#fawn embroidery | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jayflrt · 1 month

Text

𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝟕𝟖𝟔 15. ugly truths

YOUR CHILDHOOD DREAM WAS TO MARRY PARK SUNGHOON.

Even before you developed a genuine crush on him, you fantasized about marrying Sunghoon at a young age. Your parents always fawned over the young boy's appearance, and they would constantly pester you about how they wanted a handsome son-in-law like Sunghoon. You would brush their comments off back then, but a small stir in your chest dared to daydream about how wonderful of a boyfriend your best friend would be.

When he asked you out, you thought you were in the clouds. It must have been one of the best things that happened to you because you were certain that Sunghoon would meet some drop-dead gorgeous model after he was signed under Prada. You hardly entertained any talks of dating him before because you were so scared that something would burst the swell of hope in your chest.

Now that you tasted the reality of being Sunghoon's girlfriend, it was awfully bitter.

You knew that there were several consequences going into this decision; not only were your parents going to be upset, but you were possibly ruining years of friendship with both Sunghoon and Heeseung with this decision. Although you cared about the two boys deeply, you were so tired of feeling drained by your own relationship.

Plus, Heeseung had been acting weird, too. You weren't convinced as of late that he had purely platonic intentions, but it made your stomach turn every time you pondered on it for longer than a few seconds.

You knew what you were getting into. Sunghoon was so entangled and twisted up in your life that you couldn't see any comfortable way out of this relationship. You would no longer be able to listen to a Bruno Mars song without thinking about how he'd blast the music in his car and sing along with you; you would no longer be able to wake up in the morning and shake off the ceaseless anticipation of a good morning text from him; you would no longer be able to even reach for his hand under the table to give it a comforting squeeze.

After this, you wouldn't have to worry about checking menus to make sure your boyfriend liked the food at the restaurant you wanted to go to, or wait for him to show up to every date you planned, or sulk around after he shot down any couple activities you proposed.

You'd be free.

You wondered if this was going to be the last time you'd spend in Sunghoon's apartment. As your finger ran over the embroidery on one of his throw pillows, you noticed that your boyfriend was tapping his foot nervously.

He was the first to speak. "You're breaking up with me, aren't you?"

His words were like a jab to your gut, making tears pool at the corners of your eyes before you turned to blink them away. You dated him for three years just for everything to end like this. Yet, you weren't sure he could say anything to salvage your relationship; you were tired of trying to reach out to someone who wouldn't even hold out his arm.

"Yeah," you answered quietly. "I don't think I can do this anymore, Hoon. It's been so hard."

His foot started tapping faster. You felt the knot in your chest tighten.

"Okay," he mumbled. "Then... that's that, I guess."

"Seriously? That's all you can say?"

"I can't stop you from doing what you want."

"No, but you could ask," you replied, incredulity thick in your voice. "You seriously don't even wanna know why I'm trying to end things?"

"I know why you're breaking up with me," he said, raising his voice over yours. "I haven't been putting aside time for y—"

"It's not just that!"

Sunghoon immediately fell silent, and, for a few moments, the only sounds in his living room were your shallow breaths. As much as you wanted to stand up and start yelling at him, you couldn't bring yourself to be too harsh when you noticed his repetitive tapping and fidgeting.

"The night you came over after Yuna went crazy on live," you started. "I want you to be transparent with me. Was all of that just so you could tell me to stop hanging out with her?"

His lips pressed into a thin line before he answered, "Not completely."

"But you still came over because of that?"

"Yeah."

Of course, that was the answer you expected.

Still, you didn't know the full weight of the truth would shatter you into pieces all over again.

Sort of lost and disconnected, you nodded. "Okay."

Sunghoon let his head hang. You weren't sure how many minutes had passed, but he just stared straight down at the floor while his knee bounced over and over again.

Your boyfriend, whom you had trusted and given all your love to, had just admitted to using your body for his own personal gain.

And all you could say was okay.

"Sungjin found out about Yuna's video," he tried. "I left early that morning because he wanted me to defend you and Heeseung to the Order, or he'd tell Dad. I thought I was doing the right thing."

You could only stare back at him wordlessly.

"I'm sorry," Sunghoon mumbled, and it sounded distorted in your ears, like he had been a broken record droning on and you had just now realized it, but he didn't dare make eye contact with you. "I'm so sorry, Y/N."

He finally raised his head to look at you. The maddened, agonized look in his eyes made your heart twist painfully in your chest.

