Scream and she looks into his mask, tingles running down her spine. Alejandra wants him to kiss her, to touch her already.

“Kook,” she pants.

Jungkook remains silent. His Ghostface mask is all Ale can see as the knife digs into her skin slightly.

“Are you afraid, Alejandra?” Jungkook asks with a quirk of his head, checking in with her as a precaution.

“I’m not afraid. Do it,” Alejandra pleads, swallowing thickly as the knife presses harder against her. She moans, tuning herself out in her head as Jungkook slips the knife between her breasts, cutting her stupid costume open. The sound of it tearing apart leaves her clenching around nothing as her lust-filled eyes look at Jungkook’s mask straight on. Looking down at the scraps of cloth, she’s grateful she thought ahead and bought a backup costume.

The blade lays between her breasts, nipples hard and pussy dripping. Alejandra begs Jungkook to fuck her and he cuts through the rest of the thin velvet material of her dress easily.

“Fuck, baby. Tell me when you want to stop, okay?” Jungkook checks in.

The blade slides across her hips. “Can I cut these off?”

Alejandra simply nods her consent. Jungkook waits for her to consent aloud before he’s using the knife to cut through her thong, throwing the scraps over his shoulder.

Leaving nothing to the imagination, Jungkook is quick to kiss his way up his girlfriend’s thick thighs. His lips suck on her thighs, hands gripping supple flesh as his teeth scrape along her inner thigh.

“Jungkook,” she breathes when she rips the mask off to discard it on her kitchen floor.

“Ale,” he moans in response as he kisses her once again. His hands find purchase on her hips as he kisses her deeply, his tongue meeting hers in an intimate kiss that leaves his toes curling.

Jungkook gains his restraint, his knife pressed to her neck once again. Her trembles make his cock rock hard as he presses deeper, but is careful not to draw blood.

“Fuck, Kook,” Ale moans, fingers tangled in his dark locks.

“Jungkook,” Alejandra breathes as she pushes him onto the floor once the knife is safely placed on the ground before she’s climbing over him. Jungkook chuckles darkly, reaching for the knife to place on her breast. The cold blade makes her shiver when it meets her skin.

“Fuck,” Alejandra moans, scrambling off him, giggling as she runs off.

Jungkook takes a few moments to himself, listening to the giggles of his girlfriend. She throws in a few screams to create the atmosphere but otherwise is silent save for the stomping of her sock-clad feet going down the hall.

Alejandra bites her plush bottom lip as she hides from her boyfriend, biting back the urge to moan when Jungkook stomps into the hall.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, baby,” he sings as he walks down the hallway. Alejandra didn’t make a peep as she burrowed further into the closet.

“Baby,” Jungkook sings as he rips open his bedroom door, stomping into the room and opening the closet door. With ease, he pulls Alejandra out and kisses her.

“Mine,” he growls.

Jungkook easily manhandles her to the bed, her head falling onto the plush pillows. She reaches out for him, keening when the knife presses against her ribs. The sensation has her stilling, biting back a moan as he drags it slowly down her belly to her hips.

“You look amazing like this, baby. Don’t move, okay? Can you stay still for me?” Jungkook asks before he proceeds, needing to hear from Alejandra first.

“Yes,” she clears her throat before repeating herself in a steadier tone.

Jungkook nods. “You know your safe word, right?”

“Starfish,” Alejandra answers automatically. Jungkook grins, rewarding her with a kiss on her hip before he’s hovering over her, asking her to open her mouth wide. Alejandra whines, feeling the cool scrape of his chains hitting her chin when he moves over her. His dark gaze has her pulsating, pussy soaking wet in need of his cock to stretch her, fuck her full of him and his cum.

Smirking, Jungkook collects a thick glob of saliva before spitting it in her mouth. Alejandra curses when it lands on her tongue, swallowing eagerly before begging for more.

“Greedy little bitch.” he shakes his head with a laugh.

Sitting back on his knees, Jungkook takes a moment to pull the costume off his body, leaving him in just his pants, boxers, and boots that he’s kicking off before he’s kissing Alejandra once again.

Soft hands reach for him, running down his broad shoulders and back. Nails scrape against his skin as a muffled moan meets Alejandra’s lips.

“I love you,” Jungkook whispers against her lips, kissing her right after as his hand slips between his body to spread her legs wider. Alejandra is quick to unbutton his pants, her palm gripping his erection just to hear him hiss in response. He nips at her earlobe, calling her a tease as his fingertips brush her clit.

His name rolls off Alejandra’s tongue, thighs shaking as she pulls down the zipper of his pants. Before Jungkook can do much more, Alejandra is climbing off the bed with his mask in her hands.

“Put it on?” she asks with a sly smile.

Jungkook smirks looking down at her. He raises a brow, “Anything for you, my love.”

Without any hesitation, Jungkook puts the mask back on as Ale drops to her knees in front of him. His vision is slightly obscured by the mask but he can still see the smile on her lips as she grabs his pants by the belt loops and tugs them down. Jungkook chuckles at her eagerness, a tattooed hand coming down to stroke her hair.

“We’ve got all night,” he assures her but Alejandra shakes her head.

“We’re late enough as is,” she says as her hand wraps around his thick cock, mouth already watering at the sight of the pearl of pre-cum that she licks up with her tongue. Jungkook swallows thickly, at a loss for words when his girlfriend swirls her tongue around the head of his cock, sucking it and tonguing the slit.

“Fuck, just like that,” he groans as he grabs her hair loosely so he can see her beautiful face stuffed with his dick.

Alejandra looks up, bats her lashes, and slurps loudly, obscene. Something about Jungkook in that mask leaves her soaking wet, her hand slipping between her legs to rub her clit while she takes more of his cock in her mouth, sloppily giving him head as he rocks his hips.

At the first gag, Jungkook’s pulling out, giggling at his girlfriend’s overeagerness to please. He wraps his hand around his length, asking Alejandra to stick her tongue out for him. When she does so, he smacks it wetly on the flat of her tongue a few times before he’s smacking her cheek while she desperately tries to take him back in her mouth, drool dripping down her chin toward her chest.

“Look at you, baby. Nothing but a cock hungry whore for my cock. You’re just dripping from everywhere, aren’t you?” Jungkook curses when she takes him back in her mouth, tears pooling in her eyes as he hits the back of her throat.

“Want me to fuck that little throat of yours, love?” He asks when she bobs up and down his length, one hand rolling his balls, saliva coating them as she continues to suck him off. She manages to say yes before she’s taking him back in her mouth, his cock wet and heavy on her tongue as he takes hold of her hair, knowing she’ll have to redo it when they’re finally ready to head out.

Slowly, Jungkook sets a pace that she can take, not wanting to do too much too fast, but it’s not long until she’s begging him for more and he’s eager to do so. After all, he aims to please and what Ale wants, Ale gets.

Reminding herself to breathe through her nose, Alejandra takes everything Jungkook gives her. Her makeup is smeared, lipstick fucked onto her cheeks, while mascara and eyeliner run down her face to drip onto her skin.

She’s a fucked out mess but every time she looks up and sees the mask, she pushes through, begging for more until she’s gagging around her boyfriend’s cock, pleading for more as her sticky thighs press together in search of some sort of relief that doesn’t come as her pussy clenches around nothing, in need of Jungkook’s cock and nothing else.

Laughing, Jungkook takes his cock out of her mouth, ignoring the whine that leaves her lips as he helps her to her feet. Taking the mask off, he tosses it onto the bed before he’s kissing Alejandra’s lips, licking the spit off her chin to spit back in her mouth.

“Get on the bed,” Jungkook commands, and Ale is quick to do as she’s told, butterflies filling her belly as she settles onto the pillows.

Alejandra sits up, resting her weight on her elbows as she hungrily eyes her man. Her tongue peeks from between her lips, licking them as Jungkook fists his cock while maintaining eye contact. He knows she’d be just as content watching him get himself off as she would be if he were fucking her. Her pleasure stems from his pleasure and vice versa.

“Like what you see?” he asks with a shit-eating grin, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

“I do,” Alejandra answers breathlessly, her eyes never leaving his cock as he releases it. He hops from one foot to the other, ripping off his socks, pants, and boxers before he’s climbing onto the bed once again. He wastes no time in kissing her, knowing they’ve played enough games and he just wants to feel her.

Enthusiastically, Ale kisses him back. Moans muffled in between kisses, teeth nipping lips, and tongues twined as Jungkook holds her face with his large hands, swallowing each of her saccharine moans.

“Jungkook,” his name escapes her when he’s kissing his way to her neck, teeth scraping along her sensitive skin before he’s sucking the flesh until it blooms a pretty red. His tongue then laves over the spot, his hands grabbing handfuls of her tits.

When he’s satisfied with the marks he’s left on her neck, Jungkook moves down to do the same to her breasts in only spots he can see. After all, they still had a party to attend, even if they were over an hour late.

Oh well, he’s sure Jimin would understand.

“Can I eat you out?” Jungkook asks as he settles between Alejandra’s thighs. His hands caress her calves, not touching her until he’s got her permission.

“Please,” comes her airy response as she falls back into the pillows behind her. She spreads her legs further, party be damned as Jungkook leans down, teasingly licking a thick wet stripe over her folds.

A shiver runs down her spine as she feels him do it again before he’s telling her to stay still.

“Don’t move, baby.” He reaches for the knife, using the handle to press onto her clit. Alejandra’s eyes roll to the back of her head as she feels the cool handle press on her clit before moving down until Jungkook is tossing it to the side closest to him to prevent any injury from occurring to her.

“Next time I should bring some ice,” he murmurs to himself. Temperature play wasn’t new to them either. The two of them normally fucked like bunnies, always adding a little spice here and there when the occasion called for it. Besides, feeling Jungkook’s ice-cold tongue on her clit left her trembling like a leaf fighting for its life with the first autumn breeze.

Jungkook’s hands grip Alejandra’s thighs, placing them over his shoulders as his fingers tease her clit, moving down to spread her lips, groaning when he sees how wet she is before he flicks his tongue against her clit.

Teasingly, Jungkook pushes one finger inside her while he circles her clit with his tongue, lewdly smacking his lips when he does it again and adds a second finger, curling them inside her as he fucks her on his fingers, pussy squelching lewdly.

