#dances and daggers chapter 18

[eratosmusings]

Stolen Destiny (III)

summary: your limits are pushed until something snaps

warnings: adults only, all characters are over 18, smut in future chapters, blood, misogyny, dark themes, canon typical violence

word count: 2k

previous chapter / dividers / masterlist

Feyd-Rautha is in your dreams again. Black teeth, barking laugh. But it’s not the same. Eyes alight with something you don’t understand. Dress heavy and clinging. Nails dragging down your wet skin. Dagger in your hand pressing against his throat. Poisoned words on his lips. “You wear blood well, my darling.” His image fades as hands cup your cheeks.

The day that follows is endless. Finalizing preparations for the coming days of events. Fielding requests from the minor houses for a moment of your time. A meeting over concerns of recent tectonic activity that your absent father is supposed to attend. Two more run throughs of the dance. The swordmaster demands two more after dinner.

Irulan is entangled in conversation with Duke Leto throughout the meal. Nauseously you wonder when an engagement will be announced. It was the destiny the Atreides had stolen. Paul would be Emperor and you would be nothing but a disappointment. Your father toasts to how proud he is of the woman you’ve grown into. There’s no truth in it. You can only blink at the lemon tart that’s served for dessert as he promises he’s prepared a fun few days ahead. 

When the meal is over you do not seek Fandral. You do the opposite and duck out of his sight at the first opportunity. He knows you’re supposed to return to the Small Hall and practice again. As comforting as his presence has been, you don’t want comfort or encouragement or protection. You want to stab something. Repeatedly.

The training yard is empty. The weapons are locked away, but you have the dagger Feyd-Rautha had gifted. You’d carried it with you throughout the day. Tucked away into the deep pockets of the borrowed gowns. You aren’t sure why today you felt the need to have it and not any other. Maybe you knew you’d need it. Or maybe you made the need for it because you had it. Either way, it serves your purpose.

The mannequin takes the blade with little resistance. It was natural in your hand. No matter how much or little pressure you use, it doesn’t slip and slice your palm like others do. A well made dagger.

You flick on the mannequin’s shield to test how well it handles the added strain.

“I am glad to see you enjoying my gift.”

There’s little resistance as you sink it into the stomach of the mannequin. “I am sick of pleasantries and pandering, na-Baron. Leave me be.”

Feyd-Rautha is predictable. You knew he would follow. You know he’ll take the chance to attack.

There’s the slightest whoosh of air that warns you. You evade the blade in his hands by millimeters, dodging to the right. You push the mannequin towards him. It knocks into him, unbalancing him for a moment long enough to twist your own shield on. His black grin is wide again as he recovers and stands tall. The dagger he carries isn’t much different from his gifted one. The handle thicker and longer, a few teeth in the blade, but from what you can glimpse it’s clear they had been made by the same hands. 

He lunges, expecting your evasion and slices at where your throat goes. He’s too fast and it bounces off. You counter with a jab to his arm, slow enough that it strains his shield. He doesn’t give it the time to penetrate as his blade comes back again.

The dance continues. Both of you manage to knick the other occasionally. You feel blood seeping from a slash across your chest and more from one along your back. He has two along his arms and one on his hip. You’ve held well, but he is taller and stronger and you feel yourself begin to falter.

“Growing tired, my lady?” he teases as you barely dodge another attack. 

“As would you under the weight of this dress.”

“I have no objection to you removing it.” He’s quick even after the extended duel. He strikes, and in your attempt to get away, he catches your hand and turns your shield off. The humming of his shield silences as you're pulled and turned until your back meets his chest. His blade is against your neck with a familiar chill and fingers digging into your hip. “Though it may tempt me into distraction.”

An unfamiliar fire blooms with the confession. “Careful what you share, na-Baron. I might use that sort of information against you one day.” Something twitches against your lower back.

“Let her go.”

The hand gripping your hip, the blade at your throat, and the warmth on your back are gone in an instant. You’ve never heard The Voice before, but it’s unmistakable. It’s not even directed at you, but your mind blurs and your body is pliant, as if waiting for its own command to follow. Fandral’s face blocks your view. He’s questioning if you’re alright, if you feel faint or dizzy. You can’t answer. It’s as if you're treading through the water again. 

You’re turned and pulled again, but now you’re separated from Feyd-Rautha by your guard and Paul Atreides. The heirs point their blades at each other. Paul accuses him of taking and hurting you. As if you were some helpless damsel.

“Stop,” you say. It’s too quiet, your mouth numb. Fandral shushes you and tries to lead you away. You try again, louder, “Stop!”

Neither heir moves.

“I asked him to spar.” It’s only a half lie. Paul’s tense pose eases as he finally breaks his gaze off Feyd-Rautha. “I wasn’t taken. He didn’t hurt me.” Paul's eyes dip to your chest. “Not anymore than I did him, anyways.”

Fandral questions, “In an evening dress? Alone?”

“It is when she is most vulnerable.” Feyd-Rautha has lost his smile. “Given her security leaves much to be desired at the best of times.”

You can feel the loathing radiating from Fandral. But there is no denial.

You nod at your former opponent “Thank you for your time, na-Baron. It was very enlightening.”

“It was a pleasure, my lady. You fight like a Harkoneen.”

The fire he lit burns brightly on your cheeks.

“What was the point in asking for a personal guard?” Fandral huffs when you’ve returned to the palace. His jacket is around your shoulders to cover the slice in the back of your dress. He’d wanted you to see the doctor, worried again about poison, but you refused. “If you wanted to train, you should have asked me.”

“Or me,” Paul says on your other side. “He could have hurt you.” He doesn’t recognize the condescension of his concern.

“That was the point.” You have to stop yourself from touching the wound on your chest. “How am I supposed to know training has been effective if I’ve never faced real consequences?”

Fandral scolds, “If you stay with your guard, you’ll never be in a situation where you have to find out if it’s effective.” He shakes his head, pushing the door to the Small Hall open. It was the compromise he relented to. No doctor visit if you came here. 

“You’re late,” the swordmaster calls out from where he stands in the middle of the room with a guard you recognize as one the Atreides’. His eyes travel across your mussed form. “I hope the other person looks worse than you.” 

“He doesn’t.” 

You glare at Fandral as the swordmaster decides that is a personal offense against his training and decides that practice will be doubled for it. It’s only as you look for the woman who always carries your swords that you realize she’s not there. None of the others are. But Paul still is.

“I shall see you tomorrow?” You hope he understands it’s a dismissal.

The question amuses him. “I intended to practice with you tonight.”

“With me?”

He smiles as if you’re missing something obvious.

The dance isn’t silly anymore. Fandral had been right. It does tell a story. One of submission. 

There are no troubadours, only the sole Atrides guard who plucks at the strings of a Baliset. Your feet move in the familiar pattern, hilts of the swords bouncing against your hips.

Even without the additional instruments you recognize the melody. The blades gnash against their sheaths in protest as you pull them free. They shriek in the air, spinning easily between your fingers. Faster and faster they spin until the music nearly dies.

Once, twice you clink the blades’ together before you stab one into the plush stool. Fandral claps to the beat the drums usually play as you turn your back to it. The sword that remains drags its tip against the stone floor. Sparks follow when you twist quickly.

Paul stands there now, sword pulled free. He brings it in front of him as he drops into a defensive stance. The Baliset begins again now you fight. Thrust, retreat, parrie, circle, advance, lunge, parrie, retreat, parrie, parrie. On and on it goes until he flicks the sword out of your hand. You take the hand he offers and spin into him as the music reaches a subdued crescendo. Chest heaving, you stay there and stare into the eyes of the person who has taken everything from you until the music and the last of your dignity finally dies.

Three more times you are subjected to the humiliation. It will be once more tomorrow.

When Paul and his guard are gone, jolly at the surprise they’d sprung on you, you round on the swordmaster. He answers your unspoken question. “Your father did not want you to know until the last possible moment.”

“Perhaps you should wait until morning,” Fandral attempts to persuade you as he shadows you down the empty corridors. “Or at least remove your swords?” You don’t bother with a response. 

The guards stationed outside his door attempt to stop you, but you’re quick to dip under their arms and push into the room. You're unsurprised to find a courtesan in his bed. There’s a scandalized shout from her and curses from him as they scramble to cover themselves.

“Get out,” you tell her. 

Your father objects, but she is quick to comply. She pulls her dress from the floor and slips into it with practiced ease. She’s gone within a minute. The door closes behind her.

“You’ve gotten bold,” he growls.

“Why didn’t you want me to know?”

With a huff he says, “Because you wouldn’t have done it if you did. I told the Atridies you’d be too shy to do it if you knew and the boy thought it was enduring.”

“Why have me dance with him at all?”

He shrugs. “It was their suggestion.”

You stare at him. He’s pathetic. “You were wrong,” you tell him, bile on your tongue. “I would have done it if you asked. I would’ve done anything for you.” You leave before he sees the tears slide down your cheeks.

Feyd-Rautha doesn’t have a chance to visit you that night. Sleep never comes. Anger too potent to allow any rest.

When morning comes the maids work on making you presentable. There’s comments on the bags under your eyes and the new scar across your chest. You let them cover the former, but insist on keeping the latter. “Your father won’t like it,” one cautions. You're not inclined to care what he likes anymore. It’s something they soon realize.

They’re hesitant to style your hair in the way you instruct, but relent. Then the dress they offer, another of his choosing, is refused. You see their realization when you tell them what you’ll wear instead. Their efforts to sway you are in vain as you threaten to leave the room as bare as the day you were born.

Fandral stops in the doorway after the maids leave. “You look…”

You're still standing in front of the mirror. The dress is lilac, frilly and feminine in a way you’ve never been allowed. Your hair is braided, save for the pieces that frame your face. You look soft. Delicate. Like a painting that had been tucked away when you asked too many questions.

“Like my mother.” 

There’s only one thing missing. The rogue lies abandoned on the vanity. It’s vivid enough that a single dab of the brush colors both your cheeks.

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[dreaming-medium]

Animals Without Direction Masterlist

Cover Art by @seochngbin 🤍❤️🖤

Ao3 Link - Latest Update (May 11) - Chapter Thirty-Five

⚔️ Updates every Thursday ⚔️

(On a brief “hiatus”— updates infrequent due to life) Character Descriptions World Map ot8 x reader Stray Kids Fantasy!AU 18+ MDNI

WARNINGS: THIS STORY CONTAINS HEAVY THEMES OF VIOLENCE, GENOCIDE, SEXUAL ASSAULT, HATE CRIMES, AND OTHER SENSITIVE TOPICS.

Tags: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Swordfighting, Magic, Eventual Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Romance, Adventure, Fighting, High Fantast, Slow Burn, Extremely Slow Burn, Plot Heavy

Summary:

“No.” Your voice was stern, your eyes didn’t even look up from the plate in front of you. A healthy helping of roasted potatoes being pushed around by the metal fork in your hand.

“I am offering you a hefty sum of gold,” the man’s voice pleaded with you.

“I am well aware of the amount you offer, but you must think me mad to go anywhere near Miroh.”

“Thrice the amount, then.”

You paused.

Swallowing your mouthful of food, you placed your fork back on the table; tonguing your cheek and shifting on your seat.

Individually, you cracked each knuckle on both hands, your mind reeling.

“Explain the job to me once more.”

Chapter One - Thrice The Amount Chapter Two - Stained Glass Window Chapter Three - Red and Gold Throw Pillows Chapter Four - Sword Sparks Chapter Five - Careful, Merchant Chapter Six - Aye, My Lord Chapter Seven - Decree Chapter Eight - Twenty Laps Chapter Nine - Clear Your Plate Chapter Ten - By First Light Chapter Eleven - Permitted to Die Chapter Twelve - Rest Chapter Thirteen - Jump Chapter Fourteen - Quite Certain Chapter Fifteen - Serendipitously Chapter Sixteen - Make it in Three Chapter Seventeen - Hang in There Chapter Eighteen - Sunshine in the Night Chapter Nineteen - Dance Lessons Chapter Twenty - While Dancing Chapter Twenty One - Mend Chapter Twenty Two - Of Course Chapter Twenty Three - Tea With Sugar Chapter Twenty Four - Dagger Chapter Twenty Five - The Gracious Host Chapter Twenty Six - The Dove Waltz Chapter Twenty Seven - Imported Cigars Chapter Twenty Eight - Use Chapter Twenty-Nine - Between Two Walls Chapter Thirty - Missed You Chapter Thirty-One - Bonfire Chapter Thirty-Two - Music of the World Chapter Thirty-Three - Stay Here Chapter Thirty-Four - Ward Chapter Thirty-Five - Sunset

[loveshotzz]

My name’s Elvira, but you can call me tonight

steve harrington x eddie’sbestfriend!reader

Tongue Tied

summary: A Halloween party, Brenda, and teaching Steve that shotgunning isn’t just a trick guys use to kiss girls.

wc: 2.9k

warnings: My blog is 18+ fem!reader, slight jealousy, and a little insecurity if you squint, fluff, weed smoking and mentions of drinking.

<- 🎃 chapter one | mini series masterlist

Tina’s ‘witches brew’ was maybe just as bad as the music she picked, but Steve Harrington was staring at you from across the crowded room.

You’d only ever seen Top Gun once, and in all honesty you didn’t even need to watch it to know that he looked better than Tom Cruise. The brown leather of his bomber jacket fits snug across his broad shoulders, and tappers tight around his waist. It’s half way zipped up, revealing the white shirt underneath and the aviators that he’d walked in wearing dangling from the collar. The weight of them pulls the fabric down enough to catch a glimpse of the dark hair that covers his chest, and your throat dries up at the thought of him shirtless. His Levi’s are light washed and well worn, a soft outline of where he usually keeps his wallet dangerously close to where your gaze wants to linger. The black combat boots he wears somehow make his feet look even bigger, your thighs press together under your dress.

His eyes roam the length of your body the way you hoped they would when you decided to dress up as The Mistress of the Dark herself. Your plunging neckline begs for his hungry gaze, and you push up your chest to encourage it. A thick black belt hugs tight around your waist, accentuating your curves in a way that has you feeling more confident than normal. Especially when you catch the way he bites his bottom lip in a smirk, darkened eyes lingering on the fake dagger resting against the softness of your tummy. Wiggling your long black nails at him, you can’t help but relish in the fact that a simple wave makes the former king of Hawkins cheeks flush the same shade of red as your lips.

It had been four days since that night with Steve. A whole 96 hours and the boy across the room from you has occupied your thoughts for every minute of every single one. It was becoming a real problem, but yet here you were at a Halloween party you’d already said no to because you knew he would be here.

Robin’s very obviously telling a story next to him, her hands moving wildly as she gets more worked up with whatever is happening in it. She’s too focused on the way Nancy’s giggling in front of her to notice that her best friend isn’t listening, the full weight of his attention making your insides warm.

Is this what it’s like to be one of those girls?

Steve chugs the rest of his beer, throat bobbing with every large gulp before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He holds your gaze even when you see him say something to Robin who waves him off, lost in the oldest Wheeler’s big blue eyes, and the first few steps in your direction is enough to send your heart into overdrive.

You almost lose sight of him when he starts to cross the makeshift dance floor in the living room, his wild auburn hair the only thing staying in your line of vision. It’s a mess of dancing bodies, and orange and black balloons already starting to lose their luster falling from the ceiling.

His eyes meet yours in the crowd and you feel the heels you can hardly walk in start to carry you closer, stepping over the empty cups and streamers that litter the floor. His smile widens, and you can’t find it in yourself to be embarrassed when you feel your cheeks push up doing the same.

It’s when Steve finally makes it to the edge of the crowd, stopping just a few more steps away from you when it happens. When she happens.

Brenda.

She’s dressed as Madonna, her perfect blond hair teased just right, giving it more volume than Steve’s even on his best day. Black fishnets cover her toned legs, with a matching tutu that leaves little to the imagination stopping just above the curve of her ass.

The corset she wears gives her breasts the kind of push that you know is the reason for Steve’s blush when she steps in front of him. Perfectly manicured pink nails dragging up his chest before her palm flattens just underneath where his sunglasses hang.

His eyes flicker between the two of you, a nervous laugh leaving his mouth at whatever she’s saying. He scratches the back of his neck when he responds, and it makes her throw her head back in flirty giggles before her fingers start playing with his jacket zipper.

The sting of rejection is harsher than you thought it’d be, and you hope he can’t see the way it wipes the smile clean off your face. Girls like Brenda always seemed to be the boy’s kryptonite. The urge to find your best friend is what keeps your feet moving, almost like that was your plan all along. The joint you stashed away earlier in his jacket pocket calls your name, and you don’t look at Steve as you walk past the two of them, even when you see his hand reach out for your wrist.

It’s just Steve anyway.

You keep telling yourself that, hoping that it will ease the slight lump in your throat. An anger bubbling just under the surface turning the heat in your stomach into something more like lava, a volcano bubbling, just ready to explode as you try to convince yourself that you don’t have a crush.

When you find Eddie in the next room, his tongue deep in his girlfriend Cece’s mouth on the couch, and you can’t hide the bitterness that drips from your tone.

“Make sure to get some oxygen so you don’t pass out, Jesus Christ.”

Your rude interruption makes them both pull apart with a loud smack, the fake blood he’d sloppily smeared down the corners of his mouth almost gone leaving a pink stain on his pale skin instead.

“What’s your deal? Can’t you see I’m a little busy.” Eddie’s gaze narrows into an annoyed glare, “Aren’t you supposed to be doing the same thing to Harrington.”

“That’s not why I came,” you snort, crossing your arms and it makes him raise his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Bullshit.”

The two of you stare each other down, unwavering, it’s only when his eyes flick towards the dance floor that he sees the cause of your sour mood. The hard lines on his forehead soften before he rubs a ringed hand over his face with an exasperated groan. Cece wraps her arms around his waist tighter, hearts taking over her pupils when she gets a front row seat of her boyfriend being your best friend.

“Here,” he sighs under his breath, pulling open his jacket to pluck out the perfectly rolled joint inside his hidden pocket. He holds it out to you in a peace offering.

“Thanks,” you mumble as you take it, giving him a weak smile before tucking the cone in your belt next to your lighter, “Go back to sucking each other's faces off, sorry to interrupt.”

Your joke makes her giggle, and Eddie grin in the kind of way that's contagious.

“He’s an idiot,” the metal head tries to comfort, “Honestly, he’ll tell you himself.”

“I’m fine.” You keep your expression as unreadable as possible, but you know it's futile to try and hide from him, “It’s just Steve.”

It’s colder outside than when you first got here, and you don’t have nearly enough alcohol in your system to keep you warm. Goosebumps rise on the inappropriate amount of skin you have showing for the season, making you wish you’d grabbed your jacket. The breeze rustles the leaves that refuse to let go or their brittle branches, mixing with the muffled bass of the music inside, while your heels make a hollow thump against the wood of Tina’s back porch.

Pulling out the joint and your lighter from your belt, you take a seat on the top of the stairs that lead to her backyard. There’s a shiver that runs down your spine as your thumb flicks the wheel that brings the flame to life, a temporary heat warming your face as you spin the fat end over the fire to burn it evenly. The earthy smell hits your nose, shoulders already relaxing before you take the first toke. Bringing it to your lips, you tuck your lighter back inside your belt, leaning back on your palm to look at the clear night sky above you as you inhale your first drag into your lungs.

It’s just Steve.

When you exhale, your eyes stay trained on the white wisps of smoke that shades the twinkling of the stars behind it and you try not to think of Brenda’s pink nails running through his hair. Your next hit is much bigger. The music from inside gets louder, making you jump when you hear the sliding glass door open. Straightening up, you turn around with a glare ready for whoever the intruder is, only to be face to face with the boy you’re trying to convince yourself you don’t like.

“Hey, there you are.” His smile is easy, and you hate that it warms you like the sun just from looking at it.

You raise your eyebrows in acknowledgment, hollowing out your cheeks taking another drag before bringing your gaze back to the sky. His boots sound heavier than your heels against the wood, some steps making the deck creak under his weight. The silence is thick with words on the tips of both your tongues, but neither one of you is willing to break it first. He sighs awkwardly out of his nose, rubbing his palms against his thighs before taking the seat next to you. Your knees knock together, and the heat of him so close sends another shiver down to your bones.

“Jesus, you have to be cold. It’s like 40 degrees outside.” Steve doesn’t hesitate to start shrugging off his jacket, and you clock the movements from the corner of your eye.

“Steve, no, really I’m fine,” you try to protest but he doesn’t listen, thick tan arms coming into view.

“Please, I can hear your teeth from here,” he chuckles, standing up to drape the leather over your shoulders, and you try not to stare at the way the hem of his shirt rises up revealing a dark happy trail.

It feels like he’s everywhere when your shoulders slot into the warm pockets where he just was, wrapped up in him just like on your couch. The spice of his cologne clings to the fabric on the inside, and you have to fight back the urge to bury your nose into the collar and inhale.

“Well aren’t you gonna be cold now?” You ask, finally daring to meet his eyes, taking another hit.

“Nah, I’ll be alright.” He winks with the kind of confidence that makes your face hot, clasping his hands together over his spread knees making your shoulders bump.

“So, Top Gun huh?” Giggling, you finally earn a Steve Harrington eyeroll.

“Look, I didn’t have to buy anything okay. I wasn’t even going to come tonight, until I heard,” he stops himself, pink dusting his cheeks and you don’t think it's from the frost in the air, “I’m surprised you’ve even seen it, doesn’t seem like your type of movie.”

“What’s my type of movie, Steve?” You grin with a cocked brow, letting the end of the joint rest against your bottom lip, the heat from before blooming deep in your gut when he tracks the movement licking his.

“I don’t know,” his heavy gaze makes your throat bob, “You tell me.”

You don’t think you’re talking about movies anymore.

“Isn’t Brenda going to be looking for you?” You tear your eyes away from him, taking another hit to seem nonchalant. The loud snort you get in response makes you jump.

“Brenda? No, I’ve been dodging that girl for months.” Running a hand through his hair, he dares to snatch the joint from between your fingers like he was some kind of professional or something. “Is that why you ran off on me in there?”

“I did not run off!” You huff, ducking your head inside his jacket to glare at him from over the top of it, “Why would I do that?”

Vulnerability softens Steve’s features when he looks at you tucked into his coat like it’s always meant to keep you warm.

“I don’t know,” he repeats quietly, “You tell me.”

Too scared of rejection, it’s his turn to look away bringing the joint to his mouth in an attempt to take a hit. You watch him hollow his cheeks, impressed for a second until he opens it to exhale and blows nothing out. A giggle slips past your lips that breaks the tension, making him groan loudly trying to fight his own smile.

“Look, I’m still new at this okay.” He sighs, a breathy laugh escaping him with a shake of his head handing it back to you. He’s only a little embarrassed, too enamored by how cute you look giggling at him.

“Hey, the confidence was there, you just gotta work on the technique.” You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, something sweet dancing behind your eyes when you scoot a little closer. “Do you want me to shotgun it for you?”

It’s Steve’s throat that bobs now.

“Aren’t guys supposed to do that to girls? I mean, I’ve seen Eddie do it at a few parties…” he starts, eyes going wide when you scoff at him.

“Wow, your feminism is showing.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, it’s just like in movies - I’m not saying girls can’t - wow this is not coming out the way I want it too, I’m just going to shut up now.” Steve stammers, running another nervous hand through his hair, blowing out an exasperated breath before meeting you

with sheepish eyes.

“Are you driving tonight?” You ask, looking up at him from under your lashes, bringing the joint to your mouth.

“No, for once.” He gives you a lopsided grin that makes your head spin.

“Good.” Turning your body towards him, the confidence you’re trying to hang onto wavers being this close again.

It’s just Steve.

He looks nervous as you feel, but tries to hide behind a quiet laugh, the amber of the beer he drank inside lingering on his breath. The warmth of his palm finds a home on your fishnet covered thigh that’s revealed to him by the side slit of your dress, fingertips pressing into soft skin. The heat behind his stare makes your body buzz as you inhale the last little bit of the joint into your lungs, beckoning him closer with a hum, and a curl of your long nails you snuff the rest out on the stairs. Surely Tina won’t mind.

“Really?!” Steve half whispers, half yells but the whites of his teeth show giving him away.

The corners of your mouth twitch as you lean forward catching the way his gaze flicks down, and how the view makes the gold specs inside his eyes darken. Resting your hand on his cheek, the stubble tickles your palm when your fingers spread out, your thumb coaxing his chin down to open up more for you. His long lashes flutter when his nose bumps with yours, heads turning just enough for lips to brush for a second and you feel the blunt ends of his nails dig into the holes of your fishnets.

You release your hit, feeling him steal the air from your lungs, his hand daring to move up your thigh to your waist where he tugs you even closer. He holds it in for a second, both of your eyes meeting down the bridge of your nose but neither of you pulling away.

Do it.

When he exhales there’s hardly anything left, but you take it anyway, your fingers finding their way to the hair at the nape of his neck. He squeezes at the dough of your hips, in a silent plea to put him out of his misery and just when you think you’re about to show him mercy the sound of the music getting louder and the sliding glass door opening makes you both jump away.

“Hey! - Oh shit! Sorry Harrington, I didn’t know you were out here.” Eddie tries to apologize profusely with his eyes when he sees the glare you’re shooting him. “I just sold the last of my stuff and Cece’s ready to go, so if you still need a ride?”

Your best friend looks at Steve begging him to take the opening to hopefully spare his life.

“I didn’t drive tonight if you can actually believe,” Steve laughs nervously scratching the back of his neck, “or obviously I’d love nothing more for you to stay.”

He says the last part softly, just for you more than pleased when he sees you try and fight the smile from taking over your face.

“Maybe next time,” you look at him from under your lashes hoping that he picks up the fact that you want a ‘next time.’

The blush that turns the tips of his ears pink tells you he does. He watches you get up and start to shrug his jacket off, shaking his head as he stands up to stop you.

“Keep it tonight, honey. It looks better on you anyway.”

-> chapter three

[loveisanimaginarydagger3000]

Enemies With Benefits (1)

Jealousy

Wanda Maximoff X Reader 18+

Summary: Enemies. That was what you were. She was an Avenger, you were a criminal. You should hate her, she should hate you. So why do you love the feeling of her skin pressed against yours? Moans spilling from her lips? The taste of her on your tongue?

Casual, rough sex. That was all it was supposed to be but soon feelings start to get involved. Would something so scandalous be able to last?

Warnings/Tags: Smut 18+ MDNI, Strap on, Oral sex, Fingering, Jealousy, Nightclub, Enemies, Rough sex, Dirty talk, Grinding

General Masterlist | Enemies with Benefits Masterlist

Chapter 1- Jealousy- 1.9k words

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Green eyes met yours from across the room, jealousy and anger swirling around in them as she stared daggers at you. A smirk grew on your face at her annoyed state as you stared back at her, your body moving in time with the music while the woman in your arms pushed her body back into you. The curve of her ass was flush against your front, heavy breaths escaping the both of you as you danced on the floor. Your head lowered to kiss along her neck, a moan escaping her throat that was drowned out by the blaring music.

“Fuck,” she said as your hands trailed across her body, gliding across her short dress until it met her exposed thighs. Your eyes never left the brunette on the other side of the room while you whispered dirty words into the blonde's ear, her head tilting back to rest against your shoulder. A sultry smirk was on her face as your lips ghosted over hers, your breaths mingling, a bead of sweat dripping down your neck.

Reluctantly, your gaze moved to the blonde, her eyes filled with lust as she glanced down at your lips before flickering back to your eyes. You mirrored her movement, looking at her plump lips, her tongue licking her bottom lip to wet it before it was trapped between her teeth and also had a quick look down at her chest, your position giving you a perfect view down her dress as she peered up at you.

Your hands moved to her hips, guiding her body so her front was flush against yours. You moved your hips in time with the music, hers swaying with yours as her arms wrapped around the back of your neck, her mouth moving to kiss along the hot skin. Your eyes then went back to the brunette, her now dancing with a tall man, her head tilted as she peered up at him. You almost chuckled at the action, knowing she learnt from Nat on how to seduce a man and lower his guard.

The black dress that clung to her body matched the smokey eye shadow she wore, the black contrasting the mesmerising green in her eyes and making them pop. You saw how she fluttered her eyelashes at him, his hands lowering down her body till they rested on her hips. Her hands then went to his shoulders, mouth moving to whisper in his ear while her eyes flickered over to you.

Her nails dug into your shoulders as you hovered above her, your hips pounding into her while your eyes watched her breasts bouncing with each powerful thrust. The strap was hitting all of the right spots deep inside her, her back arching and giving you the perfect access to the chest you were just admiring. Your teeth teasingly scraped over the sensitive flesh before your tongue licked around her nipple, your mouth soon taking her breast into your mouth. Her hands quickly moved to your hair, holding your head there as her hips moved in time with yours, moans pouring out of her mouth.

“Oh shit,” she groaned when you pulled back from her chest to kneel, lifting her legs up over your shoulders so the toy went even deeper into her. “Fuck Y/n,” your hips drilled into her, once of your hands moving to circle her clit while the other held onto the thigh that was trapped between your body and hers. You were forever grateful at how flexible she was, the angle easier for you to hit her sweet spots.

“Don’t you fucking dare stop,” her tone desperate and demanding making you smirk. You were tempted to ignore her words, slow your thrusts down and have her begging you to move but gave in and continued to pump the toy into her. “I’m gonna-” you cut her off with a bruising kiss, muffling the scream that erupted from the back of her throat as pleasure shuddered through her body once again.

A low groan escaped you as the memory faded, your eyes focusing on your surroundings to see the red tendrils dissipate around her fingers. The blonde smirked against your skin, thinking she was the reason for your affected state.

The brunette refused to look at you, her hands moving down the man's body until they reached his back pockets, slipping out the usb hidden in there and slipping it down her bra without him noticing. You waited for her to make the next move and continued to dance with the random woman as she chose what to do next. When you saw her leaving the man, his turning to find another woman instead of following, you quickly apologised to the blonde and followed the brunette. Your hand gripped her arm as she tried to walk away, pulling her body towards yours so her back was flush against your front.

“Where are you going my little witch?” you husked out at the shell of her ear, hands wrapping around her middle and moving her hips with yours. You hear the small groan come from her at your actions and grinned as you placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss at the base of her neck.

“I’m trying to work,” she rasped out back, leaning her head back to look at your face, her eyes naturally drifting to your lips and remembering the wonders your mouth can do.

“So boring,” your hand moving up her body till it rested on her throat for a moment before returning to her waist, “All work and no play?” your breath hot against her cheek as your mouth lowered till it hovered over hers.

Wanda answered your question by turning in your arms and crashing her lips to yours. Her hands roughly tugged your head down, hers tilting to deepen the kiss. You groaned at the intensity of it, your mind clouding with her. She pulled away with darkened eyes and a sultry smirk, her hand reaching out to grab yours as she pulled you through the club before pushing you into a random room.

Your back hit the wall, her mouth never leaving yours as her tongue explored your mouth. You heard the sound of the door locking, red tendrils fading around the handle as she continued to press you into the storage room wall. Your hand trailed down her back, squeezing her ass and pulling her closer to you before flipping the two of you around so she was pinned instead. Your mouth opened to say something but she placed her finger against them to shush you.

“Knees, now.” Her tone was one you wouldn't dare go against, not that you were going to anyway, and swiftly dropped to your knees. Her hands pushed your shoulders as you kneeled before her, looking up with a mischievous look as your hands rested on her thighs. “Don’t tease,” she rasped out, her hands tugging at your hair to make sure you were listening to her.

“So demanding,” you teased, quickly hiking her dress up to expose her soaked panties. “So wet,” you wasted no time in moving her underwear to the side and licking a stripe up her core, a loud moan escaping her. She pushed your head into her making you moan against her clit as you took it into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she sighed out, leaning her head back to rest against the wall. Your tongue was licking against her clit, your fingers running through her folds and gathering her wetness. A guttural groan left her when you thrusted a finger into her, her grip tightening on your locks as you smirked against her core.

“You looked so jealous on the dance floor,” you taunted, fingers curling against her g-spot making her hips buck forwards.

“I was not-Shit,” a choked moan escaped her when you swirled your tongue around her clit just the way she liked it. “I was not jealous,” she managed out, her eyes looking down at you with a dangerous look.

“So you wouldn't mind if I went back to the blonde?” you mused, pulling away from her clit for a moment to look at her. You held her gaze as you added another finger, watching how her mouth parted in a breathy sigh and eyes rolled back slightly. “Took her back to my place, fucked her with my mouth, fingers, cock,” she snapped at your last words, tugging your head back up to her mouth. Your mouths clashed, tongues fighting for dominance. You soon won when you moved your thumb to brush her clit, a moan taking her by surprise allowing you to control the kiss.

When air was necessary, you pulled back and moved to kiss along her neck. You could feel the groan she tried to stifle when you licked up the column of her throat, her eyes rolling at the feel of a smirk on her skin.

“Fuck her all you want,” she spat out, hands pulling you away from her neck. “We both know she’ll never make you feel how I can, make you come as hard as I can.” You just looked at her with a smug look to taunt her before moving to whisper in her ear. Your free hand moved to her chest, groping her breasts through her dress.

“Just admit you’re jealous, my little witch,” you husk out, making her groan in annoyance. You pump your fingers into her faster, making her whine pathetically as she buries her face against your collarbone.

“God, I hate you,” she whispers, her walls clenching around you and hips bucking signalling she was close.

“You can hate me all you want,” your voice low at the shell of her ear, “But you can’t say you don’t love how I make you feel, how I make you come so hard around my fingers.” As if on cue, her body tensed as her orgasm crashed over her. She muffling her mouth by biting on the fabric on your jacket to stop others hearing the scream that left her throat. You slowed her movements, letting her hips move along your fingers to ride out the aftershocks and soon pulled out.

Staring directly into her eyes, you raised your fingers that were covered in her cum to your mouth, sliding them in and moaning at the taste of her. She watched how your cheeks hollowed slightly and groaned quietly before pulling her dress down.

“Delicious,” you mutter while pulling the digits out of your mouth, her cheeks flushing at your sultry voice. You moved forwards to kiss her again but a hand on your chest stopped you in your tracks.

“I don’t have time for another round,” she whispers, pushing you back so she could walk past you.

“Scared your work friends will find you coming in my mouth?” your hands grasped hers, stopping her from opening the door. “I wonder what they’d think, hmm?” your mouth moved back to her neck, your hands gliding across her torso and down till her lower abdomen, “Fucking one of the bad guys, so scandalous.”

“That’s why they won’t find out,” she grits out, pulling away from you and opening the door, leaving you all alone in the room. You just chuckled to yourself, fixing your hair and clothes before pulling the usb you slipped out of her bra out of your pocket and twirling it between your fingers.

“See you soon, my little witch.”

[notroosterbradshaw]

slow dancing in a burning room - seven

word count: 6k

warnings: nsfw 18+, language.

part of: The Boyfriend Experience universe

a/n: no man's land. I hope you enjoy it. thanks to those who read, reblogged and commented on previous chapters. you’re doing god’s work. I truly appreciate your effort to show your support and if you like it… please comment and reblog it! x

You’d be lying to say you hadn’t been distracted all morning… not in the best frame of mind, half heartedly urging young teens, “Just another 50m, you got this”, because God knew, you certainly did not have this.

But you were just so tired. You hadn’t been sleeping well, you were just eating enough to say you were eating. You just felt average and it made you so angry how much you’d tangled yourself with Bradley. Self-care had taken a backseat to bury yourself in the pool’s redevelopment, you weren’t bothering with your morning ocean swim - and of course, it had nothing to do with bumping into Bradley on his morning run.

Nothing at all. 

Annie was on your case to pull yourself from your funk where you continually reminded her you were not in. You were in fact quite productive. Between the work, pool and constantly moving things around the apartment (you wished you'd never started to be honest because you just couldn’t make things work as well as they did before you nearly moved), your days were pretty full and you went to bed exhausted.

You’d just finished the early session when the first text came in. Shivering at your desk and wrapped in a sopping towel, just wanting to release the wet, tangled bun on top of your head and a hot shower to dechlorinate your irritated skin after teaching all morning, you knew protecting your peace was going to be difficult today.

Today, Bradley was to be arraigned. 

It had been a beast of a process for him. The last year his life had been so tumultuous - from deciding to move back to California, the highs of falling in love with each other, deciding to take that ridiculously quick step of moving in together. He gets the keys to his parents' villa and renovates it to build a life and a family. Everything he’d wanted for so long, to Maverick’s return. The only family he had that had destroyed all his hopes and dreams, was the Dagger mission… and subsequent crashes. His injuries, forced leave, and his mental health shattered to you leaving a man who didn’t know how to cope and not giving him the benefit of the doubt to try and help more. Your guilt crushed you in ways you’d never imagined you could ever put on another person. 

You bent in every direction for him, and it still wasn’t enough.

But the hidden truths. Your trust in him was shattered, and protecting yourself, something you were always taught, what we’re all taught but sometimes unable to walk away from someone who can’t change… but Bradley needed more help than you. And when he was put on forced leave, that was the final straw because… 

Because he almost died and when you found out through all the mistruths, he broke you. Maybe he didn’t mean to, maybe he wanted to protect you, protect what you had, but the world was bigger than what is redacted at the end of the day.

But without honesty, what the fuck did you have together? Very little, it turned out. Sex wasn’t going to save you, nor the way your heart found a new rhythm when Bradley was with you. Or how safe you felt in his arms, the way his big hands snuck under your shirt and wrapped around your soft tummy to pull you closer to his strong chest - 

Natasha Trace: He has been found not guilty. Don’t ask me what miracle or deity is on his shoulder, but to be released on Article 92 is wild! 

And you were so relieved and not just because you couldn’t compartmentalise didn’t mean those who were overseeing his case couldn’t. That was their job. Their job wasn’t to love Bradley unconditionally and feel the hurt you did for him… with him. Alone. 

It must have felt revolutionary. Your fingers found the characters to reply somehow. You were shaking, your phone trembled in your hand. Where were your glasses?!