"Please say something," he begged.

"I just don't really know what to say."

His voice was more fragile, more broken when he said, "I don't wanna—I can't lose you."

"I think you already have."

Although there was little venom behind your words, it appeared to sting Sunghoon all the same.

"I'll tell you everything," he continued with sickening sincerity that made your ears hurt and your head spin.

Why now? Why couldn't he say all of this before? You weren't sure if it was meant to sway you in his favor, but it only made you feel more and more dreadful. You had been begging to listen to him this whole time, but he shut you out until he was about to lose you.

But this was what you came here to do—to talk to him. It wouldn't have been fair if you got your two cents out and left him in the dust. Either way, you wanted everything to come to light, anyway, so you were going to have to let him speak eventually.

"Okay," you agreed, "but I want everything you didn't tell me."

He swallowed thickly and began, "You know how my dad and brother are... all the back-and-forth over who gets Park Pharmaceuticals. Well, now that Sunjin's cleaned up his act, apparently Dad promised it to him, even though I've been preparing to inherit the company my whole life. Everything he's made me do has been for Park Pharmaceuticals, and he just took it all away from me like it's nothing.

"I mean, I've volunteered and done countless internships to prove that I have what it takes; I golf every weekend with company executives or people from the Order; I'm signed under Prada and Chopard; I attend those stupid socials every other day on top of keeping up with coursework for two majors; I know Park Pharmaceuticals like it's on the back of my hand because I've studied the organization inside-and-out and spent months shadowing at the company; I've been slogging day and night to become the man my brother failed to be—the man my father wants me to be—and I still lost to Sungjin. Nothing I do is enough, Y/N—nothing.

"My family keeps expecting me to become someone important, but they're also the ones holding me back. You're the only one who makes me feel like there's a meaning to all of this."

You sucked in a sharp breath, letting his words sink in deep until your bones felt cold and hollow. "You can't say I'm all you have after you pushed me away countless times, Sunghoon," you started. "I really wish you told me all this when I'd beg you to let me help."

"I know," he said in a soft voice, head dipped low again. "I'm sorry. I thought I was protecting you from my dad."

"Your dad? Why would I need protection from your dad?"

Sunghoon hesitated before he spoke, "He... didn't interfere with our relationship because he was banking on us getting married."

"So?" Noticing the guilty look drawn across his features, you prepared yourself for an incoming blow. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

A mumble. Eyes that refused to meet yours. It was clear as day that he was hiding something.

"What is it?" you repeated sharply.

"It doesn't matter anymore."

"If it concerns me, then I'd like to hear it."

His chest swelled from the deep breath he took. "He wanted us to get married... so that Park Pharmaceuticals could acquire your father's hospital chain."

You let it echo in your head once more, and the words swam.

If you thought this conversation was nauseating before, now it was so gut-churning that you could hardly tell if the Earth was spinning at its regular speed. You felt like you had been tugged from right behind your navel and dunked into icy water.

Someone like you, with your family's background, should have expected an outcome like this.

But you never thought Park Sunghoon would be the one to drive the knife into your back.

There was a loud ringing in your head, and you weren't exactly certain if the world was supposed to be swaying around you, but you screwed your eyes shut and asked, "Why Mercy Health? Why would a pharmaceutical company want to acquire a hospital?"

"It's 'cause medical manufacturers pay hospitals a lot of money," he explained, although he was mumbling again and it was getting on your nerves. "I guess Dad's plan is that a joint operation would make more money for both of us."

"A merger between two pharmaceutical corporations would make more sense."

"Dad's always wanted to be a revolutionary. Sales have been flatlining for pharmaceutical giants these days, so that's why he planned for something bigger. Theoretically, it's a smart plan, it's just..."

You scoffed. "You're defending him."

"I'm not—"

"You're sitting there and justifying your dad's actions as if this whole plan doesn't depend on you manipulating me!" You stood up and wedged your Dior clutch under your arm. "You didn't even think to tell me any of this before we started dating, and"—your eyes started watering and your voice was thick with emotion—"you were gonna marry me just for my family's hospital?"

"I never agreed with what my dad was doing, Y/N," he said firmly. "I never wanted you to get involved with him, so I kept it hidden from you, but my feelings for you had nothing to do with the acquisition. I'd never take Mercy Health from you."

"You should've told me before you asked me out!"

"I... thought I was doing the right thing," he replied wearily. "I didn't think it would come to this. I'm sorry."