“Fuck,” Alejandra covers her eyes, face heated with embarrassment, but a slap on her thigh gets her attention. Jungkook looks at her, asking her to sit up and look at him.

“Don’t you dare look away and don’t cover your mouth. I wanna hear you,” he states firmly as he locks eyes with hers. Alejandra nods, trying her best to keep her gaze on him as he goes back to eating her out, tongue swirling and twirling before he’s pressing his soaked fingers to her clit while his tongue fucks her entrance.

Alejandra writhes beneath him, feeling each long lick as she melts into the mattress while Jungkook alternates between long slow licks and short fast ones before taking her clit into his mouth and sucking it, teeth gently nipping it before he’s back to fucking her open on his fingers, arousal dripping down his tatted wrist.

“Fuck,” Jungkook moans softly as he watches Ale come undone on his fingers, thighs pressed together as his name fills the room. Her body arches, thighs quivering as she grips the sheets with one hand and a handful of his thick black hair in the other. She ruts her hips against his face, fucking herself on his tongue as she hits her high and combusts.

“Jungkook! Jungkook! Kook!” she can’t think of anything else as she comes down, her hair sticking to her forehead with sweat as she apologizes for pulling his hair so hard.

Jungkook grins, licking her arousal from his lips. “No need. I loved it.”

Alejandra giggles, sighing as she stares up at the ceiling, her heavy tits rising and falling with each of her breaths. Her heart is beating erratically in her chest, her body consumed by pleasure and tiredness when she’s able to collect herself, only to sit up and see Jungkook licking her essence off his fingers and grinning like a madman when he’s caught.

Almost immediately, Jungkook is above her again, chains hitting her in the face in his eagerness to get to her.

“Kook,” she laughs when she grips his chains to pull him down to her. He smiles before he captures her lips with his, kissing her deeply, her essence heavy on his tongue as they twine when the kiss deepens.

Jungkook places his hand on her thigh, lifting it to wrap around his waist. Alejandra moans when she feels the head of his cock press against her clit with each rock of his hips.

“I need you,” she whispers in between kisses. Her hands cradle his gorgeous face, mindful of his piercings as she feels herself fall deeper in love. Jungkook is all smiles and tender kisses as he lines himself at her entrance, moaning her name when she stretches to accommodate him.

“Baby,” she breathes, biting back a moan as the thickness of his cock makes her ache in the best way. Jungkook stays still for a moment, allowing her to make all the moves as she slowly spears herself on his cock to make her body take him. She’s so warm and wet. It drives Jungkook nearly insane until he bottoms out with a loud, sinful groan that makes Alejandra clench around him tighter.

“Holy shit,” she gasps at the feel of him. She swears she feels him in her stomach. Hell, maybe even her lungs as she takes a breath and her eyes squeeze shut before she’s moaning at the first cant of his hips.

“Do you want more?” Jungkook asks gently, a kiss pressed to her cheek as he makes sure his chains don’t hit her in the face when he moves.

“Please, Koo. I want it. I need it. Need you,” Alejandra curses when he pulls out only to slam back in, making her arch off the bed. “Only you, you, you.”

Jungkook takes her hand in his, lacing his fingers with hers as he sets a steady rhythm, listening to every delectable sound that escapes her. Jungkook noses his way to her neck, licking and sucking on the column of her throat to add more hickeys to the constellation already on her skin.

Smirking, Jungkook grabs both her hands to pin over her head with one of his.

“Fuck, Kook,” Alejandra moans, hands released so her nails can dig into his back as he fucks her harder, deeper, making sure she can feel every ridge of his fat cock as he splits her open. His mouth covers hers, moans and curses muffled.

“That’s my girl. Taking my cock so well,” Jungkook praises, just to listen to Alejandra whine in agreement, pleading for more as he grips her legs to place her ankles over his shoulders. He tugs her plush hips toward him, giggling when she screams in surprise at his brute strength.

Jungkook wastes no more time drilling into her, a hand reaching down to grab one of her big bouncing tits, leaning forward and bending her like a pretzel to take it in his mouth. His tongue circles her nipple into a stiff peak, sucking it before releasing it with a pop to do the same to her other nipple before he’s back to fucking her ruthlessly, grinning when the headboard smacks against the wall, again and again, the soundtrack of their coupling.

“Jungkook, fuck. So deep,” Alejandra babbles, eyes fluttering shut as her nails drag down his thigh before she rubs her clit. Jungkook grins, lifting her leg to his lips, planting a kiss on her foot before he’s placing his hand beside her head and fucking her until her thighs tremble around his waist and she falls apart in a mess of cries and curses.

“That’s it, love. Cum for me like the little slut you are,” Jungkook grunts, his hips slamming against her, balls hitting her ass as he cums inside her with a deep moan of her name.

“Shit,” he throws his head back, pleasure coursing through his body as her cunt tightens around him, milking every drop from his cock before he’s pulling out and sitting back on his feet just to see his release trickling out of her cunt.

“Looks so good,” he mumbles to himself before he’s licking it up.

“Kook!” Alejandra whines, her legs shaking as she tries to press them together with a giggle.

“Can’t help myself,” Jungkook blushes as he licks his lips, fucking the rest of his cum and hers back into her with his fingers. He brings them to his lips, sucking them clean before he’s kissing her.

“How was it?” he asks, his arms wrapped around her.

“So good,” she says as she places her head on his shoulder. Jungkook stays at her side for as long as she needs before she’s tugging him out of bed and toward the shower.

If they’re fast enough, they can make it to the party before 11 pm, only two hours late.

“You sure you can handle my Ghostface again?” Jungkook teases as he gets dressed after their brisk shower.

“As long as you can handle my Yor costume.” Alejandra grins when she steps out of the bathroom in her new costume. Jungkook’s jaw drops when he takes her in, licking his lips as he approaches.

“Challenge accepted, baby girl.”

thank you for reading! ♡ if you liked it, please let me know! 💌

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#bangtanarmynet #btshoneyhive #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x original character #jungkook x original poc character #jungkook halloween fic #ghostface!jungkook #ghost face!jungkook #bf!jungkook #bf!jungkook au

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bhaalbaaby · 9 months

Text

The Stillness Bends // Chapter 1

Title: Know Yourself and The Enemy (1854 words) Pairing: Shadowheart/Fem!Tav Warnings: Emetophobia, Flirtations, Flashbacks A/N: be gentle and thank you for my beta @bunnidarling 🥺 Taglist: @spacebarbarianweird @tragedybunny @astarionsbeloved @razrogue @celestialomlette @rentheannihilator @rinmoon7

Read on AO3!

Penelope grimaces as they trudge through the mud, thudding and yelling not too far ahead of them. She's never met any goblin before all of this. Odd little creatures. Her first victims. She tries not to think about them too much.

Her daggers have seen so much blood, there's no bloodlust, only grief. She hides it with a smile, not wanting to seem weak in front of her companions. Penelope is not a killer. Her daggers at home were only for threatening. Is she a seasoned killer now or a hero? What would her friends back in Baldur's Gate think? They wouldn't believe her. Hells, she barely believes any of this herself, the experience living in her bones.

She already feels inexperienced with combat and survival when she speaks to any of her companions.

She stops in front of the bridge, the smell of piss, alcohol, and blood thick in the smoky air. Wyll can barely contain himself as he grimaces. "We should cut them down quickly and efficiently. The longer we stay, the more issues we may find." He's so confident. He should be the leader.

Penelope turns to the rest of them. Shadowheart nods, "I must agree. Goblins aren't known for hospitality." "Wicked little creatures," Astarion adds.

"Let's see what they know first. Volo mentioned something about the Absolute, and Nettie said Halsin came here searching about these tadpoles." Penelope reasons, trying to see if they can avoid more bloodshed.

Astarion rolls his eyes. "I suppose we can snoop around. Find out more about these monsters in our heads." She flashes him a grateful smile. "I wonder what power they possess." Astarion continues with a glint in his red eyes.

Her smile fades. She doesn't want to find out.

Getting past the Goblins at the gate is an easy feat. She feigns grief as she lies. "We were sent here by True Soul Edowin. Absolute rest his soul." His siblings were the first humans her blades claimed.

"Another True Soul? The Drow will want to speak to you then." He then remarks on Penelope's body, making her shudder. Before, she would only think about ending any of those who crossed her. Now she can. No one but herself can stop her from fighting.

She can hardly blame the goblin for saying anything. She's ill-fitted for fighting, her armor bits and pieces from her dancer attire, repurposed for battle with Astarion's help. Her dark pink bralette is reinforced with some scale mail they got from Arron. Against Shadowheart and Wyll's suggestions, her midriff is still exposed because it didn't look right covered up. Her skirts remain the same, makeshift boots under them to protect her legs from any damage and the elements. She could always lie and say she's a dancer ready to entertain the leaders if need be. Her long fuchsia hair is rolled up in a bun resting on her neck, with flyaways, and small curtain bangs framing her delicate face.

The urge fades as they walk past the wooden gates. She would kill him later. Would she enjoy it? Possibly... She doesn't know.

As the group approaches the Goblin camp, the tadpole wiggles as if awoken by something. She glances at Shadowheart, jaw tight as they continue. Wyll rubs his temple gently, trying not to cause any attention. Astarion’s expression is no less unnerving, his brow low. Penelope continues walking. At least it's not just her, she thinks to herself as they start to cross the bridge.

The pain is piercing and gradual, forcing her on her knees. She hears the others struggle as well before silence and darkness cloaks her. Her heart races, pressure building in her head. Is this the end? The woman's voice draws her in, the tadpole stilling as if listening as well. Purple light emits in front of her, three black figures sprouting from them. Their features are hidden by the smoke and darkness, but that man, his manner, that smile. She's seen it before. Maybe in her dreams. Her concentration wanes as the voice booms. "Help My Chosen search for the Prism and you shall be worthy to be in my presence."Heat emanates from behind her as the artifact leaves Shadowheart's pack. The voice grows fainter as the artifact dwindles in the air, the power pulsating stronger than ever as it floats back to Shadowheart.

Penelope sits back on her knees, left catching her breath as the pressure lifts. Making sense of what just happened would be as inexplicable as everything else. Shadowheart stares at the prism in awe. "What in the Hells is that exactly?" Penelope asks, her eyes darting between the artifact and Shadowheart's face.