You: How is he? Is he okay?

Natasha Trace: Disbelief. Absolute disbelief. Relief. He’s okay.

You: Thank God, thank you for letting me know, Nat.

Natasha Trace: Of course. We’re going for a celebratory drink. Do you wanna join us, or is that still the stupidest question in the world? 

You: The dumbest. 

You: But thank you.  

Natasha Trace: Can I tell him I told you?

You: I don’t think he will care, but ok. Tell him I’m happy for him and hope he’s excited to get in the air again.

Natasha Trace: I think he will get orders pretty quickly…

It sure seemed like a hint. Talk to him now before you lose him for months on end again. 

You: I’m sure he’s very excited about that. MEDHOLD? 

Natasha Trace: Awaiting TBI and psych assessment but he thinks he’s pretty close.

You: Don’t tell him I’m crossing my fingers for him.

Natasha Trace: …no, never 😉

After showering and dressing with a little more pep in your step thanks to Bradley’s good news, your brain got the best of you and you thought maybe it’d be nice to send him a small, “I’m really happy for you. I hope you enjoy getting back up in the skies” message.

Retrieving his number that was no longer your ICE, no longer the top of your Favourites, and unblocking it made your body quake, and like it was a warning, the barrage of texts you’d not received overwhelmed you.

One by one, begging, pleading for your notice, the raw, the anger, the language.

He had given you a few days of quiet before the texts started.

Bradley 🐓: Love, are you sure this is what you need? I can give you anything, let’s just please try and make this work. I’ll give you some time, whatever you want x

Bradley 🐓: I got a Not Delivered back. You’ve blocked me?

Bradley 🐓: You’ve blocked me. Shit.

Bradley 🐓: Okay, I get it, you want space, I’ll give it to you. 

Bradley 🐓: Hey you… checking if I’m still blocked.

Bradley 🐓: YEP. 

Bradley 🐓: Gotta say, I didn’t think you’d ever block me. 

The thing is, you never thought you’d ever have to block Bradley and as you eased back in your chair, your inherent need to nip something irritating to him made your fingers itch. 

Bradley 🐓: Okay, if this is what you want, I’ll leave it to you to come back to me.

Bradley 🐓: I’m so fucking sorry about tonight. I hope the door didn’t hurt you too badly. 

Bradley 🐓: Still fucking blocked. Ok. I won’t bother again. You've made your point. On me for stupidly not believing we are at this place.

You had to wonder if it was even worth sending one of your own. You couldn’t match his tone, his anger and disappointment. The congratulations text just didn’t seem to cut it but before you knew it, the “Natasha told me you’ve been acquitted. I am happy for you, Rooster. Enjoy getting back to work, I know you’ve missed it” text had written itself but it didn’t mean it was as easy to hit the send button.

And it felt colder than it sounded. You hoped he was sitting on his phone and ready to respond but when you were still waiting the next day, you had to admit you weren’t very surprised. Like he cared that you were happy for him, he deserved to move on and not deal with you and your bullshit in his life anymore. 

You desperately wanted to block him just like before, heart not prepared to see his name in your notifications again.

You hit send before you could think anymore and hoped maybe you were blocked on his end too.

“Knock, knock. Favourite granddaughter is here,” you announced, the tiresomeness in your voice evident after the barrage of Bradley’s texts weighed heavily on you as you walked into your grandparents' home for a cheeky late lunch later that day. Washed and primped (washed and in your activewear, naturally. You were a swimming teacher, not a goddamn office drone), you wandered past the photo wall to find Grandpa and… Maverick in the kitchen. Well, fuck. Your luck was the worst.

There wasn’t a midlife crisis motorbike parked out the front… this would teach you to turn up unannounced. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Grandpa smiled, raising his arm for you to fall under with a hug in greeting. “Whatcha doing here?”

“I, uh…” you tried not to stammer. “Lunch. Thought I’d come over and say hi.”

“Do you wanna sandwich or something?” Viper said, jumping into gear. “Can make a tuna melt - ”

“That’s okay, I’ll go,” you started making excuses. You didn’t want to be around Mav and your brain didn’t have the tolerance to try and fight anymore today. “I didn’t realise you had company…” 

Viper caught the gist and nodded slowly. “You gotta eat.” 

“I have food at home,” you told him but kind of waited for Maverick to take the goddamn hint to get the fuck out. This was your safe place; you didn’t need it tainted by Pete Mitchell. 

“I should probably make a move anyway,” Maverick said, knowing fully well that the discomfort in the kitchen was all because of him. How self-aware, you thought glumly.

“No, you stay,” you tried so hard to be polite, but the tension that bubbled in your bloodstream sort of made you kind of want to curse the day the Navy dragged him yours and Bradley’s way again. 

“No, it’s ok – ”

“Don’t Mav. I’ll leave. You stay,” you tried to bite back your exasperation but it certainly didn’t appear that way. 

“Hey,” Viper warned you. He wouldn’t expect you to talk to anyone like that. 

“Look. I’m real sorry, kid,” Maverick tried, and gee, age had worn him.  

You tried to remain passive, but the frown seemed to speak volumes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why were you so angry at him? Did Mav even know the impact he’d had on your relationship? How Breadley would come home like a bear with a headache, angry, snide. And for that, you just couldn’t seem to disconnect your past from the present and it only made you seethe further. 

“I know I should have done this before because I know I'm the catalyst of a lot of Bradley’s problems. And in part, that burden fell on you.”

You wanted to tell him you didn’t know what he was talking about, to forget it, but as every emotion you had bubbled under the surface, you hissed back, “Well, it’s all very convenient now, I suppose. You get your kid back; you both get back up in the air and live happily ever after.” 

“That’s fair,” Maverick just seemed to take the lash of your tongue in his stride. How pathetic.

“Hey,” Viper said again, a little more warning in his voice.

“Grandpa, Mav almost got Bradley killed,” you said finally.

Viper’s gaze drifted to Mav. “I know the whole story, sweetheart.”

Taken aback, you look at your grandpa. “What?” 

“Bradley came and told me the whole thing.”

You were slow to respond, probably because your brain was overprocessing Grandpa’s reply and the sting it caused. Because Bradley came here when he couldn’t come to you? Because even though he loved you, he felt he couldn’t share this, so he came to Grandpa. 

And he couldn’t come to you?! 

“Jesus, what did you do so right to get some honesty out of him?” you retorted. 

“He was scared, kid. Bradley has already lost everything. He’d lost you. He thought his career was gone too. He needed someone to talk to.”

“I was right there, taking care of him when no one else was able to,” you could feel the rage build within you. “I was right there and he didn’t tell me until he was told - ”

“Because you were the hardest to tell, sweetheart,” Viper told you, the evenness in his voice riling you more. Why wasn’t your blood as furious as you were?! “The person who means the most in the world, who may or may not already have a vendetta against the Navy. How was he going to tell you?”

“How was he going to keep it a secret? When he wakes up screaming with nightmares every night?” you demanded, and Viper nodded slowly because he knew – you remembered vividly the nights you heard Grandpa wake screaming and Nana begged him to calm for your sake. “He’s had PTSD from the Navy since he was four and he still thinks it’s the only place he belongs.”

He belongs with me, you wanted to scream but thankfully managed to bite back.

“He will always have something to prove. With you, without you,” Maverick said your name evenly. “Regardless of anything that ever happened. He barely knew his old man and for a while, he got away with no one knowing Goose Bradshaw was his old man - ”

“So, what… now he’s got more to fight against?” you muttered.

“In a way, yes.”

Oh, you could fucking punch him and resisting it was becoming futile. You turned to him. “Please don’t say another word,” and there was so much threat in your cautioning. You felt feral, every emotion you’d been pushing down since everything exploded was waiting precariously on your tongue and in range was the one who it all centred around. 

Maverick nodded and for a minute, you thought he’d respect your decision… but nope. “I know him so well. It’s what he hates most about me. I knew his father better than he ever did and Rooster is just like Goose. Always bred for more. Always striving for that next part.”

“If you never came back, he’d still be with me, and we’d be happy. Since you walked back into his life, you unapologetically ruined him again after he fought for everything he has now. And I was there. Trying to fix him when he didn’t know how to fix it himself. But it fell on deaf ears because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me - ”

“He trusts you, kid,” Maverick told you evenly. “You are the only one he trusts and that is what makes it worse for him.”  

It was like a car accident. Bradley’s hand was so close to knocking on the weatherboard of the Metcalfe residence and hearing you, the absolute venom in your tone as you lashed Maverick inside. Bradley had never heard you like this, even when you fought with him, your voice was never as cool and callous. 

“I loved him. I wanted my future with him, and it was taken from us.”

“There’s still time - ” Mav tried and for a moment, Bradley stopped breathing because if what came next from your lips gave him the slightest piece of hope, he was going to walk inside and take you in his arms, right where you belonged and make you see reason if it was the last thing he ever did.

“There isn’t - he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He’s got plenty of other options out there, Mav,” you hissed. “You think I’m stupid enough to think he hasn’t moved on? When I saw him at the bar a few weeks ago, he looked right through me. Then his date - whatever she was - followed him out. Trust me, I’m aware Bradley has moved on.”

The men remained quiet, because they knew Bradley hadn’t moved on. Bradley was not thinking about moving on. Bradley was only thinking about you. 

“You didn’t get to Viper’s and invite him for a drink?” Maverick asked a while later, cold beer in hand and sliding another across the bar to Bradley, free Bradley, Bradley who was ready to get up in the air again and get his life back on track after one of the worst periods of his life.

And shit, he’d had a lot of them in his short time on the planet to compare. 

He gave Mav a wary side-eye. “No, by the time I got back from the gym, I thought it was rude to pop over around dinner time,” Bradley lied spectacularly, and he knew Mav could see right through him. He'd watched his godson from the moment he walked in, rigid, terse and for a guy who had the world at his feet again, Mav knew something was still troubling him.

“Talk to me, Bradley.”

“Mav, I heard her.”

“Heard who?” Mav was clueless to Bradley’s less-than-subtle hints. Who else was she?

Bradley sighed, easing against the sticky bar as Javy came past, shaking his shoulders happily. “Congrats, brother. So fuckin' happy for you!” he exclaimed as Bradley gave a sheepish grin in reply and Javy said he’d be back with drinks shortly. 

“Bradley,” Mav got his attention again.

He sighed, sipping his beer to wet his throat. “I heard her yell at you, at Viper and I almost didn’t recognise her voice because of the anger laced in it. And it was because of me she was that heated.” 

Of course. Bradley had come to invite Viper for a drink and caught your vitriol instead. Mav sighed, contemplating his next words. Because even though he’d just got him back in his life, he knew his fractured relationship with Bradley was going to take time to heal fully. Knowing what he knew about Bradley, if he pushed too hard, he would resist. He was so headstrong, and at times, unable to see the forest for the trees, but Mav persisted carefully anyway. “Something tells me, like you, Bradley… she’s had this vendetta lined up for a while. Viper, her old man, now you, and probably me because of my involvement in the last few months... years, I suppose.”

“Doesn’t give her the right to take it out on anyone,” Bradley reminded him.

“She probably never has, and that’s why this smarts so much. You’re more alike than you think. Allathis,” Mav motioned around them at the Naval paraphernalia hanging around the bar. “It’s all you both know. She hasn’t felt the joy from it you do. She lost her faith a long time ago. And for now, you are collateral damage from years of turmoil.

When did this motherfucker get so smart? It left a bitter taste in Bradley's mouth he could be receiving such frank advise from MAv after everything they'd been through.

"But if it told me anything, son, it's that woman loves you and that’s what is making everything so much harder for her.” 

Staring hard at the older man, Bradley guzzled the cool beer down his throat and for once, didn’t know what to say, so Maverick continued, “If anything, have faith that she is still crazy about you. And it’s not over, but it will take time. And it’ll need to be the right time.” 

“When’d you start dishing out all this maturity?” it was all Bradley could find himself saying as Mav broke into a smirk that was almost permanent on his face as a younger, much more careless man. The years had matured him. Gone was the flashy, wide unbeatable grin that was constantly in competition with Ice for the biggest ego and accolades, replaced with a softer version, one that had listened and learned from the auxiliary noise around him. 

One of Mav’s biggest regrets was never settling down and having a family. When it didn’t work with Charlie all those years ago, and it took so long for him and Penny to see eye to eye on where they wanted to be in life, he knew he had to step back and re-evaluate how to get where he needed to. And that didn’t always mean fighting for it, it sometimes meant to take that step back and let fate take its course. 

When Goose died, Mav tried to step in to be the father that Bradley had lost, and for a long time, Bradley let him try and fill that void of a father figure. But it only took one betrayal on Mav’s behalf to become Bradley’s enemy and the resentment that Bradley had for him shook Mav to his core. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take again. He knew better and would do what was needed to support his family the way they needed it. This time, he was going to be everything Bradley needed even if it was to his detriment.

It was only a few days later after your showdown with Mav that you’d gotten word Bradley had flown out, and you were free as a bird to leave the house and see what the outside world had turned into while you’d turned your back on it. Why, you wondered at this time, you’d bothered, was another thing.

“So, if you don’t have a boyfriend, why can’t I buy you a drink?” the young officer asked as you chewed your tongue and could swear, you tasted blood. What was it with these Navy fuckboys who thought anyone was fair game after a few drinks? Not all that much had changed, not even the quiet seething Bob displayed a few seats up, prepping himself to step in.

What was wrong with you to think coming here was a good idea… at any time… anymore?

“Because I have a drink,” you explained quietly again, showing he couldn't take no for an answer, your glass. “I don’t need another. I appreciate the gesture, but no.” 

“Come on, just one.”

“Holy shit – ” you finally snapped but you felt his body heat behind you before you could get the words out. You’d know it anywhere. When did he walk in? …how much had he seen? He wasn't supposed to be here!

You stiffened and maybe more agitated than you were before. 

“Lieutenant,” the young pilot straightened, and it all but confirmed you knew Bradley Bradshaw, who was supposed to be on a boat somewhere in the middle of the big blue was behind you. You were going to kill Hangman. Kill him.

“Nice to see you, Rhodes. Heard you got blown out of the sky today…” Bradley said, the amusement in his voice paramount but you didn’t once let your guard down. You didn’t need him to fight your battles for you. 

“Uh, yeah…” the meekness in the young officer’s voice was obvious. You didn’t always realise the command Bradley had over others. Of course, you knew how people were drawn to him, but seeing him with a subordinate was infatuating, to say the least. You didn’t often see him in a position of real power, and it would be shameful to admit, it was sexy. 

“And by Hangman no less,” Bradley laughed quietly, that amused chuckle that you knew had a whole other hidden meaning. “Would probably be a good idea to stop drowning your sorrows and prepare for tomorrow, huh?”

“Guess so…”

“And apologise.”

“Look, I didn’t think you guys were dating anymore – ” Rhodes tried but didn’t offer an apology.

“What difference does that make?” you snapped, confidence growing in Bradley’s presence. You felt him stand a little closer, his heat prickling your back, behind you you wondered if he noticed it too.

“If you think that is what this is about, your ego is more outta check than you’re letting on."

You heard Rhodes mutter, “I’m sorry,” while he skulked away, and you finally breathed as Bradley stayed quiet behind you. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ…” you heard him mutter as he joined his other friends. 

“You okay?” Bradley asked gently. 

“I’m fine,” you reassured him, the slight snipe still in your voice. But you didn’t dare turn to face him, because if you looked up at him, that would make this whole thing real - that he was right there with you. You weren’t surprised when your stool was slowly spun towards him and his friendly, impish smile graced his handsome face… his beard was well grown in and manicured to the navy’s specification, his sun-kissed curls a lot longer than you’d ever seen on him and you swear, he’d never looked more handsome. “Hi.” you managed and God, he looked desperate to be kissed. You missed those plump, beautiful lips. 

“Hello,” he replied, holding your gaze. Not hard, just… tender. 

“Thanks. You didn’t need to… do that.”

“I know I didn’t. And I know you’re perfectly capable of standing up for yourself. I just wanted to make sure that little pissant knew what he was getting himself into if he went ten rounds with you.”

And you couldn’t help it as you bit back a giggle, hiding your burgeoning laughter behind your hand. Because if he knew one thing about you… it was that you were the dirtiest fucking fighter around and that poor kid would have been laid out with your lash of the tongue alone. “Well, you’d know…” you admitted as he licked back a smirk of his own and hummed. “Can I buy you a drink to say thanks?” you offered softly, and you weren’t sure he’d even heard you in the commotion of a Friday night. You barely heard the sound of your voice from the raging heartbeat in your ears.

He scratched the back of his neck, looking back at the fellas… all of whom were keenly watching on. Unabashed and gawking. Fuck those guys, he rolled his eyes and came back to you. “I shouldn’t…” 

“Get her a drink, you goddamn pussy!” Hangman mouthed viciously and Bradley pretended he couldn’t read his wingman’s lips. He wished he couldn't.

“Yeah, okay. The least you can do is buy me a beer.”

“Hangman has a tab,” you informed him, that devious glint in your eyes shining. 

“Top-shelf whiskey,” Bradley replied confidently.

You gave the order and times it by two, Bradley raising an interested eyebrow. You stayed together in a strange silence for a while, both waiting for your drinks to whet your palette and bring up the courage to say something that was simply… kind… to the other. God knows your last conversation was anything but. 

Taking your first thankful sips, you both laughed as the exact same line came out to the other, “How have you been?” you both dropped your eyes bashfully, uncomfortably and you tried asking him again.

“Not too bad,” he admitted. 

“I was told you had shipped out.” You would still kill Hangman.

“Checking up on me?” his upper lip twitched as you ducked your head. “Phoenix?”

“Hangman,” you corrected him as he chuckled quietly. 

“Dick,” he muttered shortly. “They extended my medical leave just another few days. Paperwork.”

You looked at him, he looked right as rain. 

“And you were right about the shitty shrink stuff,” he pointed to his head while he read yours. “PTSD.”

Well, yeah, you wanted to say it was the least shocking thing he could tell you. “Oh. Oh, Bradley,” you said delicately.

He nodded and shrugged. “Please don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve seen that whole look my whole fuckin’ life, I just can’t stand you looking at me like that too. This is what I’ve been trying to avoid from the get-go.” 

“Then you’re gonna really hate me after this,” you gently touched his ribs, knowing their previous injury and left your hands to skim his cotton tee before wrapping him in your grasp, the muscles tense under your touch. “I’m sorry, Bradley,” you murmured into his chest, and he sighed, his breath against you shuddered. Your shampoo invaded his nostrils, and goddamn, if he didn’t miss that fuckin’ perfect scent and how it lingered. 

He couldn’t fight it if he tried and he wrapped his arms around you, trying to desperately not lose it and do all he really wanted to do – cry. Cry for him, cry for you, cry for how badly you’d both fucked up. And he’d be lying to say that being in your arms felt so good. He missed the warmth of your curves, maybe a little less than he remembered, and he breathed you in, his love. And the hardest thing he ever had to get over.

Because, unlike his other losses, who left his life, wholly? You were there every day while he tried to make it without you. That sting of trying to get over you in every facet of his life and he just couldn’t move on from you. And that made it worse. 

“It’s not all bad,” he said, lips so close to your ear. “A long story short, I did get clearance and I’m out in 48 hours. Just for the record. The counselling has to continue weekly.”

“Just like me,” you said, a little sing-song. 

Bradley scoffed, humoured. “Yeah… just like you. A pair a’ damaged goods.”  

“Jesus Christ,” you exclaimed, breaking the revelry as Bradley’s arms were covered in cool liquid and he figured, so was your back.

“What the fuck?” he pulled back, alarmed as he looked at some of the younger officers getting into each other’s faces, glasses hitting the floor, drinks flying. It was broken up as quickly as it escalated, Bradley pushing you gently behind him to avoid getting caught in the fracas. “You okay?” he asked over his shoulder as you were reaching for the napkins on the bar just out of your reach. He moved before you and retrieved them, helping you dab away whatever had - yep, drenched you, the back of your hair dripping and the back of your dress sopping. 

“Yeah, just a drink or something,” you sighed.

“Lemme help,” he said, carefully turning you around and tenderly mopping up the bare skin on your back. And he’d be lying to say that if he just reached a little lower, he’d be able to kiss that freckle behind your ear, but blinking that image away, he knew this was not the time to be fantasising about the woman whom he fantasised about every night. 

He sighed and removed his shirt, white V-neck underneath. “Take this,” he said your name a few times over the commotion in the bar after the almost fight.

Raising your hands, you told him not to worry. You’d just take off and get a shower. “It was a bad idea coming out tonight. You know when you feel it’s not the time?”

“Well, you did think I had already flown out, so you probably should have trusted your intuition.” 

And you stared up at him, watching him biting back a grin and as he wrapped his shirt over your shoulders, watching you slip your arms into the sleeves, all he wanted to do was pull you in tight again, kiss your hair and tell you how he was still so in love with you that it was keeping him awake at night, that it was you that he still jerked off and willingly spilling into his hand and all over his stomach to. He imagined you riding him, giving him the messiest head like only you knew how, kissing him while he made love to you, and he held your arms trapped above your head as you trembled beneath him, as you came around him. 

“You sure you’re okay, kid?” he asked, chewing his lip, and fixing the collar on the shirt. But you were so swept up in his smell that lingered, and as you tightened it around yourself, your eyes changed just for that flash that told Bradley that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t just him who was feeling the way he was. “Can I drive you home?” 

You shook your head. “It’s okay. I know you have things to do tomorrow - ”

“Come on,” he offered gently, nudging his head towards the door and as he collected your bag and urged you to wander out before him, you knew it was going to take all your strength to just allow this to happen. “Lemme get you outta here.” 

And who were you to argue? Because honestly. You’d follow him anywhere. The man you loved, the man you’d hurt so badly. Nodding gently and seeing that sweet gentleness in his honey-coloured eyes, you let him usher you ahead, his strong hand easy on your lower back, just like it was any other night, the way he��d guide you through the masses, softly, securely, protectively. 

You wriggled as the cool alcohol pressed into your back, and Bradley flinched, thinking you wanted his hands off you – when it couldn’t be any further from the truth. He took his palm away and opened the door as you exited. “You really don’t have to drop me home,” you told him. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“It’s fine, really. I had, like, two drinks. Probably best I call it a night and make sure I’m organised anyway,” he replied, leading you to the Bronco. He unlocked your side and naturally opened the door, offering his hand to help you step in.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, taking his offered warm palm and he helped hoist you in with the slightest of assistance. Buckling up, your eyes followed him to the driver’s side, and he just looked so handsome. You were surrounded by him with his shirt and cologne filling your senses. It all felt too familiar and that scared you terribly. He was fiddling with the keys before popping in and hopping into the seat. He gave you a small smile as he buckled up and gunned the engine, unsurprisingly Al Green low through the stereo. 

It was a quiet trip towards your apartment, keeping your eyes on the passing coastline, scared if you looked at him, you’d do something stupid and just revelling in being the closest you’d been to him in months. 

“You see they demolished that old villa near Penny’s place?” he mumbled. 

“Yeah, how ridiculous,” you said to him. “It was such a gorgeous home. I think they’re dozing it for apartments or something,” you continued the small talk as you passed his villa. You noticed the ladder out front and scaffolding around the roof. “How’s it all going here?”

“Ahh, okay,” he shrugged, trying to focus on the road. “You know, a lot to be done still.”

“I can imagine,” you agreed, studying his face. His profile was completely different with his neat beard, but the rest of him was bigger and stronger. He’d laid countless hours into the gym while on leave and you could see the proof. Your eyes travelled over his tanned biceps and the way the white tee sleeve strained over them, following the vein to his inner elbow and wrist, hand clutching the gear shirt, long fingers wrapped around it. “Thanks for the lift home.”

“Anytime,” he replied, peeking a look back at you and a small smile crept to his handsome features, knowing he was sprung. But alas, so were you. “What?”

You shook your head gently, mortified inside that he caught you checking him out. But what were you to do? He was always so incredibly handsome, and you just missed being near him, being around his warmth, even if it wasn’t something you could bathe in like you used to. 

As much as he made you nervous to be in this proximity again… you felt incredibly content just being with him. His quiet calm always had a way of reassuring you, even before you started dating. 

A few more moments in relative silence aside from the stereo, Bradley pulled into the apartment carpark and put the car in park.

Ask him in, your brain screamed.

Kiss him, it added.

Fix this, your brain had officially melted down.

And when all you muttered was a “thanks” for driving you home, for giving up his shirt, for being the bigger person to be able to do both… you sunk into a funk that you just weren’t expecting tonight. Because even though the night was a happy accident, there was so much unsaid.

“No problem,” he said, hands gripping the steering wheel like if you tried to kiss him, he would let you, like if you asked him in, he’d willingly follow. He was anticipating your next move but you didn’t know what it was. 

“Bye,” you unbuckled and opened the door, scooting out before you made more of a mess of everything than you had to now. 

“Night,” he said, sadly lips pursed together as you gently closed the door over and refused to look back as you went to the stairs and forced one foot then the next to continue climbing the flights until you were safely at your door. 

With one last glance back, you weren’t surprised to still see Bradley’s Bronco parked and you waved timidly, not willing to see if he returned the gesture before finding solace in your apartment.

You tossed your bag on the bench and made a beeline for your bedroom, spent. Mentally, your brain was fried. Physically, all you could think about was Bradley and how he could amp you up with very little attempt on his behalf. You wrapped his shirt tightly around you, taking in the Acqua di Gio that lingered.

You missed the way the scent drifted around the apartment and how much it truly reminded you of him. You carefully slipped it off and folded it just like he would have if it were him removing it before unzipping your damp dress, the alcohol stinging gently against your skin and discarded the dress in a pile at your feet. 

Needing a hot shower, you rinsed yourself of the mess of the evening but as you hung your towel up after your evening skincare, Bradley’s cologne wasn’t lost on you in the small room. His smell overwhelmed you and as you moved towards the shirt again, bringing the collar to your nose, you knew the time had come to fix this. 

To fix you.

To fix him.

And to fix you back together.

masterlist.

Big thanks as always to @sometimesanalice for helping me get this fic over this line when this chapter really needed it! x

A/N: the tag list no longer exists. To keep up to date, give @notroosterbradshaw-library a follow x

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 15: Home

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

The day is cloudy, obscuring most of the sky, with brief breaks where the clouds crack to let through cerulean rivers and dapples of sunlight. The flames in the fireplace flicker and dance in the breeze coming in off the Great Harbour.  

You flip through another book on vampire covens in Waterdeep. So far, Gale has procured an impressive amount of information, but most of the texts are outdated. You’ve searched crypts and ancient mausoleums and scouted every location mentioned with Shadowheart, but they’ve all been long abandoned dead ends.  

“I brought you lunch.” Shadowheart smiles, nudging the door closed with her hip. “Before you turn your nose up, I made it.”  

“Thanks. Already sick of Gale’s cooking?”  

Shadowheart’s nose wrinkles, and she smirks slyly but refrains from answering. The gleam in her eye tells you all you need to know. She nods toward the book in your lap. “Anything?”  

“No,” you say with a shake of your head. "According to these, most vampire covens in Waterdeep don’t last. They’re either eradicated by something or vanish."

“You’re thinking this is the work of the Vampire Lord we’re looking for?” 

You nod. “Astarion said vampires are territorial. If other covens have tried to make a home in Waterdeep for decades, even centuries, and none have survived, I think whoever we’re looking for predates all of it.”  

“That’s disconcerting.” Shadowheart’s brows furrow, but she sheds her trepidation easily. “We’ll figure it out. We always do. Gale and I sent letters to the others to see if anyone could come and help.”

“If they are able to come, Gale’s going to have a lot of mouths to feed.”  

“And Astarion is going to have to answer for his foolish disappearance.” Shadowheart scoffs with a frown. “I still have half a mind to—“  

“Shadowheart." You cut Shadowheart off as nicely as you can while still sounding assertive. "I know you mean well, and I love you for being so protective, but what happened between Astarion and me is our business. He had his reasons, and maybe I didn’t understand them at the time, but I do now. Furthermore, I understand him better.” 

“You cannot be serious.” Shadowheart retorts sourly. “I swear that man could thrust a dagger through your heart, and you would still find a way to exonerate him with your dying breath.” 

She’s not wrong.

“Please give him the benefit of the doubt.” You swallow the irritation and try pacifying it with the knowledge that her prickliness is her way of showing you she cares. “You must keep in mind that he’s never experienced a relationship before, and he’s still learning who he is as a free man. Some of the blame falls on me too. It might have been prudent to allow him to decide if he wanted to live alone for a while before we moved in together. I might have pushed him too fast.”  

“He could have at least told you he was leaving.” She snorts. “Coward.”  

“That’s enough,” you growl in a warning that you’ve reached your limit of her tartness. You take a deep breath. “None of us can fathom what he’s been through and the scars he carries. He deserves our understanding, not our expectations of what we think he should have done.”

“Fine, ugh, fine,” she replies coolly. Her expression softens. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” 

“It’s okay,” you smile. “I’m sorry I ruined your vacation. I know you came to see the House of the Moon, not possibly die helping me fight another vampire.”  

“Do you want to know a secret?” She giggles gleefully with a broad smile. “Retirement has gotten rather boring. I may not have chosen another Vampire Lord as our next foe, but at least we have experience with this particular enemy.”

“Hells below.” You laugh. “I thought I was the only one who found all this lounging around in safety utterly dull!”  

“I hear you and Astarion haven’t been doing much lounging around since he returned.” Shadowheart waggles her brows with a sly, bright grin.  

If you were a more bashful person, your cheeks would be heating, but Shadowheart became your best friend during your travels, and you don’t need to be shy with her.

“Oh,” you smirk smugly, “about that. You may want to reconsider moving your room to the upper floors of the tower with Gale, or I suspect you’ll never get any rest.” 

“You are downright uncivilized, Kamena!” Shadowheart dissolves into a fit of laughter. “I think I will survive. It’s not like you two were exactly quiet in camp, and I’d rather keep a close eye on Hecat.” 

“She’s still here?” Your brows furrow. “I was rather hoping she would take her leave after the whole vampire thing.”

“Me too. Instead, she seems rather keen to help. I haven’t decided yet if she’s an idiot or up to something.” 

You rub your tired eyes. Your nightmares have returned with ferocity, and Astarion has had to wake you up several times every night lately. “We will watch her closely.” 

“You mean you’re going to watch her closely around Astarion?” Shadowheart giggles, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “I saw that at breakfast the other day. She could not stop gawking at him!”

“I know!” You grunt with an exasperated huff. “I could veritably see her undressing him with her eyes. The woman is lucky I didn’t pluck them out with my fork!” 

Shadowheart takes your hand in hers. “Astarion’s heart is yours. It has been since he met you. You have no reason to be worried.” 

“I am not worried about him. I trust him.” You groan and try to push away the little green monster that seems to infect your very essence. You’ve always been a jealous person, although you prefer to call it territorial. Though this is a little much, even for you, “I’m worried about her.” 

“If she lays a hand on him, he will likely cut it off before she can blink.” Shadowheart cajoles, obviously trying to reassure you. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “He won’t have time to before I make her spontaneously combust.” 

Shadowheart leans in close, whispering, “You don’t need to worry, Kamena. You’re much prettier than she is.”

You both laugh until your eyes are watery and your cheeks are sore. Shadowheart sits with you, reading a different text and making notes. The words on the page start to blur before your tired eyes.  

“Go rest.” Shadowheart nudges you awake. You didn’t even realize you had slipped into your trance until she roused you. “The books aren’t going anywhere.” 

“Yes.” You nod with a yawn. “I think that’s a good idea.”

Descending the spiral staircase to the lower floor of the manor, Astarion’s voice draws you to the grand sitting room, where he’s chatting with Hecat. For some reason, you don't enter the room and decide to eavesdrop on the conversation. Astarion will undeniably know you’re there, but Hecat wouldn’t have heard you.

What does she say to him when I am not around? 

She asks him questions regarding his vampirism. It makes you uncomfortable, though you cannot put your finger on why. Astarion seems unruffled by her interrogation. In truth, they are rather innocent . She asks simple things like what blood tastes like, if he can eat food, and what it tastes like to him, among other pointless inquiries. Her line of questioning is much like what you imagine a child’s would be.

“Can I see your fangs?” Hecat asks with a chortle.

You smother the urge to stomp into the room and tell her that he’s not a spectacle for her viewing pleasure. You did ask the same thing once, but that was at least after you agreed to be his meal. Gods. If she asks him to bite her, you will surely lose your shit.

Taking a deep breath, you enter the room as nonchalantly as you can, feigning surprise to even see her.

“Afternoon, dragon girl!” She chimes happily. “Your friend and I are getting to know each other a little better. I’ve never seen a vampire that’s not a bloodthirsty maniac.”

Hecat makes a point to emphasize the word friend with all the subtly of a neon sign flashing in a dark hallway, and it makes you fume like a kettle left unattended over an open flame. You can feel the pressure building up to a deafening whistle in your ears, and you’re ready to blow your lid off in frustration.

“Then you don’t really know my friend very well.” You retort with a curt smile, and you’re proud that you manage to keep the bitterness out of your intonation. “He’s just very selective about his meals.”

Astarion cocks his head at you, smirking with a low chuckle. “She is correct. All vampires are bloodthirsty maniacs. I just happen to be a picky, bloodthirsty maniac."

Hecat regards you thoughtfully, and her eyes land on the telltale puncture wounds on your neck that are still in the process of healing. She laughs, looking at Astarion. “By picky, I assume you mean you prefer blood that’s spiced with a hint of draconic fire?”

Your hand shoots up to your neck, the pads of your fingers running over the scabbed skin.

Astarion seems rather bemused by the entire conversation. “I do indeed enjoy spicy food. The hotter, the better.”

“I’m from the Hells.” Hecat remarks confidently with a wolfish grin. “You can’t get much hotter than me.”

The fire in the hearth discharges with a sonorous crack. Embers and sparks eject from the fireplace, making both Hecat and Astarion jump. You have never been more tempted to show her that, though she may hail from the Hells themselves, nothing is hotter than the Hellfire of an angry dragon. You’re not sure if she’s trying to irk you or is just terribly stupid.

Probably a combination of both.

“Excuse us.” Astarion’s drawls as if nothing is amiss, taking your hand, but you don't take your glowering eyes off the Tiefling until she yields, and her eyes snap away in deference.

Astarion virtually drags you away from the interaction before you can decide if murdering this woman might be worth any further trouble it would bring to your doorstep.

You follow him reluctantly back to your room. Before he can lecture you or comment, you blurt out hastily. “Pack some clothes and your things. We’re going to get away from here for a couple of days.” 

“We’re leaving?” Astarion quirks a brow at you. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, given the predicament we find ourselves in?”

“It’s only a couple of days.” You sigh, sitting on the bed, letting your head drop into your hands. “I’m tired, and I need a break. I spoke to Gale about it already. He’s positive they will manage without their fearless leader. If you would rather stay, you don’t have to come.”

“Stay here? With them? Alone? Hardly.” He scoffs, clicking his tongue. “A worse fate than even the kennels. Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” 

“Gods. I hate surprises.” Astarion groans with a cheeky grin. “It’s rarely anything good. Surprise! You’re a vampire. Suprise! You’ve been tadpoled and might burst like a boil into a grotesque squid at any moment. Surprise! That sweet, demented old crone is indeed a hag.” 

“I think you’ll like this one, petal.” You tut, smirking back. “If you don’t, feel free to kill me.”

“Hmm.” Astarion taps his lips with his finger. “That’s very tempting. I’m almost convinced. Alright, deal. Lead on.”

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” Astarion groans, bringing the dapple-grey gelding beside your mare. 

“Stop being testy.” You giggle at the frown he shoots you. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”

“I am centuries old,” he scoffs, jutting his chin into the air cavalierly. “I did not once say I couldn’t ride. I said I do not like the beasts. Horrid creatures.”

“I do forget how positively ancient you are. Did horses even exist all those long years ago, or Gods forbid, did you have to walk everywhere?”

“Ha-ha!” Astarion’s says sarcastically, curling his lips into a scowl. “You are so very funny, my dear. Where in the Hells are you taking me?”

“Follow and find out!”

Easing your mare into a gallop, the horses easily soar over the terrain on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. The night is clear, and the stars shine brightly, their raw celestial energy dotting the sky like grains of sugar.

Despite Astarion’s plain distaste for horses, you can’t help but admire the way he looks in the saddle: confident, refined, and mouth-watering. The wind’s fingers flow through Astarion’s typically perfectly coiffed hair, mussing it up handsomely, and the silver moonlight plays between the rolling waves, casting an ethereal luminance across his porcelain skin.

Spotting the pathway, surrounded by a dense forest, you rein the horses into a walk through the narrow pass. The canopy of the towering trees filters out the beams of the moon’s waxen rays, so you cast Light. It makes eerie shadows dance around the thick trunks like restless spirits, their ghostly tendrils writhing around in the dark like tentacles, and you’re surprised to find yourself increasingly unnerved by the sight.

Your heart flutters around your chest like a scared bird in a cage as your eyes dart and track the serendipitous, playing shades. Your mind plays out memories you would rather forget, and you find your palms tingling as you seize the Weave reflexively.

Mind flayers and their slithering tentacles. Tadpoles squirming behind your eye.

The hungry shadows of Shar’s curse twisting their vines into you and sapping your life.

Good Gods. That abomination, Kar'niss.

Intellect devourers. The Netherbrain. The Emperor.

The feel of countless fangs of feral spawn, wild with hunger, piercing your skin in the Underdark.

Aldous. The sound of fabric ripping when he wrenched at your robe.

Prison. The crack and pop of breaking ribs.

“Hey.” You jump when Astarion’s hand touches your forearm. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you quickly brush away the wetness strung upon your lashes.

“Pass me the reins of your horse.” Astarion instructs.

You do so mindlessly, staring into the penumbra obscuring the land between sagging boughs, as you continue to spiral through a tornado of every terrible thing that’s happened to you.

Astarion halts both of your horses, bringing his as close to yours as he can in the limited space. He ties the reins to his saddle and scoots himself back. “Come on, love.” Astarion leans over and folds an arm around your waist. “Slide over here.”