Anger was rising in your chest. At this point, you didn't even care what you were spitting out at him because you were so infuriated.

"This is exactly your problem," you said, cold as ice, "you think you have a handle on everything, but if you were anyone but Park Sunghoon, everyone would be sick of you by now. You constantly put your company over everyone who actually cares about you. I get that you've worked your whole life for this, but there are people out there who've worked harder than you ever have, and they'll never get the opportunities that you get handed to you."

Judging by the way Sunghoon stiffened and his jaw clenched, you were sure your words had gotten to him—struck him right in his heart.

"I never once said I wasn't privileged," he muttered darkly, standing up to tower over you, "and I wouldn't mention privilege either, if I were you. We're birds of the same feather in that sense."

"I can talk about privilege all I want. You're sitting here complaining about being entitled to inherit an entire company while there are people who can only dream of that opportunity. Heeseung—"

"Don't lash out at me just because you're not motivated enough to inherit Mercy Health," he fired back. "I'm privileged, yes, but I did everything that's been expected of me since I was born. This is what I've been brought up my whole life for. Just because you're terrified of what's expected of you doesn't mean I don't deserve what I've worked for."

Motivated enough. You felt your whole body on edge at his words. How could he bring up your insecurities and anxieties over your future just to argue his point? You remembered the countless nights of you laying in Sunghoon's arms and telling him you were worried that owning Mercy Health wasn't what you wanted for your life. Worried that you could've been doing something you actually loved if you weren't pushed into a career path because of your status.

"This is the real world, Y/N," Sunghoon continued. "Maybe it's not fair that we were set for the rest of our lives as soon as we were born, but this is who we are, and you need to accept that. Face it: I'm probably the only person you're gonna fall in love with that won't have an inferiority complex around you. You're not innocent either, so don't look down on me for my father's actions as if you don't form transactional friendships yourself."

"What? I don't—"

"I remember your notebook very well," he cut you off.

Your blood ran cold.

He continued, "You can talk about our power and privilege, but don't you dare use Heeseung against me when you were the one writing about how 'expendable' he was."

You stiffened. "That—that was a really long time ago. I didn't even believe what I was writing."

"Yeah? Is it 'cause he's rich now? Now he has some worth that makes him good enough for your little circle?"

"You know that I don't think that way anymore!"

"Is that so?" But it didn't sound like a question; Sunghoon wore an impassive look on his face as his eyes bored into yours. "So you're telling me you don't constantly update that little notebook about whose family did what and who you need to get closer to?"

Years ago, back when you were a child, your father handed you a notebook with several pages of information on the children of his business partners and other wealthy families. You were instructed to either get close to certain people or stay away from others. He would draw diagrams for you, essentially ranking who was of importance and who wasn't. Naturally, as you kept having to use and update it, you created your own notes and decided for yourself who you would keep in your circle.

It was maybe a few years ago when the sight of that notebook made you feel sick. You had been categorizing everyone in your life unknowingly without realizing how messed up it was.

Sunghoon naturally was ranked high, but you were already close with him, so your father wasn't too strict about who else you got close to. That was why Heeseung was able to wriggle his way into your friend group, and although you truly valued him, you never said anything when your father had you put him down as expendable in your notebook.

And, although you deeply regretted it, the mindset of collecting information on the people around you had already been engrained into your mentality. Keeping tabs on everyone around you came far too naturally to you.

You supposed that was why you had so many barriers up in your friendships. You always held your friend group at arm's length because of the reputations you all had to uphold. Sunghoon and Heeseung were the only ones you could be yourself around, but that was before your love lives got so complicated.

But the matter at hand was breaking up with Sunghoon. After everything, you were just too exhausted and drained for more fighting.

"Heeseung may have forgiven you for that notebook," Sunghoon pressed on, "but I won't forget how anxious you made me feel back then." All I could think about was if you "

"I know it was fucked up and I'm sorry," you said, "but I seriously don't think of Heeseung—or anyone—like that. He's always been one of my best friends."

Sunghoon's anger seemed to subside, settling back under the sand. He sat back down on the couch with thinly-veiled sadness weighing him down, and he placed his elbows on his knees.

"I'm gonna leave now," you said, "unless you have anything else you wanna say."

"Don't leave yet." He was looking at the floor again. "I'll call you an Uber."

"It's a five minute walk."

"It's late; I don't care."