"I don't know. It saved our lives," Shadowheart says, shaking her head. Packing away the prism, her dangerous green eyes meet Penelope's. "I will keep it protected. I must do so. All I know is that it's important to get it back to Baldur's Gate, at any cost."

"What's in Baldur's Gate?" Penelope asks, stepping closer. She can feel Shadowheart's hesitancy as she steps back. "I suppose I must tell you as we're traveling together..." She straightens, her shoulders squared. "I serve Shar. My cloister is in Baldur's Gate."

Shar. Penelope knows little of the Goddess. She also knows the cloister exists, just not where. She lost a client to Lady Shar's practice in the past; the man barely remembered his name except that he came to Sharess' Caress sometimes. She pitied him and all of Shar’s followers. The same sorrow fills her now as she listens to Shadowheart. And such a pity. Shadowheart is such a pretty woman. The Lady of Loss isn't keen on her followers feeling any pleasure and Penelope has fleeting plans for the Cleric.

Wyll shakes his head as concern lines his face. "A Shar worshiper? Not my usual quarry, nor my usual ally."

Penelope sighs, rubbing her head, at least the tadpole is silent. "Thank you for sharing, Shadowheart. At least we know something about whatever that is." She gestures to her pack as Shadowheart rolls her eyes. "This is out of pure necessity. Pure desperation, in fact."

"I'm sure... Keep it safe. Whatever it is, 'The Absolute' is searching for it." Penelope replies, suddenly tired. "Let's go meet these leaders."

The stench grows stronger as they walk through drunk Goblins, Bugbears, and Orges. Penelope holds her breath as they reach the doors of the defiled Temple.

"I don't think I can do this." Penelope whimpers, her uvula feeling thick in the back of her throat.

"What do you mean you can't do this?" Astarion asks, his tone annoyed.

She turns to him, pale. "This smell doesn't bother you?" She asks in a hissed whisper, her stomach lurching. He rolls his eyes as Wyll steps closer, "We can come back later. I'm sure they'll drink themselves to death." She hopes he's right as they head to camp.

Penelope sits by the water at camp. Maybe a bath would clear her mind and calm her stomach. As she starts to undress, she hears footsteps in the sandy grovel.

She keeps her top on as she turns to see Shadowheart. "I don't mean to intrude." She says, surprisingly shy. Her eyes avoid Penelope's direction. "I'm decent enough, luv," Penelope says with a light laugh as she walks over to Shadowheart.

"I made you this. It's for nausea relief. Should help when we go through their stronghold." The bottle is murky brown and smells medicinal.

"Thank you, Shadowheart."

The Cleric nods, still looking away. She's cute when she's playing coy, Penelope thinks as she steps closer, tilting Shadowheart's head towards her. "Are you alright? You seem a little distracted?" Penelope asks, her thumb brushing Shadowheart's cheek. The blacks of her eyes help the bright magenta pop more in the growing darkness, the heart pupils more prominent.

"I-I'm fine." She doesn't pull away from Penelope's grasp.

"Did you want to join me for my bath?" Penelope asks as innocently as she can.

Shadowheart's breathing quickens, her eyes widening slightly before she laughs, stepping away. "No, we shouldn't. Um. Thank you for not being angry with me." She adds as well, keeping her head lowered.

The urge to kiss her is overwhelming, but Penelope behaves herself. "What are you talking about?" She asks, tilting her head to the side.

"For being a Shar worshiper."

Penelope rolls her eyes. "None of that matters while we have The Absolute and Ceremorphosis to worry about." She tries her best to mimic Gale as she says the mind flayer transformation's official name, happy to see Shadowheart try to suppress her smile.

"I guess you're right. I should leave you to your bath."

"The offer to stay is still on the table," Penelope replies, playing with the ties of her dress.

Shadowheart's cheeks tinge pink as she shakes her head. "Maybe another time."

It's not a no. Penelope smiles softly as she turns around, "I'll be here when you change your mind." The dress loosens around her waist as she discards it, stepping into the water. She glances over her shoulder to see the half-elf gone.

Her bath is quiet in contrast to her mind, which thrashes with anxiety as she glides her fingers over her arms. Maybe they can do something else before returning to the goblins. She feels cowardly not wanting to venture further into the keep. They're not ready. She's not ready. She can barely strike without feeling remorse. She knows a few spells, but she feels so weak compared to Gale and Wyll. She is leading them to their doom. Sinking into the water, she ignores the feeling of mud under her toes as she wishes she could run away.

Flashbacks are ice daggers in her chest as she remembers the forest enclosing her and her mother. "Keep going," her mother instructed as they ran. The thudding of horses echoed behind them: highwaymen. She squeezed her mother's hand as they sprinted.

Penelope looks up at the sky and the stars above. The memory tries to resurface, the men shouting at them. “ Hellspawn !” They were so close to the city. Her mother stopped when they lost them, reaching into her pocket and handing the young Penelope the letter from her aunt and her mother's locket.

"Nel, go to the city. If we get separated, find your aunt."

Penelope sniffled, "I don't wanna go without you."

Her mother wiped the stray tear. "My beautiful girl, I'll always be with you."

She splashes her face with water, feeling a lump in her throat. Her mother is now a distant memory, and yet she can recall the scent of rosewater and thyme from their garden in Elturel. Her mother wouldn't want her to give up.

She steels herself with that memory. She won’t break down in front of the others. She walks out of the water as the warm sunset covers the camp. She ignores how scratchy the old towel is as she picks it up. Tomorrow is another day. Hopefully, Shadowheart's medicine works. As another day passes with the tadpole in their brains, the more paranoid Penelope becomes.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 spoilers #bg3 tav #tav: penelope #penelope x shadowheart #tav x shadowheart #shadowheart x tav #shadowheart bg3 #writing #the stillness bends

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tosxah · 5 months

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&&. | @nagareboshiko

Happily Childe made his way to the closed off room with the woman, probably the prettiest woman in the place. Well well, wasn't he just the luckiest man at the joint? The place smelled of expensive perfumes, couches lined with lavish fabrics and fat people with more money in their wallets than sense. The interior design was pretty, but not as much as the women and men that worked inside it. She must have noticed the looks she was being given, there was no way she wouldn't, most of the customers weren't trying to hide their leering gaze.

He didn't fight the gentle force of her hand on his chest as he let himself fall back into a fancy looking velvet black armchair that stood out again the red of all the rest of the decor. Blue eyes followed her movements as she strode to the music player, looking over her curvy figure, the way the fabric hugged everything just right. But beyond his own perversions, there was a reason for his observing eyes; Lumine wasn't one to be underestimated. Though it could be mistaken for caution, it was more like intrigue.

The smile on his lips never faded, at times it changed but his attitude stayed the same, like when she removed the pin from her hair, or when her touch lingered methodically, or when she steps between his open legs and reaches under her skirt and pulls out a gun, he'd be lying if he didnt admit that just the click of it in her hand stirred his excitement.

He observed patiently and willingly, eyes on areas of her body for just a moment too long. Deep blue eyes met golden ones, spotlights of warm honey in the dim of the room. From the distance he could smell her perfume, sweet and enticing, infact he could practically feel her warmth. The bullets rained on his leg, falling to the ground with muted thuds on the carpet. Childe would be lying if he said she didn't make it hard to focus, man or woman, anyone being touched like that by someone like her would have trouble thinking of anything but the way her fingers messaged his thigh, the way he really could just play customer for the night and how he'd enjoy nothing more that to throw her around like she weighed nothing. But instead he kept his gaze level, refusing to let his little personal wants overcome what he came to do.

Childe chuckled, he reached up tentatively, cupping her cheek and gracing her skin with his gloved hand, line of sight following his fingers over her porcelain skin, down her neck, her decolletage, stopping just before the bulge of her breasts (as much as he'd love to go further, he wasnt about to do anything his mama wouldnt approve of). "So tense, Girly." He glanced back up at her, a cunning smile on his lips, their faces just a bit closer than they were before, practially in kissing distance. He kept his gaze fixed completely on those intoxicating hues now, hand ghosting near her breasts but not touching only to find her warm clothed tummy. The dark fabric that hugged her figure so perfectly moved with his gentle touch, sliding his hand down her stomach, over the dip of where her thigh and tummy met, down the short length of her skirt, then between her legs and there he found weapon number two.

He hummed lowly, lips a breath apart from hers, "you really must be happy to see me." Childe slipped the small butterfly knife out from between her soft, supple thighs with his overly flirtacious tone and sat back in his seat allowing for a bit of space between them, playing with it between his fingers like a toy as it clicked open and closed. "As tempting as your offer is, youve only got a little bit of fabric covering you, so wheres the challenge? You should know me better than that by now, aquantence." He dropped the flirting persona for more of his typical self confidence.

Humming in thought, eyes cast off somehwere, he pressed the cool blade against his lips "what if," he flicked the blade closed, meeting her golden gaze, "you guess who I'm here to kill and if you're right, I won't. You have one guess but" He flicked the knife open again, pointing it in her direction gesturally as he spoke "you can have a second if you forfeit your dress. How's that sound? Or even better if you're so eager to take off your clothes, you can do it anyways, I won't mind."

#nagareboshiko #assassin/spy au #i found this look

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ariluvsusm · 2 years

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Could you do a azriel x reader were reader was in love with some one That azriel had killed as the Shadowmaster then a few decades go by then azriel see reader at a ball in day Court and the mating bond clicks for him

I do not care how it ends as long as it's a good ending

yes!! thank you so much for the ask :)

warnings: angst?!?!, reader is spiteful ASFFFF, a few sexual implications, reader is female/fem presenting, reader is giving aelin galathynius vibes,

description: you’re an assassin and your partner is killed by azriel. 20 years later, you’re at a ball, and azriel realizes that you are mates.

a/n: PLEAAAASSSEEE PLEASE give me requests!!! i would love to write literally anything your heart desires 😭 i write for other acotar and tog characters, also!! go check my first post for the list of who i write for, there’s shows too :) (girl and boy!!). anyway, this one is shorter but i really enjoyed writing it. please give me feedback and advice- i’d appreciate it!

wordcount- 2.3k :)

———————————————————————

“i am going to kill you,” you snarl at the spymaster, drawing your daggers from their thigh holsters under your dress.