Wrapping your arm around his neck, you carefully ease over to Astarion’s steed with your back pressed tightly to his chest. He keeps an arm fixed around your trembling body.

“I am here, sweetheart.” Astarion murmurs, pressing his cheek to yours. “You can talk or not, but I am here.”

Astarion continues along the trail, humming a soothing tune that you don’t recognize. Every time the horse's hoofs snap a twig or thud off a rock, you cannot help but flinch. It’s not like you to be spooked so easily. You’re not fearless, but Gods, you’re far from this coward currently swallowing the urge to weep in Astarion’s arms at every unexpected sound.

You squeeze your eyes closed so the darkness stops staring back at you. Screaming inside your head, you try to quell the onslaught of thoughts, but it’s hard to forget your past when it’s written into the scars on your psyche. Some wounds never seem to heal and bleed again at the slightest provocation.

You want it to stop.

You want to drink until you can’t remember your name.

You want to beg Astarion to touch you, drain you, or both until you're numb.

You do not care how, as long as it fucking stops.

“Kamena…” Astarion trails off, and your eyes spring open, broken from your descent into madness. His eyes widen with recognition, and he gasps, “Hells. Are we where I think we are?”

“We are home."

Even with the dust covers removed from the furniture that remains and the fire spitting and popping in the brick fireplace, your cottage looks sparse and empty, devoid of all the belongings that made it look like home. The fine threads of dusty cobwebs hang in all of the corners. It makes you smile, warming your heart, when it’s the first thing Astarion attends to, listening attentively, his expression frozen in concentration.

“Well?”

“Oh, darling,” he feigns solemnity, looking gravely serious. “There are spiders everywhere. Millions of them, hiding in every nook and cranny, just waiting for you to fall into your trance so they can crawl all over you.”

Astarion takes quick, silent steps, grabbing you by the waist and crawling his fingers gently up your arm, laughing boyishly at the way you cringe, shudder, and try to twist away.

“Astarion!” You squeak, swatting him in the chest playfully while he giggles at you. “This is no joking matter! You know I will burn this place to the ground around me.”

“Perhaps,” he smirks, jutting his hip out confidently, “but you won’t burn it down around me, especially not with the sun out.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” you smirk, letting liquid-like flames swirl around the two of you, and letting them ebb out. “I just might if you don’t tell me the truth!”

“Go ahead,” he challenges, pretending to yawn and lying down on the bed with his hands behind his head. He smirks boldly. “You’ve dropped a building on me before. How much worse can it be?”

“Are you going to hold that against me for the rest of our lives?” You groan, climbing onto the bed. Astarion pats his lap with an enticing grin, and you straddle him. “You were very enthusiastic in your approval to yank the weapon out of the device, you know.”

“I wanted to see what would happen. What can I say?” Astarion laughs, sitting upright, ghosting his lips over yours. “You should have known better than to listen to me of all people.”

“You’re the thief! I figured you already had it all planned out, Rogue.”

“Interesting that you thought I was a details person when I much preferred to sow blood and chaos wherever we went.” Astarion taps your nose with each word he tuts at you. “Not very astute of you, Sorceress.”

“Gods above,” you snort, galled, and stick your nose in the air. “We just got home, and I already want to break up with you.”

“And here I was thinking we were just very special friends.” Astarion muses flippantly, tilting his head and looking askance. “What do you think Tiefling blood tastes like? Brimstone? Smoke? Char?”

You spring up, staring at him with an icy scowl, your lips pressed together firmly. Astarion’s brows raise and curve, wrinkling his forehead in puzzlement as he scrutinizes you. It makes you want to hide, and you fold your arms around yourself to strangle the diffidence making bile rise into your throat.

“Maybe you should ask her for a nibble if you’re so goddamn curious, friend.”

Astarion’s mouth drops open at the choler braided into your voice. “What in the bloody Hells is going on with you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you swallow thickly.

“The Hells you don’t.” Astarion snaps. “If it’s alright with you, I would like to skip this part of the argument where you try to convince me nothing is wrong. I am not a fool.”

The bilious bubble bursts, and you shout, “Then stop acting like one! You allowed Hecat to pester you all about your vampirism like it was an ordinary thing for someone to do! You hid it from me when we met, but you seemed more than happy to humour her, even while she gawked at you like she was lost at sea and you were driftwood to cling to!

“Good fucking Gods. Grow up!” Astarion booms with bared fangs, making his expression severe, bordering on frightening . It’s not often you’ve seen him so angry, especially with you. “You have always had a jealous streak. I find it quite endearing most of the time, but this magnitude is new even for you, and it’s decidedly not cute.”

He’s right, and you know it, but that fact does nothing to assuage the indignation. Your eyes jump around the cottage. There are so many happy memories that now have a vinegary tartness after being pickled by heartbreak.

The bed you laid on for days with that damn letter weaved between your fingers.

The window you sat in front of at night, drunk and dazed, hoping beyond hope that he would appear between the trees.

His favourite lounge, where you spent days curled up crying until your eyes were sore.

And so many more.

You thought coming back here was a good idea. It was the last place you remembered feeling truly happy and whole. Now all you see are the reminders of a life that could have been if only you had been wise enough to catch the signs of him withdrawing.

I wish we could go back to a time before it was too late.

Now it's you who needs to withdraw, because this is all you're good at now. Isn’t it? Running away from your problems and fears.

You are afraid to fall because if your fire is extinguished, you’re unsure if it will ever burn again. Your soul is too indurated with heartbreak. You will have nothing left but to stand in the ashes of who you used to be.

“Get away from the door,” you say despondently.

Astarion steps toward you to stop you, but you open the door and stand in the streaming sunlight so he can’t touch you.

“Where are you going?” Astarion sighs, easing his tense posture and shying away from the sun.

It makes your heart clench in your chest to see him so afraid of something he used to love, and now you’re using it as a weapon to shield yourself from him.

What is wrong with me? 

“To go grow up.” You spit harshly and disappear out the door, slamming it behind you.

Astarion listens as the sound of pounding hoofs races off until he can’t hear it any longer. He combs his fingers through his hair, scraping his fingernails over his scalp, while looking around the cottage that he used to call home.

Ever since he left, he’s dreamed of returning, where his memories are full of her smiling face, joyful, feathery laughter, peace, and safety, but now that he’s here, it feels like a bleak reminder of the life they could have had.

It’s empty, quiet, and dark without her. Kamena has always been the fire that banishes the shadows. Her smile warmed these cold walls, and her laugh threaded the air with sweet life.

Fuck.

He sits on the floor with his back pressed up against the bed and takes a deep breath. His eyes wander and focus on a crack in the ceiling, and he lets his mind drift back to the conversation. Before he left, usually, their quarrels ended with a swift recovery and reconciliation. They hardly ever turned into escalated disagreements. 

And she never ran.

Astarion's head drops into his hands, and he winces at the recollection of his own gruff voice telling her to grow up. He admonished her when he should have been trying to figure out why her reaction to the Tiefling’s brainless queries was so uncharacteristically intense.

His mind races as he delves into the depths of his memories, seeking clues to explain Kamena’s fragile security.

Well, at least she was generous with her blood tonight, Astarion thinks, as his fingers part and find her folds slick with arousal. If nothing else, he got a meal out of it.

Astarion’s eyes stay open, even while their tongues dance, staring blankly at the pattern of the tree bark in the distance. He does not need to focus much as his finessed fingers fall into a perfectly choreographed rhythm engineered by how her thighs shake, her breath hitches in her throat, and the sighs that slip from her lips.

He will have her coming undone for him in no time, and then he will take her again, perhaps from behind.

It’s always easier when they don’t look at him.

Gods. The only being that has treated him like a person in the last two centuries, and he’s still playing the rake, but this is all he knows - all he’s good for. He needs her help and protection, so he might as well make himself useful.

His mind is clapped back into reality rapidly when he realizes her moaning has stopped, her body is still, and their lips are no longer locked in a kiss.   

Shit.

He glances down, and she’s staring at him thoughtfully. “Is everything okay, Astarion?”   

He reels to think of some beguiling response. He weaves together words like spider silk in the deep, purring timbre he knows will current her away in the river of his verse. “Apologies. I was just getting lost in the bewitching melody of your moans.”

It’s half-assed, admittedly, but he thinks that should do it.   

It does not, in fact, do it, and he does not like that she doesn’t look entirely convinced. She stares at him as if she’s undressing his mind, unbuttoning his thoughts with those eyes that could swallow whole universes.   

It’s... unnerving.

He doubles down on his ministrations to distract her. Moving forward to the next act in this play, and eases two fingers into her, pressing upward to find that pad of sensitive flesh that should send her spiralling into pleasure.   

This one is more observant than his usual fanfare and far more clever. He will have to be mindful.

Astarion barely registers when she tumbles into her orgasm, spasming around his fingers and crying out his name. He should say something. They usually like it when he says something.   

He leans down, kissing up the column of her neck, skin flushed under his lips. He whispers, letting his lips brush up against the shell of her ear. “Gods. You’re beautiful, darling.”   

Unoriginal perhaps, rehearsed to oblivion, but par for the course of this performance.

At least she is truly a vision with her doe-eyes, heavily lidded, sparkling as if flecked with moonstones. Her long hair waving upon the ground, and the pale light glints off her prismatic scales cherubically.

He lets himself admire the arc of her waist and the curve of her hips. It helps when they are attractive. He’s seen many seductive bodies, but hers is different somehow. It’s enchanting... inviting even.

He settles between her thighs, hands splayed on the loamy ground, to brace himself, and he eases his cock into her aching core. Gods. She’s tight, and it makes him sigh out a hissing breath.   

He pumps into her at an easy pace until her body adjusts, and then autopilot takes over as he descends into the recesses of his mind, floating out of his body and away from what he’s partaking in.

It’s not that it doesn’t feel good. In fact, he’s rather confounded to find that, despite his mind trying to separate itself from his body, he keeps being dragged back, overwhelmed by a sudden surge of pleasure.

She feels... good. Hells below, really, truly, good.

This is... different. Her body flush against his, her tightness so wet, warm, and disconcertingly sublime.

“Astarion,” she breathes as her hand gently comes to his cheek, bringing him back into his body, and his eyes snap open to meet hers. “Show me what you want and what you like, not what you think I want.”

His hips stutter for a moment, processing the request. When’s the last time someone cared about what he wanted or liked? Hells. What does he like? He’s usually so focused on providing other people with their fantasies that he hasn’t bothered to consider what he likes in centuries.

"I... I don’t know,” he murmurs shakily. A revelation cracks into him — something he’s never done, never been allowed to do, never had the agency to do. Another first . “I want to taste your blood as you come for me.”

She smiles, nodding her assent, and Astarion’s hips snap erratically, changing the depth and pace of his thrusts until he finds one that has him squeezing his eyes shut, enraptured in his own bliss.

She whimpers his name as she nears her climax, lolling her head to the side to give him access. His name in her breathy whimpers sends shivers down his spine.

He bites, pulling her blood into his mouth and letting it sit on his tongue. He can taste the spice and fire of her desire, a beautiful harmony that makes him groan. His hand grabs her hip so he can plunge into her deeper and fuck her harder into their combined euphoria.

She crests, fingers curling into his hair as she clenches around him. Her blood floods with a new flavour in her nirvana. It tastes like dawn, hope, and... home? 

His orgasm takes him by surprise when it charges through him. His cock twitches as he spills himself into her with a grunt against her throat.

When he lays down beside her, she makes no move to touch him or get closer, and he’s beside himself to find he’s disappointed with the lack of intimacy. When he looks over, she’s once again observing him, gentle yet contemplative. 

“What is it, my sweet? Already looking for round two?” 

“You weren’t all there tonight.” She whispers, looking up at the stars.

Fuck.

He’s a master performer, able to improvise and fabricate on a dime, but he cannot think of a single cunning explanation to reply with.

Why, oh why, couldn’t it have been the gullible Tiefling or braggart Wizard leading this group of godsdamned misfits? 

He catches the hoofbeats long before they approach the cottage. When Kamena opens the door, sunlight no longer spills through the gap. She doesn’t speak as she curls herself around him, her head on his chest, taking a deep breath. He wraps her in a tight embrace, kissing her hair and pressing his cheek against her forehead.

Astarion closes his eyes and revels in her warmth before he speaks. “I spoke out of turn today.”

“Ugh. Stop being so nice to me.”

Kamena shucks off her robe, disappearing into the bedroom, and returns attired in one of his shirts. The red tunic is too large for her, with the hem rippling about her thighs, putting her long, shapely legs on display for him.

She smirks at him as he feigns irritation, crossing his arms and jutting his chin up. “Did you not bring your own bloody clothing?”

She descends into a chair by the fire, curling her legs up under her, and whispers. “It makes me feel close to you. When you left, it was one of the few things I had left.”

Her answer takes him aback. He had expected a clever retort, not such raw vulnerability.

“You still doubt my commitment to you,” he states, rummaging his fingers through his hair. “I can hardly blame you. Our relationship didn’t exactly start or end candidly. If I would have opened up instead of running out on you-”

“Should have, could have, would have,” she shrugs. “You had your reasons, and I'm not much better, it seems. Gods. I’m a mess.”

“Perhaps, but you’re my mess.” He purrs, crouching and hooking her chin with his finger to guide her gaze to his. “I want you, Kamena. I always wanted you, even when I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Hecat.” The shakiness in her voice makes every one of his bones ache as her eyes begin to well up. “I should not have overreacted. I just… You don’t understand how hard it is to watch everyone covet you like you’re a prize to be won. I hate it. It makes my blood run hot, and sometimes I just don’t recognize it for what it is - insecurity.”

“The Tiefling is just another fool in a long line of idiots who sees how positively beautiful I am, but their interest goes no deeper than flesh. You are the only one who ever saw me and took the time to get to know me, even when I was being an insufferable prick.”

Kamena hiccups out a laugh. “I just really want to burn her eyes out of her skull.”

“HA!” He giggles, kissing her forehead. “That’s my girl. Not to worry. Dear Shadowheart is right. If she touches me, I will cut her hand off swiftly.”

“You heard that, did you?”

“Of course.” He smirks, leading her to the bed and giving her a playful shove. “I hear everything that goes on in that tower.”

“Am I more attractive than the Tiefling?” She pouts adorably with a sassy undertone.

“Digging for shallow praise, are we?” Astarion chuckles. “Alright. I’ll bite. Let me see. If an angel fell for every time I thought of you, the heavens would be empty.”

She giggles – sparkly and beautiful and bright. Home suddenly doesn’t feel so desolate.

“You can do better than that,” she teases.

“Hmm... What about this one? Even in the astral plane, where gravity is fickle, I would still fall for you.”

“Oh, Gods above.” She laughs until her eyes shine. Astarion leans down and kisses the single teardrop creeping out of the corner of her eye. “One more.”

“Another?” He looks deeply into her eyes, which gleam brightly as if laced with flame, shining with every beautiful shade of her being. He grins at the memory, and this time, when he says it, it does not sadden him. “I love you, Solicallor.”

“I love you, too, Aerasumé,” she says, running her fingers through his hair and tousling it playfully. “You’re cute.”

“Bad girl,” he purrs. “Retribution is required.”

She warns, “Don’t do it!”

“Don’t do what, love? This?”  

Astarion tickles her until she is fighting for breath between her laughter, squirming under him as he pins her with his body, and pleading for forgiveness.

“That was rude!” She sucks in heavy breaths. “You better watch your back, Astarion. I’m going to strike when you least expect it.”

“I await the day you’re spritely enough to catch me.”

Astarion moulds his lips to hers, basking in the warmth that radiates across his cool skin. He nips her lower lip impatiently when she doesn’t part her lips for him. If miracles have a taste, he’s positive they would taste like her. He places chaste kisses along her jaw and down her neck.

She looks at him lustily, batting her long lashes. “What are you doing?”

“Well,” he rucks up her shirt, placing a kiss on her stomach. He grins. “We find ourselves alone, truly and completely alone, in the middle of nowhere. Honestly, darling, do I have to spell it out for you? I want to make you scream while I make love to you in our home, in our bed.”

She stares at him with her wide doe-eyes shining brightly as if scattered with dewdrops. “Be mine, Astarion.” She whispers.

“I have never not been yours, Kamena.” Astarion murmurs between kisses, inhaling the scent of her.

She pushes his shirt over his shoulders, and he throws it off hastily. Astarion cups her breast, thumb rubbing over the hard peak of her nipple. She moans, and every breathy little noise and pound of her hectic heartbeat is a symphony to his ears. He rolls her sensitive peaks between his thumb and forefinger. She sucks in a sharp, wavering breath, and his cock twitches, rock hard and eager against his trousers.

Her hands run reverently up his sides to his chest, letting the pads of her fingers ghost over his nipples, making him shudder with a groan. Every place her lips meet his skin radiates vitality, as if she’s breathing life into him with every kiss. The fabric of his breeches strained against him is far too restricting, and he kicks them off, freeing his erection.

Astarion slips his hand between her legs, sliding his fingers into her wetness, swirling them around the border of her achy pearl, and she arches into him. Her tepid breath tickles his skin as she muffles her cries against his shoulder.

“Gods,” he pants, and is surprised to find himself breathing so heavily. “Don’t hold back. It’s just us. Scream for me, my love.”

Her eyelashes flutter as she cries out, and he cannot help it; he fucking moans with her. Every sound emanating from her makes his yearning flood him in an intense upsurge, making his cock twitch and beg for attention. He’s not sure he’s ever been this aroused, this openly intimate, with no hint of the shadows that have constrained him before. 

He desires her like a magnet clings to its polar opposite, impossible to sever and hopelessly drawn to the very core of its existence.

Astarion eases two fingers into her, pumping them slowly deeper and deeper while he sucks her tender rosebuds, wresting whimpers and moans from her full lips. Once her body has adjusted, he hooks his fingers just so, finding and stroking her most sensitive spot. He adjusts the pressure until he finds one that makes her breath catch and has her moaning, unbridled and wanton.

“O—oh,” she whimpers; her eyes squeezed closed, tugging at the bedsheets. “Hells. A-f-fuck—Astarion.”

Gods. He loves that sound; his name a prayer upon her lips.

He could undo her like this, but Hells, he craves the taste of her lust. Astarion licks and kisses her stomach as he continues to thrust his fingers into her sensually. She blinks slowly and watches him crawl down her body with half-lidded eyes and parted lips. 

Astarion snaps his eyes to hers, kissing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and then pushes her leg, spreading her for him. He pants shakily, opening his mouth and pressing his tongue against her clit. 

He groans gutturally under his own rampant desire as he laps up her sweet arousal. She squirms and whimpers with every lick of his tongue, every pump of his fingers, and he can’t help but wrap his hand around his throbbing cock and stroke himself.

Her fingers twist into his hair, and he closes his eyes as he savours her. Astarion takes his time working her to her climax until her thighs start to tremble, her moans come between uneven breaths, and a flush blooms over her skin.

Astarion’s fingers continue to rub that perfect spot inside her. His lips close around her swollen clit. He sucks gently, flits, and flutters his tongue in the way he knows will send her cascading into ecstasy.

Her body convulses, thighs trembling on either side of him as she succumbs to her climax. He indulges himself, watching her come, watching her lose herself in blinding sensations.

He’s not sure he’s ever seen anything so godsdamned spellbinding and arousing.

But he’s not quite done with her yet. He angles his fingers, pulses his tongue, and watches her ride out every wave of pleasure, drinking in her nonsensical whimpers. Only when she’s gasping for breath and shaking does he let up. 

“You, my love, are a delectable treat.” He purrs, crawling up her flushed body until he’s holding himself above her. “In so many more ways than one.”

“Show me,” she stammers between irregular breaths.

He kisses her intimately, his tongue still coated in her rapture, exploring her mouth. Kamena carves her curves into every contour of his body, pressing her heated skin to his.

This is the way he remembers her - unapologetic, unafraid, and passionate.

Astarion grasps her hips, pulling her toward him, and runs his aching cock through her seam. “S-shit,” he stutters at the exquisite sensation.

He watches raptly as his cock sinks into her, swallowed in tight warmth, his girth stretching her. They fit together too perfectly to be anything other than made for each other.

He thrusts slowly, deeply, and intensely. Every moan he liberates from her is echoed with his own. They are both a mess of desiring hands, deep, intimate kisses, and promises of devotion and love.

She folds her arms around his neck, pulling herself flush to him, her breasts heaving against his chest. He leans back, sitting on his ankles with her in his lap and her legs around his waist. He plunges deeper, grinding into her, and she clenches, squeezing him as his length massages her ridges.

She is like supping on dawn’s fire, the way she lights up just for him is the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

Bliss escalates and flows, surging between them, and she melts into him. He laces his fingers into her hair, and her body tenses at the threshold of her release, every muscle quivering against him. She whines into his mouth, and he increases the pace of his thrusts, bringing her higher, higher, higher.

His own breathing is ragged and uneven; his body taut and veiled with sweat. Every thrust draws a panting whimper from his lips. He kisses her deeply, devout and passionate, as he throws her over the edge.

Her sex is still spasming around him as he bucks his hips into her, his forehead pressed to hers and her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Every erratic pump of his hips is met with another shockwave running through her, stimulating his sensitive head, and he cries out loudly as his own release takes hold, a swelling wave of fire blazing through him with an intensity he’s never known.

He grinds his hips while his cock pulses deeply inside her, filling her completely.

Time seems to stop as they sit together in this everlasting serenity, holding each other closely, bodies trembling in the aftermath. 

Marry me.

The thought comes unbidden to him. In his confusion, he does not dare speak it aloud. An idea spurred on by a moment of passion, surely. 

Once her heart rate has returned to a steady pace, he nuzzles her, nose to nose, and she giggles, light, airy, and happy. He would give anything to keep her here in this moment where she is weightless and worry-free.

He kisses her once more, gentle and cherishing. She looks up at him, and he gazes back at her. There is no need for words. Their eyes have a secret language that only their souls are fluent in.

Good Gods. Marry me. 

[bg-brainrot]

Hugs for a Vampire (Astarion x GN!Reader) - Chapter 2: After Fighting Grym

Chapter 2: After Fighting Grym

Each chapter can be read as a standalone hug.

Pairing: Astarion x GN!Reader (Rogue!Tav)

Genre: Fluffy, Filling in Canon

Rating: Teen

Tags: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV Second Person, Act 1, Canon-typical violence

WC: 1.3k words, 2/18 chapters

Summary: Their second hug takes place after a tough battle. A painful hug, but comforting nonetheless. Rogue!Tav has begun to catch feelings, Astarion is none the wiser.

Ao3 | [Hug1][Hug3] | Hugs for a Vampire Masterlist

You don't think you've ever been this sticky– sweat is dripping from pores you didn't even know you possessed. The Grymforge needs to be this hot to operate, but any hotter and you may cease to function.

As if the oppressive heat isn't enough to protect this deathtrap, the forge's guardian is currently looming over you. Its giant back obscures your view of the rest of your team, but if all is going to plan, they should be in position. A wave of lava gushes out around you, surrounding the platform that you’re on and splashing onto the metal monster in front of you– Karlach has turned the valve.

Now you just need to complete your task: be bait.

"Come and get me, you piece of junk!" you yell, as if this mechanical construct could understand what you say.

"A bard you are not, darling," comes a verbal jab from Astarion. He's positioned opposite you as the two of you have been kiting this behemoth back and forth in a clunky, messy dance. It hasn't been your best work, but you can see sparks emitting from the creature's joints, starting to wear down.

"Yes, well," you start, quickly surveying your surroundings. "At least I'm good at stabbing." You jerk an arm forward, piercing the glowing superheated carapace of the guardian with one of your daggers. It emits a sharp keening before refocusing its entire attention on you, turning toward you in pre-programmed aggression. Job done, you move to leap onto the platform behind you.

The metal monster has other ideas, reaching a gargantuan hand out to swipe at you. “Argh,” you grunt, as a searing hot claw makes contact with your side. It feels as though you’ve been hit by a cart and you stumble back, barely catching yourself before you hit hot, molten lava. You may still be reeling from the blow, but you know that you’re in a world of pain if you don’t get off this platform now.

Taking advantage of the creature’s slow swing, you finish your leap from before, scrambling onto one of the platforms on the edge of the forge. “NOW!” you yell so that Shadowheart can hear you across the cavernous room.

She doesn’t respond, but the satisfying ‘click’ of a lever and the impressively loud ‘KA-CHUNK’ of the forge’s hammer are a clear indicator that she heard. You watch as the massive construct in front of you is flattened, steam hissing off of it as its body cools.

It lays there motionless for a moment, and the hammer shoots back up into the forge. You vaguely register an adamantine piece of armor shooting out of the contraption– the forge’s instructions finally completed.

You feel a sense of vast relief, the grueling battle finally won. Your team is safe now, carefully avoiding the remaining lava flows to make it to your platform. But underneath that feeling of relaxation, you feel a much more annoying, much more urgent, sense of pain.

It’s always a drag when the adrenaline dies off. Between the heat of the forge continuing to wear down on your tired body and the blistering wound at your side from the forge’s guardian, your legs begin to wobble against your will. “Ah hells,” you mutter, placing a sweaty palm to your forehead. “Is this what it feels like to get a hug from Karlach?”

The large woman laughs, almost having made it to your platform. “I think you’d be a puddle if you attempted that.” Then, with some concern to her voice, “Are you alright, soldier?”

“I’m…” your voice trails off and, as your vision begins to blur, your follow up comes out as more of a question, “Fine?”

Your team is quick to answer your question, all picking up their pace to reach you. Astarion, moving with the speed of a practiced predator, is the first to make it. Just in time too, because you’re teetering precariously off the edge of your platform, inches away from molten death.

“Easy there, darling,” he says, an arm wrapping around your torso. He pulls you toward him, away from the lava. However, as he pulls, he tugs along the side where you got swiped, eliciting a sharp, pained breath from you.

“Astarion,” you gasp, seeing spots of white in your vision from the pain. “It hurts.”

He looks momentarily flustered, “What hurts?”

“My side,” you manage, eyes dropping down to see a massive burn mark across your leather armor where the construct struck you.

“Oh,” Astarion says in surprise, releasing you immediately. Your body sways at the sudden loss of his arm and he’s back on you again in a panic. One arm wraps around your shoulders and pulls you to him tightly, the other presses a surprisingly gentle hand on your forehead. “What do you say we get you some healing and a nice flask of water?”

You nod into his hand gratefully. It’s somehow several degrees cooler than everything else and you don’t think you’ll be able to leave its cooling touch until you’re out of this damned forge.

For his part, Astarion doesn’t seem to mind, holding you and his hand in place while Shadowheart arrives. He doesn't say anything while Shadowheart inspects the wound and calls upon her divine healing, just continues to hold you, steady. This is the closest you’ve been since that night after the tiefling party and, as the fog of pain lifts, you suddenly become incredibly self-aware.

I’m quite possibly the sweatiest person in Faerun right now, how badly must I smell, you think. The heat is most certainly getting to you, because you feel a sudden urge to jump into the lava to avoid finding out. You resist the temptation, thanking Shadowheart as the pain subsides, “Thank you, now let’s get out of this hells hole.”

“I happen to think it’s quite agreeable,” Karlach says from your side. “Though a bit toasty for you all, I’d imagine.”

Astarion, who has not let you go yet, chimes in, “If you so much as breathe on me, I may burst into flames, Karlach. Please stay far, far away.”

“Oh fine,” she says, taking a step back from you both. “But I am the one carrying the water.”

Astarion gives an annoyed click with his tongue, and removes his hand from your forehead to hold it out expectantly toward Karlach. You try not to let your disappointment show at the loss of its chill balm. “Very well, as long as you don’t throw it at us this time.”

The tielfing moves to hand him the flask, but you can see the mischief in her eyes before she makes her decision. One loud shattering of glass later and both you and Astarion are drenched from head to toe in water. “Shouldn’t have reminded me, Fangs.”

Honestly, you don’t mind it. It’s quite refreshing in the otherwise hellish heat. But from the way that Astarion’s arm around you tightens, you can tell he doesn’t quite share your mindset. “Karlach,” he says, slowly, his tone deadly. His eyes are narrowed, leveled at Karlach under a mop of wet curls. “Have you ever wondered if you could withstand lava?”

He releases you, and his absence brings you a sudden pang of sadness. Luckily, you don’t have much time to consider why that is because Astarion is quickly stalking after Karlach, murderous intent rolling off of him.

“Well, that was… fun,” Shadowheart says walking up to you, her face looking anything but.

“Yeah,” you respond, stretching out your side carefully. “I guess we should stop them from killing each other?”

The cleric shrugs, looking at your companions. “It’s up to you, really. I wasn’t the one melting in Astarion’s arms.”

You hold back a surprised cough. “I was not melting. It’s just hot in here.”

She gives you a knowing look. “Sure it is.”

You ignore her remark before setting off– you have enough problems. You don’t feel like adding ‘the comforting feeling of Astarion’s arms around you’ to the list.

[cherrycola27]

false god

Series Warnings: Mythology!AU. Language, alcohol, drinking. Military inaccuracies. Mutual pining, unrequited love. Allusions to and eventual smut. Minors DNI. 18+. Individual chapter warnings will come as needed. Banner Credit @thedroneranger

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Chapter 6: My Type

You and Bradley were both thankful that you were at a good place again in your friendship. The two of you returned to your previous routine of your Wednesday night hangouts, and the rest of August slipped away into a moment in time. September brought you two closer together as you still danced around the line of friends or something more.

It also brought along Mickey's birthday, and after the way the last party ended, the squad was ready to have a fun night out that didn't end in chaos.

Fanboy had never outgrown his punk rock phase, and for his birthday, he asked that every attend a cover band concert La Jolla. He had gone all out and even rented a party bus to take the group to and from the venue. Unfortunately, you had plans that night and wouldn't be able to attend. You made sure to send him a nice gift, though. Mickey was over the moon when he opened the autograph Star Trek poster and immediately forgave you for missing out on the fun.

Bradley, however, was extremely disappointed in the fact that you weren't coming. He was hoping that tonight would finally be his chance to lay his feelings on the line for you, but instead, he was drinking a beer, sandwiched between Payback and Bob, while Jake and Coyote made use of the stripper poles in the bus.

When they arrived, he couldn't wait to get off and get some fresh air. He had texted you a few times, but you hadn't responded. He checked his phone again to see that his messages were still unread. He sighed in disappointment before tucking his phone away and heading inside with everyone else.

Inside, an EDM DJ was playing some throwback Coldplay while a few techs were setting up for the band. The Daggers found a section near the right side and settled in. They gave their drink orders to a waitress who winked and Mickey when she found out it was his birthday.

Moments later, she returned with drinks and the promise to come back and see if they would need anything later.

With his whiskey in hand, Bradley leaned over to Fanboy and asked, "What's the name of this band again?"

Fanboy rolled his eyes. "The Styx. They do a mix of punk rock, eighties hits, pop, and some original songs. I heard them at a festival about a year and a half ago, and I've seen them a few places here and there. I'm pretty excited to see them again, though. Their lead singer left the band about five months ago to go solo, and apparently, an old friend of the lead guitarist stepped up and has been with them. I haven't heard her, but apparently, she's way better than the old singer." Fanboy explains.

Bradley nods his head and sinks back into his chair as he and everyone else waits for the show to start.

About ten minutes later, the DJ finishes, and some filler music comes through the speakers. The owner of the bar tells everyone that the band will start shortly. More people pour in. Bradley's mind wanders to you, and what you might be doing tonight.

...............

"How's the crowd out there?" You ask Lyla as she checks over her guitar once more. "The energy is fantastic. The place is pretty packed, too." She tells you with a smile.

"Great." You sigh.

A packed house

More people to watch you fail

"Don't worry, babe, you're going to kill it like you always do!" Mariana, the drummer and Lyla's sister, tells you. "Exactly. Just relax, we've got this!" Derrick, the bass player, says to the group. "If anyone boos, I will jump off the stage and shove my keyboard down their throat." Trent, Derrick's husband tells you. You can't help but laugh. You want to say something witty back, but you hear the stage manager start to introduce the group.

You can do this

You love doing this

You're going to be great

You take a deep breath and give yourself a once over in the mirror before stepping out. You look good— really good.

Netted tights cover your legs before disappearing under your cut-off denim shorts that show off your thigh tattoos.

A cropped black vintage Bon Jovi shirt covers your torso. You've cut some of the neck out of the shirt, so the lace of your bralette underneath is visible. Layers of silver chains with charms hug your neck and cleavage. A red flannel is tied around your waist.

Heavy, black, Doc Marten boots are on your feet, and your hair is loose and wild around your face. Sultry dark makeup graces your features, and you've traded your signature cherry red pout for a sensual shade of burgundy.

Rings and bracelets adorned your fingers and wrists. You truly looked the part of a rock queen. You look like sex on legs

Maybe you should pay Bradley a visit after this was over

You were broken from your thoughts by the cheers of the crowd. You took a deep breath as the rest of the group stepped out onto the stage. It was dark, thankfully, you couldn't make any faces out, and they couldn't see you just yet.

You turned to Lyla and the rest of the band who gave you the go-ahead.

..........

The Daggers, especially Fanboy, waited with baited breath as the band set up. Bradley sat there with a fresh glass of whiskey and prayed they were as good as Fanboy had made them out to be. There was nothing worse than sitting through a shitty band.

Soon, the opening sounds of Fallout Boy's "Centuries" filled the room. The band stayed shrouded in dim lights until the opening chorus finished, and then bright lits illuminated the stage.

Fanboy screamed in excitement as he leaned over to say something to Fritz, but Bradley's eyes didn't leave the stage. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He wasn't drunk. Surely, his mind had to be playing tricks on him.

Just as he was about to say something, it seemed like the entire group came to the realization at the same time.

"Oh my shit." Jake said. "It's that—"

"That's Hades." Bradley said before Jake could finish his question. "Holy shit." Bradley breathed out as he watched you on the stage.

You owned the space. You presses filled the room and demanded the attention of the crowd.

Bradley was captivated by you. He knew that he was attracted to you before. He'd tried so hard to keep his feelings pushed down, and when he kissed you, he knew he'd ruined his chances. But then—then you wanted to be his friend again, and he got the chance to fall for you all over again.

And this time, he fell harder.

Now, there was no denying his attraction for you. As he watched you on that stage, enthralled with your beauty and this new side of you he'd never seen before, Bradley couldn't help but let his mind wander.

The music continues, but now, it's all background noise to Bradley.

He isn't even sure what song you are singing right now. He's too busy watching the way your body moves to the beat and how he's sure you wore that outfit just to mess with him.

He knows that the last part isn't true because surely you didn't know that the Daggers would be here tonight. Fanboy had only asked if you were free tonight. He'd never told you the plans, but in the back of Bradley's mind, he likes to think that you wore that cropped Bon Jovi tee for him and the moment you'd shared months ago.

He watches the hem of your shirt catch on your fingertips as you drag your hands up your body and sway with the music. Bradley hasn't stopped staring at the patch of skin that is just visible between it and the waistband of your jean shorts. He is eager to know what you might have on under it and how it would look on his bedroom floor.

Maybe it was wrong of him to think it, but Bradley didn't care.

Haunting melodies poured from your wine colored lips. They weaved through the crowd and flooded his ears. Bradley was hanging onto every word you sang. His mind wandered as he wondered if his name would sound just as pretty as your songs did when it tumbled from your lips as he brought you to the peak of pleasure.

You were absolutely fearless in the way you put on a show. You worked the room and had everyone captivated. Bradley hoped that one day, he'd be able to find out if you would put on a show just for him in the privacy of his bedroom.

God, you were so fucking beautiful up there. And he knows he probably looks like an absolute ass because he has been ignoring the rest of your friends for almost the entire forty-five minutes you've been on the stage, but he can't help it.

He's so awestruck by you and this part of your life. It's another piece of the puzzle that makes you so unique and so amazing to him.

You're smart, witty, beautiful, funny, and talented on more than one front. Bradley loves that he's learned something new about you.

He wants to learn more new things about you. He wants to add more pieces to the puzzle until he has the whole picture.

He would give anything to spent eternity figuring you out.

You announce the final song of your set list, a rock cover of "Bad Romance," and Bradley finds it ironic because he would take any kind of romance with you. Good or bad.

With this being the last song, you go wild. You release all your inhibitions as you move about the stage and command the room, just like you command the sky.

Bradley has to discreetly adjust himself through his jeans because he gets distracted by the way your necklaces move.

The layers of silver chains of various lengths with charms scattered throughout them hugged your neck in the best way. Bradley didn't realize he could be jealous of a few pieces of jewelry, but as he grips his glass of whiskey tighter, he finds himself longing to replace them with his hands. He just knows that you'd look so fucking beautiful with his long fingers wrapped around your throat while he fucked you like the good girl he knows you would be for him.

Just when he thought you couldn't surprise him anymore, that night, you prove him wrong. When the bridge of the song comes up, you switch to singing in French. French? Since when did you know another language?

Now he wanted to know if you were fluent in it, and if you were, would you talk dirty to him in it. Fuck, you were still a mystery to him, in the best way.

As the song came to an end, you hit your knees for the final high note, and the entire crowd jumped up and screamed for you, the Daggers included. Bradley isn't embarrassed to say that he was definitely the loudest.

After you and the rest of the band thanked everyone for coming out and bidded the audience farewell, Bradley watched you disappear behind a black curtain.

More filler music started up as the squad sat down and looked at each other.

"So, Hades moonlights as a rockstar." Coyote said, breaking the silence of the group.

"Would it be weird if I asked her to get me an autograph from her band mates?" Fanboy asked.

"I don't think so. I just can't believe she didn't tell us." Phoenix said as she finished her beer.

"We all have things that we don't tell everyone about. Maybe she was afraid we'd make fun of her or something. Plus, have you met some of us? A few members of our group aren't the best at respecting other people's feelings." Bob said as he and everyone stared directly at Jake.

"For the last time, I apologized to her! Jeez!" Jake said as he threw his hands up in defense.