You sighed and went along with his request, watching as he booked the ride on his app in silence. After momentary confusion dawned on his face, Sunghoon stood up again and walked back over to pull you into a tight embrace.

After everything that he said, you were so certain that you didn't even want to look him in the eye. After feeling his arms around you, though, for what could be the last time as a couple, you ended up wrapping your arms around him and burying your face into his chest. A couple tears fell from your eyes and lingered on the fabric of his sweater.

"I'm sorry I wasn't a better boyfriend," he murmured into your hair. "I don't think our parents are gonna take this well."

You sniffled. "They won't. I don't think I'm gonna tell them yet."

"Do you think we can still be friends?"

You chewed on the idea for a moment. It was the rising hope in Sunghoon's voice that made you feel almost sorry for him.

"Not right now," you ended up saying. "We'll have to once we're in the Order, but I need some time for myself now."

"Okay."

More tears slipped down your cheeks. It was strange but you already missed him, even though you were still holding onto him. Maybe it was because once your ride was here, you knew that would be the last time you would be holding onto Park Sunghoon like this.

Neither of you said anything and just held each other tightly, hands nearly trembling in fear of letting go for the last time. When Sunghoon's phone buzzed, the both of you reluctantly separated and peered at his screen.

The Uber (which he paid a ridiculous amount for) was parked outside.

"So this is it," he said.

"This is it."

Without even thinking, you two gravitated toward each other with ease. Sunghoon held your face as if it were glass while you drew him in for a kiss with your arms wrapped around his neck. You pulled away before either of you could get carried away and gave him a sad smile.

"I'll see you later, Hoon," you said.

With longing etched deep in his eyes, Sunghoon murmured, "See you."

You felt numb during your short ride home, hardly keeping conversation with the driver. Everything that happened only sank in hours later, so you drew a hot bath and cried until you couldn't cry anymore.

prev | masterlist | next

SUMMARY ▸ private investigator jay park just wants to complete his mission quietly and move on with his life. you, his new assignment who keeps consuming his thoughts, don't make that very easy for him.

TAG LIST ▸ @zdgx1 @smouches @heesdazed @teawithbucky @leep0ems @peachpie4you @niniissus @kgneptun @jaeyunluvr @hooniesuniverse @zerasari @enhalov @sophiko22 @iselltulips @hoondiors @baekhyunstruly @jays-property @woninluv @heerinnie @fakeuwus @yizhoutv @en-happiness @theothernads @y4wnjunz @dammit-jjk @en-happiness @mari-oclock @enhypens-baby @soonyoungblr @jakeslvt @taetaenic @jebetwo @fairysungx @hsgwrld @shmooooo @ineedsomezzz @mrowwww @enha-stars @isawritesss @seongclb @lockburn-castle @alyssajavenss @enczen @calumsfringe @w3bqrl @luvyev @uhsakusa @luvnicho @wildflowermooon

334 notes · View notes

themotherofblood · 1 year

Note

I saw you opened your requests again, so to finish off my series of requests inspired by Bollywood songs, can I please get Daemon x poc fem reader inspired by "Laal ishq" with lots of angst and nsfw please? (feel free to ignore)

you asked and I shall deliver!! I love the song, even though it’s melancholic. So to go with the theme of estranged lovers. Reader and Daemon have been friends for years, that eventually blossomed to love. Daemon is being forced to marry Rhea. There is no age gap since both have grown up together (also a really disgusting twist, fuck Jaeheryes!) THERE IS A PART TWO WITH SMUT I PROMISE!

Daemon Targaryen x Reader | WC: 5003

Masterlist

tw: mentions of incest, pregnant people and crass language

Daemon’s blood boiled anew since he was knighted the year before and was handed his ancestral sword. Dark Sister. He flew Caraxes faster, he trained harder. While one-half of his time was spent being a more valiant warrior than he already was, the other half was spent with you. Head in your lap, as he fawned on your beauty over and over again. It wasn’t right, you were a noble lady - a princess at that; you were to be chaste and untouched. Yet the walls of the Red Keep often turned a blind eye to your and Daemon’s ongoings. Everyone expected it so, seeming how Daemon always got what he wanted. The court expected that you would be wed to the young prince before Baelon would sit on the throne.