“i’m going to kill you. i’m going to burn you alive; i’m going to take the air from your lungs and turn your heart to ice; i’m going to burn his name into your skin and brand your bones,” you growl savagely, slowly making your way towards him. magic flickers at your fingertips.

the male in front of you was drained from his duel with your boyfriend. even if he wasn’t, you would still take him on. you circle eachother, blades drawn, staring eachother down. your boyfriends body lay on the other side of the dark hewn city alley, a lake of blood around him.

“stop,” the spymaster’s shadows hiss at him, “don’t hurt her. you’ll regret it.”

“i have no issue with you,” the man snarls back, “stop now, or i will have to fight you.”

“oh, but i have an issue with you,” you laugh cruelly, “you killed my boyfriend.”

“i am a spymaster,” he growls, “i must obey my high lord. do you know what activities your boyfriend was partaking in? the crimes he committed?”

you try not to think about what he might have been hiding. you don’t let your shock show on your face, but the shadowsinger can tell that you didn’t know anyway.

“of course i knew. i’m an assassin,” you snap.

“oh yes, i know you. the dragon of the dunes.” he drawls, stating your old nickname. he backs up, cornering himself. you laugh cruelly once more, your magic begging to be released.

“good,” his shadows whisper. “leave.”

and then he disappears. he disappears into the shadows.

fuck. fuck. he’s a shadowsinger. how could i forget? he can travel through shadows. gods, i should’ve attacked while i had the chance.

but he wasn’t gone; he was still watching you, hiding in the shadows. you yell in frustration, throwing your dagger to the ground. you turn around, and your sight falls upon your lifeless boyfriend. making your way to the other side of the room, you wipe your bloody hands on your skirt and then fall to your knees at his side

the mysterious shadowsinger watches while you attempt to revive him. for 20 minutes, you perform various attempts to save his life. and then, he watches as you fall apart, weeping, your entire body shaking. as you kneel over him, sobs wracking your bod. begging, praying, for some deity to resurrect him. before he can feel any guiltier, he leaves.

he doesn’t sleep that night. for some reason, the images of you weeping haunt his very soul and being. a sorrow that doesn’t fade.

——————————————— 20 YEARS LATER

you slip on your silky, white gown and gawk at yourself in the mirror. it’s a long, white, almost bridal dress. although, weddings are a human tradition, so white gowns have no significance to fae. the dress is sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline that shows off your chest. it’s almost iridescent; so shiny and silky. it compliments the body glitters and oils you applied. you do your hair, before putting on a beautiful headpiece. you rim your eyes with kohl, apply a sultry mauve lipstick, slip on your heels, and drape yourself in silver jewelry. finally, you are ready to attend the ball.

you’ve been invited to a winter solstice ball at the moonstone palace, a very formal but fun event. you can’t wait to eat and dance with your friends, to let go for one night. you slip out of your apartment and into the city, walking to the palace.

when you get there, festivities are already starting. you dance with your friends, eat night court delicacies and drink faerie wine. you’re heading to get another drink, and that’s when he spots you.

the spymaster. he’s watching the crowd- looking for enemies of the night court who might try to cause trouble. when he sees you walking towards the drinks, he recognizes you almost immediately, despite the 2 decades of time between your first and last meeting.

but it’s when you see him- make eye contact with him- that it clicks. and he knows that he is fucked.

because when you recognize the inky hair and golden skin, the shadows and tattoos, and you begin to storm towards him with simmering rage and hatred in your eyes, and he doesn’t feel anything towards you except… except a primal kind of… protectiveness.

his senses are going wild- he can smell you. your scent. the scent that he smelled for 5 minutes- 5 minutes- 20 years ago.

you look absolutely livid. but all he can see is beauty. and you draw closer, the same stride in your step, the same look on your face as that fateful night all those years ago. but it’s as if he’s in a trance- just gazing at you. and it makes it all the more enraging, his reaction. or his lack of one, more like.

“spymaster,” you spit. and then you are shoving past him, making sure to hit his shoulder as you storm past him. he doesn’t know what to do. if he tells you he’s your mate, you may not believe him. you may hate him more. it may ruin you. but evsr primal instinct in his body urges him to follow you.

he’s thought of you and the male he killed a surprising amount. his dead haunt his dreams- every one he’s killed. but for some reason, the memory of you weeping and begging over the male’s lifeless body is a recurring one. but- he’s killed so many before. it never made sense why your face appeared in his dreams so often; until now. your promise to him- to kill him- echos in his head. even now.

you stomp out of the giant french doors and into the large garden of the palace, lit by moonlight and surrounded by nature. you sit on a brick ledge, staring at your lap, tears threatening to spill out. it’s been so long since you thought about your promise. for the first two years after his death, you searched for the spymaster. you armed yourself to the teeth, asking anyone who would listen, anyone who would help. you managed to find him a few times, but you never got close enough. after that you decided that you would climb the ranks of the court, and then you would kill him. so that’s what you did. and you got pretty close, but never close enough. the high lord didn’t need an assassin- so you were always stuck a level below, stuck in hewn city, not wherever the high lord and the spymaster spent all of their time. but as the years passed you by, you realized that he would’ve wanted you to be happy- to move on and do what you really wanted to do. so you did that too. you put vengeance on the back burner, and you wrote. you wrote poems of love and loss, grief and the great. you wrote stories of him and you wrote songs of life. and then you returned to become an assassin, and decided that when the opportunity presented itself, you would keep your promise. and kill the spymaster.

however, eternity is a long time to hold a grudge, and over the years your rage flaked off bit by bit. but when you saw him tonight, it awoke. and so you were grateful for the daggers under your dress and in your bodice, for the sharp pins in your hair. you just had to collect yourself enough to kill him now.

when you heard steps behind you, you jumped up. quickly drawing your daggers from your thigh holsters, as you had all those years ago, and turning around.

“old habits die hard, huh?” the shadowsinger chuckled.

“what are you doing here?” you spit.

“this happens to be my court too.” he says.

and then… you just stand there for a few minutes. staring at eachother.

“well?” he says.

“well?” you snap.

“say something.”

you draw closer to him, twirling your daggers. memories of your past lover echo in your mind- including the one of him writhing in pain, falling to the ground, mouth open in a horrible silent scream.

“i’m going to make you regret ever nearing me or my loved one. i’m going to make you die a horrible death. just like him.”

but it was the sight of him- his eyes- that made you stop dead in your tracks. he looked like he was in pain. genuine regret and sorrow danced in his eyes.

“it was quick.” he says quietly. “it was quick- as all of the deaths are of the ones who don’t cause direct harm to the court are. your beloved was killed because he was a threat to the court. but he never directly did anything to hurt me- or hurt the high lord. and he never hurt any young ones, any children. no matter how many he killed.”

faces flash in his eyes. the ones that haunt him. the ones that he’s killed. the ones that he’s hurt. he can feel your pain. down to the depths of his bones. his instincts tell him how hurt you are- how much he’s made you hurt.

“oh.” you just say. “oh.”

“i-“ he takes in a breath, shuddering. “i’m sorry. i really am. i know how dear he was to you.”

“why do you do it? why do you kill if you hate it so?”

“that isn’t my whole job,” he says, looking down at his feet. “i’m a spy. i help people, too. i save people. but this part of my job- the duty i must fulfill- i do because i am most loyal to my high lord. he is my brother. he knows how demanding it is- but i am the only one he trusts for the job. the people i must kill- they are the ones who it is absolutely necessary to. he wouldn’t ask me to unless they were.” he says, still looking down.

and it is when he looks up, when your rage has calmed and simmered down to a spark, when you can see something other than red- that you feels it. a feeling so ancient, so old. older than time itself. but so wonderful, so fulfilling and brilliant, that warmth spreads throughout your body. he is your mate. your daggers clatter to the ground.

your eyes meet his hazel ones, and you can tell he knows too. he opens his mind to you and you drink it in. see his memories, his experiences, his side of the story. his scars. his everything.

it’s all you can do not to fling yourself at him- embrace him. you understand. you understand why he had to do it- you see his childhood, you see his parents, his family, his scars. you see his abuse. you feel his pain, his agony. his childhood. you see his really family- the high lord, the inner circle. you see his job- the good parts and the bad parts. and you see his regret. his guilt. you see him, for years, waking up from terrors greater than you have ever felt.

you step forward. the feeling inside of you- this light- it consumes you, consumes both of you. this joy, this life.

you take another step forward and grasp his hands, tears finally escaping your eyes. his shadows cloak where you connect- swathing your arms in night.

“what about-“ he whispers to you, tears running down his own face.

“he would’ve wanted this for me. for me to be happy.” you whisper back. and you know it’s the truth.

for these last 20 years, through the spite and hurt and need for revenge, you knew deep down that he would’ve wanted you to move on and be happy. but you couldn’t let go- not until you got him justice.

but you let yourself feel it now. you let yourself let go. and those feelings escape; you open your mind to him too. let him in, let him see the good and the bad. let him see your past lover, who he was and what he meant to you. your childhood and your life. everything.

he drops your hands and cups your face with his hands, so you cup his in yours.

“i am so, so sorry. for everything that’s happened to you. for what’s happened to me. but i’m so grateful- that i found you again. that you understand. all of it- i have someone to share it with.” he murmurs

“me too.” you whisper.

you stand like that for another few minutes- all sappy, crying, cupping each others faces.

“i’m so glad i didn’t kill you.” you say through laughter.

“me too.” he laughs back.

and as he looks into your beautiful, moonlight filled eyes, he sees no trace of the hatred, the pure loathing that once drowned them. he sees understanding and love.

#azriel #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x female!reader #azriel x reader #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #sjmaas #acosf #acomaf #acofas #sarah j maas #sjm #fanfic #feyre archeron #rhysand #cassian

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ladytanithia · 10 months

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Writing WIP Wednesday (11/22)

Still not feeling much like writing, but I'm pushing myself so I don't fall completely off the wagon. Just a snippet of Chapter 22 of Best-Laid Plans (737 words). Miranja's experience with Nelkir and the Ebony Blade.

No pressure to read or share, my friends, but if you do share, tag me so I can read yours! @dirty-bosmer @guarmommy @gwilin-stay-winnin @mareenavee @skyrim-forever @thana-topsy @thequeenofthewinter

What she found in the locked room horrified her: a sword of Mephala designed to grow stronger when the wielder betrays and kills people who trust them. The sound of Mephala’s voice made her skin crawl.