.............

Once off the stage, you downed a bottle of water and panted to catch your breath.

"We were amazing tonight!" Derrick cheers as he puts his bass away. "Hades, you killed it with the vocals!" Trent compliments you.

"I'm just glad you didn't have to fight an audience member, I doubt your husband would have bailed you out of jail—again." You needle Trent.

"Oh my gosh, it was one time, and they dropped the charges." Trent huffed.

Lyla and Mariana laugh as they put their things away. "You guys want to get a drink? To celebrate a successful show?" Mariana asks. "Absolutely. Hades, if you keep this up, we might not ever let you go!" Lyla tells you as she slings an arm around your shoulder.

"Lyla, I told you, I'm just helping you our until you can find someone to replace Candice." You tell her.

Lyla shakes her head as the five of you head out of the backstage area and to the bar. You take a seat with your back to the crowd. A few patrons come up and speak to all of you, but none linger too long. You've just put your pomegranate margarita to your lips when you hear a familiar voice call, "Well what do we have here? If it ain't Hades."

You set your drink down and spin on your stool. You're shocked when you turn around and see all twelve of your friends and coworkers standing in front of you.

"Oh my gods, what are you guys doing here?" You ask them.

"This is what I had planned for my birthday." Fanboy tells you.

"Oh, Mick, I had no idea. You should have told me, and I could have gotten you a front row spot!" You tell him.

"You could have told us you were a rockstar." Phoenix says.

You don't have a chance to respond before Lyla says, "Well, aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Oh, sorry. Guys, this is Lyla, we were stationed together in Lemoore a few years ago. She was my wingman until she hung up her wings to be a mechanic. And this is her sister Mariana and Derrick and his husband Trent, and they are The Styx." You say.

"We are The Styx." Lyla corrects you.

After a few polite hellos, you turn to your squadron. "And guys, this is Fanboy, Payback, Halo, Omaha, Bob, Phoenix, Yale, Harvard, Fritz, Coyote, Hangman, and—Bradley." You say as you point out each one of them.

"Bradley—er—Rooster, is my new wingman." You tell your band mates.

"You are a lucky duck to be flying with her." Lyla tells Rooster. "She saved my ass several times."

"Don't let her fool you, Lyla had my back, too." You smile.

"So, Hades, how did you end up doing—this?" Bob asks you, never failing to address the elephant in the room.

"Lyla and I lived together in the barracks. We used to do karaoke on the weekends. She always played a little and decided she wanted to do music more seriously. Unfortunately, Lyla was in a training accident and shattered her left hip." You told them. You wince at that detail. It had been the one time that you weren't flying with her because an admiral had pulled you into a meeting.

"Not too long after Lyla's accident, I was transferred. We kept in touch, and she told me to call her if I was ever back in California." You told them.

"And I couldn't get back in a plane anymore after that, so I took to fixing them and playing guitar in my spare time. At an open mic night, Mariana and I met Derrick and Trent and Candice, our former lead singer. We hit it off, and The Styx was born." Lyla explains.

"But, Candice thought she was too good for us and moved to L.A. five months ago, " Mariana adds.

"Thankfully, Hades just happened to get station in San Diego. So, when she called me to catch up, I convinced her to do a show with us, and that's kind of led us here." Lyla finishes.

"Wow, that's insane." Payback says.

"Yeah, crazy." You shake your head, suddenly feeling on edge now that your work friends new more about your personal life. It wasn't that you were trying to hide this from them, but at the same time, you liked your privacy.

Secrets kept you safe

Bradley could tell that you were getting uncomfortable, so he tapped your knee to get your attention before grabbing your wrist and pulling you away from the crowd.

"You were amazing up there, Angel." He praises you as you tuck yourselves into a corner of the club.

"Thanks, maybe next time, you can join me, and we can hit them with some 'Great Balls of Fire.'" You laugh. Bradley chuckles.

A comfortable silence settles over the two of you. You both look at see the Daggers talking and drinking with your band mates.

"How did all of you get here?" You ask him.

"Fanboy got a party bus. Jake was recreating scenes from Magic Mike on the drive here when he was still half sober, I'm terrified to see what's going to happen on the way back." Bradley shutters.

"I didn't even get to have my drink, so I'm sober. I drove here, wanna ride home with me?" You offer him.

Bradley abso-fucking-lutely wanted to ride home with you. And then, when the two of you got home, he wanted to take you into his apartment, strip you down, and hear you sing for him in a different way. And he wanted you to sleep over so he could make you breakfast the next morning before he fucked you in his shower. However, he couldn't say that to you, so instead, he just said, "Yeah, Angel, that would be great."

The two of you quietly snuck out the back of the club. You had grabbed your things already. You made it to the car before Bradley, but instead of opening your door, you stood there, subconsciously waiting for him to do it. He smiled and opened the door and helped you in.

The drive back to San Diego was filled with playful banter, more singing, and flirty touches.

.............

Once you were back at your apartment complex, Bradley made sure to walk you to your door.

You wanted to invite him in, but it was late, and you were still high on adrenaline from performing, and you didn't trust yourself not to drag him to your bed. If you were going to do this with him, you were going to do it the right way.

So, you settled for a simple goodnight kiss on his cheek before tucking yourself inside your home.

After he said goodbye to you at your apartment door, Bradley bolted upstairs to his.

Tonight, he's thankful that he is your upstairs neighbor and that he has a corner unit where his bedroom doesn't share a wall with anyone.

Why? Because of the way your name sinfully falls from his lips while he touches himself and selfishly chases his release.

He's been hard for you all evening, and your flirty touches in your car on the ride home coupled with the way your soft lips felt on his cheek had him spiraling as he fists his cock.

He cums hard, spurts of it painting his hand and abs with hot white streaks. As he comes down from his high and cleans himself up, Bradley can't help but think about how his cum would look splattered on your thigh tattoo or dripping out of you. He groans, already hardening at the thought of it.

After quelling the fires of his desire with a cold shower, Bradley slips between the sheets of his bed and thinks of you and how he could make the two of you something more.

Taglist: @roosterscock @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @mayhemmanaged @wkndwlff @roosterforme @daggerspare-standingby @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @hecate-steps-on-me @cassiemitchell @na-ta-sh-aa @katieshook02 @desert-fern @je-suis-prest-rachel @soulmates8 @sometimesanalice @diorrfairy @eli2447 @xoxabs88xox @djs8891 @roosters-girl @sebsxphia @rosiahills22 @dempy @callsign-magnolia @alchemxx @gretagerwigsmuse @withahappyrefrain @lt-spork @multifandomlover4life @beccaanne814 @bradshawsbaby @seitmai @kmc1989 @bcarolinablr @roosterisdaddy36 @itsdesiree86 @waywardhunter95 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @whatislovevavy @asshlyyyy @inkandarsenic @lillyrosenight @tomanybandstolove @jiminie-08 @dingochef @laracrofted

[cressthebest]

Crimson Rivers thoughts pt. 13

chapter 24:

1. sirius 🫱🏻‍🫲🏼 james being codependent af

2. ooo reg you’re so close babes. think about that just a little more. he realizes he cares about how james treats him and feels about him. reg just almost gets it

3. “He thinks the arena makes everyone a bad person while they're here. The only exception to the rule is James. He's the only person who could drag himself through all of this filth and cruelty and still hold onto his shine.”

4. ☺️ this “without hesitation” line is gonna bite us in the ass, isn’t it?

5. they’re talking about what their life without tragedy would have looked like. and damn. i’m not okay. their life would have been so beautiful

6. “"In that life, I do," Regulus whispers. "I let you do whatever you want, and when you want to dance, we dance."”

i’m NASTY sobbing over this line. like, snot coming out of my nose sobbing

7. “Regulus said James was his first love, didn't he? James would give anything to be his last.” 😀😀😀 holy shit that hurts

8. that nightmare was VILE

9. god, reg was practically sobbing to hold james’ hand. why is the world cruel to them??

10. 😐 i am unamused. another fucking spider

11. “"Have a go at me. Don't thank me or anything. It's always you're so stupid, James; it's never you looked so sexy and heroic while saving everyone from the murderous spider, James."” PFFFFFTTTT

12. it hurts to read it, but i also have always known that if reg wasn’t called into the hunger games, james would have died for someone else. like he said, either peter or vanity

13. god, peter’s story line and character fucking hurts. his family was mathias, irene, vanity, james, and even reg. this hurts like hell

14. NOOO PETER!!!!!

15. THEY MADE IT!!! THEY SURVIVED! THE GAMES ARE OVER!! THANK GOD!!

16. 😀😧 the rule change is REVOKED??? IM ABOUT TO LOSE MY FUCKING SHIT!! IF I WAS IN THIS UNIVERSE, ID PERSONALLY BE THROWING HANDS WITH SLUGHORN!! I BET SIRIUS HAS TO BE PHYSICALLY RESTRAINED!!

17. “"You're hesitating, love," James says softly.”

SCREEEEEEEEEEECHH

18. “"Axus got me on their way into the water. At least it was your dagger, I suppose," James says with a weary chuckle, his throat bobbing on a harsh swallow. His mouth quirks up a bit at the corner, gentle and lovely. "Maybe this makes me insane, but if I'm honest, I wish it had been you."”

oh no, make no mistake james. this very much does make you insane

19. and james is compared to the fucking sun going down again. i- i’m not okay

20. i need therapy for my trust issues. i trusted my ex best freind who outed me. i trusted my old roommate who i recently found out had a notes app list of everything she didn’t like about me this year. and most importantly, i trusted zar. i trusted that this fic wouldn’t do this to me.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 82

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 82: The Coward's Heart

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation. 15K Words

As Aemond traversed the shadowy expanse of the throne room, he felt the oppressive gaze of the past kings tracking his every step. Their faces, emerging from the enveloping darkness, seemed to scrutinize him, their eyes a silent jury casting judgment. This phantom court stirred a deep-rooted dread within him, a chilling sensation that something menacing was skirting the fringes of his awareness. It felt like an icy claw were delicately poised at the edge of his mind, ready to tear through the veil of his thoughts. 

Aemond’s gaze was drawn to one of the statues, its face not just obscured by the surrounding darkness but intentionally concealed beneath a hood carved from stone. It was a deliberate mark of shame, an eternal condemnation of a king whose reign was stained with terror and bloodshed. A kinslayer who had sealed his own damnation in the eyes of both gods and men–and whose death was delivered by the very thing he had killed so many for. 

Shadows stretched across the vast expanse of the stone floor, clawing up the walls and deepening the sense of dread that filled the room. The sparse torches along the walls flickered against the encroaching darkness, their flames casting a weak, trembling light that struggled to penetrate the overwhelming gloom. And somewhere in the distance, outside in the obsidian sky, thunder rolled ominously, each boom seeming to herald the feeling of impending doom. 

His gaze settled on the Iron Throne, its silhouette menacing in the flickering torchlight. Shadows coiled around the jagged steel, which thrust upward from the stone floor like a cluster of fangs poised to pierce flesh. The throne loomed ominously, each twisted metal bar and sharp edge appearing to twitch in the dim light, as if alive and eager for the taste of blood. 

A chill ran down Aemond’s spine, the fine hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end as a disquieting rustle filled the throne room. It sounded like the billowing of sails or the beating of wings against the wind, the sound echoing through the darkness.

Whirling towards the source of the noise, Aemond narrowed his eye, attempting to penetrate the shadows. The darkness around him seemed to pulse, its movements malevolent and fluid, echoing an unnerving rhythm that seemed almost alive. His hand instinctively found the hilt of his dagger, gripping it tightly, ready to confront whatever might emerge from the consuming blackness. 

“Who’s there?” Aemond demanded, his voice cutting through the creeping silence. His challenge hung in the air, unanswered, until the room seemed to shudder under the sudden crack of thunder outside. The windows vibrated as if in response to his query, the glass humming with the force of the storm, threatening to break inside. Rain pelted the panes relentlessly, as if the heavens themselves were enraged, the wind wailing as it swept across the castle’s ancient stones. 

In the moment, nestled between the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning, a cruel laughter unfolded–its sound twisting through the air with a malicious glee that seemed almost tangible. The eerie laughter seemed to swirl around him, carried by the shifting shadows that danced and deepened, clawing against the dimming light. It echoed through the vast, darkened hall, reverberating off the stone walls and filling the space with an oppressive sense of dread. 

“Show yourself!” Aemond demanded, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. His heart hammered against his ribs as his eye darted through the thickening shadows, seeking the origin of that sinister cackle.

“Vengeance hungers,” a voice murmured from the darkness, chilling and cruel. “You have fed the beast; now, it shall feast upon you.”

Suddenly, a pale hand appeared, pressing against the cold stone of a nearby column. Thunder boomed overhead like a war drum, and a sharp flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the room, casting ghostly shadows that flickered and danced. In the brief light, the hand vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Aemond staring at the empty space where it had been, the sound of crashing waves blending ominously with the storm’s wrath outside the windows. 

“Show yourself, you coward!” Aemond shouted into the darkness, his voice tinged with venom as his gaze darted through the encroaching shadows. He felt the chill run down his spine, an ominous sensation akin to a cold draft sweeping across his neck. The sound of crashing waves melded with the howling wind, intensifying around him like the beating of distant wings. 

Whirling around, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, seeking solace in the familiar weight of the weapon. Nothing. There was nothing.

And then…

“I am right here, uncle,” the chilling reply came. “The object of your ire…”

Aemond spun towards the voice, his eye locking onto the figure standing at the base of the Iron Throne’s steps. Lucerys’s figure emerged from the shadows, framed by the menacing blades of the throne that jutted out like fangs of a monstrous beast. His skin was deathly pale, almost merging with the dark, shifting shadows that surrounded him, but his eyes shone with a malevolent gleam, bright against the gloom. 

Aemond’s heart plummeted as Lucerys appeared before him, his voice a tremor of disbelief, “You’re dead.”

Lucerys responded with a smile, chilling and distorted, that seemed to make the surrounding shadows stir menacingly. As his smile receded, the shadows dispersed slightly, revealing more of his youthful features–his thick curls a testament to his bastardry. He cocked his head, mimicking the inquisitive tilt his sister often used when observing Aemond. 

The gesture twisted a knot in Aemond’s stomach. His voice came out flat and hard–a dry accusation, “Have you come to haunt me then?”

“A man unburdened by guilt wouldn’t be haunted by his actions,” Lucerys answered, his voice calm and eerily confident as he took a step closer.

Aemond instinctively retreated, pulling his dagger halfway out of its sheath, a clear threat, yet Lucerys advanced without apparent fear. 

“I bear no guilt,” he spat, firm in his conviction–he refused to be swayed by guilt; in his eyes, the death of Lucerys was nothing more than the scales of justice finding their rightful balance. 

“Are you so sure?” Lucerys challenged, his voice a whisper against the howl of the wind outside. 

“You got what you deserved.”

“You lost an eye, I lost my life,” Lucerys remarked calmly, his gaze piercing “Does that seem fair to you?”

Aemond’s response was cold and immediate. “You know nothing of what is fair.”

The thunderous crash of rain against the windows set a dramatic backdrop as Lucerys’ voice hummed through the growing chaos, “I thought you said it was a fair exchange. An eye for a dragon. And yet, you demand more–you claim I owed a debt.”

Aemond’s fury surged like the storm outside. With a fierce step forward, a single drop of rain struck his face, as he thundered, “It wasn’t a fair exchange!”

He closed the distance between them, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Lucerys watched him with a disquieting calmness, his gaze unwavering as Aemond vented, “I never should have paid a price for claiming what was free to claim! Vhagar chose me, and accepted my claim! You took my eye for that–how was that fair?”

“You think it was fair, killing me?” Lucerys’ question sliced through the din of the storm. “You think it was justice, killing me?”

“It was justice,” Aemond sneered, his voice filled with conviction. As his words hung in the air, the thunder boomed menacingly above, the storm’s fury echoing through the high arched ceilings of the throne room. 

For a fleeting second, a lightning flash illuminated his figure, revealing a grotesque visage–eyes hollow, flesh torn, limbs missing, his dark hair matted against his ghostly pale skin, as if ravaged by the grave. The horrific image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the lingering shadow of his figure in the dim light. 

Another flash of lighting briefly lit up the throne room, casting stark, flickering shadows across the vast stone walls and the Iron Throne itself. But as quickly as it exploded, darkness swallowed everything again. Silence pervaded, oppressive and thick. Lucerys was gone–vanished as if he had never been there to begin with. Aemond stood alone amid the chilling darkness, his heart racing, the echoes of Lucerys’ voice lingering like a cold draft that slipped through the crevices of the ancient walls. Rain slipped down his back, sending a shiver through him as he searched the dark corners of the room, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and dread.

“You hunted me down like an animal,” Lucerys’ voice echoed suddenly, disembodied and haunting, swirling around Aemond in the tempestuous darkness. 

Lightning flashed violently, slicing through the thick, clouded darkness, casting intermittent, ghostly illuminations on the solemn faces of the kings who had ruled before–each one silent and judgmentail in their eternal watch. 

Aemond whirled around, his hand instinctively drawing his dagger entirely. As he drew the blade, lightning illuminated the steel, casting sharp glares that flickered menacingly in the gloom. The subsequent clap of thunder was so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the throne room, its vibrations resonating deep within Aemond’s chest. 

“You could have ended it by giving me your eye!” He roared above the storm’s wrath. “I wouldn’t have pursued you if you had paid your debt!”

Lucerys’ form reappeared amidst the jagged swords of the Iron Throne, a specter bathed in the transient light. Rain plastered his dark hair against his forehead, his cheeks flushed with a vitality that belied his ghostly nature. 

“Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance,” he retorted, his voice cutting through the rumbling echoes. “You wanted more than reparation–you wanted my life. Your chase wasn’t for justice; it was a hunt for blood.”

Aemond’s chest heaved, breaths ragged as the storm raged around him. “No–”

“You pursued me relentlessly!” Lucerys berated him. “You sought my death! You did this!”

Aemond’s anger flared, and he jabbed the dagger towards him accusingly, “You attacked me first!”

Lucerys moved among the Iron Throne’s menacing blades, his voice sharp as he countered, “I was defending myself. You were the hunter, and I the unwilling prey. To you, it was a game, a cruel hunt. I was nothing but a terrified child–”

“So was I!” Aemond’s voice broke, raw with past grievances and present turmoil. 

Lucerys met his gaze, the rain streaming down around them, his expression chillingly composed. “But you are a boy no longer. Nor am I.”

In the wake of another blinding flash of lightning, Lucerys vanished, his presence dissipating yet lingering palpably in the air. The storm continued to unleash its fury around Aemond, who turned slowly, his gaze piercing through the shadows and the pouring rain, searching for any sign of the boy he had condemned. Aemond stood alone yet he felt watched, haunted not just by the ghost of Lucerys but by the weight of his own actions, now irrevocably defining his path forward. 

“You taunted me,” Aemond declared, his voice thick with accusation. “You humiliated me.” His fingers tightened on the blade, rage flaring within him, a familiar and relentless flame fueled by years of resentment. “You and your cohorts ambushed me–you attacked me, gouged out my eye. I thought only to claim a dragon, to claim something for myself for once, and you punished me for it.” A bitter sneer twisted his features as the rain streamed down his face, soaking his hair. “Do you have any understanding of how I’ve suffered? The relentless pain? The insults? The humiliation?” Aemond spat. “I wear the constant reminder of it on my face!” He paused, his gaze sweeping the gloomy expanse of the throne room, haunted by shadows. “No matter my learnings, no matter the knowledge I acquire, no matter how I refine my swordsmanship or compose myself, I remain trapped in that moment–that profound injustice.”

Lucerys’ ghostly voice broke through, soft yet insistent. “I apologized–”

“That’s not enough!” Aemond spun, his blade slicing through the air. It would never be enough–not for what he did to him, not for all he’s suffered and faced because of it. He glimpsed flickers of movement just out of sight, always skirting the edge of his vision, taunting him. “It will never be enough!”

“And so, you killed me.”

“I wanted you to feel as helpless–as utterly powerless–as I did,” Aemond growled lowly. 

“You’re a coward,” Lucerys’s retort was sharp, his voice like a blade skittering across stone. “You wanted me dead.”

“Yes, I wanted you dead!” Aemond’s response was a roar, his voice rising with his fury. “I wanted you to fucking die for what you did to me.”

Lucerys’s words came with a chilling calm, his voice seemingly echoing around the throne room. As he spoke, a macabre trickle of water and blood seemed to pour from his mouth, pooling ominously on the floor. “Vhagar was merely an instrument of your deepest wishes. She exacted the vengeance you were too cowardly to claim yourself. This was never about justice–it was always about your need for revenge.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, the harsh truth reverberating around him as he swung his blade through the chilling air, desperate to silence the specter. “Yes, It was revenge.”

“And yet, you remain too much of a coward to face the consequences of your own cruelty,” Lucerys concluded, his tone dripping with disdain. “You understood the consequences when you demanded my eye, and yet, you pursued it relentlessly.”

His form blurred slightly in the shadows, his voice rising over the sound of the storm. “You chased me through the tempest, fueled by nothing but rage and a desire for vengeance. You know full well the devastation my death will bring upon her, and yet you’re too cowardly to confront the aftermath…”

Aemond’s voice was thick with scorn as he responded to Lucerys, clinging to his justification amid the swirling accusations. “I granted her the mercy of one more night believing you were alive.”

His words were laced with forced conviction as he struggled with the reality of his actions. His sneer masked a deep-seated fear, the acknowledgement of his cowardice for not facing her immediately. Each word was a feeble shield against the truth that Lucerys laid bare–the truth of his own weakness. 

“You’re a hypocrite, Aemond ‘One-Eye.’ You are pathetic and weak.” The voice of the boy he murdered echoed in the darkness–chasing after him as he spun trying to confront the boy, haunting him. “You are a coward and a kinslayer.”

A guttural growl erupted from Aemond as he continued his frenzied spinning, his blade cleaving through the empty air where Lucerys had just been–a ghostly figure always out of reach, his form dissipating like mist before he could ever really catch a glimpse of him. Each accusation from Lucerys bore into him, the words burrowing deep, festering like barbs under his skin. With every slash and turn, the inner beast of wrath within him thrashed against his ribs, desperate to break free.

“That’s all you’ll ever be,” Lucerys’s voice haunted the cold air, reverberating off the stone walls. “That lonely little boy–without a dragon, without a rightful place in this world, destined to walk this path alone.”

Bitterness coiled around Aemond’s throat like a serpent, the inner beast clawing at his heart, ripping through the old wounds of feeling lesser, sidelines, mocked, and lonely. Anguish from his youth surged, fueling his rage. 

“And you are a fucking bastard that got what he deserved,” Aemond hurled back venomously, his boots thudding against the stone as he pivoted, his dagger slicing through the relentless downpour. 

“Could she ever truly love you after what you’ve done?” Lucerys’s words sliced deeper, making Aemond’s breath hitch, his heart tearing into pieces. “How could she ever look upon you and see anything but the monster you are? How could she ever take your bloodstained hands–that crimson guilt–and place it tenderly upon her face?”

A chill ran through Aemond, the weight of Lucerys’s words sinking deep, twisting together resentment and fear into a choking tangle that felt as if it might rip his heart apart. A bitter, piercing ache swelled in the back of this throat, like swallowing jagged shards of sapphire–each as large and merciless as the one filling his eye socket–scraping painfully against the tender flesh as they embedded themselves deep within him. 

A deep, menacing growl erupted from Aemond’s throat as he roared, “Come out and face me!”

“Why should I, when you can’t even face her?” Lucerys’s voice slithered through the air, dripping with taunt. “You’re terrified of what she’ll see in you. Afraid of the revulsion in her gaze. Afraid she’ll recoil from you.”

Aemond’s sneer deepened as he lunged at the disembodied voice, his blade slicing through the thick air. 

Lucerys’s words continued to lash at him, relentless as the storm within the walls. “You once vowed to destroy her–to ruin her… How right you were…”

Aemond’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, his movements driven by a visceral rage–a visceral fear–as he lunged forward, aiming to strike the ghost that tormented him. The blade cut through the air, diving upwards–

And suddenly the relentless rain ceased. 

Her eyes, as blue as cornflowers, widened in utter shock–those beautiful eyes now clouded with pain. His gaze dropped sharply to the dagger, its cruel blade buried mercilessly in her flesh just below her ribs, angled upwards in a brutal attempt to pierce the heart. The steel shone ominously, slick with crimson, as it protruded from her, a silent testament to the violence it had wrought. 

Daenera gasped, a small cry escaping her lips as she staggered backwards, pulling herself free from the cold embrace of the steel. Her hand trembled as it reached to touch the crimson that stained her, her expression transforming into one of confusion and betrayal as she looked up at Aemond, her eyes searching for his explanation. 

The sound of the dagger hitting the floor reverberated through the throne room, its clatter loud in the sudden stillness as the storm’s rage subsided and the echoes of thunder faded into a heavy silence. Aemond, gripped by a sudden surge of desperation, lunged forward to catch her as she stumbled backwards. Her descent was abruptly halted by steps leading to the throne, just short of the menacing swords jutting from the cold stone. 

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hand–stained with her blood–pressing desperately against the wound in an effort to slow the bleed. Her eyes, widened with shock and fear, locked onto his. 

“A–Aemond?” Her gasp was faint, her hand weakly clutching his, her nails scraping against his skin, clawing with fading strength, as if trying to push him away–as if trying to pull him closer. 

“Please,” Aemond’s voice broke, trembling as rainwater trickled from his brow, dripping off his nose to mingle with the tears on her cheek. “I didn’t mean to do this–I never intended…I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I love you, please believe me.”

 Desperation tore through him, a silent, inward plea for a different outcome, for anything but this calamity–He could endure her anger and withstand her hatred, but the sight of her suffering was unbearable. His hands shook as he tried to stem the warm flow of life slipping between his fingers.

A cruel laugh sounded, “My apology wasn't enough, why should yours be?”

Tears burned in Aemond’s eyes–tears that had always remained unshed.

“Everything you touch, you destroy,” Lucerys’s voice echoed with chilling disdain, as he appeared beside him, sitting cruelly upon the throne, accusing and untouched by the storm–dry and boyish looking, eyes dark and cold. “You are a monster. A kinslayer. Damned. Cursed. You don’t know what love is.” His whisper was venomous, almost intimate. “She could never love you. You will never hear the words you so desperately want fall from her lips. She will always see you as nothing more than the monster who killed her brother.”

Aemond broke the eerie silence, calling out in anguish as he cradled her closer, drawing her onto his lap. His plea was frantic, carrying across the stormy silence. “Help! Someone, please! Save her!”

“What is a little more blood?” Lucerys hummed, rising from the throne, that damned seat seeming to crown him with its iron teeth. 

Aemond tenderly brushed Daenera’s hair back from her face, feeling her body grow disturbingly still in his arms. His heart seemed to cease beating, mirroring the slow stillness of hers. Desperation laced his whisper,” No, no, no, Daenera. Ñuha jorrāelagon. Please, I didn’t mean to–don’t leave me…”

He caressed her face gently, wiping away the tears that mingled with his own, pressing his forehead against hers, begging for her to stay. When he finally pulled back, her eyes stared back at him, empty and void of the spirit that had once burned brightly within them. 

“Perhaps it is a mercy,” Lucerys’s chilling voice sliced through the thick air as he stepped forward into view, his appearance more ghastly than before. Soaked and grotesque, his gray skin a patchwork of missing flesh, leaving chilling trails of water on the otherwise dry floor .“For both of you. Her without the sting of betrayal, and you without a heart. To end her would be a kindness.”

Aemond sneered at the apparition of the dead boy, clutching Daenera tightly, as though by sheer force of will, he could keep her from fading into eternity. “Lucerys wouldn’t say that.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Lucerys agreed, his voice low and haunting. “He won’t be saying anything ever again.”

Crouching to meet Aemond’s eye, Lucerys stare was icy and relentless. “You set this in motion. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. A life for a life. Vengeance hungers, and now it shall feast.”

A horrifying scream shattered the silence of the throne room–

Aemond’s eye snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs, a painful throb that resonated in his ears. The scar on his face felt as though it were aflame, and the wetness on his cheeks–tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed–stung bitterly. Confused, he ran his fingers across his damp face, shocked to find them slick with tears–tears he had never allowed himself in his worst moments of pain or fury. 

Glancing out the window, he noticed the sun perched high in the sky, much later in the day than he anticipated. It was nearing noon. 

Then, another scream, raw and harrowing, echoed down the hallway, dragging over the stone with the harsh grating of steel against rock. It was a scream drenched in despair, a scream he recognized all too well. His stomach dropped, a sense of dread coiling tightly around his heart as he realized what had happened.

Aemond surged from his bed, his movements rushed and ungainly as if his limbs were still entwined in the remnants of sleep. His body felt sluggish and unwieldy, muscles sore and protesting from the relentless hours atop dragonback in the recent days. His body was tense and fraught, a testament to the prolonged vigilance he had maintained–even in his sleep. Grasping a fresh pair of trousers, he shed the ones worn through the night, dressing swiftly. He yanked a new shirt over his head, roughly shoving it into the waist of his trousers, and then wrestled his feet into his boots.

The haunting echoes of her cries lingered in his ears, raw and piteous like those of a wounded animal. The remnants of his nightmare clung to him, seeming to claw at the edges of his being and at the fringes of his consciousness–prickling at the very tip of his fingers. They slowed the world around him as he fought through a fog, each movement and thought muddled as if he were pushing through water. 

With a swift–deliberate–motion, he cinched his belt around his waist, and ran his fingers through his tangled, unruly hair. There was no time for his usual grooming rituals, no moment spared for vanity as he pushed through the chamber doors into the corridor beyond. 

As Aemond advanced towards her chambers, the cries and clamor of destruction grew more distinct and harrowing. With each step, his heartbeat thundered unevenly in his chest–forceful and strained–echoing his mounting dread. He had justified his actions as a mercy, allowing her one more night of peace, shielded from the grim news of her brother's death and his role in it. Yet, the ghostly accusations of Lucerys haunted him, murmuring accusations of cowardice that gnawed at him.

The air was filled with her screams, each one piercing the false serenity he had tried to preserve. These sounds, stark and vivid in the daylight, tore through the veneer of clam, imbuing the air with a palpable despair that belied the brightness of the day. Her cries resonated through the corridor, each one a sharp reminder of the heavy costs–both of his duty and his thirst for vengeance. 

As Aemond strode down the hall, he was acutely aware that the news of Lucerys’s death had leaked into the realm, just as he had anticipated. He disregarded the judgmental stares directed at him, letting the whispers and mutters of ‘kinslayer’ burrow under his skin.

So what if he was? It was not anywhere near the worst he had done. 

Aemond approached Daenera’s chambers to find a small, agitated assembly gathered outside. Lady Mertha was briskly brushing off her skirts, while a young maid and a guard stood by, their expressions drawn in shock and apprehension. The chamber doors barely contained the chaos within: the sound of objects crashing to the ground, steel scraping across the floor, and items being hurled against the walls and shattering. Amidst this tumult, Daenera’s screams of rage and torment resounded, interspersed with guttural snarls and growls as she wreaked havoc within. 

“She is behaving like a rapid animal,” Lady Mertha hissed venomously, her face contorted in a scowl of disdain. “Were she truly one, she would be put down–”

“Prince Aemond,” the young maid interrupted, her voice trembling as she noted his approach, drawing the attention of the others to his presence. 

Lady Mertha’s eyes snapped to Aemond, her mouth briefly parting in a gesture to speak before halting as her gaze inadvertently drifted to one side of his face. Aemond caught the fleeting expressions of shock, revulsion, and discomfort flit across their faces as they struggled, and failed, to avoid staring at the sapphire filling his eye socket and the jagged scar tissue surrounding it. He realized then, that in his haste, he had forgotten to wear his eyepatch, revealing the unsettling replacement that often drew such reactions. 

“The girl has lost her senses,” Mertha declared sharply, her voice thick with scorn as she gestured towards the door, then clutched her reddened cheek, which showed the beginnings of a slight swelling. “She struck me and threw me out! Look at what that wretched girl did to me! And now she’s gone completely mad–”

“You told her?” Aemond interrupted abruptly, his voice heavy with anger. The irritation surged within his chest, and a dreadful anxiety coiled in his stomach, fraying at his patience. He was indifferent to the fact that Daenera had struck Mertha; he was almost certain that Mertha had made herself deserving of it. What truly irked him was the contemptuous tone Mertha used to describe Daenera.

“No, my prince,” the young maid replied hastily, her body tensing visibly as Aemond’s gaze fell upon her. She flinched again as another crash sounded from within the chamber, her youthful face creased with worry. “We haven’t told her–we were told you would–”

Her words were abruptly overshadowed by the sound of glass shattering, followed by a furious roar that melded a growl, a hiss, and a guttural scream into a single horrifying outcry.

“The princess insisted on one of her daily walks,” Mertha assumed, her mouth tightening with disapproval. “We intended to visit the Sept, but the Lord Confessor approached us before we could get there…”

Aemond’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, and he gritted his teeth forcefully averting his gaze as he fought the urge to turn on his heels and seek out that cripple, Larys Strong, to pummel him half to death with his own cane. Larys should have known better than to be the bearer of such news; he should have understood that Aemond was to be the one to tell her–and that was precisely why he did it. 

It was far simpler for Aemond to cast blame on Larys for stepping in, rather than confront the truth that he himself had faltered. He had stood outside her doors the previous night, hesitating, too overwhelmed by his own cowardice to face her then.

He had called it mercy–intended it as such. But it was far from it. 

Now, as he stood there, the harsh truth of his own failure gnawed at him.

“The wretched girl will destroy everything. We should send for more guards to help with subduing her,” Mertha declared harshly, looking towards the one guard there. “She should be confined to a more secure place where she can’t wreak such destruction.”

“No,” Aemond interjected sharply before the guard could leave, his gaze fixed on Mertha with an intensity that bordered on steel. “You will summon a master, and you will stay here. I will see to her.”

He did not linger for her to acknowledge his command. Striding forward, Aemond reached the doors to Daenera’s chambers. His hand hesitated momentarily on the doorknob, bracing himself for the scene that awaited him inside. The chaos had given way to an eerie silence, more daunting than the sound of her prior outbursts.

A cold shiver of dread washed over him, mingling with a deep-seated fear of what he might discover. Clenching his jaw, he took a steadying breath and pushed the door open, stepping inside and shutting the world out behind him.

The devastation within her chambers were staggering, resembling the aftermath of a storm–a storm similar to the one he had flown through when he had pursued her brother with a heart full of rage and a taste of retribution on his tongue. It mirrored the storm that had plagued his nightmare, the very one that had seemed to have spilled into the throne room, echoing thunderously between the columns and under the arched ceilings–now it seemed to have poured in here as well. 

With a sinking heart, Aemond observed the path of destruction. Shelves had been upended, their contents strewn across the floor. Every surface had been swept clean, its former decorations now shattered remnants at his feet. Tapestries that had once adorned the walls were now torn and tattered, lying in disarray. Feathers were scattered like a macabre snowfall, and the crunch of broken glass and porcelain shards under his boots punctuated his every step as he ventured deeper into the chaos with apprehension twisting in his stomach. 

A dreadful sense of foreboding coiled around Aemond’s heart as his eye finally settled on her, her figure nearly obscured by the settee placed before the hearth in a small sitting area. 

There she sat, arms wrapped around her knees, her gaze fixed intently on the dancing flames. Her hair cascading wildly around her form–a dark shroud that contrasted sharply with the bright light pouring in through the windows. In that light, she appeared diminutive and fragile, utterly consumed by the depths of her despair–her eyes empty and unseeing.  

With cautious steps, Aemond moved through the chaotic remnants of her fury, the crunch of broken objects under his boots echoing in the quiet room. His gaze remained on her, unwavering even as he treaded over the debris. He did not sidestep the scattered ruins; instead, he walked straight through them, forging a direct path to her. His heart pounded within his chest, each beat echoing a painful rhythm that seemed to amplify his trepidation. 

As he drew closer, he noticed the disturbing smears of blood on her hands, which streaked up her arms and marred her pale skin, tainting the white chemise she wore. He approached her cautiously, as one might approach a startled animal, careful and with bated breath, wary that any abrupt movement might send her spiraling into further despair or provoke a sudden outburst. 

The sight of the blood unnervingly echoed the visions of his nightmare–the horrifying moment when her blue eyes had widened in shock, the ease with which his blade had plunged into her flesh without any resistance, the way she had gasped and stumbled backward, removing herself from the cold steel as blood blossomed like a terrible flower. He could almost feel the warmth of her blood on his hands again, that all too familiar stickiness–could almost feel the dead weight of her body in his arms.

Aemond crouched down beside her, bringing himself to her level. As he did, his mouth became dry, his throat constricting with emotion. Yet, he summoned a tenderness that ached in its depths, and he whispered her name, his voice dreading through the heavy silence like a delicate whisper. “Daenera…”

She did not react to her name, her gaze fixed on the flames before her. Her body remained still, save for the subtle tensing of her muscles. As the orange light flickered in the blue of her eyes–like a burning sun against a night sky–Aemond felt a falter in his heart, a deep, unsettling stir of emotions. 

“Daenera…” Aemond murmured again, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear, an attempt to coax her back from the distant recesses of her mind. Her lips parted slightly in a soft exhale, her face turning a little before her eyes finally followed, meeting his. 

Carefully, he cradled her head, his touch tender, meant to offer some measure of comfort–if he could even do that. He couldn’t discern whether it was for her benefit or his own, but Aemond felt that familiar prickle in his fingertips when he touched her, a fluttering of weakness in his heart that made the darker part of him want to withdraw solely because it was all too much–because it made him vulnerable to whatever poison she may impart him with. 

Daenera neither withdrew from his touch nor leaned into it as she usually did. Instead, she remained unnervingly still, her eyes red and puffy from tears, the tracks of her weeping still etched clearly on her cheeks.