The door to the Godswood slammed open with a thud, and gruff sounds of huffing followed by clanks of armour filled your ears as you smiled to yourself. Almost enjoying every time your lover, pouting and broody demanded your affection after a long day of being consumed with his knighthood. You looked up to find Daemon placing his helm on the wooden table of refreshments before yanking out a leather flask of Flea Bottom’s finest moonshine, growling from the back of his mouth as the burn coated his sore throat. He huffed before plopping down next to you. The stench of mud and sweat filled your nostrils, much used to the muck as you kept working on your embroidery. Lip tucked between your lips as you passed a red string through the fresh patch of linen.

Daemon’s demeanour shifted, without having said a word as his attention was drawn to your nibbled fingers working over the delicate patches of thread. The designs of a story rather than the simple florals most ladies wore at court.

“Who bested you this time?” your voice caught his attention, your eyes still fixated on your work and yet the frustrations bubbling within him were apparent. Daemon narrowed his eyes at you before taking three large swigs from his flask.

“No one, every one of them has tasted dirt by my hands today,” he quickly replied, his mind toiling with a different malady altogether, like a plague. Clinging to the crevices of his head. How does one ask a lady such a thing?

“Then what’s got you pouting today?” you mused at him, this time placing the cloak down and turning to look at his defensive expression. His faded brows pulled to a tight-knit and his mouth parted with no words dancing over his lip. You raised your brow at him, knowing him far better than he realised.

Back in the yards, young lords with Daemon sparred away their mornings. Determined and raging as they charged at one another or dummies. Sparking conversations of bloody war fantasies and of comely girls at court. Out of the few closest to Daemon, five were already married - even his brother. Not that the notion of marriage had him praying like the fanatics at the Sept but even as stories of Old Valyria painted his dreams. He pictured his sweet lover, you in the grab of his house. Muttering words of Valyrian as his love for you would be legitimised by the eyes of dragons and the Fourteen Flames. Perhaps as his own sister-by-law, Aemma swelled full of her first child. He pictured little white-haired children of his own, perhaps enough to put his grandsire’s abilities to shame.

Daemon was sure if he would bring the matter up with his father. That perhaps his Jahereys would offer his hand to your father. There was much to be gained politically, and he would soil the sheets with his blood to cover for the lack of your maidenhead. The plans in his mind were crystal, already insistent of you becoming his lady wife. Though it was a matter of if you’d wish it so, or if your family would approve it.

“I- I asked father to have your hand in marriage,” he replied in one quick breath, his ears ringing from the silence that followed. A blank expression that spread through your features didn’t help his turmoil either as he waited for you to say something or refused him outright. “Fuck’s sake, say something?” he frowned, taking hold of your shoulders and shaking you.

The words wouldn’t reach your lips as you blankly stared him down, blinking profusely back to reality as his worry turned into disappointment. You straightened yourself, folding away the cloak on your lap before gently laying in on the grass, your chest pushing against your corset from how hard you were breathing. Abruptly, you launched yourself at him, knees catching at your gown uncomfortably that you didn’t care for as you straddled his lap to kiss him. There was a fire in how your lips connected, Daemon was truly taken aback for a moment before chuckling and giving into the onslaught, hands caressing each other’s cheeks. You rested your forehead against Daemon’s, “You want this? Marriage?” you had to ask to be sure, that perhaps this wasn’t another one of his spurts of passion.

He nodded “Would you? Be my lady wife?” his eyes, wider than the Septa’s when she heard crass remarks. Bursts of anticipation flooded Daemon’s heart. You would be his, to have and to hold. The colours of his house staining the mustard silks adorning your skin, there would be no reason to conceal such ardour for one another, a flame concealed by forbidding it air. Young souls afraid of its fire would see all but the world, perhaps diminished before it could swallow you whole. The embers would finally take flight, burn anyone who would question Daemon’s affections for you. It was way past time that the two of you should have been wed, every lord was afraid of approaching you from the fear of being eaten by Caraxes, and the ladies stood ten breaths away from the fear of being poisoned by you.

You, a Princess of House Martell, Darmon a Prince of House Targaryen and yet your names for one another held not houses or titles but otherworldly, cosmic - cathartic titles ones of adoration and the rest, not High Valyrian, Ryonish or the Common Tongue could describe. Oftentimes than not it felt unreal, fabricated that perhaps it was the joy of having another, the thrill of breaking statues or perhaps it was finally a sense of home. You saw him for who he was and he, you, not within the wild inclinations but perhaps the calm hidden behind the mirror.