She wanted to take this evil blade away and hide it somewhere – but where? It had remained safely in this room for an unknown length of time – or had it? If its presence allowed Mephala to seduce young Nelkir, was it really safe for it to be here? Was Nelkir miserable and lonely, bullied by his brother and sister with a different mother? If so, was this what made him susceptible to Mephala’s voice? Were the things Mephala told him even true? She had many questions about this sword and its effect upon vulnerable minds. Where could she put it where no one would accidentally stumble upon it and she could check on it frequently? What sort of mind was vulnerable? Yes, she could clearly hear Mephala speak to her, but she had no compulsion to murder the people she cared about for this dark Daedra. Clearly, if this sword fell into Nelkir’s hands, he would kill his own father, probably his siblings, even Farengar.

She felt she had no choice but to remove the sword from Dragonsreach before a great tragedy befell the place. The blade was long, but Miranja had worn a dress to visit the keep today, and she could hide the sword along her side and leg under her dress, if she could just find something to secure it and keep it from sliding down. Returning to the storage room outside the secret room, she relieved a large burlap bag filled with flour sacks of its rope tie. It was long enough to tie around her thigh, though too fat to fit it through the metal loop on the scabbard where the weapon could be attached to a support strap on a sword belt.

She went back into the secret room and hoisted her skirts to put the hilt end of the sword up the side of her bodice, to her armpit. The ebony was cold, unusually so. Holding her skirts under her chin, she wrapped the rope first around her inner thigh, crossing it against the outer side, then completed and tied off the figure eight around the scabbard, stretching her arms and trying not to bend too much so the rope would be secure. Dropping her skirts, she took a little walk around the room to test her work. The sword shifted a bit with her steps, but she pressed her arm to her side and that stilled it. She left the room, locking the door behind her, and returned to the great hall to make her way out.

Nelkir was loitering against the long dining table, munching on a boiled cream treat, obviously waiting for her. She struggled to hide her discomfort and nervousness, but the boy’s expression was one of knowing.

“You know the Whispering Lady, too, don’t you? I can tell.” He gave her a conspiratorial smirk.

Miranja glanced around and, seeing no one very close, leaned toward him and whispered, “The Whispering Lady is evil, and I hope that what I’ve done today will keep her from troubling you ever again. The atmosphere in Dragonsreach should lighten up for you soon. I’ll be back to check on you next time I’m in town.”

“As if you really care about me,” Nelkir scowled. “No one does.”

Miranja looked past Mephala’s influence and saw the boy’s pain. “It’s very possible that your brother and sister…”

“Half-brother and sister,” Nelkir interjected adamantly.

Miranja ignored his interruption and continued. “…have also been under the influence of the Whispering Lady. That could be why they’ve been cruel to you.”

Now Nelkir was suspicious. “What makes you think they’ve…”

“Call it a hunch. But I’ve talked to your father in private, before you and I talked, and he told me about the circumstances leading to your birth. He loved your mother, and he loves you, too. You’re all he has left of her. And I may not know you well enough to say that I love you, but I care about your father, a dear friend, and by extension I care about his family and his entire household.”

Nelkir scoffed, but something in his eyes told Miranja that she had planted a seed.

“Have a good afternoon, Nelkir. I’ll see you again soon.”

#skyrim #elder scrolls #tesblr #miranja #fanfic #ao3 #tes #nelkir #mephala

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levithestripper · 2 years

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You’ll Always Be My Prince: Chapter Three—The Garden

go to the previous chapter || go to the next chapter || back to the series masterlist

chapter summary: aemond is forced to face the wrath of his family alone after rhaella is escorted from the throne room. with no one to stand by his side, aemond retreats to a hideaway he discovered within the castle.

chapter warnings: aemond targaryen’s pov, angst, canon typical fighting, fluff.

length: 4.4k || read on ao3

a/n: sorry for such a long wait but i hope it’s worth it! as always, let me know what you think, and i hope you enjoy it!

“Your Grace! Stay with the King!” Ser Harrold Westerling yells after Queen Alicent, drawing his sword, the other Kingsguard following suit. Alicent rushes toward Princess Rhaenyra with Viserys’ Valyrian steel dagger, and the throne room erupts into a cacophony of panicked shouting. Aemond and his brother are left in shock by the fireplace. Aemond’s attention was drawn to the large, dark-oak doors at the edge of the room, watching as Rhaella fled the throne room with her father. A wave of relief washed over him.

Jacaerys and Lucerys yell and tug at their mother’s skirts, blubbering out half-audible warnings to her. Rhaenyra pivots just in time to counter Alicent’s attack, one hand grasping the Queen’s hand, the other wrapping around her wrist. Alicent’s offensive hand swayed between them, the Princess’ strength stopping it in its tracks. The crowd gives the pair a wide, circular berth, no one stupid enough to be caught in the middle of their fight. Jace and Luke scurry to hide behind their grandparents. Corlys pushes his grandchildren behind him; Rhaenys holds the four close to her body, doing all she can to soothe the poor children.

Ser Criston Cole weaved in and out of the crowd in a desperate attempt to get to Lucerys, stopped only by the brick wall that is Ser Harrold. “Stay your hand, Cole!” The command is inaudible to the others in the room but is enough to stop the knight in his tracks. Two other Kingsguard come to restrain him, freeing Ser Harrold to return to the conflict at hand.

“You have gone too far!” Rhaenyra pleads, struggling to keep Alicent off of her. Her face was one of concern and panicked adrenaline.

Astonishment is written all over the Queen’s face, somewhat surprised that Rhaenyra turned around so quickly. It quickly dissipated into desperation. “I? It’s I who’s gone too far? What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the Kingdom, our family, the law.” Her voice is thick with distraught, words wobbling with unshed tears. The dagger swayed above their heads, Rhaenyra’s eyes darting back and forth between the blade and her former friend’s face. Half-dried tear tracks are still visible on Alicent’s cry-pinkened cheeks. “While you, your children, and your husband disregard all responsibility and do what you please!?”

King Viserys interrupts her, slowly trying to hobble over to them, “Alicent, let her go at once!” he orders, but to no avail.

Alicent grits her teeth, the tears finally flowing once more. She pushes the dagger closer to Rhaenyra’s face, but it only wobbles. “Where is duty? Where is honor? Where is sacrifice?! It’s trampled under your pretty foot once again! You disregard everything and suffer no consequences! You don’t truly know what it’s like to suffer!”

A long silence fell over the family. Before Rhaenyra could respond, Otto Hightower took the opportunity to reach out to his daughter, hoping to calm her down. “Release the blade, Alicent. Stop this madness; you know better than this. Stop making a fool of yourself and return to your children.”

Despite the now eerie silence, Alicent either chose to ignore her father or must not have heard him, continuing her accusations against the princess. “And now, you take my son’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled! You can’t possibly fathom that you and your children could do something wrong!”

Rhaenyra clung to the silence for a moment, collecting herself, acutely aware of all the eyes on her. The dagger still hung above their heads, keeping the Princess under the Queen’s mercy. “Exhausting, wasn’t it?” she asks patronizingly, her face torn between anger and snarkiness. “Hiding beneath the cloak of your own self-righteousness?”

Confusion sprawled across Alicent’s pained features.

The Princess leaned in, close enough for their noses to touch if she moved even an inch. She whispers, looking out to the audience around them, “Now they see you as you are.”

Her words snapped the ball of tension growing inside of her. Alicent ripped her hand from Rhaenyra’s grasp, and she thrust the dagger downwards. The valyrian steel cut through multiple layers of Rhaenyra’s clothing, but it didn’t stop there. The blade sliced the Princess’s flesh as if she were a choice cut of meat, her warm blood gushing down her hand and dripping to the floor. The action pushed both women into the crowd behind them. Lord Corlys embraces Rhaenyra, rubbing her upper arms to comfort her, while Viserys merely stands beside his wife, making no effort to console her.

Aemond abandons his brother, now standing as close to his mother as possible from the front row. The bruising contained to his eyesocket had begun to spread across the rest of his face, his appearance now black and blue compared to his usual warm vanilla coloring. His face swelled, the flesh underneath his stitches raised and irritated. Dried blood caked in his silver hair, mixed with dirt and stray strands of hay.

No one dared to speak. Viserys looked appalled at the scene laid out before him. Alicent stood alongside him in shock, unable to process what she had just done, dropping her husband’s knife. The metal clattered against the stone floor, echoing throughout the room. Her chest heaved from a combination of exertion and panic. As the adrenaline left her body, she became keenly aware of how many people witnessed her degrading outburst.

Aemond shifted from foot to foot, shooting Rhaenyra a glare so awful it could kill. He then turns to his mother, his expression softening as soon as he looks at her. “Please, do not mourn me, Mother,” he spoke, pulling the attention off her and onto him. “It was a fair exchange.” He moved from his spot in the crowd to stand beside her. The love he holds for his mother on full display, Aemond positioned himself between his mom and half-sister. “I may have lost my eye,” he paused, “but I gained a dragon.” He stood there long enough for his words to penetrate, reveling in the power he felt. The Prince backed up before it became awkward, wrapping his arms around his mother’s waist and laying his head on her chest. Alicent picks the hay out from his hair, smoothing it away from his forehead. She holds his hand, fingers intertwined.

With a grunt, Lucerys pushes his way back up to his mother. Too short to hold onto her waist, his arms wrap around her legs, crumpling her dress. Rhaenyra ran a hand through his dirty, curly hair. Lord Corlys stood behind the pair protectively while Jacaerys, Baela, Rhaena, and Rhaenys moved to stand with them.

It wasn’t long before Viserys dismissed everyone back to their chambers, decreeing the matter settled. Escorted by his mother, Aemond was led back to his room with a gentle kiss on his forehead and a hug before she left. The room was cold and empty, missing the warmth and light Rhaella brought with her wherever she went. But Aemond was far too exhausted to search for her. Shedding his dirty clothes for pajamas, he climbed into his bed with a groan, too tired to find out what he looked like. The bed sheets were cold to the touch, causing the boy to snuggle eagerly into the covers. With the blanket pulled up to his chin, Aemond quickly fell asleep, dreaming of dragons and better days.