Aemond held her as if she were something delicate and precious–and by the gods, she was. He held her the way one would hold a bird with broken wings, gently. And he felt that horrible beast within him clawing at his chest–felt that awful need for her that softened his heart, making him weak and more susceptible to the savage grip of his inner turmoil, threatening to rip it apart. 

“Tell me,” she murmured hoarsely, her voice raw and scratchy from crying. A tremor passed through her lips, the corner of which turned downward even as she fought to suppress it. “Tell me it isn’t true…”

Aemond maintained a carefully neutral expression, fearing that any crack in his composure, any slip of the mask, might worsen the situation. Her words pierced him like a slow, excruciating blade, weaving through his defenses and aiming straight for his heart. 

Unable to provide the comfort or the denials she desperately sought, he remained silent, his expression enough to reveal the grim truth. It was clear in his eye–he had done it. And he knew she’d see it on his face. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” she implored him, her voice thick with desperation as she begged for him to lie to her. “Tell me that what they said isn’t true–that you didn’t do it.”

Her head shook slowly in disbelief, her eyebrows arching in an expression of utter devastation. Yet, she seemed to cling to a sliver of hope, a desperate plea for him to refute the truth. 

“It’s true,” Aemond confessed, his voice soft yet laced with the rawness of an open wound–bleeding with honesty. He could not bring himself to lie, not when no falsehood could adequately shield her from the truth of what he had done. 

Brutal honesty was the only offering he had left for her–and that had no mercy at all.

A choked sob ripped through Daenera’s throat, and she turned her face away from him, as if to shield him from the devastation that his confession swept over her. Yet, even in her attempt to hide, he saw the clear signs of her anguish–the way her shoulders trembled, the way her hand twisted and clutched at the fabric over her heart as if trying to reach in and hold her breaking heart together. 

When she faced him again, her eyes blazed with accusation and pain. “What happened?!”

Aemond welcomed her scorn like a sinner might accept his penance. He would have gladly knelt before her and begged for forgiveness if he believed it would relieve her of her grief. Yet, he knew that forgiveness would not come from her–not justly so–and he could not bring himself to ask for it.

Forgiveness seemed like a double-edged sword–it would be selfish of him to seek it, fully aware that granting such absolution was beyond her heart to forgive. By even contemplating absolution, he would only cut himself open–would only leave him to bleed.  

His action had been those of monstrous retribution, and monsters, by their very nature, did not seek forgiveness for their deeds. Instead, they swallowed the decay of their actions and carried the burden silently, festering within them like a relentless rot. 

“How could you do this? Why would you do this?!” Daenera’s voice crackled with fury as she sneered at him, her features contorting with scorn. Abruptly, her hand shot out, seizing him by the shirt with such force that Aemond nearly lost his balance. She clung to him desperately–as though fearing he would slip away like smoke between her fingers–her grip anchoring him in place as a vicious snarl parted her lips.

Through the storm of her anger, Aemond couldn’t help but think she looked beautiful–her eyes ablaze with fury, lips curled as if ready to rip his throat out with her teeth, tears streaking down her anguished face, her eyebrows arched in a poignant mixture of sorrow and rage. She looked both devastated and hauntingly beautiful–a vision he knew would torment her to his dying days. 

“Why would you do this?” She repeated, her voice teetering on the edge between a soft demand and a raw accusation. “How could you do this?” As her voice broke, her eyebrows knitted together, and a steely hardness settled into her gaze as she hissed, “You killed him.”

Aemond had to look away, unable to withstand the sting of her hatred as it slipped beneath his armor and cut into the tender flesh beneath. He swallowed hard, gritting his teeth, before forcing himself to meet her gaze once more. Her eyes searched his face incredulously, flickering across his features as if trying to pry open his expression and expose the truths hidden within–even those he refused to face himself.

The urge to reach out to her prickled at his fingertips. He longed to cup her face in his hands, to gently wipe away her tears–or even taste them if she would permit it. He yearned to press his lips to hers, to feel their dry, soft touch, and to bury his face in the crook of her neck, losing himself in the warmth and scent of her. More than anything, he wanted to lay his head against her chest, to listen to her heartbeat–strong and steady, so alive and vibrant, unlike the lifeless echo in his nightmares. 

And yet, Aemond wanted nothing more than to rid himself of such vulnerabilities–knowing that they would only expose and cut him open, making him more susceptible to a world that regarded him with disdain. 

With a sudden, forceful shove, Daenera sent him staggering backward. He lost his balance, tumbling to the ground and bracing himself with his hands on the cold stone floor. He winced as shards of glass embedded into his palms with a sharp sting. Righting himself, he met her gaze once more, finding horror etched across her features as she stared back at him with a mix of revulsion and disbelief–and utter betrayal. 

“I presented your brother with a choice,” he began, his voice even and collected, though he tasted the bitterness of his words on his tongue. “I demanded he put out his eye as payment for mine–that he repay the debt he owed.”

As he spoke that familiar bitterness surged within him, the ache of a festering wound that no act of retribution could ever hope to heal. 

Killing Lucerys had not restored Aemond’s eye; instead, it had taken something deeper from him–leaving him as incomplete as before, perhaps even more so. This only deepened that festering resentment. If only Lucerys had complied, had cut out his eye as demanded, Aemond wouldn’t have pursued him. He wouldn’t have killed him, and he wouldn’t be tormented by this festering, weeping wound within him that no act of vengeance could heal. 

Yet, a cruel, boyish voice whispered from the dark recesses of his mind, mocking his justification. Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance.

A pain that began as a mere prickle wove its way through Aemond’s scar, burrowing deep into the socket, settling somewhere behind the sapphire. It curled cruelly within his eye, intensifying into a searing agony that forced him to grit his teeth. This pain, both familiar and merciless, was unknown to Lucerys; he had never felt how it honed Aemond into a sharp, cold blade, how it made him cruel and unforgiving–how it had planted a seed of a beast within him that yearned to destroy and lay ruin to everything around him. 

“He refused–” Aemond ground out through clenched teeth, swallowing thickly as he was cut off. 

“He was a child,” Daenera spat, her voice thick with accusation–he felt it sting along the curve of his scar, felt it like a slap to the face. The corners of her lips pulled downward, her head shaking slightly as a pained expression crossed her face. “He was only a child.”

“So was I,” Aemond replied, his voice maintaining a strange evenness despite the surge of that familiar, burning resentment curling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike. He felt the relentless beast within him pace, its claws scraping at his resolve, the urge to lash out growing stronger. And even then, his voice came out soft, almost sad. “Everyone seems to forget that I, too, was a child when he gouged out my eye.”

Why was it always him who had to rise above? Aemond’s thoughts churned with these questions, his frustration palpable. When would it be his turn to receive justice? Why was he expected to endure suffering while the one who had wronged him had remained unpunished?

“Your brother permanently disfigured me,” Aemond stated, his voice growing cold and hard, as he felt the flames of that burning resentment lick at his heart. “And for years, he faced no consequences for his actions–years during which the injustice remained unpunished.”

His pursuit to right the wrong done to him had been an attempt to balance the scales. Yet, those scales had bent under the weight of his will, tipping more towards vengeance than justice–but it had been meant to be justice.

“For years, I’ve endured insults and humiliation, years of enduring pain and torment because of what he did… You may think he only took my eye, but he took so much more than that.”

Every slight and affront had only fueled the festering darkness within Aemond–he absorbed each stinging comment, endured each humiliation with a stoic mask. He had borne the excruciating pain, experienced every invasive treatment, he had weathered it all, and for what? For the wrong to remain unpunished? 

“I wanted him to understand the full extent of what he did to me, and so I demanded his eye in return,” Aemond rationalized.

It seemed only fair, didn’t it?

He had been told by Viserys to let it go, to forgive and forget the harm that had been inflicted upon him without any real remedy–there had been no apology or acknowledgement of the wrongs that had been done to him, so how could he ever let it go? How could he ever forgive? How could he accept an apology when his assailant could never truly comprehend the depth of his suffering?

Daenera’s gaze fell on him with such despair that Aemond felt as if shards of ice were piercing his heart. Her eyebrows drew downward, intensifying the blaze in her blue eyes–a blaze that mirrored the flames dancing in the hearth but seemed to stem from a deeper, more ferocious inferno. 

“And that justified you taking his life?!” Daenera hissed, her voice dripping with disdain as her chapped lips were tightly drawn over her teeth and her brows furrowed deeper in rage. “He was defending his brother–protecting him from when you went to cave Jace’s head in with a fucking rock!”

Aemond wanted to say that he wouldn’t have killed Jace, but that would have been a lie. He didn’t know his true intentions when he had lifted that rock; all he knew was that he was defending himself after they had attacked him. Was there a part of him that, in that moment, had wanted Jace dead? Yes. But would he have gone through with it? He didn’t know, he hadn’t had the chance to decide. And they would never know. All Aemond knew was he had a right to defend himself.

Any sharp retorts that formed in the fire of his resentment, died on his tongue as he witnessed the despair on her face–her tears overflowing, tracing paths down her cheeks.

“Did you know,” she choked out, her voice trembling with emotion, “that he’d sneak into my bed at night, tormented by guilt for cutting out your eye? Even when it was in defense of his brother?”

Aemond stared at her, absorbing her words as if they were something rotten and poisonous. He had never witnessed any sign of guilt in the boy, never detected a trace of remorse for what he had done–and to hear now that Lucerys might have felt guilty only hardened something within him. He struggled with disbelief, finding it impossible to accept that the boy who had mocked him so brazenly would have felt guilty for what he had done.

No, Lucerys apology had been nothing more than mockery–just as he had mocked him with the pig. The apology had been insincere and hollow, devoid of any real acknowledgement or genuine remorse for the harm he had inflicted, for what he had done to Aemond–for what he had made him into. 

And Aemond refused to harbor any guilt for killing him. He refused.

Aemond’s gaze stayed fixed on her, observing the trembling of her lips and the tears that shimmered in her eyes. He saw something vicious stirring within the deep blue of her gaze, reminiscent of a storm brewing beneath the ocean’s surface. This tempest seemed poised to shred sails and splinter any ship upon its sea, dooming those onboard to the merciless whims of a hungry sea–and he was no different, he felt that he too would break apart on unforgiving waves. 

Her face twisted into a vicious sneer as she lashed out at him with piercing words. “If only he had aimed lower. If only he had slit your throat.”

Her words shot through the air like arrows, each one striking him with cruel, unyielding force. Aemond fought against the instinct to flinch, instead straightening his back to carry the weight of them. The beast within him stirred, provoked by the sting of her accusations. It clawed at his chest, urging him to retaliate, to inflict wounds as deep as those she had carved into him. Yet, he battled this urge, striving to maintain the mask of cold detachment he wore, restraining the tempestuous emotions that threatened to break free–to lay waste to all he held dear. 

Aemond resigned himself to her cruelty–after all, what else had he expected? Did he imagine she would take his bloodstained hands and gently place them upon her cheek? Did he hope she might caress his cheek and press her forehead to his, offering a moment of solace?”

As sharp as her rage felt as it slipped beneath his armor, he didn’t expect anything less. He would endure her cruelty, withstand her disdain, as long as she lived, as long as her heart continued to beat–however dissonant it was with his own.

“I never meant to kill him,” Aemond found himself murmuring, his voice not entirely his own. The confession emerged on its own, not entirely a conscious choice–they slipped from his lips like those of a sinner seeking absolution at the altar of the gods. 

Yet, he did not truly seek repentance, for he knew that there was none to be found. Indeed, he was a sinner, a monster–but a monster that was made, not born. And now, sitting before her, watching his words settle over her like snow upon a desolate landscape, he saw her eyes widen, tears flowing freely, her face painted with utter betrayal and despair. In that moment, he felt less a monster and more a boy–a boy who yearned to hold something gently but had never learned how. 

“I only meant to scare him,” Aemond confessed softly, his voice barely above a whisper as if fearing that his words might shatter her further. His heart thudded erratically within his chest, each beat a painful reminder of what he had done. He needed her to understand what had driven him, why he had lost control. “I wanted him to feel the same fear that I felt when you all ambushed me. I wanted him to feel as scared and powerless as I did when he cut out my eye…”

Truly, that had been his only intention, hadn’t it? Yet, that dreadful, boyish voice in the back of his mind clawed at his soul, demanding recognition of a darker truth. He had wanted Lucerys dead. And Lucerys had died. What more was there to say?

A pained expression etched itself across Daenera’s face–an expression wrought with despair, heartbreak, and betrayal. It distorted her features into a cruel mockery of their usual beauty, mirroring the haunting visage he had seen in his nightmare–when she had staggered away from him, her hand brushing against a fresh wound only to come away stained with blood, and she had collapsed, he had cradled her desperately, pleading with her not to leave him.

Yet, despite the torment reflected in her eyes, Aemond found himself unable to halt the harsh words that drove a blade into her heart. 

“So, I chased after him,” Aemond murmured, his voice sounding distant, even to his own ears–and so awfully cold. “So, I chased after him. I just wanted him to experience that fear and powerlessness… I never set out to kill him. I didn’t intend to–”

“You…” Her voice was clipped, and she drew in a desperate breath as if his words had stolen the air from her lungs. Her eyebrows knitted together in a mix of confusion and pain. “You never meant to kill him…”

Aemond closed his eye for a moment, unable to bear the sight of her pained expression–unable to watch as her gaze shifted from him, her confusion deepening. Slowly, that bewilderment transformed into disbelief. She inhaled sharply, her expression hardening into one of betrayal. Her hand rose to clutch at her chemise again, gripping it tightly. The fabric twisted under her grasp as if she were trying to reach inside her own chest to hold her breaking heart together with her own bare hand. 

“I lost control–” Aemond began, attempting to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, standing precariously on the edge of an abyss. “Arrax attacked Vhagar–”

“You chased after him,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice tense like a bow pulled too tight, the wood cracking beneath the force of it. “You pursued him with your dragon. You.” Her words were edged with a fierce snarl, her teeth bared in a display of raw anger. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Again, each word struck him like an arrow, piercing through his armor and embedding itself into his flesh, tearing at him with a pain as vivid as when the blade had sliced through his eye. And yet, as he had when they had stitched his wounds, he endured it with a steely resolve. 

“Don’t you dare blame Arrax for trying to protect his rider. He would have sensed his fear,” Daenera sneered at him, her fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, her anger palpable and ever so pointed. “I’ve witnessed the bonds they forge with their riders. It was your anger, your resentment that Vhagar reacted to. She would have felt your hatred, and she acted upon it–acted upon your desire for revenge. You didn’t lose control, Aemond, you wanted to kill him. The moment you choose to chase after him, you made your decision.”

Aemond watched her as her temper flared–watching her like one might watch an approaching storm, bracing for its inevitable impact. He knew what was coming, and in some dark part of himself, he welcomed it, ready to face the full force of her wrath. 

And the force of it, he felt as she shoved him roughly, her movements sudden as she shifted onto her knees heedless to the shards of glass on the floor. She straddled one of his outstretched legs, rose up in front of him with a sneer on her face. Aemond could smell almost her wrath emanating from her–a metallic tang of blood that clung to her skin and the heat of a crackling fire, and something else, something sweeter that seemed almost incongruent with the moment. 

“You killed him! You did,” She accused, the sharp sting of her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, the muscles taut beneath the touch. 

Aemond tilted his head back to look up at her, her words slicing through him as sharply as the shards of glass that dug into the skin of his palms. He could feel the glass grinding between his hand and the stone floor beneath them. Swallowing thickly, his heart twisted painfully inside his chest, the taste of wrath and resentment lingering on his tongue. Inside, he felt the beast of his darker impulses strain against his control, threatening to break free under the weight of her words–it writhed to sink its claws into something, to tear at someone mercilessly, to ruin and destroy.

“You wanted him dead,” Daenera sneered, each word an indictment–a condemnation of his soul. “You wanted revenge. And now you’re too much of a coward to admit it–”

In that heated moment, Aemond cloud almost hear the crack of thunder and the echoes of Lucerys’s voice haunting the back of his mind, accusing him relentlessly; you hunted me down like an animal.

Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance. 

You wanted more than reparations–you wanted my life.

You pursued me.

     You sought my death.

You are a coward.

      You wanted me dead. 

You are a coward.

     You’re a coward.

You’re a–

“Yes!” The word erupted from Aemond with the same ferocity as when Vhagar had burst forth from the stormcloud, her jaws clamping viciously around the boy and his dragon, consuming them whole. The beast within him bared its bloodied teeth at her, seeming to break free from any semblance of restraints. It unleashed itself upon her with the force of his words, raw and merciless. “I wanted him dead–I wanted revenge for what he did to me. I wanted to kill him for it… and I did. I killed him.”

How many times had Aemond imagined ending Lucerys’s life? How many years had he harbored such thoughts? How long had he contemplated it at night before falling asleep? For how long had he longed Lucerys’s death, foolishly believing it would make him whole again, that it would return that which he had lost?

But he wasn’t whole–and it seemed, he never would be. 

Instead, the act had taken even more from him. 

It left him feeling empty and disappointed, if not lost–and fearful, terribly, terribly fearful and alone.

Had he always been a monster?

Aemond had been the one to give chase through the storm, his desire for Lucerys’s death a smoldering ember that had perhaps ignited fully the moment he mounted Vhagar. The dragon had merely acted in accordance with her nature–responding to his own dark desires. Was this cruelty not embedded in his very nature? It seemed all he had ever known, all he could comprehend even now he couldn’t help but be cruel, couldn’t help but admit to it.

“I’m not sorry that he’s dead–”

In the brief space between heartbeats, in the mere blink of an eye, the chilling sound of steel being drawn slicked through the air between them like a discordant melody. He felt the cold press of metal against his throat, an eerie familiarity to its touch. It bit into his skin, not deeply enough to draw blood, but sufficiently to leave a stinging reminder of its presence. 

The sheer wrath and devastation etched across her face burned fiercer than any flame, her eyebrows furrowed deeply, the corners of her lips trembling, and as she towered over him, resembling a fiery goddess of fury and vengeance, her eyes blazing with a fierce intensity, he couldn’t help but find her strikingly beautiful–even with the blade pressed against his skin, even amidst the looming threat of retribution and bloodshed. It was a terrible realization, recognizing the beauty in devastation, finding allure in the midst of violence. 

Her lips trembled as they parted for a ragged breath, and his gaze was irresistibly drawn to them. Despite their dryness, they appeared incredibly soft. Her chest heaved, the fabric of her chemise hanging flatly around her, subtly revealing the familiar contours beneath–the gentle curves he knew so intimately, the fullness of her breasts, the softness of her skin that he had once felt against his own. 

To steady himself, he pressed his palms harder against the shards of glass beneath him, grinding them into the floor as he sought control over his frayed emotions.  

Aemond tilted his head back slightly more, bearing his neck to her. He felt the tremble in her fingers, the way her nails dug into his shoulders as if to steady herself. His eye locked onto hers as her expression shifted from a sneer to bewilderment, then hardened into determination. He felt the blade’s cold edge graze his sin; it burned, and a trickle of blood began to run down his neck. 

Aemond could see the conflict raging within her–the intense desire to slit his throat and exact her vengeance, to take his life as he had taken her brothers. This impulse to draw blood and finde justice in his suffering was palpable, tasted like copper on his tongue. Yet, alongside this raw, vengeful desire, he saw another force play within her, something equally as devastating but far more bittersweet. 

In that moment, a resigned thought crossed his mind; kill me now, as long as it is by your hands, and come find me in the seven hells.

Oh, how she had poisoned him. 

Love was a poison, wasn’t it? Terrible and devastating with its sweetness, and yet he had willingly drunk her poison, becoming hopelessly dependent on the taste of it. He would accept her poison in any form–on the edge of a blade, if not her lips.

“You’re a monster,” Daenera hissed, her voice laden with both accusation and a need to reaffirm the truth to herself as much as to him. “You’re a fucking kinslayer.”

Aemond made no attempt to deflect her condemnation. Instead, he allowed her words to pierce him like sharp claws, cutting through the armor he had constructed around himself. They tore into his flesh, cracking open his chest to lay bare his heart–vulnerable and pathetically soft–ready for her to devour. There was no denying the cruel truth; he was a kinslayer–a monster condemned by both the gods and man. He had become exactly what he had been shaped to be. 

If she despised him, every decision he made henceforth would be easier, he thought. Yet, buried deep within the shredded, tender confines of his heart, Aemond harbored that dreadful yearning for her love–a love for the connection that his actions had mercilessly severed. He was pathetically in love with her, and he loathed himself for it as intensely as he wished he could despise her for igniting such feelings. 

A monster shouldn’t know love, nor should it crave being loved. 

Yet, he did.

Just as he bore the constant pain within the scar over his eye, he would carry this–a scar upon his heart, an unhealable wound. He wondered whether this, too, might fester like the enduring resentment tied to the loss of his eye. 

Aemond let Daenera’s fury envelop him, hoping it might purge him of the sin of loving her or steel him against the hatred burning in her eyes. He would not deny her condemnation–he was a monster, he was a kinslayer. “I am.”

Despite his intentions, he found himself irresistibly drawn to her. Compelled by a force he could neither fully control nor understand, he reached out and placed his hand gently on her hip. He neither pulled her closer, as his heart desired, nor pushed her away, as his mind urged. His touch seemed to surprise her, causing a reflexive jerk that made the blade nick his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. 

The frown on Daenera’s face deepened, with a line etching itself between her brows, her eyes aflame with disgust and resentment. “I should fucking cut your throat and be done with you.”

Her sneer carried a profound bitterness that seemed to cling to her tongue as much as it did his, and there was a palpable agony in the way the corners of her lips trembled.

“You deserve it,” she hissed, pressing the blade further into his throat, her body weight bearing down on him as if to compel her own hand. “You fucking deserve it!”

Aemond bared his throat to her, a defiant challenge in his eye as he dared her to end the wretched existence she had forced upon him. “Do it.”

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

And as if to twist the knife of their shared misery, he taunted her with that familiar ease of cruelty. “Make a kinslayer of the both of us.”

Her face contorted with a painful realization then, and she recoiled from his touch as though it had seared her skin. Scrambling back, she withdrew from him, settling onto the cold stone. 

Glass chimed against the floor, scattering from her bloodied and bruised knees, while the sound of steel scraping over stone filled the air as she curled in on herself. A scream erupted from her, tearing through the room and slicing through Aemond–a sound he knew would haunt him in the dead of night. It cut deeper into him, inflicting a wound more profound than the blade had ever delivered. 

She gasped for breath as if surfacing from underwater, as if she’d been drowning, and a strange emptiness settled over her. Her gaze dropped to the blade in her hand, and Aemond saw a flicker of something dark within her expression–a terrible resolve taking root. His heart plummeted as she lifted the blade to her own throat. Reacting instinctively, Aemond lunged towards her, wrapping his hand around hers to steady the blade and prevent her from doing any real damage. 

His heart pounded painfully and erratically within his chest, his brows furrowing deeply as he stared at her with indignant fury. The mere thought that she might consider harming herself–that she might slit her own throat and bleed out in his arms while he desperately pleaded for her to stay with him–enraged him. 

Daenera’s hand clamped down on his wrist as he attempted to pull the blade away from her neck. Her nails dug into his flesh, painfully prying her hand from his grasp. Her skin, already marked by scrapes, suffered further as the shards of glass embedded in his skin caused superficial wounds on hers. 

With force, she pressed the hilt of the blade into his hand, making his fingers curl around it. The glass dug deeper into his skin as she cruelly guided his hand–and the blade–back to her throat, pressing it against the delicate column of her neck. A trickle of blood emerged where the blade nicked her skin, streaming down her neck as she struggled to hold his hand there, while he fought to pull it away without hurting her. 

Deliberately, she tilted her head back, exposing more of her neck to the blade, and challenged him with a haunting demand, “Murder me like you murdered my brother.”

Aemond’s breath caught, halting as he stared at her. His heart ceased beating for a moment, then began to pound painfully against his ribs, threatening to cut itself open on her words. Fear clawed at the back of his throat, his gaze locked on her, utterly dismayed by the cold expression on her face. 

“Go on,” Daenera said flatly, her voice void of emotion,” murder me like you murdered my brother…”

Aemond’s head shook in disbelief, dread filling his veins. 

“Kill me,” she urged “You wanted to kill bastards. Slay me as you did my brother, Kinslayer.” Her grip tightened on his hand, her movements forcing the blade to nick her skin further. “Murder me like you murdered my brother!”

“I can’t!” Aemond’s voice erupted furiously. The admission felt as if it had been wrenched from the depths of his soul–against his will. Part of him longed to be rid of this agonizing, pathetic weakness she had kindled within him–a part of him wished to rid himself of her as if it might purge the tortuous ache pulsating in his heart, the yearning for her love that itched in his veins. 

“Don’t you see?” His voice cracked, laden with desperation. Couldn’t she see what she has done to him? Couldn’t she see how she possessed his heart, defying all reason? Couldn’t she see the extent to which she had poisoned him? “I love you.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock passing through them, and he felt the pressure on his throat lessen as his confession hung in the air between them. Her brows furrowed, her head shaking slightly in disbelief, and then her features twisted into something cold and vicious. 

His heart beat furiously against his ribs, enveloped in dread–and terror, it seeped into his blood and poured into his body like poison. He knew his admission was cruel, but she needed to know–needed to understand the depths of his turmoil. 

“Daenera,” Aemond barely managed to utter, her name escaping his lips as a desperate plea, imploring her not to force his hand, “Please, let go of the blade…”

His voice was thick with emotion, each word soaked in a mixture of fear and plea, begging her to step back from the dark precipice she teetered upon–the narrow point of a knife's edge. 

A trickle of blood etched another path down her neck, meandering over her collarbone to disappear beneath the edge of her chemise, staining the fabric. His gaze followed the crimson line, then lifted to meet her eyes–cold and vengeful, a sneer curving her lips. “Kill me now, Aemond. Or I swear, I will take from you that which you have taken from me.”

Aemond recognized the venom in her threat– a dark, binding vow of vengeance. He saw within her the same festering darkness that had driven him, the relentless force that had propelled him to chase her brother through the storm in search of something darker than justice. 

Blood for blood. 

A brother for a brother.

The threat against his family–against his brothers–should have instinctively driven him to press the blade tighter to her throat. The need to defend and protect his family was deeply ingrained in him, both an inherited duty and a learned one. Yet, he found himself unable to do so. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. 

Her voice was as chillingly cold as the look in her eyes, her words delivered with an almost gentle cadence, “It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it? What is a little more blood on your hands?”

A crack of thunder echoed from the dark recesses of his mind, sending a shiver of dread up his spine. For a fleeting moment, something ghastly caught in the gleam of the blade–a spectral image with pallid skin, dark hair plastered wetly to its forehead, milky eyes, and patches of flesh missing. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, yet the whisper of that voice lingered hauntinly in the back of his mind; what is a little more blood? Perhaps it was a mercy. For the both of you. For her without the sting of betrayal, and you without a heart. To end her would be a kindness. 

With a furious sneer, Aemond wrenched himself away from her, forcefully pulling the blade back from her neck. In his abrupt movement, the blade grazed her skin slightly, a trickle of blood marking the path down her neck. The blade clattered harshly against the stone floor as he pinned it down with his hand, struggling to hold himself upright. The sting of glass embedded in his skin had become a distant sensation, overwhelmed by the surge of anger and bitterness that consumed him. 

How could she ask this of him? How could she even harbor such a desire?

It was cruel. She was cruel. 

Daenera released a humorless chuckle, her head shaking as a smile played across her face–a smile that pain and betrayal quickly twisted into something grim and mocking. “I will make you regret this.”

Aemond closed his eye, feeling her words sear into his very bones. He swallowed hard, struggling to contain the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, fighting to control the devastation that echoed through his heart. 

“I will make you regret letting me live,” she vowed, her voice steely. “I will take from you that which you’ve taken from me.”

Aemond rose to his feet and sheathed the blade. His response was a solemn acknowledgement, laden with the weight of inevitably, “I know.”

He observed as the fiery intensity in her eyes slowly extinguished, replaced by a colder, more distant expression. Her gaze shifted from him to the flames crackling in the hearth, dismissing his presence and letting a heavy silence envelop the room. She sat before the fire like a specter, her skin pale, marred with scrapes and bruises, and her chemise stained with smears and dots of blood. 

An intense urge to reach out to her prickled at his fingertips–to brush her hair back, to assess and soothe her wounds, to clean her hands of glass and blood. But he knew he couldn’t offer such comfort, and even if he could, she wouldn’t accept it. 

As he turned to leave, her voice halted him–small and strained, it carried an anguish that seemed to rise above the destruction on the floor, crawling up his spine and clawing into his very being. 

“I love you too,” Her words, barely more than a whisper, resonated with a poignant intensity that pierced the thickening silence. 

His heart stilled, and he turned back to her. Pain prickled behind his eye as his throat constricted, suffocating his breath. His chest tightened painfully as he absorbed the words he had yearned to hear–words that had always seemed just beyond his grasp.

She could never love you, Lucerys had taunted. You will never hear the words you so desperately want to fall from her lips.

Yet, here they were.

And how terrible it was. 

These were the words Aemond had always longed to hear from her, but receiving them now, amidst the ruins of their love, felt almost unbearable–it was almost better not to have heard them at all. 

“I loved you. How terrible is that?” She continued, her voice heavy with pain. “I hate myself for loving you. I wish I didn’t…”

Aemond clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists, finding a twisted comfort in the pain that bit into his them. Any physical pain was preferable, easier to endure than the raw emotional torment her words inflicted–and yet, he remained still, heart bared for her to sink her teeth into. 

“You made me love you, and you killed my brother…” A sob shook her as she inhaled sharply, her breath ragged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And still, there’s some terrible part of me that loves you, as if it’s yet to understand what you’ve done…”

Despite the warmth of the sunlight streaming in from the windows and the heat emanating from the fire in the hearth, a chill coursed through Aemond’s veins, the weight of her words chilling him to the core. 

“What does that make me?” She asked with a quivering voice. “To still love the man who murdered my brother? Does that make me a monster too, or just a fool–a stupid, naive fool?” The words were laced with contempt. “You are a kinslayer… and I…”

It was almost unbearable to hear–too overwhelming as she offered him the very words he had longed for, only to snatch them away again, like some capricious and cruel god. He loves her–he had loved her when he had demanded her brother’s eye. He had loved her as he pursued him through the storm. He had loved her even as Vhagar had closed her jaws around the boy, swallowing him whole. He had loved her when he had become a kinslayer. His love persisted, tainted with blood on his hands and a beast raging in his chest. 

Yet, now that love would never suffice.

Love would not redeem a monster, and he was undeniably that–a monster. 

But still, he loved her.

Desperately.

Painfully. 

Monstrously. 

He loved her, deeply and irrevocably. 

“You didn’t even have the courage to tell me yourself–to face me as you ripped my heart to pieces with your vengeance,” Daenera said, her voice laden with accusation and heartbreak. 

“I meant to grant you one more night with your brother still alive,” Aemond said, maintaining an even tone despite the strain of the words catching in his throat, threatening to turn into something entirely different. He swallowed hard, pushing down both the words and the swell of emotions they brought, forcing them down beneath the surface of his cool composure. 

“What you meant doesn’t mean anything,” Daenera said coolly, her tone dismissive and edged with bitterness. “It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is what you’ve done… You are a coward… And I, the fool that loved you.”

Daenera curled in on herself like a withering flower, her face buried in her knees as she closed herself off to the world around her. 

Aemond swallowed thickly, sensing a hot trickle down his cheek. Reach up, he brushed it away with a finger, his frown deepening as he looked down at the mixture of water and blood from a cut on his finger, the stinging sensation sharp. He quickly wiped his face with his sleeve, a surge of disdain for his own perceived weakness washing over him. 

He had cried out years ago when the blade had sliced through his eye, when the hot blood scorched down his face. Since then,  he hadn’t shed a single tear–not through the countless stitches, not through the painful procedures to remove scar tissue, not even when he had replaced his eye with a sapphire. Since then, he had not allowed himself the release of tears. 

And now, the prickle of tears burned behind his eyes–both the real and the sapphire one. He swallowed them bitterly, finding within himself a gentleness he didn’t feel moments before. “Let the maester tend to your wounds.”

Then, turning away, Aemond moved through the destruction and stepped out into the hall. There, he was met by Lady Mertha, impatiently wringing her hands, the other serving girl, and Maester Orwyle. 

“Mother have mercy, what has she done to you?!” Lady Mertha exclaimed, her voice laced with shock as she took in his disheveled and wounded appearance. “That wretched girl is more animal than human. First, she strikes me and forces me out, then she thrashes the place, and now she’s attacked you! The girl has lost her senses. We must confine her somewhere more secure where she can’t harm anyone–or herself–”

“You will not move her,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice icy as he glared at Lady Mertha, a blaze of annoyance and anger burning within him.

“But, my prince, she poses a threat to everyone around her!”

“You will do as I command,” Aemond snapped, his patience worn thin. “Clean her room, tend to her needs, and keep her comfortable. She is a princess and soon to be my wife. Is that understood, Lady Mertha?”

Lady Mertha clenched her teeth, her frustration evident, but she acquiesced with a curt nod. “Yes, my prince.”

Turning his attention to Maester Orwyle, Aemond cordered, “See to her wounds.”

“You should have someone look at yours as well–” Maester Orwyle started to suggest, but Aemond cut him off by turning and walking away. 

As he stormed in, the room’s tension spiked; the servant tending to the water basin startled visibly at his tempestuous entrance. The servant’s eyes widened, a flash of fear passing over his face as he hastily made his way out of the room, avoiding any confrontation with Aemond who was too consumed with his own turmoil. 

Aemond paced his room, his heart seething with a tumult of rage and bitterness, the pain of a fresh wound on his heart throbbing deep within. It felt as though Daenera had ruthlessly laid him open, her hands cruelly digging into his chest to wrench at a heart he had believed had turned into stone when he had killed Lucerys. Yet, to his dismay, he found it still tender, easily shaped and squeezed by her will.

What a cruel and burdensome affliction it was to own a heart, Aemond thought bitterly. And how terrible it was that it remained irrevocably bound to her.  

Aemond despised the vulnerability Daenera had exposed in him. He believed he shouldn’t be tormented by conflict over Lucerys’s death. He shouldn’t feel the desire to fall to his knees before her, like a penitent sinner begging for absolution, nor should he crave punishment from her hands as a means of purging his sins. Yet, the shameful truth was that he would crawl to her if she merely hinted at the desire. 

This realization gnawed at him, branding him as both pathetic and weak in his own eyes.

In a surge of frustration, Aemond grabbed the water basin and hurled it to the floor. The metal clanged against the stone, water splashing out in a reckless display. It was a childish outburst, he knew, and it filled him with shame. 

Just then, a soft voice called out, “Aemond.”

He turned, weary and tense, to see Helaena standing in the doorway. Her presence, poised and concerned, momentarily stilled the room. Her expression softened as if she understood the turmoil he was in, and she quickly instructed someone outside.

“Bring me a new basin of water and some cloth.” She then stepped inside, moving gracefully to the table and taking a seat before turning her gaze upon him with an expectant expression, her eyes then subtly gesturing towards the chair opposite her, inviting him to sit. 

Aemond felt his rage twisting within his chest, threatening to become something pitifully weak. He shifted on his feet, swallowing back the sharp retorts teetering on the tip of his tongue, words that would undoubtedly wound her if he spoke. He craved solitude, yearning to stew in his misery and rage–and sadness–alone. 

Despite his reluctance, he moved to the table and took a seat across from Helaena just as a servant entered, setting down a bowl of water and some fresh cloth next to a small jaw and a pair of pinchers that Helaena had brought with her. She placed her hand openly on the table, her gesture expectant, silently prompting him to offer his own hand to her to tend to his wounds. 

He almost wished she wouldn’t. 

“She hates me,” Aemond confessed in a raw, low voice once the servant had departed, somehow needing to tell someone. His words carried the weight of his turmoil, hanging softly in the quiet room. 

Reluctantly, Aemond extended his hand, placing it in Helaena’s open palm. His hand was a testament to ruination: blood smeared across his skin, some cuts superficial, other’s deeper. Jagged shards of glass were embedded in the flesh of his palm, particularly in the softer, more vulnerable areas devoid of calluses. 

“Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” Helaena murmured contemplatively as she picked up the pincers to gently remove the glass from his palm. She worked with precision and attentiveness, much like she would when handling one of her insect specimens. “One is rarely without the other.”

Aemond clenched his teeth, bracing himself as she carefully extracted one of the larger shards embedded in his flesh. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, each beat a heavy discordant trump that felt disjointed from its usual rhythm. The sound of glass clinking as she dropped the shard into a small blow next to the water basin punctuated the heavy silence that filled the room. 

“You’ve always been better at enduring physical pain than emotional,” Helaena observed quietly, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to remove a stubborn piece of glass from his palm. Each failed attempt caused a sharp sting, aggravating the wound further, yet the pain in his palm was bearable–a mere discomfort to the deeper, more insidious pain lurking at the edges of his mind. 

“Do you regret it?” Helaena asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she successfully gripped the stubborn piece of glass. With precise movements, she extracted it, letting it fall into the bowl with a tiny clink. She then washed the pincers clean of blood before returning to his palm to remove another shard. 

“I have nothing to regret,” Aemond replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion–echoing with the hollow numbness that began to settle within him. “He deserved to die for what he did to me.”

Helaena’s eyes lifted to meet his for a moment, her expression a mixture of incredulity and a deep, sorrowful understanding. 

“I regret the pain it is causing her,” Aemond continued, his voice low, almost blending with the subtle sounds of the hearth as he braced against the pinch of the pincers on his skin. “I never meant to…”

His words trailed off, faltering as he grappled with the contradiction. How could he claim he never meant to hurt her when he so clearly desired her brother’s death? He was acutely aware of the pain it would inflict on her; he knew the depths of grief it would cause. Though he had sought revenge, perhaps he had not envisioned the consequences unfolding exactly as they had–not as a chaotic, uncontrollable act, but the intent had always been clear in his mind. He had always wanted her brother dead, and that desire for vengeance had driven him. What was left to him now?