The elation of your supposed oncoming betrothal spread cheek to cheek, the corners of your eyes crinkling (even be fair to say teary-eyed) yet you purse your lips. Still lingering on the question on Daemon’s lips, it was yes - such agreement you could scream your throat sore from Rhaenys Hill - mischief however clouded your mind as you pulled back from him, scrunching your brows in deep thought. A look of offence adorned Daemon’s sharp features; a minx through and through. “Fly a piece of the moon back to me and I shall think about it,” a mere jest, followed by a giggle to seal the line. Daemon’s eyes flickered with another opportunity but for now his work was done.

The tunnels in the Red Keep had stood witness to the damning celebrations that followed after, sneaking baskets of blankets, spiced wines, lemons, and plum cakes being carried from the kitchens to your solar. Even if you were caught, there wasn’t a fret or consequence. You were to be married. Far too intoxicated to do anything by the end of the night, as the vulgarities whispered by Daemon against your ear as his fingers rested against your blushed lips, feeding you pieces of purple grapes to muffle the deep bellied giggles pouring out of your mouth.

The morrow bloomed in with you sprawled atop furs by the dying embers of the hearth, skin sticky from no doubt the sweets consumed last night as your chambermaids poured in to tidy your chamber and you make princess-like once more for the respectable court. Though comely and courteous charm oozed out of your every pour, you let out dishevelled groans and grumbles as you pulled yourself awake. Finding an indent in the furs where your lover had nestled with you the night before and now he fluttered away like every morning. Pristinely dressed in your riding clothes, your schedule today consisted of visiting Lady Aemma, avoiding the snarky air headed ladies and court and paying your precious steed and visiting the Kingswood.

Aemma Arryn, already swelling from her first babe, wore her discomfort with much grace. Hoping to birth a boy for Viserys but in her heart she knew the babe to be a bumbling girl. “I’ve heard something about you… and Daemon,” her lips curled in a sly smile. Yet you being devoid of romantical theatrics, heat still evaded your composure and flared across your cheeks. You shuffled onto the chaise next to her, giggling as you hesitantly held your arm out. She meekly nodded at your gesture, grabbing your palm to place over the bump, the skin firm yet softer under your touch. Living with dragons mere breaths away from you and yet an entire person being inside your friend fascinated you, perhaps such would be your fate without the lemon heads in your environs while engaging in the salacious acts with Daemon.

Your eyes crinkled at the corners, much aware of what Aemma had heard - from Viserys no doubt - the older Targaryen brother hid not one thing from his sweet wife. Both brothers were highly hen pecked by the women they took as lovers. “What could you have possibly heard, I swear I poisoned no one,” your lips curled to a wry grin making her tap your thigh mischievously with her foot. You pulled them onto your lap, kneading your fingers into the mass of her foot, alleviating pressure from her overbearing weight.

“Viserys overheard Prince Baelon talking with the King… Can you imagine us, sisters!” her smile widened cheek to cheek, already pictured dressing you in ivory herself like you did her.

“Whatever you have done to my brother, I applaud you,” Viserys’s voice chimed from behind you, leaning against the door frame, admiring his glowing wife with a graceful smirk on his face “The Street of Silk shall mourn his absence,” he teased making Aemma glare at his antics

“Do not listen to him,” she scoffed, “Have you told anyone yet?” You shook your head, wanting to keep this joy just between the people you trusted the most before the vultures found a way to make profit of such an event yet again.

“Do you know where he is?” you turned to Viserys who pointed out the window to the skies.

The air crashing against your skin as your hair followed free of its braided constraints, purple leather hugged your skin, shielding you from the chill of this day’s climate. The trees mere green shadows in your periphery blend all as one, just your own breathing echoing in your ears and the quicked hoof beats of your night black mare Nysa. While she couldn’t fly, her legs were no less than being afloat in the clouds, brushing past the dirt road at speeds incomparable to the naked eye. She neighed at a halt, right at the end of the meadow. The greenery reached as far as your eyes could see, you lingered in the quiet for a moment, the bird, the grasshoppers and even the leaves melodically sang a song for your ears.

The winds tore past the stink of the bustling livelihood of King’s Landing, amidst the rain that was sure to follow within the end of the week, the forest smelled of leaves, of warmth and damp. You shuffled off your horse, your own personal guard no doubt still catching up to the rampage that tore you through the thick tree lines. Deep breaths of fresh air flooded your lungs, you often dreamed of riding all the way home, to bask in the crisp sunshine at the Old Palace.