——————

Just after sunrise, Aemond is awoken by Maester Kelvyn, explaining how he needs to change his bandages. The stitching held up well, with nothing misaligned or separating. With most of the swelling gone, Maester Kelvyn can get a better look at the extent of Aemond’s wound. His skin is pink with irritation, no longer red, and feverish to the touch. Once he applies more of the same medication, the maester rewraps Aemond’s head with a fresh bandage, tying it off just underneath his ear. He gently places a black leather eyepatch overtop the wrapping as added protection. “The salve I applied last night curbed the chance of infection, and so will this one. Depending on the amount of bleeding, change the bandage once a day or as much as you need to keep yourself comfortable and guarantee the wound is clean. Be careful not to get it wet, too. Understand?”

Aemond nods, “How long will it hurt?”

Maester Kelvyn sighs deeply, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. “My Prince, I fear the pain will never truly leave you. It won’t hurt this much forever, but there will always be a slight tinge of pain.” He spoke with great sadness as if it pained him to deliver this information. “I have studied many a soldier who wears the same scar as you, my prince. They have good and bad days, just as you shall.” He sets his hand on Aemond’s shoulder, turning the inciting the boy to look at him. “But do you know the most important thing I learned from my studies on those men?”

“No,” he shook his head, wincing when his neck twinged with pain.

“The most important thing, young prince, is that all those men never gave up, and you won’t either.” Maester Kelvyn’s voice is lighter now, doing his best to inspire the boy to the best of his abilities. He squeezed Aemond’s shoulder and stood up, preparing his things to leave.

Aemond’s gaze followed the maester’s movements as he processed what he heard. “Thank you.”

The older man smiles, bowing his head. “No thanks necessary, my prince. It’s my honor to heal you.” Gathering his things, Maester Kelvyn made for the door but halted when Aemond spoke again.

“Will you help me wrap my head? If I can’t do it right on my own?”

The maester’s smile seemed more genuine this time, but Aemond couldn’t place why. “Of course, my prince. Come see me anytime with whatever you may need, even if it’s just to talk. My door is always open.” With that, he bowed again, then left, closing the door silently behind him.

Aemond sat unmoving on the edge of his bed for what felt like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. He mustered up the energy to stand and walk to the vanity. Being a tad taller than Rhaella, Aemond had no issue sitting in the vanity chair. He saw himself for the first time since the fight. Everything was covered by the eyepatch and bandages, making it easy for him to pretend everything was how it used to be. Patches of irritated skin on the exposed sections of the left side of his face ruined the illusion. He could almost feel the negative thoughts bubbling in the back of his head, and he did his best to ignore them.

Gods, what will Rhae think of me now? He panics, thinking back to last night before everything happened.

“...it’s not just your hair that’s pretty, you know.”

Aemond runs his hands through his tangled silver locks, trying his hardest to not tug on them from stress. “Oh, Gods,” he whispers to himself. “What if she hates me now? What if she thinks I’m ugly? Gods, I fucked up!” his voice warbles, seconds away from crying and into a full-on breakdown. Ae took deep breaths, desperate to calm himself down.

The next hour felt like a blur as he prepares for the day. He spent most of it in the warm water of his bath, trying to wash away everything that had happened in the past twelve hours. Dressing in fancy but comfortable clothing, he leaves for the kitchen to look for breakfast, wanting to avoid eating in the great hall with his family. He dreaded what Aegon would say when he saw him. The thought of so much attention made him feel like he was being eaten from the inside out.

Luckily, the rest of the day went by without anyone around to bug him. Unfortunately, that also meant he had gone all day without seeing Rhaella, paining and relieving him. He sat in the gardens, basking in the warmth of the midday sun. The courtyard is filled with tropical and exotic flowers from every corner of Westeros and Essos, transporting the Prince from the drab castle of Driftmark to an oasis so far away no one would ever find him. A large, tiered stone fountain sat in the middle of the yard, water flowing from its sides like a waterfall. Bushes with flowers blooming in every color surrounded it, separated only by the occasional ornate statue.

The Prince sat underneath a beautiful baby blue wisteria tree, the color of its leaves complementing the violet in his eyes. He sat without anything to occupy himself, content with enjoying the magnificence of the garden.

His peace was interrupted by almost quiet footsteps, prompting Aemond to glance over his shoulder, eyes meeting with the brown and violet eyes of Rhaella.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice almost a whisper. “I’ve missed you today, Ae.” She doesn’t move from her spot behind him as if she were approaching a scared animal.

Aemond whispers a “hey,” back, keeping her gaze. “Missed you, too.” An awkward silence fell between them until Aemond snapped himself out of it, scooting over to make room for her on the bench beside him. Rhaella sat down, giving Ae a chance to look at her properly. She wore her hair in two long braids along either side of her head, silver and brown mixing within the plaits perfectly. Black and blue bruises spread across the bridge of Rhae’s nose towards the corners of her eyes. Somehow, she had gotten away with wearing a tunic and breeches instead of the tight-fitting dresses she was supposed to wear. She looks beautiful, like always, Aemond thought, the realization subtly tinting his face red.

“How did it go? After I left?” she asks, eyes flicking between looking at him and the flowers next to her.

Rhaella sat on Aemond’s right side, unable to see the left side of his face. “The maester stitched me up. Said I’m gonna be fine if I take care of it.” He picks a pink blossom off the bush next to him, fidgeting with the petals. He changes the subject. “Where have you been?”

“I was stuck with my father and half-sisters all morning, trying to get us to make up. Didn’t work.” She smiles, trying to lighten the mood some. “I think Baela spit in my wine, though.”

“You should fill her purse with nuts to make squirrels attack her. Or have one of the cooks make her dinner out of rat meat,” Aemond suggests, struggling to hold back his laughter, proving impossible when Rhaella laughs too.

“I was thinking of cutting a hole in her mattress and shoving cat poop into the hole, then stitching it back up, so she’ll never figure out where the stench is coming from.”

Aemond gasps, incapable of masking his giggling at the image of Baela sleeping with cat poop every night. “You’re so evil, Rhae! Evil!”

“Thank you!” she grins as they both collapse in fits of laughter, getting over the awkwardness that had enveloped them. Once they catch their breath, Rhaella leans against Ae’s side, head resting on his shoulder. “I’m glad we’re going home tonight. I miss my own bed.”

He rests his head against Rhaella’s. “You’re never in your bed, Rhae. You’re always in mine.”

“Maybe that’s what I meant,” she teases, slowly holding his hand, interlocking their fingers. “Your bed, my bed, there’s no difference.”

Aemond squeezes her hand. “Yeah, yeah, right,” he chuckles, his smile never leaving his face. “How does your nose feel?”

She shrugs, “It still hurts a lot, but it’s not as swollen.” Rhae sat up to look at him. “What about your eye? You said it’ll heal, but how is it?”

The boy’s face twists into that of discomfort. He broke her gaze, looking down at his feet, hunched over. “Hurts a lot,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Maester Kelvyn said it’ll always hurt.” His hair fell off his shoulder, blocking his face from Rhaella’s view.

She frowns at Aemond’s words. “At least it’ll get better, right? It can’t hurt this bad forever.” He shrugged. Rhaella paused to think, brushing the hair back behind Aemond’s ear. “Here, think of it this way. You’ll get a cool scar to show off and the strongest dragon ever.”

He looked up at her, thinking over what she told him. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Aemond sat up straight again, taking Rhaella’s hand back within his own.

Neither child spoke, relishing the comfortable silence that snuck up on them. It stayed like that for a while, both content to relax within the protective arms of the garden. At some point, they moved from sitting on the bench to sitting in the grass, covered by the branches of an old weeping willow tree. Aemond pointed to the birds that flew past, and Rhaella showed him every butterfly that floated by. The minutes turned to hours, and the afternoon turned to evening as they sat in the courtyard together. It wasn’t until the sky was shades of red and orange that Rhaella spoke once more.

“Hey, Ae?” she asked, their hands still intertwined.

“Yeah?”

“Could I see it?”

Aemond turned his head to look at her, his bandage in full view. “See what?” The boy’s heart began to beat out of his chest, praying she wouldn’t say what he feared she would.

She let go of his hand to instead fidget with the boy’s fingers. “Could I see your eye? Please?”

Her words shot fear through Aemond like a spear to the chest. He looked at her blankly, words refusing to form in his mouth. “I…uhh…” Aemond scoured every corner of his brain for a response, mouth gaping open like a fish.

Rhaella panicked at his reaction and immediately walked back on her request. “No, no, no, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked somethin’ like that; I’m sorry.” Her free hand brushes invisible stray hairs behind her ear. “Didn’t mean to upset you. Or make you uncomfortable. Can’t tell which it is,” she mumbled to the ground, sounding dejected.

Hearing Rhaella apologize so quickly struck something inside him he didn’t like. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable! Or upset!” he exclaimed, voice coming out louder than intended. Lowering his voice, he continued, “Just caught me by surprise, is all.”

A half-smile sneaked across the girl’s features, followed by a quiet sound of relief. “Sorry about that.”

Aemond dismisses her apology with a shake of his head. “Are…Are you sure you want to see it?”

She nodded yes. “Don’t wanna force you, though.”

Turning to face her entirely, he took a deep breath, working up the courage to start untying the bandages. I can do this; it’ll be fine! She’s my best friend. She doesn't care about what I look like. Rhae’s never made fun of me, not like Aegon has. “You’re not forcing me, don’t worry.” Aemond lets go of Rhaella’s hand to pull the eye patch over his head. He untied the knot behind his ear and slowly unwound the bandage from around his head, revealing his missing left eye to her.

Rhaella’s palms covered her mouth in shock at what she was seeing. Her face had frightened written all over it. She was silent for what felt like decades, which only filled Aemond with bubbling anxiety. “Ae…”

He gnawed his bottom lip to the brink of bleeding, eyes scanning her face for any sign of what she could be thinking, unable to find any.

“Ae…I’m so, so sorry this happened to you. Oh, my Gods.” Her voice was soft, filling him with the feeling of being cared for, reminding him of how his mother comforted him when he was sad. Rhaella moved to touch his face, silently asking for permission, which he gave immediately. Her delicate hands cupped his maimed cheek, thumbs gently outlining the skin around his stitches.

Unconsciously, they’ve shifted close enough for their shoulders to touch, encasing themselves in a world all their own. Rhaella wiped away a tear he hadn’t known he’d shed. The tear duct still worked, even without an eye to cry from.