“He was her brother,” Helaena murmured gently, her tone soft but carrying an underlying weight. 

“I’m not sorry he’s dead,” Aemond admitted, his gaze fixed on the blood that welled up on his palm as Helaena carefully removed another shard. She dabbed at the wound with a cloth, her touch gentle yet methodical. “I only… I only wish the circumstances had been different. Had I met him on the battlefield, had it been a matter of first blood already drawn…”

His voice trailed off as his throat tightened. He swallowed hard against the constriction, his teeth gritted as a wave of bitterness gripped his heart.

“Had it not made you a kinslayer,” Helaena concluded, her voice tinged with a melancholic sadness. Her touch remained gentle as she moistened a cloth and brought it to his palm, washing away the blood. She tended to his wounds with such care, as though she believed she could cleanse not only his skin but also wash away the deeper stains–the blood that would forever mark his hands, his name, and his soul. “There will be more kinslayers by the end of this war…”

“It’s different,” Aemond responded firmly. His expression hardened slightly. 

And it was different. They had been in the initial stages of war–a war waged with ravens and diplomacy, however foolish he thought it was, a time of making preparations and gathering allies. These beginning stages had come to an end when Vhagar’s maw had closed around the boy and his dragon, when Aemond had spilled the first true blood of the war–when he had earned the title of Kinslayer. 

“It is all I’ll ever be now,” Aemond muttered solemnly as Helaena continued to extract glass from his other hand. The bow beside them slowly filled with shards of bloody glass. “It is all I will ever be to her.”

Helaena hummed thoughtfully, her head tilting as she carefully removed another shard from his palm. “It is not all you’ll ever be. It is not the only thing you’ll ever be… You’re a kinslayer, and nothing will ever erase that stain, but you mustn’t let it define you. You mustn't allow it to be the only thing you are.”

“I’m a monster,” Aemond said, words laden with disgust.

“Are you truly a monster or a beast who obeys its own nature? Or a boy who is neither and both at the same time?” Helaena mused aloud, carefully removing the last shard of glass from his palm and gently cleansing it with water. “There is certainly a beast within you, as there is within all of us. We are all capable of monstrous deeds, but does that alone define us as monsters?” 

“I don’t have the answers to your questions,” Aemond replied wearily, his voice trailing off as he lacked the energy or inclination to engage in philosophical debates.

Meeting his gaze with her pale blue eyes, Helaena spoke in a voice that was both firm and gentle, “You have fed the beast, Aemond. Vengeance is insatiable, and once it has tasted blood, its appetite only grows. She, too, will feed it, offer it names and blood. Cursed twice over by deed and desire… There’s a debt to be paid…”

“The debt has been settled,” Aemond asserted, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, signaling his frustration and exhaustion. He was not in the headspace for her riddles. 

“Has it?” Helaena challenged softly, taking his hand and placing it back on the table. She then opened the lid of the small jaw, releasing a herbal aroma into the air that made his heart twist. “A son for an eye–is that a fair exchange?”

“It is,” Aemond responded sharply, his teeth clenched as he struggled to maintain the gentleness he always tried to extend to his sister, despite the irritation kindled by her probing words. 

“The seed grows strong; it will continue to grow until it breaks through the darkness into the light,” Helaena murmured softly, a sad frown marking her features. Her gaze remained fixed on his hand as she carefully applied a bit of cream to each wound. “It will flourish and grow–one turn, two turn, three–fueled by love and hope. And in its growth, it might offer reconciliation.” 

The cream, a concoction of Daenera’s making, delivered a wonderfully sharp sting that made him wish it was her applying it. 

“She’ll never forgive me for this,” Aemond said, his voice drawn out with weariness. 

“Do you seek her forgiveness?” Helaena challenged, securing the lid on the jaw before she began to wrap his hand in cloth. As she finished, her eyes met his once more, reflecting a sad yet understanding shade of blue. 

“How could she forgive you?” Helaena spoke gently, her words laden with empathy but unflinching in their honesty. “Forgiving you would be akin to condoning her brother’s death. You can’t ask that of her; it would be selfish and cruel. Seeking her forgiveness might ease your conscience, but it wouldn’t alleviate her pain but only deepen it. Don’t do that to her.”

Aemond’s heart wrenched painfully inside him, and he felt that all-too-familiar prickling behind his eyes and tightening at the top of his throat. Turning his gaze away, he curled his hand on the table, his jaw clenching as he gritted his teeth, struggling to swallow her words. 

With a soft sigh, Helaena stood up from her chair, her hands briefly running through his hair in a gentle, rare gesture of affection. Her touch, though fleeting, seemed to convey an understanding of his deep-seated pain–the heavy, insistent thud of his heart beating against his ribs. 

“Will you see her?” Aemond asked, forcing his gaze back to her. His company wouldn’t offer Daenera any comfort, but he hoped that his sisters might. 

Helaena offered a small, knowing smile as confirmation, then paused at the threshold, and gave him one last meaningful look before she disappeared through the door. “The council has called another meeting. You should attend.”

Aemond let out a weary sigh, forcibly pushing down the ache in his heart, transforming it into something cold and hardened. Methodically, he reassembled the mask of composure, resigning himself once more to the role he was expected to play.

[padfootagain]

Only an Almost (XIX)

Chapter 19: Ascent

Hi! Here comes a new chapter!

We only have two chapters left, including this one :(

I hope you’ll like this chapter! Please, tell me what you think!

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Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader, friends with benefits AU

Warning: No explicit smut or nsfw content, but there are sexual themes and heavy make-out sessions (it’s a friends with benefits AU, I can’t really escape it), so 18+ only!

Summary: Andrew has been in love with you for years, and yet he has never confessed his feelings. But a night out celebrating the engagement of his best friend changes everything. However, you don't seem ready to be with him just yet. You make him an offer that he can't refuse... but will certainly regret.

Word Count : 5157

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s Masterlist – Main Masterlist

Andrew was never more aware that he was getting older.

The hangover that was stabbing his temples with daggers was the best reminder of all.

Details from the end of the night were fuzzy, at best. He wasn’t certain how he got home, but he had somehow managed to reach his bed. He was still wearing his shirt and pants from the wedding, his hair was a mess, but that was nothing compared to the fog that clogged his brain.

He made a stop by the kitchen first to drink some water, prepared some strong coffee. He splashed some cold water on his face to clear his head. Christ… he needed a shower. Maybe two.

He could recall a cab driver, some very loud music, jumping up and down with the beat, Sam and Daphne laughing, getting drunk on purpose…

… and then there was you lying in bed, fast asleep, him kissing your forehead in a chaste kiss, tucking you in, helping you through the mansion, finding you in the park, the fear of not knowing where you were, him singing that song to you even if the dance was meant for the married couple…

He could hear your voice ringing in his ears, echoing through his head, beating in his heart. Words that rang again and again. Words that he had dreamt of hearing.

He took a couple of deep breaths, and let the unkind voice in his head take over. You were drunk. You didn’t mean it. You said it yourself you didn’t want to be in a relationship, and especially not with him. You were scared, you didn’t want to take the risk, didn’t want to make the sacrifices that a long-distance relationship would require, not for him, at least, because he wasn’t worth it, he wasn’t enough and you didn’t love him, you were just drunk, you didn’t mean it…

He turned on his phone, checked the time. It was already 1pm.

Messages from his friends, from Sam and Daphne, one from his mom, a few from his label…

… and then 10 from you.

He swallowed thickly, but touched your name first anyway.

Hi! I hope you got home safely last night.

First, thank you for taking care of me. I was drunk… obviously

A true gentleman, as usual.

I’m so sorry you had to see that. I was hammered. I wasn’t myself and I said things I shouldn’t have.

Andrew had to stop reading. He took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment, bracing for the rejection that was sure to come… again.

Still, he read on.

I know that I’ve fucked up, and that you don’t want to see me anymore. Which is perfectly understandable, and I completely respect your decision. I had no intention to contact you again. It was completely out of line for me to confess my feelings.

Andrew read that last sentence several times, before rushing to the next text.

I’m sorry about what happened. I know you don’t want to see me anymore, and again, I completely understand. I was an idiot and I’ve fucked up everything. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, and I won’t ask for it. At this point, I just hope that what I said last night didn’t make things even worse.

I know that you’ve probably moved on by now, and I’m not expecting anything from you. I don’t even expect an answer to these texts, and I will simply not contact you again if you choose not to answer. I guess that alcohol simply made me reveal things I would rather not have confessed. I trust you not to tell anyone about this, even if you don’t want to talk to me ever again.

I reckon that I should make it clear, although I expect that you don’t feel the same anymore, that I meant what I said last night. And I wish I hadn’t been so stupid, and told you how I felt while I still could.

His eyes ran through your words again and again, but they remained unchanged, no matter how many times he read them. He let out a long exhale, unable to believe what he was reading was true.

You couldn’t be meaning that… you couldn’t…

I’ll see you this afternoon at our cute couple’s get-together for post-wedding day, before they enjoy their well-deserved honeymoon. Don’t worry though, I won’t initiate a conversation, and will completely understand if you don’t want to talk to me ever again. Also, I’ll stay sober this time, just in case I do something stupid.

If I never hear from you again, know that I wish you the best. You deserve all the happiness in the world.

Andrew struggled to breathe for a moment. He dropped his phone on the counter next to him, buried his face in his hands.

What the fuck was going on?

Andrew hadn’t texted you back. He didn’t want to have this conversation with you over a phone. There were too many things to be told, too many things to be discussed.

He was a ball of nerves by the time three o’clock arrived and he stepped in his friends’ house. Some help was needed to make sure that the rented mansion was in good shape, to take care of the rest of the food and drinks, and obviously, to have another party to celebrate the newlyweds.

And you were there. Standing in the kitchen, making tea, your demeanour perfectly calm, as if you hadn’t dropped a bomb that had shattered his life in a million possibilities the night before…

“Andy!”

You turned to him at the sound of his name, he noticed the way your lips parted, before you looked away in a hurry…

The next second, he was engulfed in Sam’s strong embrace.

“How are you, Mr. Married-man?” Andrew joked, returning the tight hug.

“Ecstatic. Not realising what’s going on…”

Andrew chuckled at that.

“Daphne’s gone with her mother to deal with something… don’t remember what… but somebody has to go to the venue to check that everything is fine before we leave for good. Can you do that?”

“Sure, I’ll go.”

“You want some tea first?”

“No, no… I’m fine. I’ll deal with that.”

“Y/N can go with you, you might need help. The caterer left some food there apparently, even if they were supposed to deal with that and pack it up. Also, check that no one has broken anything, we were all quite drunk last night.”

“Sure, I’ll do that.”

Andrew looked at you, but you didn’t move towards him. You remained standing there, in the kitchen, the kettle in your hand. You looked almost afraid, definitely uncomfortable.

“You’re coming, Y/N?” he asked, making sure his voice was neutral but still soft. He didn’t want you to believe that he was angry.

You jumped, surprised that he would talk to you. Still, you nodded in a hurry, putting the kettle down.

“Yeah… yeah…”

You offered him a smile, and he reciprocated the gesture. You seemed appeased by it.

You both hurried outside, greeting some other friends who were coming and going, set on different errands. It was merry despite the grey sky and the threat of some new rain.

“I’ll drive,” Andrew said as you reached his car.

“My car is right over there, I’ll follow you.”

“No need, I’ll drop you here after we’re done. Come on.”

You remained staring at him for a moment, clearly trying to gauge his actions.

“I’m not angry,” he said, reading your mind too easily. “You can come in.”

Slowly, you nodded, and opened the car door.

It was silent as Andrew started to drive. An awkward kind of silence that Andrew tried to alleviate by turning on the radio. Van Morrison filled up the empty spaces of the car, while you tried to discreetly look at him, failing miserably. He wanted to laugh at you for being so obvious about it.

It was a short drive to the venue, but he couldn’t find anything to say to you. His throat was dry, he could feel his palms getting clammy at the mere thought of speaking to you. There was too much that needed to be said…

“Andy…” you finally broke the heavy silence, while he was waiting at a red light. “About last night…”

“Can we… can we not do that now?”

When he looked at you, you were clenching your jaw and looking away in a hurry.

“I’m not angry,” he repeated, his voice soft but neutral still.

He didn’t want to let himself get emotional now. There was too much to say and too little time before reaching the venue. Besides, he didn’t want to speak about this in his car, this wasn’t either the right place nor the right time.

“But we should talk about all this after we’re done with the venue and everything… like… when we’re alone and we have time to discuss things.”

“So… you… you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah… I reckon we should.”

“We don’t have to. I understand that you hate me, that you don’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. You don’t have to be this kind to me.”

Andrew couldn’t refrain a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. Christ, you were so wrong… about everything…

“I could never hate you, Y/N. I don’t have that in me.”

“I hurt you. A lot.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“You should hate me.”

But he slowly shook his head, eyes still fixed on the road, and he hoped you wouldn’t notice the way he tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“That’s not how love works, Y/N.”

You didn’t say anything, but he could feel your stare upon him. He didn’t know what he could add, so he let the rest of the drive pass in a silent haze, his mind swarming with thoughts and feelings and trying to figure out what he wanted, what he should do, what was reasonable…

More than anything else, he thought about how nice it was to smell your perfume in his car again.

Andrew had taken care of the caterer and the food while you were going around the bedrooms to make sure nothing was wrong. He was looking for you to give you a hand, the mansion was rather large, and the keys needed to be returned after everything had been cleaned and put in order, or fees might be added. Andrew had offered to pay for everything, but Sam and Daphne had refused, and seemed offended by the idea, so the best Andrew could do now was to make sure they wouldn’t pay anything extra. A few other friends and family members were also helping out, and everything was ready.

He found you in one of the bedrooms. You were checking the room quickly, but everything seemed to be in order, except for something that seemed to have been forgotten on top of an old wooden wardrobe. Andrew looked at you for a few seconds as you went on your tiptoes to try and grab whatever object was up there, but you were too small. An amused smile was drawn to his lips when you huffed in annoyance.

You turned around in a jolt when you heard the floor creaking under his weight. He said nothing, stopped only when he was close to you, so close he would only have to bend to kiss you… And then he reached up, and grabbed the forgotten object.

You both exploded with laughter as Andrew revealed a green bra.

“Somebody had fun here last night,” Andrew laughed.

“They definitely got lucky!”

He handed it to you, but you shook your head.

“I’m not taking this, I have no clue who it belongs to!”

“I can’t walk out of here holding a bra!”

“Why not? Is it better if it’s me?”

“Y/N… They’ll think I had sex with someone!”

“And if I walk out with this they’ll think I had sex with someone…”

He rolled his eyes.

“What do we do, then?”

“Can’t you hide it in your jacket?”

“Can’t you?”

It was your turn to roll your eyes, grabbing the piece of garment and stuffing it in the pocket of your vest.

“Alright, crisis averted for our famous diva.”

“A diva? Me?”

You both chuckled at that.

“No, not at all… I don’t know why I joked about that.”

“Because you’re mean.”

He was joking, but your face fell, and the next second you were taking a step back and clearing your throat. And the moment had passed.

“It was the last room. Everybody behaved, apparently.”

“Good… that’s grand… let’s go, then.”

But when he turned towards the door, you held onto his hand.

He lost himself in your eyes… in their shade that he saw at night still, despite the long weeks you had spent apart, and they looked begging now, soft and vulnerable.

“Can we… can we talk before you take me back to my car?”

Slowly, he nodded.

“We can go to my place.”

“Your place?”

“Or yours.”

“You’re sure?”

“We should be alone for this. Alone, and undisturbed.”

You nodded in agreement, letting go of his hand again. He hated the cold of the air that replaced your skin.

You walked out in silence, managed to discreetly get rid of the bra in a bin, stopped to chat with a few friends, but Andrew could hardly be patient anymore. He was careful not to be rude when he pulled you away from the conversation so you could walk back to his car. Still, when you looked at him before climbing in his car, you seemed to read right through him, through the mix of emotions in his hazel eyes, from the impatience to the fear.

“Let’s go to my place,” you said softly as Andrew turned on the engines.

He nodded in silence, struggling to regulate his breathing. There was so much hope and bitterness mingling in his heart now, being injected to his veins, preventing his lungs from functioning properly.

Why had you acted like you didn’t care if you loved him? Did you even love him? Really? Would you be ready to give him a chance? Had you dated anyone since that night?

The drive to your house was made in silence, both of you lost in your own thoughts. There was music playing on the radio, but Andrew couldn’t notice it. It started to rain at one point, heavy and cold droplets that made it harder to see the road.

Not a word as you both climbed out of his car and hurried to your door, fleeing the rain. It was cold as it dropped on his face, the contrast stark when you let him in your house that was so much warmer.

“Tea?” you merely asked, but didn’t wait for his answer to go prepare a kettle.

He remained frozen in your hallway. All of a sudden, that evening was playing over and over in his head. He looked at the doorknob, and thought about leaving. Just… running away. Never see you again. Then what?

He would spend the next months, or most probably years, trying to forget you, trying to move on. He would bury himself in work so he could numb the pain. Eventually, he’d find someone new, build a life for himself without you in it. He’d avoid you at gatherings with your common friends. He would sing the songs he had written about you, trying to forget that you were the muse behind every note played and every rime spoken. You would find someone else too, get married, build yourself a home and a family with another person joining you in bed every night. Not him. He would never kiss you again, never hold you again, never hear your laughter, never giggle at your snarky remarks, never make love to you ever again…

“Andy?”

He spun around, facing you.

The choice was his. He could still tell you that he never wanted to see you again. That you had hurt him too much and that he didn’t want the two of you to stay in touch.

Or he could walk into your kitchen and talk with you until he was certain about the nature of your feelings for him. And then he’d decide if you were worth putting his heart on the line again or not.

He could run away, or stay.

“Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle, head slightly tilted to the side.

He nodded, took a deep breath, and walked over to you.

“Yeah… just… lost in thought.”

You handed him a cup of tea. No sugar nor milk. Two teabags. He recognized the tag of his favourite brand.

“We should sit down,” you offered, voice hesitant, but he nodded, and you smiled as you took a seat in your living room, around your wooden table.

He sat across from you, silently measured the distance that separated you. You were resting your hands on the wooden surface, and he ached to reach out, hold your fingers tight.

You didn’t seem willing to start the conversation, and after a couple of minutes of both of you silently staring at your cups of tea, Andrew exhaled deeply through his nose, closed his eyes, and finally broke the heavy silence that had entered the room.

“So… last night… when you were drunk…”

“Hmm…”

“I reckon we should start from there.”

“Thank you again, for helping me.”

“There’s no need to thank me for that.”

“Sam said you were worried about me.”

He finally looked up at you, gaze getting caught in your stare, and he couldn’t look away after that. He struggled to swallow.

“Of course, I was worried. You were alone, no one knew where, and you didn’t have your phone with you.”

“But you hate me.”

“I’ve never said that.”

“After what happened, you should hate me.”

He heaved a sigh, shook his head, his shoulders bent under an invisible weight. The burden of loving you despite everything…

“I don’t hate you. I’m just… hurt.”

“It’s not exactly better.”

“No, I guess not… But it’s not aimed at you. It’s aimed at myself.”

You blinked a couple of times, a pained expression on your features.

“Yesterday… you said…”

You looked away, setting your gaze on your tea, on the steam that was rising from the porcelain, on the coloured liquid inside.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Because you didn’t mean it?”

“Because I know you didn’t want to hear me say that. Because you want me out of your life, and I understand why. Because I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Andrew clenched his jaw, struggled to keep his heartbeat regular.

“Did you mean it?”

You brushed a strand of your hair behind your ear, still avoiding his stare.

“Y/N, look at me. Please, look at me.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, but then you complied, looked up at him.

“After everything that has happened, I just need the truth. I just need answers. Can you do that for me?”

“Okay…”

“Just answer me.”

You nodded, waiting for him to speak.

“Did you mean it?”

You blinked tears away, but slowly nodded still.

“When you said…”

His voice broke, he had to clear it to gather words on his tongue once more.

“When you said that you loved me… did you mean it?”

But you nodded again.

“I did mean it. I shouldn’t have said it, though…”

You fell silent when Andrew buried his face in his hands. He was struggling to breathe, struggling not to cry…

“I’m sorry, Andy… I’m so sorry…”

“Why the fuck did you reject me then?” he interrupted you, looking at you once more, his hands falling loudly on the table. “Why did you keep on pushing me away? On making me feel fucking miserable? If you loved me, why would you hurt me like that?”

“I didn’t mean to… I just….”

Your lips trembled, but you went on anyway, voice calm and a little cold.

“My life was a mess… still kind of is, to be fair. I had a new job, and then… then you kissed me that night at the bar and… old feelings came back. Feelings I had been very good at burying and forgetting. And I just… I didn’t want us to remain just friends, but… I was fucking terrified, Andy. I still am, to be honest. And so, I convinced myself that I could… have you while protecting my heart, which was the worst idea ever thought since the beginning of mankind, clearly…”

You heaved a tired sigh, rubbed your forehead as you tightly closed your eyes.

Andrew was remaining perfectly still, utterly quiet. Waiting for you to continue.

“I just thought… I thought that if we didn’t act like a couple, if we didn’t date, I would be able to control how I feel for you. I thought that it could be casual. And you accepted, and I thought… I thought that it meant that you were just attracted to me, and it helped me ignore my own feelings to believe that you just wanted sex.”

“I didn’t want you just for sex. I never did,” he interrupted you, and you stared at him with pain twisting your features.

“I’m sorry, Andy…”

“You said that it didn’t mean anything to you. You said that you didn’t have feelings for me, that… that you felt nothing when we were intimate. You said it was just about fucking…”

“I didn’t say any of that...”

“That’s how you behaved, though.”

“I didn’t say it was just about fucking…”

“You didn’t deny it.”

“It wasn’t about fucking. I always had feelings for you.”

He clenched his jaw, heaved a sigh.

“Why did you pretend it didn’t mean a thing then?”

“Because I was scared. And I didn’t feel ready to have a relationship with you.”

“Because I have to go on tours?”

“Yeah… not just that but… mostly, yes. Because you won’t be here. Dating you means signing up for a long-distance relationship, and I don’t know how to deal with that kind of situation.”

Slowly, he nodded.

“I understand that,” he mumbled.

“You’ll never be around… you’re always off to somewhere else. Our lives are so different…”

“But this is my home. It’s always gonna be my home. I’ll always come back.”

“How do you handle not seeing your partner for months?”

He let out a bitter chuckle.

“Badly,” he truthfully answered, and the two of you shared a sad smile.

“I was afraid to open up to you, to be vulnerable, to let myself feel this way… for you to disappear and break up with me because you’d have found someone better on the other side of the globe…”

“Y/N… I understand why my career can seem like a giant obstacle, because it is one. It’s… so fucking hard to not be with the person you love for months, and I’m so goddamn busy when touring that I can’t promise you that I’ll be able to give you the quality time that you deserve. It’s a nightmare to get our schedules to match, to plan everything out, and that’s without counting all the things that are added along the way that weren’t planned at the beginning of touring… And then there’s the press, and the writing, and the recording, and… and I understand, okay? I understand that you would reject me because of that. But Y/N… if you’re just afraid that I might fall for someone else because we’re apart for a few weeks… that is literally the least probable scenario that could ever happen.”

“Why would it be?”

“Because I’m in love with you,” he answered simply, earnestly, like it was the most obvious truth on earth. “Because I’ve been in love with you for years. And no one has ever replaced you, even when I thought you felt nothing for me, even when we both were dating other people. Trust me, you’re the only woman I want on this planet. The only one I really want.”

He watched as you took his words in, your lower lip trembling, blinking tears away.

“You should have told me,” he went on. “Instead of inventing this fucking arrangement, you should have just told me.”

“I know. But I wasn’t ready to try and be with you…”

“I would have waited. I would have waited for you.”

“I’m sorry…”

“It was fucked up, Y/N… you… it just… it was so painful to me,” Andrew admitted, trying not to let his voice shake too much. “I felt… I felt like you were just using me. I’ve never felt so terrible about myself… cause I… I was just enough for you to fuck me, and nothing more…”

“No, that wasn’t that at all...”

“That’s how it made me feel. Not all the time, of course. There were so many times when I felt… loved. When I felt like you felt more for me than simple physical attraction; most of the time it was the case. And that… it kind of messed with my brain, made me feel like you wanted more; but every time we were getting closer to an actual relationship, you rejected me. And you kept on doing it, over and over, and sometimes it was so fucking painful. Almost mean. And more than unloved, it made me feel… unlovable. Undesirable. And I know that you deserve better than what I can give you with my career, but…”

“Don’t say that. God, Andy don’t say that…”

You heaved a sigh, and Andrew was taken aback when you suddenly stood up, walked around the table and held him close. He didn’t think as he wrapped his arms around you too, though.

“I love you,” you whispered as you held him close, and felt his entire body relax at your words, tears rising back to his eyes. “God, Andrew… I love you so much. I was just scared. It was just bad timing. And I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I acted like the worst piece of shit, but you are everything but unlovable, okay? How could you think that?”

“Say it again,” he whispered into your neck, noticing the way goosebumps erupted across your skin under his breath. “Say it again.”

“I love you. I love you, Andy…”

Before you could say anything else, he was standing up as well, catching your lips with his in the process.

He heard the shock in your breath, but then your hands were in his hair, and you were pulling him closer, until you were leaning back against the table. His hands on your face to make sure you would stay close. And Christ… the relief of kissing you again, of feeling your lips move perfectly against his at long last, of tasting you once more…

You held him so tightly when you pulled away, arms wrapping around his neck while you rested your forehead against his shoulder.

“Are you dating anyone?” he asked, voice hoarser than usual.

“No…”

“Have you? Since we’ve stopped seeing each other?”

But you shook your head.

“No, nothing. You?”

“No one.”

“Really?”

“You broke my heart… it does take more than a few weeks to get over that,” he chuckled, but you didn’t laugh, merely holding him closer, so close he could barely breathe.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was so scared. I tried fooling myself into thinking I didn’t love you, but I do. I love you…”

“I’ll wait for you,” Andrew whispered into your hair. “If you’re not ready but you’d be willing to give me a chance, I would still wait for you…”

“I don’t deserve you.”

He chuckled.

“I don’t know about that. But I know that I love you, despite everything that happened. And besides… it wasn’t all bad. Most of it was good.”

“When I didn’t act like an arse, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“I loved it so much, you know? Whenever I let myself get closer to you… whenever I let myself love you… Christ, I was so happy then…”

“I was too. Whenever you let me in, I was happy with you. We could still be happy together, if you give us a chance.”

“I was breaking my own heart every time, you know? Every time, Andy… It was so fucking hard… but I was so scared…”

He pulled away, took your hands in his. He stared at you with begging eyes.

“If you want to try this, long-distance is going to be hard. It’ll be rough. Real rough.”

“I know.”

“I can’t… I can’t go through this again, Y/N.”

“Me neither. It was awful for me too.”

“So… if we try this… we give it a real try: I take you on a proper date, and we don’t hold back.”

“Are you sure you still want me?”

“Yeah… yeah, I still want you. Do you want me?”

You answered by kissing him, slow and passionate, making him melt against you, wrap his arms around your frame.

“I’m all in for the date,” you whispered against his lips. “But… can we still go to my bedroom now?”

“Before the first date? What about giving me a proper wine-and-dine treatment before taking me to bed, huh?” he playfully answered, grinning into your lips, his heart beating a thousand miles a minute.

“I’ll give you wining and dining and everything in between for our first date, but I really want you, right now…”

You fell silent when he let his lips fall to your neck and his hands rise to your breasts.

Little words were exchanged while you left a trail of clothes on the path to your bedroom, staggering now and then as your lips remained sealed to his most of the way.

Except when you were lying on your bed, head against your pillows, looking up at Andrew with adoring eyes as he hovered over you, staring at you like you had hung up the stars and moon in the sky. While he was trembling at the feeling of your naked skin against his, you raised your hands to hold his face, your thumbs gently brushing his cheeks, and his heart stumbled against his ribcage under your tender touch.

“I love you,” you whispered in the softest voice he had ever heard, adoration oozing from your sweet tone. “I love you, Andy.”

He rested his forehead against yours, lowering his body onto yours to feel as much of your skin against his as he could.

“I love you, Y/N,” he murmured with the same devotion and worship in his deep voice. “I love you so fucking much…”

And when he kissed you again, there was no doubt in either of your minds that this was what love was supposed to feel like.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 4: Under The Heart Tree]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: I wanted to take a moment to give a heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone who has fallen in love with this series!!! I read (and go back to reread) every single comment, reblog, tag, and message I receive, and they mean the absolute world to me. I truly don’t have words to express how appreciative I am of you all. With the end of Chapter 4, this series is officially halfway over; there will be 8 chapters total. I hope you continue to enjoy it. 💜

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, witchcraft, a wild Aegon appears, drama, pregnancy, a tiny bit of sexual content, mentions of death and violence (per usual), cryptic Helaena prophesies, Sir Criston being a supportive stepdad, found family feels, one (1) still jealous boi, more drama, lots of shouting, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @crispmarshmallow @tclegane @daddysfavoritesexkitten @poohxlove @imagine-all-the-imagines @nsainmoonchild @skythighs @bratfleck @thesadvampire @yor72 @xcharlottemikaelsonx @mochimommy2002 @loverandqueenofdragons @omgsuperstarg​ @endless-ineffabilities @devynsshitposts @vencuyot @ladylannisterxo @ariesbabycitlaly @itzwhatever123 @cranberryjulce @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz @liathelioness @mirandastuckinthe80s @haezen @fairaardirascenarios @penteknati @darkened-writer @weepingfashionwritingplaid @signyvenetia @abrielleholland @crossingallmine @burningcoffeetimetravel @itzwhatever123 @yummycastiel @lol-im-done @lovemissyhoneybee @nomugglesallowed @witchmoon @yoshiplushie @404slayer404 @sunafterthethunder @torchbearerkyle​ @sweetashoneyhoney​ @quartzs-posts​ @lauraneedstochill​ @nctma15​ @queenofshinigamis​ @rapoficeandfire​ @hinata7346​ @curiouser-an-curiouser​ @eleganttravelercloud

💜 Please let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! (Also I’m sincerely sorry if Tumblr refuses to tag you!!!) 💜

“What do you need?” Aemond asks—his voice tender, the back of his hand testing the heat of your cheeks—and you tell him. He gathers everything: foxglove, sorrel, mint leaves, sticks of cinnamon, snakeskin, bloodstone, clear quartz, a blue candle, black tar rum, blood from a living bull. He does this swiftly and without any hesitation. He knows that only you have the power necessary for a cure.

In the dead of night, the prince half-carries you to the heart tree in the godswood of the Red Keep. You try to grind the dry ingredients into dust with the mortar and pestle, but your hands are weak and trembling. Aemond takes the tools from you and finishes himself. He sets the candle on a gnarled, ancient root and sparks it to life with the dagger and flint your mother gave you before you left Bear Island. Then he pours the dust into a pitcher and slowly mixes in the rum and the bull’s blood. The candlelight dances on his face: shadow, light, shadow again. All the while, here where the Old Gods can hear you, you chant this over and over: “Mend the bones, fill the veins, stitch the flesh until it’s whole again.”

Aemond grimaces as he stirs the contents of the pitcher with the dagger blade. “You don’t have to drink this or paint it on your bedroom walls or something, do you?”

You smirk wanly. “Not quite.” And that’s fortunate, because you haven’t been able to drink anything in days.

Back in the Red Keep, the servants to fill your bathtub with water so hot it clouds the room with steam. Once they’re gone, Aemond helps you into the tub and then adds the pitcher’s crimson brew. You steep in a shimmering, blood-red sea and feel the sickness sweat out of you: the nausea, the tremors, the pain, the repulsive bone-deep weakness. Aemond perches on the rim of the tub and braids your hair to keep it tucked neatly away, singing softly in High Valyrian, words you haven’t learned yet.

“I don’t deserve you,” you murmur in the dreamlike haze of blood and heat and relief, nearly asleep. Your cramped muscles have unraveled like loose threads. The anxious, scratching demons that live in your skull are blessedly chained at the moment.

“You do,” he replies. When he leans down to kiss the crown of your head, you can hear the smile in his voice. “You always will.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep recedes from you like a waning crescent moon. Sounds of the morning breathe in through the open windows: birdsong, faraway voices, clops of horse hooves, wind in the leaves. You stretch, tentatively measuring the strength of your body; there is no aching, no fragility, no absence of strength like smothered embers. Your spell worked. You are cured. The triumph swells through you, a dazzling sort of fever. And then when you open your eyes, you see him.

You yelp like a startled animal. “What—?!”

“Good morning,” Aegon says brightly. He’s cross-legged on top of your writing desk and brandishing a cup of wine in his right hand.

You sit upright with a groan. “You need to stop doing this.”

“I have things to say that you should hear.”

“What?” you reply crossly.

Aegon sips his wine. “My mother has formally invited Borros Baratheon and his daughters to court. She did it a while ago, actually, but she’s been keeping it quiet. She didn’t want to give Aemond too much time to brood, I think. They are arriving in one week. There is going to be a feast. Lots of dancing, lots of diplomacy, and—my personal favorite—lots of drinking.” He raises his cup in a mock toast.

“Fantastic,” you say flatly.

“The thing is, Jason Lannister heard about this little development all the way out in Casterly Rock, so now he’s sending his daughters to court too. And so are the Arryns, and the Starks, and the Tullys and Tyrells, and Greyjoys too, if they can find anyone who counts as a lady. Maybe even the Westerlings and Swyfts and Swanns, you know…just in case they can pull an upset.” He takes another swig of wine. “It’ll be just like a horse market, except that all the horses walk on two legs and wear dresses.”

“One week…” Everything in you sinks. I knew this was coming, of course I did…but does it have to happen so fucking soon? Then again, maybe any time would feel too soon, months or years or decades. Maybe eternity with Aemond wouldn’t be long enough.

“No matter which horse wins, the result will be the same,” Aegon continues. “An engagement will be announced and my brother will soon wed in the Great Hall and set about the glorious task of producing heirs.”

“Okay. What do you want me to do about it?”

“I thought you might benefit from having the opportunity to prepare yourself. To devise an exit strategy. To…” He considers this next word carefully. “Cope.”

“Oh,” you realize, staring at him. You’ve never been able to get a handle on Aegon Targaryen. He’s not attentive to Helaena—she gets companionship from Aemond, from Alicent, from Otto, from you, but not from her husband—yet to your knowledge he’s never been cruel to her either. He does not ridicule her many peculiarities. He does not criticize her. On the rare occasion that he shares her bed, you overhear no sounds of mistreatment, no weeping or shouting or coercion. Aegon never leaves marks of violence on his wife, which is more than you can say for your own father. He neglects his duties, but he does not rebel against them. He’s done horrible things, surely, blatantly; and yet somehow he does not strike you as a particularly horrible person. “You’re not here to torment me. You’re trying to be helpful.”

Aegon smiles, but there’s very little humor in it. “You can keep that to yourself. No one would believe you anyway.”