You walked holding onto Nysa’s reigns, finding a spot to sit with your legs over the rocks looking down into the ditch, while your marriage would bring forth much joy in your life. Perhaps a blissful life at Dragonstone, a cat, Caraxes and him. Mostly you’d enjoy being a royal lady-wife, perhaps it would make the ladies at court fear you more than a poisoning, Dornishmen - salacious varmints.

Higher above from where you were sitting, Daemon flew past the clouds, higher every moment. A feat encouraged by your jest but in reality a grace question, why hadn’t the Targaryens ever touched the moon? The dim witted Septons nor the droll Maesters had an answer for it. He took matters in his own hands, clipped to Caraxes as he rode the Red Wyrm to newer heights. The air around him was much colder and yet he kept climbing. Taking in large gasps of breaths, however lungs simply couldn’t get enough. A piece of the moon - he could do that much for his sweetest wife to be, a wedding gift better than any silk gown or golden necklace. What completely overshadowed the struggling mount underneath him was you. Caraxes fought to climb, the sky growing a deeper shade of blue, as Daemon’s mind fantasised his way through the journey; the lack of air in his lungs slipped right past.

Knocking him unconscious first, Caraxes yet climbed heights above than before until he realised Daemon slumped backwards on his saddle; severing any control the prince had on his dragon moments before. Such exhaustion consumed the Red Wyrm too, while still within his prime his wings tucked tight as he fell from the skies like the stories of angels the High Septon preaches.

The striking red of the dragon’s body clashed against the bright and clear skies that graced King’s Landing today. Just as you lounged at the edge of the meadow, a falling red figure wasn’t hard to miss. You stood to your feet immediately, fascinated at what it might have been. The Blood Comet in the scrolls wasn’t due for another decade or two. Only instead of gliding across the horizon of the sky, it grew bigger by the moment; until you saw the flutter (no book said anything about fluttering rocks falling from skies above). The dark membranes outline the red made you gasp “Oh gods,” this had been either a sick thrill Daemon had decided to partake in or he was truly falling from the heavens.

You mounted Nysa, rushing towards the falling figure from the skies. While to others the moment seemed fleeting but it felt ages as you neared the falling dragon. Caraxes spread his wings, in desperate attempts to halt the descent as he gained consciousness. Daemon, still attached to his saddle but nowhere near coherency. A loud crash accompanied a mushroom cloud of dirt blasting through the woods, Nysa nearly throwing you off her back as she neighed, startled to shit. You jumped off her, your personal guard merely catching you in time as Ser Alysen gripped your arms. Warning you of the dragon that laid huffing and curled, he would eat you, he would eat you.

You screamed from the back of your throat, pushing Alysen off your back and rushing towards Caraxes. “Do not fucking eat me,” your mind toiled, yet you had to know if your lover was alive or if you were widowed before you even had the chance to step on the alter. The red dragon’s nostril flared, low bellied chirps echoing through the settling dust, please - let me see him. You weren’t sure how you would fight a creature four times your size but perhaps his bigger mind sensed your harmlessness, putting up no protest as you pulled yourself onto Daemon’s saddle, him still slouched, breathing.

“Daemon, Daemon wake up,” you cupped his cheeks. Shaking him profusely, the behemoth he was growing into. You couldn’t carry him off the dragon even if you wanted to. “Come on now, wake up!”

Most of King’s Landing already witnessed a mythical creature falling from the heavens. Half of them ran for the Grand Sept, howling of the end times and the people in the Keep knew it to be Daemon. Within minutes more riders arrived with aid, the others contemplating the possibility of an attack. They found you on top of the Red Wyrm. Distraught and holding the young prince’s body hugged onto you, getting him off the mount proved a far harder challenge than anything the Stranger would ever test them to. A crying princess and an unwilling dragon.

You had raced behind the wheelhouse carrying Daemon back to the Red Keep. Maesters were already alerted and awaiting the prince in his bed chambers. While you had no business being in his quarters, even you had found him. You paced like a mad woman outside his bed chambers, if he died you swore to torment him in the afterlife as you counted every brick placed in the wall you were staring at.

Prince Baelon soon after burst through his quarters, hearing about his son as his conversation with father seemed to have turned quarrelsome. Both him and Viserys had raced down the corridors, the sight was none for relief but you sat on the floor. Knees bobbing in anxiety as you chewed through your nails. Having realised what Daemon might have been doing as dread and anger was replaced with guilt. You made him do this.