Aemond sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. “It’s ugly, isn’t it?” he whispered, voice shaky with unshed tears.

His words nearly brought Rhaella to tears, mix-matched eyes wet and shiny like Ae’s were. She cups his face with both hands now. “No, no, no, no, it’s not ugly—you’re—not ugly! No amount of stupid scars could ever make you ugly, Aemond!”

She used my full name; she never does that, he thought, eyes widening when he heard it.

Either his disbelief in her words was clear as day, or Rhaella was merely getting good at reading him like an open book. “You’re beautiful with or without your scar, Ae. You’d be beautiful even with ten thousand scars.” She looked him in the eye as she spoke. “I don’t care what you look like or how many eyes you do or don’t have. You’ll always be you.”

Aemond couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Thin, watery lines ran down his face. “Was—Was worried that you’d not want to hang out with me anymore,” he whimpered, staring down at his feet. “Thought you’d be…afraid of me.”

Rhae hugged him before he could even finish talking, tears streaking down her cheeks too. “Ae—!” Her voice cracked from the force of her sobs, and she tucked her face into the crook of Aemond’s neck, and he did the same. “You’re my best friend, Ae.”

Every part of Aemond’s being screamed at him to tell her he loved her, but something stopped him from saying it. He wanted to say it so badly, but it was like someone had cut his vocal cords. Instead, he dug his fingers into the back of Rhae’s tunic and hugged her fiercely, his good cheek pressed against her shoulder. “You’re my best friend too.” Aemond nestled himself as close as he could, squeezing her tightly. It felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders: as if he could finally breathe again for the first time since he lost his eye.

“Thank you for showing me,” she said, pulling away far enough to see his face. Rhae ran her fingers through his messy, silver hair, fixing it for him.

Aemond hummed quietly, one eye closed, enjoying the tingly sensation that came with Rhaella’s fingers. “Thank you for not being afraid of me.” Spying a pretty blue flower on a bush behind her, Aemond stretched to pluck it from the plant, not trying to be subtle. “Uh, here,” he smiles, handing the flower to Rhaella, “For you.”

She responded with a knowing smile, hands leaving his hair after braiding a small strip that borders his face nicely. She took the blossom from him and tucked it between the plaits of her braids, the petals resting prettily above her ear. “How does it look? Good?”

“You look beautiful, just like always,” he said, a dumb, lovestruck expression on his face. The rich blue of the flower enhanced Rhaella’s natural beauty, bringing out the color of her eyes and complimenting her hair perfectly.

Rhaella giggled and blushed, which only made Aemond blush more than he already was. “Thanks, Ae.”

Before they knew it, the sun had set, and it was time to leave for King’s Landing. Rhaella helped him rewrap his head before they left the garden, ensuring it was secure but not too tight. It didn’t take them long to pack their things, both eager to go home.

They waited on the patio connected to Aemond’s chambers, competing to see who could find the most constellations before it was time to leave. Prince Daemon interrupted them with a knock on the door, letting himself in. “Prince Aemond, Rhaella, it’s time to get on the ship now!” he called from the doorway.

The kids gathered their things quickly, walking behind the prince as he led him to the ship.

“I found more constellations than you did!”

Aemond smirked pridefully. “Nuh-uh! I definitely beat you!”

“Impossible! I…” The sight of Rhae’s cousins approaching killed her sentence before it started. Jacaerys fell in line next to her, and Lucerys and Joffrey walked behind the three of them. Rhaella could practically feel the icy glare Aemond gave Jace.

They said nothing for most of the walk to the ship, but their luck never held out long enough with them. Jace leaned close and whispered in Rhae’s ear. “Have you heard, cousin?”

Ae was quick to take her hand, squeezing it. “Heard what?” She squeezed his hand back.

“Our parents wed last night; I saw it myself.” Jacaerys glanced between the pair, looking for a reaction. “Makes us siblings now.”

Aemond piped up, not giving her a chance to respond. “You’re lying; he would’ve told her himself.” Rhae nodded in agreement.

Jacaerys didn’t respond to him, silently collecting his brothers before rushing back to their mother.

“He just wants to start something, Rhae,” he reasoned, attempting to comfort her. “If it were true, your Father would’ve said something when he came to get us.”

She nodded, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand, growing tired. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not gonna worry about it.”

“Good,” he smiled and bumped into her playfully. She bumped him back, and giggles erupted between them.

Boarding the ship was just as easy as the first time. The crew consisted of familiar faces, as they had worked for the House Targaryen for years. Daemon showed them where the rest of the family was staying, then walked them to their cabins and told them what time supper would be if they were hungry. After confirming that the pair had it under control, Daemon left for his own cabin, leaving them to their business.

After they unloaded their things and changed out of their nice clothes, Rhaella joined Aemond in his cabin, who was already snuggled comfortably underneath the heavy blankets. Chilled from the cool sea air, she quickly crawled into bed next to him. They fell into their bedtime routine as if nothing had ever happened. It started with saying their goodnights and ended with Rhaella falling asleep first, her head on Aemond’s chest. Aemond fell asleep not long after she did, head tilted to rest on top of hers, lips brushing her hair.

taglist: @hyojae99, @slayhousehightower, @tinyluvs, @poisonedsultana, @schniiipsel, @moonlighttfoxx.

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frivery · 3 months

Text

A lost child found by the General of a new Kingdom's army.

It was so, so, very loud. And dark. So very dark.

There was shouting, screaming, stomping, the sounds of metal shrieking as it made contact with steel blade. It was never ending, a cacophony of sound that seemed to never cease.

Mom had said once that if he was scared he should hide, that she would find him, if he just stayed still.

He was really, really, trying his best to stay still so Mom could find him but the loud monsters were so very close. They were so very loud that the entire world seemed to fill with the noise, making sparks at every new sound behind his tightly covered eyes.

He was trying to stay very still, like Mom had said, so she would come save him from this scary dark place, but he couldn't help the shaking in his form no matter how close he pulled himself together. If he could hold still Mom would show up and she would wrap him in her dress skirt and scold the monsters for being so mean and ugly. But he couldn't hold still, he really was trying, but every part of him was shaking so very much.

Would Mom come to save him if he was not still?

He didn't know, he wished she would, but the loud continued in this dark, terrible, place. Mom never would have let the monsters act like that, he knew that as long as it was so very, very, very, loud that Moma was not here.

The noise of war continued for some time yet, the dark of the night breaking only a little as the early morning began to set in and the weakened light filtered through the trees.

Only then, as his shaking began to still from exhaustion, did the noise begin to die down.

Less shouting, less metal, less curses, which slowly turned into comparatively quiet talking.

"With how much they put up a fight I regret that we could not have come to an agreement." a deep adult voice he did not know.

This was not his Mom, he still could not hold still, but he couldn't hear the noise of the monsters anymore. Maybe they knew he was there and had saved him from the mean things.

"Valuable allies are also strong enemies to make, Alusair, they are better off as worm food beneath our feet." this voice sounded more like his Moma's, but less kind and safe and good. More scary like the things before.

"Vinren will be pleased, either way, and you all did very well. It was quite the victory!" this one was also an adult, but louder, and it sounded warm. Nice. Like someone Mom would have smiled at. "I'm sure you all know she is good to those that are good to us."

He wanted his Moma to come pick him up and hold him, but she had told him that if he could not find her that he should find the nearest good adult to keep him safe.

Sniffing, and scrubbing the sticky tears from his face, he unraveled from his curled up posture. Body hurting, scrapings on his skin, and clothes still damp, he crawled out from under the dark bushes he had been hiding in.

"I am sure she is, but good allies are hard to-"

"-what is a child doing out here?" the kind voice, he sniffed again as he swallowed another swell of tears to look upon the speaker.

A man unlike any he had ever seen before, his skin was green and his hair was black, his eyes a darker purple, and he was small for an adult.

"Oh, sweetheart, what are you doing out here all by your lonesome?" the green skinned thing asked.

"I don... I don't know where my Moma is." he was so tired, and hungry, and thirsty, and this weird scary loud place was so dark that he just wanted to go home.

"No? What about your daddy?" it asked.

He sniffled, he didn't know what that was but he just wanted something familiar. The green man waited for a response but he didn't know what to say to it, he didn't want to ask questions right now.

"I see... you must be very tired after being out here by yourself all night, I'll protect you now alright, little one? It's going to be okay now."

He sniffed, nodding slowly, no longer stopping the tears from spilling down his cheeks. The small green man came close then, picking him up and holding him close like his Moma would have if she was there.

He asked no questions, merely shoving his face into the crook of the small adult's neck.

"Get some rest now, alright? We'll keep you safe, I promise."

"I miss my Moma." he cried.

"I know, little one. We'll look for her, won't we?" the adult made noises that seemed to agree. "Can you tell me your name so we can find your Moma?"

A name was not something he could respond to easily, so he just griped tight to the clothes of the green man.

"That's okay, I'll tell you my name. I am Valenin. Do you remember your name?"

He just sniffed again.

"Well, if you don't remember it right now that's okay, I'll just call you..... Vier, for now, okay sweetheart? And We'll keep you safe."

He'd be protected now... he'd be safe until his Moma could come take him home.

#fr lore #flightrising #flight rising #fr #i haven't writen lore in a while but this is how Valenin first found Vier #and note that my medication is kicking in while i'm writing this please! sorry for any mistakes because of that!#this is my lore Wednesday entry lmao

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lansalla · 1 year

Text

Tomorrow I'll be brave

I was once asked to write a story in which the music of The Amazing Devil would be integrated into the story of The Witcher. (Some kind of crossover with real world and the world of the Continent).

The bottom line was this: Jaskier never created his music alone. His Muse was always with him. In fact, no one else saw her.

This story is about The Bard and his Muse.

I know it's pretty weird, but I wrote it anyway. I wrote it all in my native language, and now I decided to translate and share it. English is not my native language, so I apologize for the multiple mistakes.

I am very scared and excited now, I don’t understand why I decided to do this - to publish this work, but I hope this work will give you at least a little pleasure.

Love run, love run

Music sounds inside him gently enveloping his young mind. Two voices, two bright clear voices whimsically intertwine and merge in unison. Little Julian runs across the field. He had just left the warm arms of his mother. The sun pleasantly warms the boy's disheveled top, and already drying July daisies tickle his chubby cheeks in a funny way.