He hops down to the floor, guzzles the last of his wine, and leaves the empty cup on your dresser before vanishing through the doorway like a ghost.

~~~~~~~~~~

The gardens are buzzing with bees and gossip. You sit in the midst of a stiflingly mundane tea party and try to remain present enough to smile and nod at the correct moments. You wring your pendent—moonstone gem, silver chain—as Helaena eats lemon cakes beside you, humming contently. She is technically the host of this gathering. It’s meant as a welcome to the noblewomen who have already begun to arrive at court, an opportunity for them to mingle and sample the luxuries of King’s Landing and prove themselves as future wives and mothers. So far, all they’ve proven themselves as is vapid and shallow and frustrating; although perhaps you only feel that way because one of them might be destined to marry the man you love. Aemond hasn’t mentioned the feast to you yet. He never mentions anything related to his impending marriage to some other woman. You’re afraid to bring it up. You’re afraid to break the euphoria you’ve been living in with him like a spell.

As your attention wanders, you notice a spot of blood on the sleeve of your dress. Before the tea party, you and Helaena had been watching Aemond and Sir Criston spar in the courtyard. That particular exchange had been bloodless, but then Ivar Kellington had broken the nose of some hulking Arryn man deluded enough to challenge him. The droplets had sprayed into the crowd like burgundy rain. The match lasted about twelve seconds.

Look at me, having some illustrious gilded blood after all. Ha ha ha.

Across the table, several noblewomen have veered into a covert discussion of one of King’s Landing’s greatest scandals: the indiscretions of Prince Aegon. You can’t catch every word, but you can catch enough of them. Which means Helaena can too.

“A handmaiden…that’s what I heard…yes, I know…what an embarrassment…well you can’t give them all moon tea, now can you?”

You glare at them—a Tyrell girl, you observe now, and a Lannister and a Tully—but they continue their prattling. Helaena rises from her chair and hurries off into the foliage with tears sparkling in her eyes.

“Hey,” you begin, but still the ladies take no notice.

“Little blond children all over the city…more brothels than you could…and the fighting pits…”

“Hey,” you say again, leaning over the table. Now they look at you. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Excuse me?!” cries the Tyrell.

“How dare you!” says the Lannister.

The Tully blubbers: “It’s not like she understands anyway—”

“She does understand.” Your voice is fierce and black and low. “She understands everything. She is your future queen and you’ve upset her with your stupidity. She’s too kind to tell you that to your faces, to make you pay for it. Her kindness is chronic and all-consuming. But I suffer from no such affliction.”

“You seem to suddenly think very highly of your station,” the Tyrell notes. “I wonder what has instilled such confidence in you, Lady Mormont.”

“Yes,” says the Lannister. “Has your family recently acquired some new lands…or titles…or armies…or anything?’

“No.” The Tyrell grins viciously. “They still just have poor little Bear Island. I wouldn’t even be able to find it on a map.”

“Perhaps that isn’t something to brag about,” you say, and storm away from the tea party before she can puzzle out what you mean. You can feel their narrowed eyes following you, cold and conspiratorial.

You find Helaena by a towering butterfly bush. Winged insects in a hundred different colors swoop around her like snowflakes. Silent tears stream down her ruddy face.

“Helaena…” You move to comfort her, then think better of it. She can be very particular about being touched. “I’m so sorry,” you offer, not knowing what else to say. It’s not like the girls were lying. Their words were terrible, and they should not have been said in earshot of Helaena; but they were true.

“Dragons do not speak our language,” Helaena says haltingly, deliberately. A sapphire-blue butterfly lands on her outstretched hand. “But still, they understand. To think they don’t is a mistake.”

“Yes,” you agree.

“They are not stone. They feel as deeply as we do.”

“Yes,” you say again. She means herself, of course; woven in the womb to speak differently, to think differently, to be so irretrievably different. And yet you find every thread of her wonderous.

She opens her arms wide. For a moment, you don’t understand what she wants; and then you embrace her. She clutches you tightly, digging her fingernails into your shoulder blades, burying her face in your neck. You can feel her tears there, hot and flowing freely.

“It’s alright,” you soothe. “Everything’s okay. You are so loved. You are so blameless.”

“I want to help you,” she says softly between sobs.

“Help me…? Help me with what, Helaena…?”

“I want to help you,” she repeats; and then she plods off, swiping tears from her eyes with both hands, still surrounded by a blizzard of butterflies.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have to talk to you about something,” Aemond says.

You are sitting together under a juniper tree on Bearstone with a picnic you’ve assembled: breads, cheeses, cherry and apricot jams, glossy red apples, honey cakes, wine for him, pomegranate juice for you. The kitchen staff had shot you sideways glances as you plucked each item from their cupboards. They know you’re Helaena’s lady-in-waiting, but they also know that you’ve been spotted socializing with the royal family with increasing frequency. There are whispers, and there are rumors, but if Alicent and Otto Hightower are aware of them they haven’t mentioned anything to you. Perhaps they feel it’s not even worth mentioning. Perhaps they expect the problem to be imminently remedied by one of those gorgeous, wealthy, well-connected women sauntering around the Red Keep.

“Okay.” You steel yourself for what comes next. You’ve known this was coming since the very beginning, since your arrival in King’s Landing, since before he ever touched you; Aemond Targaryen must marry, and he must marry well. Your hand settles protectively, instinctively over your belly, where your child lives unbeknownst to the rest of the world. You will be showing within a few months. What happens next will not only affect you. The prince’s affection for you is such that you now trust him not to leave you abandoned, adrift…but which path will he choose for you? He could give some lord a generous reward in exchange for marrying and providing for you…although given his territorial nature, this seems unlikely. He could send you back to Bear Island. He could send you to Dorne, where he counts the maesters among his few true friends. He could send you anywhere. He could set up a small household in the Crownlands somewhere, visit you a few times a year, know his child only as a passing thought. Regardless, you will lose him, whether in part or in whole; regardless, he will drain away from you like spilled blood.

Aemond says: “I think we should marry as soon as possible.”

Your mouth falls open. The apple you’ve been holding rolls out of your grasp. “You can’t marry me.”

“Why? You don’t consent?”

“No, I…” You shake your head, staring at him, stunned. You can’t find your words. “I…I’m a Mormont.”

He smiles. “I am aware of this, Moonstone.”

“Then surely you are also aware that there are currently about fifty highly-esteemed noblewomen in King’s Landing prepared to fight to the death for a chance to marry you. And that Otto Hightower and your mother are expecting a prompt betrothal to one of them.”

“I won’t do it,” he says calmly.

“You have to.” It pains you to say it, it flays you alive to say it, but it’s true. “I know that. I’ve always known it.”

“I have met my match in you. I will have no other. And my child must be legitimate.”

“They won’t allow it, they’ve planned this for years, they need this marriage—”

“Then Daeron can do it,” Aemond says. “There is one more son of King Viserys, is there not?” Daeron is younger than Aemond. He’s been serving Lord Ormund Hightower as a squire in Oldtown since he was twelve. You’ve heard that he’s a sweet boy, a compliant boy, more humble than either of his brothers. But he won’t be ready to marry for another few years. Aemond peers out over the ocean, meditative, melancholy. “I have already given enough to this family.” His eye, he means; his eye and his dragon and his swordsmanship and his fierce, efficient loyalty. “They will not take you from me too.”

You watch him, the wheels in your mind whirling. Is it possible? Is it really? When he turns back to you, he is at once himself again, or at least the way he is with you: kind, gentle, alight.

“What do you think, Moonstone?” Perhaps he’s nervous, but he’s hiding it well.

“I think that there is nothing I want more than to be bound to you in every way possible.”

“You must truly consider it,” he warns. “If you are my wife, you are inextricably linked to our side in what comes after. You must fully understand what you are entering into. Nothing can stop me from having you except your own will. If you have rethought your allegiances, or if you cannot bear to face the bloodshed…I can send you somewhere safe. I can make you disappear.”

What comes after. War, he means; the war of succession that will almost certainly follow the ailing King Viserys’ death, whether in a week or a month or a year. On one side will be Rhaenyra and Daemon. On the other will be Alicent’s children. You know exactly where you’ll be standing. “I understand, and I consent. I will shy away from no battles.”

Aemond closes the space between you. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you roughly, deeply, sending dragonfire heat spiraling down to every piece of you: nerves, arteries, bones, heart.

“So you aren’t bored of me yet,” you tease, climbing into his lap, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. Your freshly renewed body fits with his perfectly, effortlessly, like the black of night around the stars.

“Regrettably, I am not even the least bit bored of you.”

“I hope I don’t get you killed.”

“I’m sure you’d have a spell to fix that.”

You laugh, and he kisses you again, grinning, greedy. You respond eagerly, melding into his rhythm. Blood rushes to your cheeks. Your heartbeat races. The ocean wind is strong and tearing, the grass beneath your knees soft.

“Hm. I’m glad you’re feeling better,” your betrothed murmurs, his palms pressed into the small of your back, pulling you in closer.

“Me too.”

“And you’re hungry again.”

“Starving,” you amend, grinding your hips against his, turning his face away with your hand so you can bite the soft white skin of his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. His right eye is dazed, rapt, lost in you like a labyrinth; his sapphire glistens like sunbeams reflected off the crests of waves. You guide his hands beneath your dress so he can feel how wet you are. And he whispers slyly as he helps free you from all those cumbersome layers of fabric: “I told you you’d always be mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Aemond has studied the marriage rituals of the North. He knows them almost as well as you do. And so what must happen next is clear.

He comes to collect you from your room when the moon is high and the rest of the Red Keep dreaming. He looks the same as he always does—dressed in black, hair long and flowing, stoic and unsmiling until he sees you—and there are no special ornaments for you either. Weddings witnessed by the Old Gods are not strewn with guests or festivities or music or gold. They are vestiges of long, dark, cold winters when survival itself was a triumph. They are bare; they require only the meeting of two honest souls. And a heart tree.

Aemond grazes a thumb across your cheekbone, marveling at you. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.” And you are: completely, absolutely, with every drop of blood in your veins.

He takes your hand in his. He leads you from the room. And then, on the other side of the door, you discover Helaena. Both you and Aemond halt mid-step.

“Can I come too?” Helaena asks timidly. Moonlight glows on her angelic face. “I would like to be there. I would like to see you happy. Someone should be happy…if not me and Aegon, if not Mother and Sir Criston, if not the king…then at the very least you two should be.”

“Helaena…” Your words cut off, choked by emotion. You reach for her. She burrows into your arms with no reluctance at all. “Of course, my love,” you say, holding her. Aemond gazes at you, smiling faintly, immeasurably proud. “Of course. You are always, always welcome.”

In the godswood, under the cold fire of infinite constellations, the three of you arrive at the heart tree. You carry no torches to attract the attention of others. In the darkness, there is no discerning the color of the grass or the bark or the leaves. All the world is a murky, placid indigo; all the world is blind to arbitrary mortal designations of good and evil.

“There’s one thing I should mention,” Aemond says. “I have arranged for us to have a witness. I know they aren’t necessary in the North—the Old Gods themselves are the witnesses, seeing through the heart tree like a window—but I thought it would be wise for us to have someone of widely-regarded integrity to confirm that this marriage occurred. There can be no disputing it later.”

This is sensible. Your palm skates over your belly before you remember to stop yourself; you must get into the habit of giving away no clues of your pregnancy…until your marriage is public, at least. “But who…?”

Sir Criston Cole trudges into the godswood in full armor. “Alright Aemond, you better not be forcing me to help you catch and cut open a bull again, I’ve still got the bruises from last time, good gods…” He stops dead when he sees you. “Oh. So this has been the cause of your distraction.”

“Sir Criston, Lady Mormont and I are to marry.”

Sir Criston’s eyes are wide and blinking. “…Marry…?”

“Yes,” Aemond says. “Immediately.”

“What? Where…?”

“Here.” He turns to the heart tree in explanation.

Sir Criston stares blankly at the three of you, then shakes off his paralysis. “Oh no. No no no. Your mother would murder me.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Aemond…” Sir Criston begins, petrified.

“I am asking you to serve as a witness because of the love you bear for me and my family,” the prince says. “And I am asking you to keep this from my mother and grandfather. Not for long, mind you. Just until the feast has passed and the nobles have returned home to their own castles. Then I will inform my family in private, and they can soften the blow by offering Daeron’s hand in marriage to whichever house they decide they like best. This is not treason, Sir Criston. It is a mark of the profound trust I have in you.”

“Oh gods. Gods help me.” Sir Criston covers his face with his hands and stays that way for what feels like a very long time. Fireflies illuminate the cool night air like stars. Several land on the sleeves of Helaena’s gown and shine there like jewels. “Okay,” Sir Criston agrees at last. “I’ll do it, Aemond. I’ll do it for you.”

The prince embraces the lowborn knight, perhaps the best swordsman in the realm. “You’re the closest thing I have to a father.”

“I know.” Sir Criston’s mouth quivers. His dark eyes are slick. “Now let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”

You and Aemond join hands under the rustling leaves of the heart tree. Sir Criston stands beside the prince; Helaena stays near you. There is a distant rumbling of thunder. Sparce raindrops begin to fall. Aemond doesn’t know the vows used in a Northern wedding, you realize, and you can’t remember them well from the marriage ceremonies you attended as a child; from what you can recall, they are generic, plain, ‘who comes to take this woman?’ and that sort of thing.

“What should we say, wife?” the prince asks you, smiling, starlight in his eye. Suddenly, you are alone with him here in the godswood. You are the last people in Westeros, in the entire world. Winter has come and gone and left nothing but two ghosts doomed to dwell together here for eternity.

You speak without first thinking of what to say. The words flow through you like a river. “In the sight of gods and men, I bind myself to you. I will run from no battles, I will crave no flesh but yours, I will put no cause before your own. I pledge to you any strengths that I possess and I vow to slay my weaknesses. I am yours, body and soul. Use me as you will, but only out of love.”

Aemond repeats these words, and then he kisses you. Helaena claps; Sir Criston bows his head to hide a small, sincere smile. Rain falls as you all hurry back inside the Red Keep.

For the very first time, Aemond takes you to his own bed, to the room where you cast the spell of protection that saved him in the joust. There are still remnants of dust on the floor; he could not bring himself to erase you. As your clothes fall away, flashes of lightning reveal every line and birthmark and scar. There is no shyness. You know every stitch of each other already. You make love with gentle, exquisite slowness as the storm builds outside: his fingers woven through yours, his thrusts deep, his whispered promises heavy with truth.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I have something for you,” your husband says as you stand together by the fireplace in the privacy of Helaena’s chambers. In the flames, dry wood pops and crackles. “For the feast.”

“We are so well matched you will not believe it,” you reply. “I have something for you too.”

Helaena brings it over: a tunic that you have been embroidering together for days. It is black—Aemond’s preferred color—but decorated with a dragon of silver thread. The beast winds around the wearer’s back and waist and arms, breathing cool glistening fire.

“It’s supposed to look like Vhagar,” you explain. “But…well…I’m not quite as good at embroidery as Helaena is, so the face is a little…and the wings…”

“It’s perfect,” Aemond says, beaming. And then again: “It’s perfect!” He yanks off his plain black tunic and replaces it with the one you’ve gifted him. “Now I will appear especially dashing for all my prospective wives.”

Helaena giggles, blushing a cheerful pink. She is elated to be in on a joke, to have been trusted with information of such consequence. She points at the silver dragon. “Be cautious with her. She will not always listen.”

“Who, Vhagar?” Aemond asks. “She listens well enough. I’ve tamed her. I’m good at taming all manner of beasts…dragons…bulls…bears…” He grabs you by the waist and draws you to him, kissing the side of your face over and over until you squeal and push him away, laughing. “As for my gift…” He calls for the servants and they enter with a gown. They hand it to the prince, casting you a wary glance, and then disappear again. The gown is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The color is subtle, shimmering, opalescent, almost…

“It’s…it’s…”

“Moonstone,” Aemond says. He gives it to you. The fabric flows like water. “I commissioned it the day after the joust. No one else will have anything like it. I’ll be able to spot you anywhere in the room.”

“I doubt you’ll have time to notice me. There will be a plethora of views to enjoy.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But you’ll be the best.”

He leaves to accompany Alicent as she enters the feast while you and Helaena finish getting ready. Helaena’s gown is a vivid greenish-blue, and the stones in her jewelry are turquoise. There are teardrop-shaped sapphires dangling from your ears and a string of them around your left wrist, gifts from the princess. As always, your moonstone pendant hangs from your neck. You are dressed ostentatiously for a mere lady-in-waiting, particularly one from as modest a house as your own. People may wonder about that. You smile to yourself. They won’t have to wonder long.

The Great Hall is radiant with music and conversation and candlelight. The most celebrated houses of Westeros mingle: the men boasting about their lands and their swords (which hang at their belts in scabbards of leather or metal), the women boasting about their wombs, the children boasting about their enviable betrothals. Those who don’t yet have betrothals to boast about are hoping to procure one tonight. No one pays much attention to you—the daughter of an important house, the widow of an unimportant man—unless it is to compliment your gown. You and Helaena dance together with flushed faces, giggling and twirling until you trip and fall into each other’s waiting arms. Meanwhile, Aemond—who, contrary to you, is having a great deal of attention paid to him—dutifully navigates the hall to pay his respects to the Baratheons, the Lannisters, the Tyrells, the Arryns, the Starks, on and on down the ladder. He speaks to each of the families, nodding politely to the clamoring, bejeweled daughters, before moving on to the next. He does this as quickly as he can so he can get it over with. He has never been at ease with strangers. He has never found it simple to trust them. A part of him will always be that overlooked, scorned second son, reserved by nature, suspicious by necessity; it’s just that he sometimes forgets this when he’s with you. No matter where he goes in the room, he keeps you on his good side. He watches you, he covets you.

There is one guest, and only one, who notices you and asks for a dance. Cregan Stark is young and handsome next to the other lords, nearly your same age, and you had met years before as children. He has a natural, kind charisma. He asks you about your family back on Bear Island as he carries you around the floor like a strong wind, tells you about Winterfell, offers his condolences for the loss of your mother. He doesn’t even think to mention your late husband. It is a commiseration between two Northerners in a distant land; it is a comfort to you both. As soon as Cregan Stark drops your hand and departs to awe some other lady, Aemond appears.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks good-naturedly as he circles you, gliding his palm nonchalantly over your waist, your wrists, the small of your back. Your skin responds to him, goosebumps rising, lust kicking up like embers in a stirred fire.

“Diplomacy,” you reply primly.

“Hm. Perhaps we should send you to negotiate treaties.”

“I am very persuasive.”

“Yes, I know.” And he takes your hand to spin you around just once before leaving to pretend to consider marrying some other woman.

When Helaena is whisked away to dance with Otto Hightower, you pour yourself a cup of pomegranate juice and nurse it as you stand by the wall, alone. The noblewomen from the tea party toss you venomous sneers. You ignore them. You have everything they could ever want and more. Your hand settles briefly, forgetfully on your belly, and then you snatch it away.

Aegon, very intoxicated, wobbles over to you and props his back against the wall so he can keep his balance. “Hello,” he slurs.

“Hello.”

“I thought you might like to disparage the candidates with me,” he says, then gestures with his wine cup. “Look at that Floris Baratheon. Ears like a fucking donkey.”

You chuckle, hiding your face guiltily behind your own cup. “Shh. She’s not so bad.”

“You seem to be handling this remarkably well. Perhaps my brother has bored you, perhaps you have had your fill of him. Or perhaps you aren’t so heartbroken because he’s planning to keep you around as his mistress. I wouldn’t have guessed that to be his style, but upon second thought, you have thoroughly corrupted him. In that case, he should choose the donkey for sure. Someone stupid and docile. You can have rooms on opposite ends of the Red Keep and there will be no need for you to claw each other’s eyes out.”

“I’m not an animal, Prince Aegon.”

“You’re a Mormont. That’s hardly better.”

You smile. He smiles back.

Aegon leans into you, unsteady but not purposefully intrusive. “You’re worth more than all of them put together. I’m sorry that’s not what matters.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“We are natural allies,” he says, and clinks his cup against yours in a toast. Fortunately, he is too drunk to notice that you’re avoiding wine this evening. That would certainly raise some suspicions. “I know your secret, and you know mine.”

“What…?” And then you understand. Your secret is your relationship with Aemond, that part is easy. Aegon’s secret is a bit more obscure. What perhaps no one else knows is that there is more to him than brash words and wicked deeds and flippant, lazy recklessness. That he loves his family. That—somewhere way down deep, unspoken but alive—he cares.

Aegon shoves himself away from the wall and gives you a parting bow, clumsy and lurching. “Enjoy your evening as best you can. I’m going to go piss on the floor.”

“Cheers,” you reply. He staggers away, leaving you alone again.

As the Great Hall whirls around you like a galaxy, you bask in the warm glow of this moment, this liminal space like a doorway. There will be grumbles, surely, but what you and Aemond have forged cannot be undone. No one can take away your marriage. No one can take away your child. You knew unconditional love once, long ago on Bear Island, safe in your mother’s arms; now you have it again. You belong somewhere again. You took one hell of a detour, but now you are home.

You don’t feel him enter the hall, because he’s not Aemond Targaryen. He doesn’t change the room at all. You only turn because you hear rising chatter, and then elated shouts, and then the thunder of men’s handshakes and pounds on the back. You wonder who is being congratulated, who is being cheered like a soldier returning from war. When you see him, your cup drops out of your hand. Pomegranate juice floods across the floor like blood. He sees you, rushes to you; and it's the strangest thing, because it all seems to be happening very slowly, but not slowly enough for you to flee. It’s like one of those dreams where you’re trying to run but you can’t. You can’t even speak. You can’t even scream.

He is battered and bruised and thinner—harsher—than you remember, but it’s him. His name rings through the hall in a hundred different voices.

“Axel Hightower, back from the dead!”

“He survived the shipwreck! Praise the gods!”

“And now he’s come to surprise his wife!”

You are powerless to stop his approach. You are chained in place by horror. All around you, the life you thought you’d have is crumbling into dust. It’s running out of your fingers like sand in an hourglass.

“Aww, look, the poor thing is in shock! She can’t believe it!” some idiot sighs romantically. There are applause and whistles. On the periphery of your vision, you see Aegon backing away as far as he can from the dance floor. His head whips around, searching for someone.

Axel grips your arm, pulls you into him, and kisses you. It feels like being invaded. It feels like that very first night with him when he—not cruelly, no, but with a dreadful, willing ignorance—forced his way inside you until it felt like you were being sawed in half. You flinch violently; every muscle, every nerve screams to be away from him. You try to push Axel off of you, but he doesn’t budge. Why would he? He owns you, like a castle or a horse. He can do whatever he likes to you. The notion of you having desires to the contrary would never even cross his mind. There are tears bleeding down your cheeks: for you, for your child, for the future whose throat has just been slit in this room. It feels like you’re dying. You wish you were.

There is the shrill whisper of a blade being torn from its scabbard. All the guests fall silent. Axel takes a step back from you, his fingers still clamped around your forearm. Aemond holds the point of his sword to Axel’s throat. Several crimson beads drip from where the steel has pierced the paper-thin surface layer of skin. Aemond’s voice is dark, like nightfall, like onyx. His eye is blazing blue, cold fire. “Remove your hands from her, or you will lose them.”

Axel is too mystified to be outraged. He releases you. You can breathe again. “She is my wife by law.”

“She carries my child!” Aemond’s words ricochet off the walls like shattered glass. The Great Hall boils over with gasps and scandalized jabbering. “And we married under the heart tree. She is mine.”

“You what?!” Aegon blurts out.

“You what?!” Otto Hightower roars.

“Sir Criston?” Aemond calls, summoning him.

Sir Criston Cole steps out of the rabble. “It’s true,” he says. He hides his reddening face from Queen Alicent. “I witnessed it. They are wed.”

“This is an outrage!” Axel bellows, then looks to the crowd for their verdict.

“Bigamy!” someone cries out. A chorus joins them, a sea of jilted noble families who can only benefit from Axel carting you back to Oldtown.

“Whore! Whore!”

“Poor Axel Hightower escapes from the jaws of death to find this?!”

“A mortal sin!”

“Go back to your true husband!”

“Take her to the dungeons!”

Aemond steps in front of you, twirling his sword once, twice, again. “And who would like to be the first to try?”

No one moves to detain you, but the crowd’s sentiment is unmistakable, rabid. The jeers continue to rain down on you: bigamist, sinner, whore. And you can’t even decry them as slander, because they’re true. Otto Hightower is clutching the back of a chair like he might fall over without it. Alicent’s eyes are pooling with stunned, furious tears. Helaena sinks to the floor, covering her ears with both hands. After taking a moment to consider it, Sir Criston moves to stand beside Aemond and draws his own sword.

Ideas flit through Aemond’s mind like arrows. He catches one of them. As Sir Criston watches the crowd, Aemond turns back to you and touches your face with his free hand. “Say you want a trial by combat.”

“Are you sure—?”

“I can beat any man here besides Sir Criston and he wouldn’t fight me, just say it.”

“I demand a trial by combat!” you announce for all the court to witness.

“No she doesn’t!” Otto shouts, trying to drown you out.

“She does,” Aemond insists, grinning madly. “And I will be her champion.”

“Then I shall name my own!” Axel says. Already the court is chattering that there is no great cowardice in this; he is still recovering from his ordeal, far from his physical peak, and Prince Aemond is one of the best swordsmen in King’s Landing. Axel scans the Great Hall for someone, anyone, who could challenge him. Sir Criston could probably best Aemond, but he would never agree to try. His allegiances to both Alicent and Aemond are too great. Who else could there be? Who else could there possibly be?

And then Axel’s gaze lands on him. When Aemond said he could beat any man here, he wasn’t wrong. The giant the court calls Killington hardly counts as a man at all. He’s not a man; he’s a monster. And he’s been thirsty for Aemond’s blood for years. He towers over anyone else in the room; he outweighs them by double. He steps forward, answering a question that has not yet been asked.

Axel’s face splits into a grin. His eyes glint like mirrors, like blades. “I choose Ivar Kellington.”

[callsignspark]

Mar[r]y Me - part 8.5.2

pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mariella “M&M” Vertucci (fem!OC)

summary: A love story told through friendship, laughter, and food.

series warnings: 18+ minors DNI, discussion of insecurities, difficult family relationships, discussions of food and alcohol use, discussions of body image, conversations on what it’s like to be a fat woman trying to date in today’s society, extreme fluff, like soooo much flirting, warnings to be added as needed

word count: 3.6k

previous part | series masterlist | main masterlist

note: happy Friday! I hope everyone had lovely holidays and 2024 is going well for you so far! I did have some issues tagging people so apologizes if you didn't notified! I really loved writing this chapter, especially since it's going to help set the stage for the rest of the story! (only 4 more parts to go! isn't that crazy??) please be safe if you have snow coming towards you this weekend, and enjoy these two pining and yearning for each other more than ever.

part 8.5.2 - rambling and rings

Friday, April 16, 2021

Mary waves at the obnoxiously large SUV as Slider honks and drives away. Leaning against the entryway table, she slips her heels off and wiggles her painted toes at the feeling of the soft runner beneath her feet. Shuffling over to the entertainment console, she hums as she connects her phone, choosing the song that was on in the car.

The dreamy guitar intro floats through the air, making her smile. And the last beams of golden sunshine disappear as she dances through the living room, enjoying the peaceful feeling that’s settled in her chest and closing the blinds in between twirls.

Good things are happening at work, rumbles that there’s a promotion coming on the horizon. The monthly call back home to her parents hadn’t ended in tears for the first time in months. Most of her evenings are spent in the company of at least one Dagger family member, helping Kris and Dani with their kids or enjoying the adult-only life with Aaron and Flora. Bradley is messaging her as often as he can, every email making her heart flutter, increasing her joy with every sentence he types.

Everything is coming together in ways she had never even dared to dream about.

An early dinner with Ron, Mav, and Penny was the cherry on top of a great week. The four of them laughing and telling stories the entire time, taking advantage of the warm spring weather at the patio table Pete had reserved for Slider’s birthday. As stories and photos were traded across the table, Mary felt like her heart could burst learning about baby Bradley. The only quiet moment of the evening was when their waiter brought an unordered round of drinks to the table, prompting the men to venture inside and thank the old Navy buddy that had spotted them through the window.

“Thank you, Matt; it was getting just a tiny bit too windy for us.”

“No problem, ma’am.” The young man smiles over his shoulder as he finishes turning the outdoor heater on. “Can I get you ladies anything else?”

“I think we’re good for now, thank you,” Penny answers, glancing at Mary, softening at the sight of the younger woman lost in thought as she stares out at the ocean with a content smile.

She watches as brown eyes drift from the water to the table, gentle fingers tracing over a copy of a photo that’s older than the girl studying it. Penny stays quiet, letting the sound of waves crashing on the sand accompany the slight furrow that creases Mary’s brow as she brings the photo closer to her face.

“He looks just like his dad, doesn’t he?”

“He does; he acts a lot like him, too, more than he realizes.”

“You knew him?” It’s not a surprised reaction, just curious.

Penny hums, “We weren’t close, but I knew him enough to see how much Bradley has turned out like him. He’s a good blend of both his parents.”

“Did you know Carole very well?”

“More than Nick, by default, but for the most part, we were at different stages in life. She was older than me by a few years. I was in college and she was a widow raising a toddler. But, as you know, the aviator community is pretty small, so we were friendly. I would even babysit Bradley sometimes when the guys were deployed.”

“He was a cute baby,” Mary says softly, eyes back on the last photo taken of the whole Bradshaw family.

“He was… turned out to be a handsome man, didn’t he?” Penny asks, taking advantage of the moment.

She smirks as the younger woman looks up at her through her lashes, a shy smile stretching her pink cheeks. “He did.”

“Can I ask you something while they’re still inside?”

“We’re not together. But we are going on a date the week after he gets back.” Now it’s Mary’s turn to smirk at how Penny’s eyebrows rocket up to her hairline. “That is what you were going to ask me, right?”

“It’s close enough. Are you excited?”

“I am. I really like him.”

It’s the first time she admitted it out loud to anyone other than her best friend. She revels in the encouraging energy and words Penny gives back, both of them still giggling like school girls when Pete and Ron return.

“What are you two laughing about?” Slider asks as he slips Mary’s wrap over her shoulders.

“Oh, nothing.” When Penny winks, she has the overwhelming urge to cry. The knowing look accompanying those two words is more affectionate and maternal than anything her mother has done in years.

Their hug goodbye lasts a few seconds longer than expected, and the gentle hands that smooth some stray hairs back make her throat tighten. Slider is quiet on the ride home; familiar with the many moods of Mary, he lets her work through her thoughts with the radio on low.

“Y’okay, kid?” He doesn’t speak until he pulls into her neighborhood, giving himself a five-block buffer to determine if a pit stop to the closest ice cream shop is required.

“Yeah. Just-” Mary pauses, trying to figure out how to best explain. “Just still getting used to it.”

“To what?”

“To how easy it is to just be me out here. Surrounded by people who have just folded me into their lives with zero hesitation, like I’ve always been here.”

“Mary, were you happy in Florida?”

“I was content. Getting to know you helped with that a lot, but let’s face it; if I was happy, I wouldn’t have been so excited to leave.”

“And you’re happy now?”

“I am. I can’t remember the last time I was this happy.”

It's a cheesy line, but true. She knew that when she said it, accepting the light teasing that followed with a smile. One that hadn’t left her face as she said goodbye to her mentor, one that grows as the song starts again. She can’t help how big her grin gets. This song always reminds her of Bradley.

“I'm in love, I'm alive. I belong to the stars and sky.”

Letting the song stay on repeat, Mary stops in the kitchen for some water on her way to the bedroom. It’s still early - not even eight yet - but a full night’s sleep is calling her name, eyelids feeling heavy.

She slips her clothes off, folding the jeans for tomorrow and tossing her shirt in the laundry. A small groan of relief accompanies the unclasping of her bra before she slings it into the hamper. Turning the bedroom speakers down slightly as she enters the bathroom, a grimace instantly creases her face when she catches sight of herself in the mirror.

“Jesus…” Her disbelief echoes in the room as gentle fingers rub over the harsh red lines where her clothes dug into her skin. It’s evident where the waistband of her jeans sat all day. And the tender spots under her arms lets her know it’s time to look for better-fitting bras, again. Mary tugs the leg of her panties up, relieved to see at least one piece of clothing hasn’t left its mark.

She’s massaging the sore spots on her chest, letting her warm hands diminish the pain, when her phone rings. Her eyebrows furrow deeper at the unknown number flashing across the screen.

Usually, at this time of night, she’d ignore an unknown number and let the other person leave a voicemail, but something in her gut tells her to pick up before it’s too late.

“Hello?” There’s a muffled response, and she scrambles to disconnect her phone from the speakers. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Hello, ma’am. Can I speak to Mariella Vertucci?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Lieutenant Corso in the communications bay on the USS Roosevelt. Can you confirm your identity with your full name, birthday, and the eight-digit code given to you by Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw?”

Mary’s heart stops for a second. This is it. Bradley is calling. She’s going to get to talk to him after forty-eight days. Hear his voice. See his face.

“Ma’am?”

“Sorry. Mariella Theresa Vertucci, born March 14, 1987. The code is 0125-2020.”

“Thank you, ma’am. One minute, please.” The soft clacking of a keyboard filters through the phone, the Lieutenant's tongue clicking as he types. “You’ve been verified. Does the phone you’re using have video chat capabilities.”

“It does, Lieutenant.”

“Excellent. Stay on the line, and in a few minutes, a video chat will come through with Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw. You have been allotted 30 minutes today. I am required to remind you that communication is not secure. This means, for security purposes, you cannot ask what time of day it is, what location, or how any missions have gone. Please confirm that you understand.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you. I am also required to let you know that this video chat is conducted in a private area and will not be monitored. However, the audio will be recorded, so any lewd acts are discouraged but not forbidden.”

Mary can’t help the snort that escapes. “But not forbidden?”

“Uh- the uh-” She smothers a chuckle at how the kid trips over his words. “The Navy understands that loved ones are apart for long periods of time and can’t forbid any uh- urges that couples may wish to act upon during their chats. But we are legally required to inform everyone of the recording.”

“Ah, I see. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“No problem, ma’am. Please stay on the line, and your loved one will be joining shortly.” She giggles at how quickly the hold music starts, humming along to Anchors Aweigh as she clips her hair up, ready to take her makeup off. She’s about to wet a washcloth when the music cuts, and the video call comes through.

Taking a second to look herself over, Mary admires the tendrils that have escaped, perfectly framing her cheeks that are still flushed from the wine she had with dinner. The slightest bit still tipsy and a little frazzled about Bradley, she realizes just in time that she’s still only in her underwear, hitting the accept button and dropping the phone on the counter.

“One second! Just- oh, come on! Fuck!” She curses under her breath as she struggles to slip into her bathrobe. “Hang on, Bradley!”

Finally getting both arms in, she ties the robe, eyebrows raising in surprise at how it cinches her waist, before eagerly grabbing her phone.

“Hi, Mary.”

“Hi, Bradley.”

She greedily drinks him in. It’s been 48 days since she’s seen his handsome face or heard his warm voice - the longest since they met - and she’s missed him. Her heart clenches at how tired he looks, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than ever.

“Hi, honey.” The sweet name hits something deep inside, and she can’t help the tears that immediately form or the way her bottom lip wobbles. “Oh, shit, Mary. Please don’t cry, honey.”

The emotional reaction surprises even her; she was expecting to be a bit overwhelmed, but nothing like this. It makes her feel a little ridiculous, crying about a man she’s barely even kissed. But you love him, her brain chimes in, sending more heat to her face.

“This is your uncle’s fault!” She laughs, swiping tears away and propping her phone against the mirror.

“Mav?”

She can’t help but giggle at his disbelieving tone as she reaches for a tissue. “No, Slider. He’s in town this week, and he may or may not - but definitely did - get me tipsy at dinner, like he always does!”

She trills on about dinner, telling him about the childhood stories that were shared and the baby photos that now live on her phone, not noticing the look on his face until he interrupts.

“You getting in the shower, Mary?”

The husky tone immediately grabs all of her attention, a shiver running down her spine at the smoldering look on Bradley’s face. She follows his eyes down, surprised to see how much her robe has come undone. The valley between her breasts is completely visible, and the fabric is threatening to expose her belly button - and more - if it’s not fixed.

“Oops…” She mumbles to herself, tightening the robe so much it pushes her cleavage together.

Normally, this is where her insecurities would ruin the moment - flooding her brain with terrible things. Make her spend the rest of the call analyzing how she looks in the tiny corner box, agonizing how prominent her double chin is from this angle. But the soft fuck that crackles through the phone squashes the anxieties before they can take root, shifting her attention to admire the man looking back at her.

And god, he is a man.

Bradley Bradshaw has always been gorgeous: tall, strong, and deliciously tan. But mid-deployment Bradley Bradshaw is a vicious attack to the senses. And the hormones.

His broad shoulders have gotten broader, filling the little privacy cubicle in the communications room so much that he’s brushing both sides of the walls. His curls are more golden than usual, clear evidence of time spent flying in the Pacific tropics. His tan is deeper, too, glowing even in the harsh florescent lighting, the bridge of his nose slightly sunburnt. His neatly trimmed mustache moves with his lush pink lips, warmth building in her core as her thoughts drift to the memory of how they felt pressed against hers.

“Mary?” She hums, eyes focusing back into the present and away from her favorite post-deployment reunion fantasy. “Whatcha thinking about?”

“You.”

It's clear he wasn’t expecting that answer from the way he drags a hand over his mouth to muffle a cruse, his eyes scrunching shut.

She wasn’t expecting it either; the effects of the wine have mostly worn off, leaving her with flushed cheeks and apparently a slightly looser tongue. She can’t bring herself to be embarrassed about the overly honest answer. Communicating exclusively via email for the last month and a half has allowed Mary to gain confidence in Bradley’s feelings. It’s hard to wonder about his intentions when every email ends with him telling her how many days are left until he’s home.

“Your lips…” She continues, emboldened as the last remnants of wine soften the sharp edges of her insecurities and the pink working its way up his neck. She loves how easily Bradley blushes for her. Their few kisses have always ended with his cheeks a lovely, rosy shade. “How soft your hair is. Your mustache. How strong you are. How much I miss you…”

The words make them both pause. It’s not an uncommon phrase, every email containing some variation of the sentiment, but hearing the words out loud makes it real. Cementing the longing in their chests.

“I miss you, too.” The words are quiet, echoing against the tiled walls. She chuckles, throat thick with emotion, and Bradley can’t look away from her soft smile. His heart pounding at the emotion on her face, something he can’t quite place. He can’t stop staring as she picks the phone up and flicks the light off, “Where are we going?”

“Couch.”

He smiles as the familiar walls of her living room appear, grin going slack when she props him up on the side table, and the slit of her robe reveals a thigh that he’s dreamt about as she shuffles pillows. Bradley manages to pull his mind out of his post-deployment fantasy as she plops on her couch - that damn pink couch - and smiles at him over the arm, her eyes almost closing she grins so hard.

“I’m sorry I missed our call.”

“It’s okay, Bradley. I knew it was a possibility, and Mav let me know what was going on. I understand.”

“I want to hear about your birthday.”

“I told you about my birthday! We’ve discussed it extensively.”

“I still want to hear about it. I want to hear your voice.” He revels as she softly whines and smooshes her face into a pillow, thrilled to cause that reaction. “C’mon, please, Mary?”

“You’re not fighting fair.” The muffled complaint comes back, making him laugh, but she does as asked.

Bradley listens, humming along as she recounts her birthday for him and insisting for the hundredth time that it was his pleasure to give her presents. He lets her lead the conversation as it shifts to what’s happening in San Diego, content to watch her as she shares stories of what he’s missing at home. Happy to just admire her and occasionally ask questions.