“Where are you, dear! Be careful!”, the bursting and such a native laugh of his mother is heard.

But how can he be careful? He just learned to walk, and the world is so huge and interesting!

The boy runs and laughs merrily, grasses clinging to his small bare feet. Uncertain, like those of a newborn deer, the legs get tangled in the green stems, and the boy falls, not hard, but very annoyingly knocking his knees. Little Julian sits down on the grass, his round little face curls up, he wrinkles his nose, and large transparent tears are already accumulating in his huge, sea-colored eyes.

O let the world come at you, love, Like distant toms a-drumming Love run! The song you know's begun

Hush, hush, dear heart! A soft voice sounds in the boy's head and someone's warm hand gently touches his head. Julian's face smooths out, he smiles. He turned around to greet his mother, but she was still far away, running towards him from the other end of the field. The boy frowns, looks around in confusion.

I'm here. And I will be here. Run, love, run towards the world.

Julian did not have time to consider the woman who was talking to him. Only the edge of a white flying dress and long dark hair fluttering in the wind. She is all wrapped in light.

“Are you a fairy?”, he thinks, because he still doesn’t know how to speak properly, “Like those about whom my mother reads to me?” “Aha-ha, almost”, a perky laugh, like a thousand bells, is heard in his head, - “Don’t cry, dear, boldly look into the face of this world, and I will help you.”

Again, a boisterous, unfamiliar, but such a pleasant laugh sounds, and, from the very corner of his eye, Julian sees the fluffy tail of a fox flash in the grass.

***

And I love you, don't you know That I'll be with you all along, as long as you are kind To those who are not strong

Don't be sad. You can do anything, you just have to wish, baby.

“Leave me alone. And I'm not a baby”, fourteen-year-old Julian mutters, angrily wiping his tears with his fist, smearing moisture, street dirt and ink on his cheeks, “Don't you understand, they will never, never let me make music?”, and so breaking his voice completely breaks.

The boy's fragile shoulders slumped down. Sharp shoulder blades protrude from under the bright fabric of the shirt, similar to wings that have not yet formed. Julian hides his face in his hands, muffled sobs tearing from his chest, and hot tears streaming between long fingers.

You'll feel my fingers down your back

A soft warm touch on the disheveled dark-haired head and the tense back of the guy relaxes and the tears subside. He removes his hands from his face, but does not take his eyes off the parquet under his feet. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her: again in a dress, always in a dress, flying white or colorful skirts, disheveled long hair and ribbons woven into them, a wide open smile. He can never remember her face. Only some elements, identification signs. But she always remembers her bursting laughter, the smell of flowers and forests that always accompanies her, and hot soothing hands.

“Sorry,” the boy grumbles.

Here, my Julian is finally back.

"And yet I'm not a baby,” he wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

Of course, dear heart, you are no longer a baby. You are a beautiful strong young man. The whole world is in your hands!

“It is in the hands of my parents. You know they won't let me. And, you know, it hurts me.”

He himself says the last word, but her voice echoes him. The guy turns his head, but of course she's not there. He still feels the warm touch of her hand between his shoulder blades, but he does not see her. Julian sighs heavily and shakes his head in resignation.

So write. Write about it, honey.

Either she said it, or the leaves of the trees rustle outside the window. The guy looks at the opening, framed by curtains swaying in the wind, and sees how the fluffy fox froze on the windowsill, looked back at him and darted into the hydrangea bush.

***

Give me two damn minutes and I'll be fine

“Why the hell does it hurt so much?” nineteen-year-old Julian kicks the leg of the bed, and falls on the blanket, covering his head with his hands.

He is already too old to cry, but his eyes sting disgustingly, and his heart, it seems, will now shatter into pieces from unbearable pain. The guy again and again scrolls in his head the offensive words that Countess De Stel threw in his face when she gave him a resignation. He remembers how he ran along the marble corridors of the Academy without seeing anything in front of him, trying to overtake the girl's voice pounding in his temples, repeating sharp words over and over again.

And to those gods I will speak bluntly We've an accord If you ever touch or harm him Please rest assured That you might not fear a man But to a woman by the end you'll kneel and plea

Well, what are you, my friend?

A warm hand caresses the back of his head, digging into his thick mop of hair. “Leave me at least now, you see, I'm broken.”

He's down. He's dead. Now take a long look at what you've done to me?

I see. And I want to help you. I'm here, I'm with you, and you're strong enough to handle this.

“ No,” the guy sniffed and sat up on the bed, out of the corner of his eye watching the ribbons dance in the wind in her hair.

Yes, you can do it! Your heart is huge and alive, and you yourself are brave and kind. You will not let the poison of resentment corrupt your blood and soul.

“Give me two damn minutes and I'll be fine,” Julian wiped his face with his palms, straightened up, “You've been with me for so many years, who are you?”

Friend. Write, dear. Give it an outlet.

Soft red fur touched his cheek, the window shutter slammed. Julian hesitantly reached for the lute leaning against the desk. The instrument was covered with dust, because the guy completely abandoned music lessons when he plunged into a love whirlpool. Shaking fingers tentatively stroked the pegs and tugged the strings.

***

But your smile tells me I'm safe And that voice unspoken's heard

"Fuck you!” Fuck you! “Fuck (fuck) you,” they sang together, and he wrote it down on a torn piece of parchment.

He is already twenty-two and now he calls himself Jaskier.

"Don't you think it's not very polite to start a song with rudeness?” Poetry should catch and shock, dear heart. History is not written with respect.

Jaskier has been stuck in Posada for a week now, looking for inspiration, trying to squeeze something out of himself. Yes, his Muse (he decided to call her that) helps him, but the guy begins to think that a little more he will be covered with mold or moss from boredom and lack of impressions.

And the public in the local settlement is not that grateful.

The bard, as he now considered himself such, got up from the table, folded the parchment, putting it in his pocket, put on a smile on duty and picked up the lute. What was to be expected: after the very first song, a stream of abuse and scraps and pieces of bread flying into it. Well, at least there will be something to eat.

Look over there, honey.

Jaskier turned his head and saw a man with white hair and menacing armor sitting in the shadows.

"I don't think that's the best idea, dear," he thought. If you don't try, you'll never know. Jaskier's bursting laughter had a calming effect.

"You don't wanna keep a man with...bread in his pants waiting."

*** A storm raging on the horizon

“Pay the Witcher, give money to the White Wolf, damn it ...”

Jaskier nervously crosses out carefully drawn lines. He sits on the ground and in the light of the fire on his knee holds a piece of parchment. Geralt, with whom he is now traveling, sits nearby, silently sharpening his sword.

"Toss a coin to you Witcher", dear, it seems to me, it's more harmonious.

“Thank you, dear,” the bard, sticking out his tongue, writes down the prompted line.

“Who are you talking to again,” the Witcher looks unkindly at Jaskier.

“With the Muses, Geralt,” the bard shrugs.

“It always seemed to me that they should be talking to you,” croaks the one who is now, by the mercy of Jaskier, called the White Wolf.

"They do, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't be polite back," Jaskier smiles nervously.

“Hmm,” Geralt once again ran the whetstone over the blade, “I resigned myself to the fact that an idiot followed me. But I was not prepared for the fact that this idiot is also insane.”

“Oh, don't escalate,” the bard smiles uncertainly, “Better listen to what I wrote.”

You have to be careful, honey. “I know.”

Jaskier is already used to the fact that his Muse is always there. He considers it normal. He thinks that every poet, actor, and any creator has it.

But lately he's been told more and more that he's weird.

The young man sincerely does not understand why.

And only when he begins to travel with Geralt does he realize.

Other people don't talk to themselves.

They don’t see beautiful women out of the corner of their eye who are both here and not there, they don’t see fox tails hiding in the dark, they don’t feel warm touches when they are broken and feel bad, they don’t hear fervent laughter, they don’t hear music played on unknown the world of instruments, they do not hear songs sung as if by themselves, but not known to him, and they do not smell flowers and forests, even if they are in the center of a bustling city.

Once Jaskier even wants to talk about it with Geralt, because he sincerely considers him his friend. Yes, and the Muse suggests that the threads of the fate of the bard and the witcher are closely intertwined, but he does not dare. The Witcher is very closed. Very straightforward. Jaskier is afraid. Fear of misunderstanding and condemnation.

And then everything spins, life flies at a gallop: the genie, the wedding of Pavetta and Yozh, the Child destiny...

Jaskier has a lot of topics for new ballads, and a faithful girlfriend is always there: she will support when it’s bad, suggest a better rhyme, pat her on the head when it hurts. He feels her as his other half. Part of his soul. Sometimes, even with his alter ego.

And then there is the Dragon Hunt.

***

I promise you I'm not broken I promise you there's more More to come, more to reach for, more to hurl at the door

“It's not fair, Geralt. Rigt, I'll ask how it ended for others. See you aroud, Geralt.” Jaskier leaves. A broken heart beats painfully against the ribs and, it seems, scratches his soul with sharp edges.

Now take a good long look at what you've done to me

Pebbles scatter under boots not designed for long walking. Dandelion wanders around without seeing anything in front of him, tightly clutching the strap from the lute.

Darling.

“It's good that at least you're here.”

Yes, but I have to go too, dear heart.

“What?!” the bard freezes and shouts it aloud.

You were supposed to be my light And keep me safe against them all! How could you leave me here' you'll scream

“Don't leave me here alone! Don't leave me alone with this! Please,” Jaskier whispers, “Please!”

I know you're strong enough to do this on your own.

I know you're strong enough to do this on your own

“But why?”

Because I have to go. Now you should be on your own. You are old enough, strong enough, brave enough, and your heart is pure enough. But the world is big, honey. This universe is not alone. There are a thousand times and worlds! Know, just know that we will meet. We will definitely meet. At another time. In another place. But we will be there. And everything will be exactly the same: you will take care of them, and I will take care of you. “But that's not fair...”

If I don't make it back from where I've gone Just know I loved you all along

Oh, of course he can do it.

*** …I'v hear you're alive How disappointing…

#jaskier #jaskier the bard #jaskier witcher #the witcher netflix #the amazing devil #the amazing devil inspiration #fanfic #fanfiction #writers on tumblr #jaskier imagine #witcher imagine #the amazing devil imagine

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