It’s so easy to get lost looking at her. Dark hair swishing around her shoulders, just slightly shorter than it was in February. Her brown eyes look darker than usual, the low light in the room making them almost black instead of the warm brown he’s used to staring into. And despite resecuring the robe, it’s coming loose again, enough that the top curve of her breasts are visible; freckles dotted all over, disappearing beneath the baby blue fabric. Bradley thinks about what it would be like to connect the dots on her soft skin, tracing invisible lines with his fingers or lips. He imagines there’s more hiding behind the waffle material. He wonders if she’d let him find out.

The fantasy of how wonderful it would be to memorize every mark on her body is interrupted as red nail polish grabs his attention. He loves her hands, smaller than his but so strong when she’s working on a jet. Steady as she calls out instructions to her team, grease smeared up to her elbows and her nail color of the week shining through the black sludge. Mary insists that she doesn’t talk with her hands, that she managed to avoid that stereotypical Italian-American trait, but Bradley smirks as her hands swirl through the air. He’s about to interrupt the story she’s giggling through - something about the latest swear word that Danielle accidentally taught Annie - when something sparkly on her finger distracts him.

A ring.

A diamond ring.

A simple silver band lined with tiny diamonds.

On her ring finger.

On her left ring finger.

His eyebrows furrow as he tries to study the never-before-seen piece of jewelry. Mary must notice his confusion because she cuts her story off and flashes her hand at the camera. “I bought this for myself when I got promoted for the first time. I went from EI to EII, which is entry-level engineer to associate engineer. It was $50 from this little shop that was on the same block as my first solo apartment in St. Louis.”

Relief sweeps through his body, thrilled that Mary hadn’t gotten engaged with him.

“That’s awesome. Have you done that every time you’ve moved up?”

“Kinda? I always buy myself some sort of gift - last time, I splurged and got that big blender we used at the Christmas party. But I’ve only done jewelry a few times. I think I’m going to get a necklace next time, something to match this.” She explains, wiggling her fingers so the gems shimmer in the camera.

“It’s very pretty.” Bradley compliments, feeling bold enough to go further. “You look good with a ring on that finger.”

“Jesus, Brad-”

She’s cut off by the two-minute alert popping up. They had been so distracted they weren’t paying attention to the countdown timer.

“Already?” Mary pouts, forehead crinkling as she frowns. “But I didn’t get to ask you about carrier food.

“It’s bad, honey. Yours is so much better.”

“Or how you’re sleeping.”

“Reuben’s snoring has somehow gotten even louder since last time we shared a bunkroom; Bob, Mickey, and I owe you for the extra earplugs you sent.”

“You’re sunburnt.”

“I’m wearing the sunscreen you gave me; the sun is just strong.”

“I knew I should have sent the SPF 75!” Bradley smiles as Mary throws her head back in faux despair. “Oh well, now I know for next time, I guess.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah. You didn’t think I’d only send you a care package one time, did you? I gotta make sure you have everything you need. I know I missed some stuff this time, but I’ll get better in the future! I promise.”

I love you.

He just barely holds the words in.

“God, I fucking miss you.” He stares at the screen, watching the prettiest brown eyes in the world fill with tears at his words. “Oh, honey, please don’t cry. I’ll be home so soon.”

“But twenty-four days is such a long time, and I miss you so much.”

“I know, but we’ve already done 48 days. Twenty-four will be a breeze to get through.” The timer starts blinking, the last 60 seconds counting down. “I gotta get going, Mary. But you keep sending me flirty emails so I have something to read and think about.”

He chuckles at the little surprised noise she makes. “You noticed that?”

“Did I notice that? Mariella, in the kindest way, you are not subtle.”

“Well- I-” She splutters. “Neither are you!”

“I’m not trying to be, baby doll,” Bradley revels in her reaction to the pet name - mouth dropping open as she blinks at him, cheeks pinker than he’s ever seen - one he didn’t even mean to use.

The flustered hand she waves at the camera while yelling at him makes him laugh. “Bradley!”

“I would say I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Be safe. Only 24 days.”

“Only 24 days.”

“I miss you, handsome.”

Bradley's face feels hot, choked up at the look in her eyes, the softness of her words. “I miss you, too, baby doll.”

They don’t say goodbye, choosing to admire each other as the final seconds tick away.

5…

I can’t wait to see you in person.

4…

God, you’re so gorgeous.

3…

I don’t want to hang up.

2…

I miss you.

1…

I love you.

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[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

Fire & Blood: Chapter 24: Time is a illusion (Dark Aemond x reader oc, x aegon ii ) 18+ minors do not interact and MAJOR BOOK SPOILERS/SHOW SPOILERS ATABF reader ocish she has a name its complicated

🔷Summary: After the events of Blood and Cheese and Rook's rest, you return to your husband and your king.

🔷Author's note: MAJOR book spoilers but not all that happens is canon.

🔷Wordcount:3187 (thats short sorry)

🔷Warnings: murder, mentions of toxic relationship, slight smut and BOOK SPOILERS also childloss and child murder targaryens commiting war crimes. war being war.

It seems that the days have become shorter or the nights have become longer. That, or you don’t have a healthy idea of time anymore. 

Time, in a way, has become an illusion. Days may pass, hours may go, weeks end, months follow each other closer and closer up as if entangled in a dance. But you know the truth now: No matter how quick the time goes, it remains an illusion. A lie everyone tells themselves to feel better. ‘’It will pass.’’ Your servant girl said when she was braiding your hair.

You laughed at her words. What will pass, exactly? Pain? You have become used to pain, to grief, to feeling as if someone is suffocating you while in truth that is you, and you alone hiding your emotions. Pain does not scare you. It's familiar, in a way. You hold onto it. But the idea that it will pass, that one day you’ll be left with nothing but acceptance and an empty cradle? A half-burned husband that can’t give you anymore children and you, sitting on his iron throne because he can’t get up from the bed? That is what terrifies you. That one day this rage, this pain and hurt will be nothing.

That you will be nothing.

Months have passed since you last saw Aegon. The last time you saw him awake and well was long before the battle of Rook's rest and your pregnancy. You had his child warmly nestled inside of your womb where no one could hurt it. No soul dared to touch you as Aegon’s wife, safe be for the loyalists of Rhaenyra.

And that is exactly who killed your innocent baby, Helaena on her name day. You named her after the sister Aegon and Aemond shared, perhaps to mend the wound between the two of them, or perhaps to sway their mother to your cause, but whatever reason you may have had in the beginning didn’t matter so much in the end. Before Helaena would see her first morning sun, a dagger ended her life. An assassin’s blade.

You have been called forward now, to see your husband, your king and your longlife friend Aegon who has just awoken as a miracle from his comatic state. He got injured during a battle at Rook Rest, where he and his brother, Prince Aemond slew the traitor Princess Rhaenys and killed her dragon. You were at home, of course, heavily pregnant with his child that would end in a disaster as most things do.

Every instinct tells you to run far away from both Aegon and Aemond. One had captured you in a literal cage for weeks, months perhaps. The other crowned you without your consent, made you his wife for the world to see, and made you a target. Both were boys, once perhaps. You were a girl in love, perhaps. But boys become men, and love eventually dies. That is how life has been before you, why would it be any different now?

Your husband and your king stares back at you with living eyes full of admiration and joy. It is not joy, you notice. It’s something even more heartbreaking then that. He has that look most men have, when they think their wives have squeezed out a perfect heir that will save the husband from damnation. This is what they call ‘’Pride.’’

He is proud of you.

There used to be days you could never not look at the prince, his fierce beautiful eyes, short silver locks and out of this world beauty that was indescribable with any pencil this world and the next could offer. There were moments your daylight extended by seeing his face, as in a way, it protected you from the dark.

O, how you long for such simple times.

To be a girl again, with a book in your hands, smacking a hangover Aegon when Aemond comments that you should behave yourself.

‘’My love, my Brienne.’’ The King speaks, his voice a bit raspy but hearable. You faithfully accept his left hand reaching out to squeeze your fingers but your eyes are locked to the monstrous arm where metal and skin meet one another, and where the fire of a dragon made Aegon part man, part metal. You shudder to think of the nights you will spend sleeping and waking up, suddenly feeling that cold metal arm touch you. 

There is joy and kindness, and hope and brightness in his eyes. Emotions you haven’t felt in months. Emotions you aren’t sure that are real now, or ever were real. Hope for fools, perhaps. Doom for nations, for certain.

Another matter, perhaps but it does prove your suspicion as to why every single soldier, every servant and Maester, Queen Alicent and even Prince Aemond left the room when you entered. 

No one, not the coldhearted Green Queen, not the Terror of the Trident, not the fierce King’s guard or the all knowing Maesters had the guts and the balls to do what is now your task. No one informed him of the passing of your child. No one. That is now your task. The task of a mourning mother, a childless Queen and a shell of the person you once were.

Cravens, all of them be damned.

Aegon forces his hands on the wood of the bed, lifting himself up to sit so he may have some dignity while addressing you. You could not care if he was in a casket or lost all his limbs he could never lose his dignity. Your love is tested for him when you see him winch in pain as the poppy milk wears off, and you are for the very first time in your life unsure if your love is strong enough to face this.

It is not that he has lost his attractiveness. But it is that constant reminder, that constant bug flying in your face showing you how much pain Aegon is in, how much suffering he endures and who you should all blame for that. This war started the moment Aegon was born and it will end with the death of her. 

Aegon pretends to not be altered by his new disabilities, by his new life. He takes a deep sharp breath revealing just how much this is killing him from inside out. A man like Aegon who prided himself with his beauty, with his grace and long legs…..

How much of that light will remain now that the flame has blown out, all that remains is shadow?

In his eyes realisation starts to form and you both come silently to the conclusion that life will be unlike anything it ever was before. It will heal this wound. A new scar will appear. But how much scars can a flesh handle before it starts infecting and begins to rot?

You rub your ring and watch Aegon for a while, your mind thinking of multiple ways to start the conversation, yet they all feel as cheap little lies as you try to hold off the inevitable. You rather watch your husband pass out and sleep than him sitting here awake and in a clear state of mind aware you must deliver the news now.

He knows you won’t speak. So he does. “You look well-”

Your snort interrupts him. Your hair has begun to grey and your skin is full of scratches and wounds where you keep peeling at, until it bleeds and spreads over your skin, just to feel something. Your eyes are darkened and hollow, as a starving girl. You don’t long for food. You long for justice. “I am not.” Is your cutthroat cruel response to his simple opener.

“You are not wearing your crown.” Aegon says, pointing with two fingers to your head. You don’t have the energy to wear the damned thing. It does not help that no one does what you want anyway. You are a Queen consort, not a King born from the womb of the former Queen. You needed Aegon’s approval for everything and while he would give you the world his council would rather see you die yesterday than tomorrow.

“Without you I am no Queen.” It is true. ‘’Your men treat me like an accessory. A fun little token playing dress up. I have been in power for months since you slept and not one time has my word been considered.’’ 

It is like a spell has been broken and a curse has lifted on Aegon as he slowly tilts his head.

 “My son. I deserve to see him.”  He says. ‘’I don’t know why you didn’t bring him. I don’t know why the servants told me he was asleep and I don’t know-’’

A cold idea creeps into your mind, as a dark seed has finally taken root and begins to spread its weed over your mind. ‘’What servants?’’ You ask, faking interest.

‘’The blonde new girl.’’ The king says. ‘’It is not important.’’

You sit down on his bed, breaking the distance between the two of you. You lock your hands into his own, feeling where metal and men meet, feeling where scars are appearing and wounds are healing. You owe him the truth. “It was a girl.” You begin.

Aegon’s brows nearly become one.

“It was?” You understand he must be disappointed. 

You fiercely sit up.

“Yes. I named her Helaena. I know she's not what you wanted nor needed-” Aegon shuts you up with a kiss on your mouth, missing you by a inch as he stumbles over. He smiles, genuinely and happy when kissing you a dozen times.

And yet you deserve none of it.

“My Queen, my Brienne. Where is she? I must see her.” He rambles. 

“Assassins came.’ You whisper in his ear. His smile vanishes within a blink of an eye and you see him figure it out on his own. Yet he plays pretend and dumb, a way he always protected his feelings. 

“They were all killed. I'm unharmed.”

You wish it were guards instead.

“Helaena was not unharmed. They killed her. I watched them kill her, Aegon.” You break down, and you break down hard. You fall from your safe haven of mind and break, shatter and crumble to ashes as you let out the one after the other horrifying sob.

“I have been so alone these last few months. Aemond barely visited me. You were asleep. And my child, who I did not even deserve for the way I resented her early on for not being a son…” Your voice dies off as gasps and cries escape your throat; your vision becomes blurry with tears. “I can't do this anymore. I lost too much. I suffered too many losses. My mother, my father and my sister. And then you and my baby. I will never-” This is not going well. You struggle to breath and the pain on your chest increases.

“You still have me.” Aegon mutters, holding you as well as he can. Yet the moment you see his melted arm, you begin to panic again.

“Aegon, can't you see? Whatever we had, whatever was growing between us: We will never have it back the way it was. I can't find myself. I am lost in a darkness where I can't seem to find light, no matter what way I turn.”

“Then let me help you-” He whispers, no begs, commands and yet wishes in the same sentence. ‘’Please, Brienne. You know I have loved you. More than I have loved everything. I would set this world on fire to see you smile, and I would snuff out every bit of light if the dark brought you comfort, my love.’’

“I don't want to find the light, Aegon. Not anymore. I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Your Queen, your lady wife and your love. You took a vow without me knowing so, but you promised to protect and honour me.’’ You tell him.

“I did.” He mutters, staring at the ring that once belonged to his father. When he finally looks up there are tears rolling down his cheeks as well.

Your plan might be cruelty. Your heart will never be pure after this. But honestly: Who cares about purity, who cares about justice, for it has become clear that this world does not. The gods keep laughing at your attempts at goodness, and you have been far too kind with the struggles they have given you. “I want you to get on Sunfyre. I want you to mobilise your army. And I want you to burn everything that even dares to blink in the direction of that whore's Castle.” You vow. At first you see him tear up. Then he silently cups his own face with his hands, crying as he doubles over on the bed, clutching you so tightly you are sure his nails are digging in his skin.

“...Aegon?” You ask.

“Sunfyre…” He begins with a heartbreaking sob. “He'll never fly again. One of his wings got ripped off his body. He'll never fly. Neither will I.” You understand the truth of this horrendous discovery. Your husband lost his beloved pet, and you just lost another great way of destroying enemies. Your husband started this war with Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Sunfyre under his command and now only Vhagar is in state to ride to battle.

Aegon needs you. But you can’t be what he needs. Not anymore.

“I can't stay with you.” You tell him before pushing him off your body. And as a coward, you run away from him, your royal duties and the looming dread of destiny.

“Brienne! Come back…” his shouts are ignored.

You don’t come back.

—-----------------

The next time the doors open in your face, you are standing in front of Aemond Targaryen’s bedchamber. You have been here various times yet this time might be considered treason. Aemond is surprised to see you, yet lets you in. You follow him closely, shutting the door shut behind you. 

Prince Aemond has never made a secret of his love for you, and you know it is burning brightly still. ‘’How was my brother?’’ He asks. 

‘’As a corpse brought back to life.’’ You respond, looking at the flames in the fireplace, licking at the wood, destroying it.

Aemond crosses his arms, offended. “You don't find him attractive anymore, is that it?” You laugh. You wish it was that simple. 

You sit down in his chair, ignoring the looks he gives. You are the Queen now. “I sometimes wonder how I came to think you were a clever man, so blinded you often are.”

“I watched my husband go from a healthy man to a broken soul with a metal arm in months and saw my daughter die in front of me. I wish it was as simple as not finding him attractive.’’ He still looked so beautiful. Your Aegon. Yet so broken.

You notice that Aemond has taken a seat next to you. ‘’I am sorry, Brienne. I am sorry for ignoring you. I didn’t know what to say after you lost Helaena. It all felt like nothing was good enough.’’ Such funny creatures, humans be.

‘’Anything would have been enough.’’ you confess. Anyone would be enough. Anything is always better than silence. ‘’Yet, i appreciate your honesty.’’ You reach out for his hand but he pulls away as if he burned himself.

‘’What do you want from me, my Queen? The hour is of the owl. You should not be here given our history.’’ History is such a funny thing. Only survivors will determine what is true of it.

You must feed the dragon, awake the monster and pull its reins once more.

‘’Remember when those men in the woods, tried to rape me? Remember how you burned them all? How we burned that city together?’’ You also had sex with him afterwards, good sex, one of the best times in your life with him.

You smile. ‘’I want to relive old times. I heard that the woman who calls herself queen is from the Vale. I heard it has lovely woods and delightful servants that will scream once you blaze them.’’

As if on queu, a servant appears from behind both of you, clearly clutching Aemonds sheets around her body while she makes a curtsy at you. You feel many confusing emotions. You feel shock, rage and jealousy. Yet you are married. You are happy with your husband.

Am I happy or am I surviving?

It’s the same blonde bitch that lied about your daughter being a son and being alive. You trap her easily, the sheets falling from her body. ‘’I was hoping to see you.’’ You tell her, hissing as you become a bit unhinged. She eyes you with big eyes.

‘’The Queen told me to lie! She said it would break the King’s heart to know you delivered a failure!’’ She cries for mercy.

‘’Brienne,’’ Aemond mutters. You don’t listen. ‘’I will come with you. Just let her go. I was lonely and it was a mistake and it won’t happen again.’’ You know he is lying. It will happen countless times again, and every time is one too many. 

You fall back into Aemonds arms as the girl tries sneaking past you both. When she puts her clothing back on, a single sapphire falls down from her pocket. You and Aemond both watch as she becomes as red as tomato, clearly caught red handed. ‘’Y-your grace. I am so sorry. The war has been starving my family. Prince Aemond has many sapphires, I never…’’ You feel compassion grow, finally. 

You feel like yourself again.

Aemond huffs. ‘’You dare try to steal from our Queen?’’ He asks advancing. You know that tone. You don’t pick up on it until it is too late, and Prince Aemond has captured the thief by his window. You can only utter a word before he pushes her outside of it, and you hear her screams as she falls to her death, her remains shattering around like an artistic painting.

Your breath is racing as Aemond advances with a smirk, cupping your face lightly as you try to become the cold queen again. He grins, giving you a soft kiss on your mouth gently bending your face so he may have another taste, and another…and another. ‘’My little bee.’’ He declares. ‘’I see you are still in there, somewhere. I will burn our enemies together with you, and in exchange you let me feel what I wanted to feel for months now. Do we have a deal, or shall I tell the king-’’ You don’t let him finish his threat before your mouth finally finds his again, your hands already tugging at his eyepatch. Aemond groans in response and picks you up by your hips, carrying you to the bed.

You watch the ceiling as the one eyed prince fucks his troubles and your own away.

And soon?

Soon you’ll destroy Rhaenyra.

The same way she destroyed you.

A/N.

I really think Brienne is projecting too much on rhaenyra and not enough on her business with aemond/aegon and whatever the heck is going on at the red keep, who keeps letting these assasins in smh.

Anyway: thank you for reading!!:)

[hrefna-the-raven]

Web of faith

Masterlist - BG3 masterlist

Chapters: 1 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

Words: 1852

Warnings: smut (18+), violence, trauma, loss

Chapter 2

His deep violet eyes gazed up from between your thighs, dilated pupils filled with desire as he sucked on your clit while lazily pumping two fingers inside you.

"Niss please", you pleaded, moving your hips against his face.

He traced his tongue along your folds before positioning himself above you, the tip of his cock teasingly brushing against your entrance while he slid his fingers into your mouth. You swallowed a moan as you licked your own juices from his digits, casting him a pleading look, hoping he would finally cease his tantalizing torment.

"My tiny goddess of flesh", Kar'niss withdrawing his fingers from your mouth, "I worship you."

He groaned as he felt your wetness dripping onto his throbbing length, his hands tenderly exploring the contours of your naked form beneath him, fingers digging into the supple flesh of your thighs as he drew you closer, pushing himself inside of you with a hard thrust, crying out your name in ecstasy.

Kar'niss panted heavily, his breath mingling with the scent of blood and dust that filled the air of the small room in the inner sanctum of the temple. The wound on the side of his torso throbbed with searing pain but he refused to let it deter him. With every ragged breath he took, he reminded himself of the weight resting on his shoulders. This was no ordinary battle after all; it was a test of Kar'niss' loyalty and devotion to his one true goddess Lolth. He knew that the outcome of this fight would determine not just his fate but yours too. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing you. You had been waiting for him, counting on him to emerge victorious.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Kar'niss tightened his grip around his dagger. The memory of your encouraging words echoed in his mind, urging him forward. With a blood-curling scream, he lunged at his opponent, his body moving with an almost supernatural grace. The fight was intense, a dance of steel and fury. Each strike he landed was fueled by his unwavering determination to win. His movements were precise, his focus unbreakable. The pain in his side was forgotten as he unleashed his pent-up frustration and anger. Blood dripped from Kar'niss' wounds, mingling with the sweat that poured down his face. His opponent, battered and bloodied, fought back with equal determination. But Kar'niss refused to be defeated. In one last, desperate move, he summoned every ounce of his remaining strength. With a swift and calculated strike, he found his mark. His opponent staggered, eyes wide with disbelief as he fell to the ground. In a matter of seconds, Kar'niss pounced on him, relentlessly plunging his dagger into the opponent's chest time and time again. A guttural scream erupted from Kar'niss, echoing throughout the room. His actions gradually slowed as his mind realised that his opponent was already deceased. It finally dawned on him that he had successfully overcome the first test.

"My devoted warrior, bow before your goddess", a soothing but intimidating female voice spoke from the shadows.

Kar'niss dropped his dagger and fell on his knees, bending down, hands spread flat on the ground, forehead pressed on to the cold stone floor.

"My queen, my goddess, I'm yours", he spoke humbly.

"It is time for your final test, my warrior, you shall prove your loyalty to your undying queen. Are you ready?", she spoke, never leaving the shadows.

"Yes Dark Mother, my Queen of Darkness. I will not fail you", he vowed.

Kar'niss felt empowered, he was determined to succeed in this trial and prove his worthiness in her eyes. He would rise above all obstacles and finally claim you as his own. However, his resolve crumbled when he heard her utter your name, causing a searing pain in his heart.

"Prove your loyalty by eliminating her, and you shall ascend as my warrior", the coldness in her voice made him shudder.

He knew what would happen if he failed, but how could he bring himself to harm you? You were his world, the very reason for his existence. Without you, he would be nothing more than an empty shell, aimlessly drifting through a desolate existence. Would he emerge from this room as Lolth's victorious warrior, only to be condemned to a life of darkness and solitude? Or would he sacrifice himself in order to save you?

"I sense your hesitation," Lolth uttered, finally stepping into the light. The swift clicking of spider legs resonated throughout the chamber as she approached Kar'niss.

Ever so slowly, he raised his head, his gaze fixated on his deity in all her formidable splendor, as she stood there, menacingly towering over him. The dark mother loomed tall, in contrast to her exquisite dark complexion, her eight crimson eyes on her beautiful face pierced through Kar'niss. In her presence, he felt diminished, his eyes wandering from her colossal spider body to the two foremost pairs of spider legs that extended as humanoid arms, eagerly awaiting his response.

"My goddess, I-I-I can't", he wept, tears cascading down his cheeks, "she is my love."

A surge of magic enveloped his body, lifting him off the ground as he floated just above the floor, Lolth's mouth contorted into a cruel grin.

"Then you're nothing to me", she spat.

"I'm worthless, my Queen, end me, I don't have the right to be one of your children", he resigned, hoping she'd grant him a swift end as his final thoughts wandered to you.

He had always longed to share his life with you, but he had failed. He was but a pitiful remnant of a deceased noble family and now abandoned by his goddess. He yearned for death's warm embrace because you, so gracious and kind, deserved much more than him.

"Kill you?", the Spiderqueen chuckled darkly, "oh no, you are worthless but I am nothing but gracious, you wished to be my child but failed. I shall still grant you purpose, sparing you from death to serve me in your penance until you prove yourself worthy of demise."

His eyes widened in sheer terror as a yochlol materialised next to Lolth.

"No no no no", Kar'niss sobbed, "end me, Dark Mother, end me, do not subject me to this!"

"Silence! How dare you make demands to me?!", she bellowed, asserting her authority.

Kar'niss let out a piercing scream as an excruciating agony coursed through his lower limbs, causing his bones to snap and splinter into innumerable fragments under the immense pressure of the spell as it tore at his flesh, causing it to rip apart slowly, transforming into spider-like appendages and a large, ominous gray cephalthorax. A torrent of warm blood streamed down his head as five ebony eyes bore into the left side of his face, fracturing his mind bit by bit as it struggled to adapt to the newly formed eyes and the disintegration of his drow physique, only to be painfully reconstructed anew. Kar'niss whimpered in defeat, the anguish overwhelming him, as he repeatedly uttered your name, his teeth elongating into fangs, his nails sharpening into sharp claws, and his once soft skin liquefying into hardened chitinous plates that now covered the sides of his torso and arms.

And just like that, the pain receded and the enchantment dissipated, causing his recently transformed body to collapse onto the ground. He let out pained groans, muttering incoherent words that intertwined with your name and uncontrollable sobs. He made an effort to rise, but his newfound legs refused to comply with his commands. His palms pressed against the ground, noticing the presence of dark soil instead of the familiar dusty stone. His gaze darted around, wincing at the disturbing images transmitted to his shattered mind by his numerous new eyes. It took him a few moments to grasp the realisation that he was no longer within the temple; Lolth and the demon had vanished, leaving him in the depths of the Underdark. He persisted with his clumsy attempts at walking, stumbling every few steps as he endeavoured to reach a small crevice in the rock. He hoped he could squeeze through it to find refuge from the other denizens of the Underdark, but most importantly, from himself and his thoughts.

He was consumed by shame, his every thought tainted by it, as he huddled in the corner of a small cave he had stumbled upon. Tears streamed down his face as he whimpered and sobbed, his claws desperately scratching at his body in an attempt to rid himself of the spider-like appendages that now plagued him. He had lost everything, and yet fate was unrelenting, refusing to grant him the release of death. Instead, he was cursed to exist in this grotesque form, banished from Menzoberranzan and... you... you were waiting for him, but he'd never pass that temple door, never hold you again. For a fleeting moment, the notion of searching for you crossed his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. He believed that the abomination he had become was unworthy of your love. You deserved more than the pitiful monstrosity he had been transformed into.

Kar'niss lost all sense of time, sobbing uncontrollably and surrendering to his shame and the excruciating agony. Suddenly, his attention was seized by the shuffling of feet. Through a narrow opening, a tall male drow emerged, his eyes a crimson hue. Despite being in the presence of the drider, he offered Kar'niss a gentle smile and extended his hand as if offering assistance.

"Greetings, lost one", he spoke in a soothing tone, "I understand that our people's false deity can be cruel. But fear not, lost one, for my goddess welcomes all and we are equals under her divine rule. You have been chosen as one of her True Souls and you will be lost no more."

Kar'niss watched intently as the drow retrieved a small worm from a glass container and approached him. Instinctively, he tried to retreat but found himself backed against the wall. As the drow released the worm, everything around Kar'niss plunged into darkness.

You paced up and down in front of the temple, your mind racing, desperately waiting for your Kar'niss to step through the doors and greet you with a smile. However, your hopes were dashed as tears welled up in the corners of your eyes when a priestess approached you, shaking her head. You didn't dare ask for details; you knew deep down that your beloved had perished in combat. The weight of despair settled upon you, engulfing you in an overwhelming sense of loneliness. There was nothing you could do to bring them back – no magic, no deity, no one to offer solace. You would never again gaze into those captivating dark purple eyes or feel the comforting embrace of your beloved. They were gone, taken away by death's merciless grip, leaving you adrift in a sea of sorrow.

You vaguely recalled running, but the memory of when you had come to a stop eluded you. As you gradually regained consciousness, your surroundings remained unfamiliar – fleshy walls of an unfamiliar room and within it, a weird mechanical vessel that held you captive. You were trapped on an ilithid ship...

[ramblingoak]

His Dark Song, Chapter 1: Let’s Get Started

~ A man covered in occult tattoos, a difficult ritual, sex magic...would you be able to survive months alone with Cardinal Copia? ~

Copia x f!reader

This was for week two of the challenge put on by @petrifyingpapas last year and the theme of the week was “Incantation”.  This story was inspired by the movie “A Dark Song”, but I’ll be giving it a Ghost twist.

Warnings: alternate universe, mentions of past child loss, violence, eventual smut, 18+ only mdni

His tattoos looked like they were glowing.

The swirling words and symbols that covered most of his skin had always caught your attention, but right now you couldn’t look away.  He had said tonight would be the night, that all the months of hard work you had both been putting into the ritual would finally pay off.  That the thing you had been attempting to summon was finally going to appear this very night and you’d finally get to ask your wish.

Copia continued to murmur under his breath in Latin, tracing intricate symbols into the air between you with his fingers.  He was mesmerizing, he had always been mesmerizing even when you had first met him in that diner.  Despite his attitude and his penchant for pissing you off you had quickly become entranced by him.  Copia had been your only companion for six months now and you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from falling for him.

The sex magic had certainly helped.

“Are you ready, dolce?”  You met his eyes and nodded, taking a steadying breath before you held your right hand out towards him.  He brought it to his mouth, dropping a quick kiss on the back while winking at you.  Copia turned it so your palm was facing up and traced a symbol on your tingling skin with a finger before letting you go.

His mismatched eyes looked into yours then, holding your gaze steadily.  For a moment you thought he was going to say something else, but he gave a quick shake of his head before reaching down to the floor beside him.  The dagger’s blade flashed in the dancing light of the room and you held your breath when he raised it into the air above his head.  Neither of you glanced away from each other, Copia just raised an eyebrow and you slowly blew your breath out before you spoke.

“I’m ready.”

Copia winked once more before bringing the dagger down.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ six months earlier ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The house was old. 

It wasn’t really a surprise, all the houses this far in the country were. Most had been passed down between a few generations. Many were boarded up.  You had seen the insides of quite a few at this point but as soon as you had walked inside of this one you knew. 

This one would work. 

The realtor continued to drone on as he followed you around.  Mentioning things he thought you’d be interested in. How the furniture was included. The age of the paintings adorning the walls. He thought you would care and while you didn’t, not really, you let him say his piece. 

“It’s a one year contract unfortunately.”

“I’m sorry?”  You had made your way to the main room on the second floor, large windows took up most of the wall letting you watch the sun set behind the hills. 

“The lease, it’s for a year.”

A year. Would this take that long?  You had only been able to find a few accounts of the ritual being attempted.  But the information had been scarce and you weren’t sure if you trusted the sources. 

“Utilities are included though, which is rare around here. You’ve got privacy and plenty of land to roam around.”  The realtor had walked up to the windows to stand next to you.  “Do you have any kids?”

Your body froze like it always did at that question. People always asked it out of polite curiosity. No one would ever ask if they knew the truth.  

“I did.”  You let yourself have a moment to stare him down, to watch him deflate before you turned and walked back towards the hallway.  “I don’t anymore.”

Cardinal Copia wasn’t what you expected. 

To be honest you had been looking for a man in a cassock while you waited in the diner, like the Cardinal’s had worn in the church you had attended as a child.  The man that had sat down across from you in the diner was in worn jeans and a red sweater that had seen better days. Dark brown hair with streaks of gray at his temples. He was handsome and your brain chose that moment to remind you about the sex magic the ritual entailed, making you fight the blush that wanted to appear on your cheeks. 

“So, in the mood for a little magic, eh?”  You would’ve smiled back if his had seemed genuine, but to you it felt like an act. There was an odd twinkle in his even odder eye, the left being entirely white. He squinted when you didn’t respond, looking back down at his plate and poking around the eggs with his fork. 

“Was it from an accident?”  Copia froze and looked back up at you. The blush couldn’t be stopped now, but you were mostly mortified you had asked such a thing. Thankfully he seemed more bemused than annoyed and looked back down at his food. 

“Not unless you call my birth an accident.”  

“Shit. I’m sorry, I’m just-I’m nervous.”  

Copia had shoved some eggs into his mouth but thankfully swallowed before responding. 

“Do I make you nervous, dolce?”  Your eyes narrowed at him but he just chuckled and crossed his arms. You let your gaze drift down to his hands, the backs of his fingers were covered in tattoos.  They looked like letters of some kind but you couldn’t tell from across the table.  From his fingers the letters turned into swirling patterns on the backs of his hands that continued onto his wrists and then disappeared under the sleeves of his sweater.  You shook your head and met his amused gaze.

“It’s a big undertaking, isn’t it?  The ritual.”  You reached out for your water glass but it was only to keep your hands occupied. “I think some nerves are to be expected.”

Copia hummed and reached a hand out, gently peeling one of yours away from the glass.  He held it up above the table, sliding his hand down to your wrist and holding his thumb against your pulse for a moment. He smirked and swept it back and forth across your skin a few times before letting go and then pulling his thumb into his mouth. He let it slide out with an obscene pop, smirking as he looked at your hand. 

It was shaking like a leaf. 

Irritated and a little embarrassed you yanked it back and crossed your arms over your chest.  Was he going to be like this the whole time?  You were ashamed to admit that you were glad he was…ok, glad that he was handsome. But you’d barely been in his presence for thirty minutes and he had you blushing like a teenager.  You needed to set some ground rules if he was going to act like this the whole time. 

“Cardinal Copia…”

“Just Copia is fine, dolce.”

“Fine, ok. Copia, we shou—“

“You need to be sure.”  You huffed and glared at him but he seemed unbothered.  “This ritual is delicate, so very delicate. Any nerves or wrong moves, this can ruin the whole thing.  Did you look into how long this could take?”

“I saw a few things that said weeks, bu—“

“Months, dolce.  This could take months.”  Months?  You’d be stuck in that house with him for months?  “Months of strenuous, precise recitations. Of cleansing your body, your soul.  Is this something you’re ready for?”

“Yes, Copia. Yes. I’ve been ready, I’ve done the research.”  You were starting to worry he wasn’t going to do this. There weren’t many others you could ask and none besides Copia that you had heard had actually been successful at it before. 

“What about the sex magic?”  The poor waitress was walking by at that moment and stumbled, Copia reached out to help catch her, gently grasping her elbow before she ended up on the floor. The poor thing was blushing even worse than you had been. He gave her a wink before directing his attention back to you. 

“I can do whatever magic is required as long as you can do the ritual.”  

Copia reached for his napkin and wiped his mouth, throwing it onto his plate before reaching down for his bag he’d brought in with him. 

“Oh, don’t worry about me, dolce.  I can do the ritual.”  It was your turn to receive a wink from him, but before your cheeks could redden he stood up and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Let’s go see this house.”  

He didn’t seem particularly impressed with the house, but he also hadn’t been very impressed with your car. 

“Dolce, how old is this thing?”

Or your music collection. 

“I didn’t know they still made CD’s. Do you have any ABBA?”

When you arrived at the house itself he had let out a string of Italian and none of it sounded complimentary.  You gave him room to wander, unpacking some of the supplies you had already gotten and shoving them away in the kitchen.  There was a large freezer in the basement so if this was happening you’d have to go back to town and stock up on food. You weren’t sure if you'd be able to leave once the ritual started. 

If it did start. 

After an hour or so you started wandering the house in search of him. You smelled a faint hint of cigarette smoke inside but there was no sign of the man himself. It wasn’t till you found your way back into the main room and its large windows that you spotted him. He was standing near the pond the estate had, watching the sunlight dance across the water. 

By the time you made it out there the sun was dropping rapidly into the horizon. You couldn’t smell any smoke on him so you held off admonishing him for it.  It would take forever to get the smell out of that old furniture if he spent the next few months smoking all day. 

“Do you remember my fee, dolce?”

“Yes.”

“How about everything the ritual entailed?”

“Yes, yes Copia we’ve been over this. I’m ready.”

“You say this, but I don’t think you understand what it means. So you must be sure, absolutely sure.”  

“Goddammit, yes!  I'm sure!”

“Then tell me why you’re doing this.”

“Wh-what?”

Copia sighed and turned away from the water to gaze at you. That white eye of his was so unnerving you kept wanting to look away. 

“I want to know why you’ve done all this, why you’ve hired me.”  He took a step towards you and you had to fight the instinct to take a step back. 

“For love.”

The look of disgust on his face was immediate and he stepped back away from you. 

“Love?!  Are you serious?”

“Yes!  Why does that—hey!”  Copia had turned and started stalking back towards the house, but you were hot on his heels.  “Hey!  What’s wrong?”

The only response you got was a scoff and some more Italian. When you tried to grab his arm he ripped it away and then yanked the back door to the house open.  Before he could get to the kitchen where he left his bag you shoved yourself in front of him and blocked the doorway. 

“Move.”

“No, not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s wrong is you’ve wasted my time!  I came all the way out here for some bullshit, spoiled little rich girl fantasy!”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with love as a reason to do this!”

Copia groaned and shoved his hands into his hair, taking a few steps back from you at the same time. 

“This is a sacred thing. ‘Love’ isn’t enough.  It needs to be more than that.”

“More than love?”  You bit your lip and let your eyes wander around the room. Your own bag was sitting in a chair nearby. There weren’t a lot of things you had traveled with but there was something in there that was more dear to you than anything else you owned.  A token of someone that you longed to speak with again.

Copia was watching you expectantly. Waiting for you to convince him. 

“I love someone and they…they don’t love me anymore.”

“So?  You’re going to torture yourself for months on end, torture me for months on end?  And for what?  To get your boyfriend to love you back?”  

You closed your eyes and started shaking your head, but he used that moment to shove past you. It made you stumble and you had to grab onto the doorway to stay upright. 

“Copia!  Please, you don’t understand!”

“No, dolce, I don’t understand and you’re doing a shit job of fixing that.”  With his bag in hand he turned to glare at you, his icy white eye seemingly staring into your soul. “I’m supposed to summon your guardian angel for you. A being that will grant you anything your heart desires and you’re going to choose making an ex love you again?”

“You get a wish too, don’t forget that.”

“Trust me, dolce, I’m not forgetting that. That wish is the only reason I’m here. It’s the only reason I’ve done this before, that I’ve tried this before.”  He started moving towards the back door again and you flung yourself into the doorway once more. Copia growled and spun around to go through the other door and towards the front of the house. 

Fuck, fuck this couldn’t be happening. You couldn’t let him go, you couldn’t let this chance go. Copia was the only one that could make this happen. The only one that could give you what you wanted. 

“It’s for my child!”  You watched as he froze with a hand on the front door. He didn’t turn around yet, but his hand remained still so you continued, “I lost my child.”

“How?”

“He was taken from me.”  Copia turned then and regarded you, waiting for you to continue.  “My child was kidnapped.  He was murdered and I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

“You want to speak to your dead child?”  

Later you’d sob in the room you’d chosen. In your hand you’d clutch the little action figure you always kept with you. The little plastic ghoul your son loved so much. Right now you looked into Copia’s eyes and nodded, silently begged him to change his mind, to help you. When he tossed his bag onto the floor by the door and spoke again you nearly sagged in relief. 

“Okie dokie, let’s get started.”

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