The questioning look on the princess’ faces was replied with one meek sentence “I asked him for the moon,” your eyes welling once more. Yet for the sake of your dignity and name you turned away.

After much waiting, yet not having left Daemon’s quarters. You waited patiently for him to awaken, for reasons other than to either press grateful kisses all over his face, or grovel at his feet for his blessed romanticism. Flattered (truly - completely) for broken bones set straight, and bruising along the side of his shoulders and two fat sheep, the cost of the moon on land. When Daemon grumbled awake, his family were the first to receive him until Baelon - being the true supporter of your union - ushered you in after demanding that the Maesters and attendants all leave. The father in him refrained from yelling at his son’s recklessness but you dutifully performed that right for him.

Daemon grinned, loopy from the milk of poppy no doubt. “Princess!” he dragged, very likely expecting an embrace or a pat on his shoulders for his efforts as he sat perched by pillows against the stone headboard. He instead was met with a swift and ringing slap across his cheeks, your eyes and nostrils flared.

“Have you lost your fucking mind!” the rage of a true Dornish woman radiating through your words, unbothered that the Heir to the Iron Throne stood witness to the crisp smack you had landed on his son’s face. You tilted your head, demanding an answer - palm stinging and yet itching to land another sharp smack on his other cheek as he grinned once more. While his cock nearly twitched seeing his sweet princess so ferocious about his life, your eye would soon begin to twitch as he kept up his antics.

“You asked for the moon,” he trailed away, clearly aware of the blunder he had created.

“A joke Daemon! A joke!” you dug your fingers into his cream tunic as you climbed on his bed “If I asked you to jump off Maegor's Holdfast, would you?” you scolded, Daemon’s mischievous glint now turned soft as your anger gave way to your concern. He nodded in agreement, nodding away like a spring headed doll. You smacked him on the shoulder once more, your bottom lip trembling as you remembered the terror you had felt as he laid unconscious in your arms “I thought - you moron,” your voice broke. “I thought you were dead,” you whimpered, making Daemon shuffle up higher.

He pushed stray hairs away from your face, his eyes soft as he glanced over your scrunched face. His thumbs caressing your cheeks before pulling you into him. You sobbed, near incoherent as relief washed over your fright. Daemon shushed you, apologising for scaring you, he looked up to where his father stood in his receiving chambers with a sheepish yet apologetic smile on his face. Baelon’s eyes glinted with knowing sadness, smithing Daemon wrote as disappointment for the stunt he had pulled. Baelon nodded knowingly at Daemon, reassuring him that you and him not to be disturbed before exiting and closing the door behind him.

Daemon milked his injuries for all they were worth, the warrior in him laid to rest as he demanded care from you at all times. From having you snuck through the tunnels to lay with him curled under the furs to insisting that you change his bandaging for him, read for him and braid his hair. The reality that Daemon was the younger sibling had never been more apparent than these past two moons as his bones realigned themselves, even Caraxes shared Daemon’s temperament during this time. Refusing to hunt and gobbling through the horde of sheep the dragon keepers would bring for him.

Whatever announcements of nuptials were to be made were postponed until he healed whole. So here you lay in the Godswood with Daemon oddly chirped than before as Prince Baelon’s feast begins tonight, having him affirmed as heir yet again as Jahereys health began to decline. Barely being able to speak more than a cough or two. The Old King’s time neared to an end, something that had deeply bothered all the Targaryens in the family. Bringing nearly the end of the century of dragons, even Aemma near the end of term. Much was to grace House Targaryen in the coming moons, so sitting here under the red leaves in the glaring warmth of the afternoon - there was silence, there was tranquillity.

You mindlessly sectioned Daemon's hair, braiding it far better than the handmaiden did for him. “You are going to be the prettiest Prince tonight, have women drooling and what not,” you giggled, knowing very well he found your teasing amusing but it often came at the price of having your rear smacked out of the blue.

“I shall escort you tonight,” Daemon whispered, lost in the sensations of your finger tips fiddling against his scalp, consequences and rules meant little to him now, let the world know and have the bother be done with, you were his. What else was there to say about it

“No, you may not,” you shook your head, tongue poked out as you dismissed him. He moved his head to look up at you, you shook your head once more “We cannot, not just yet,”

This one dismissal would result in a knight of pawing and pouting, you were sure of it. A prince of six and ten and yet he couldn’t behave like one. Your gown for tonight already laid awaits in your bed chambers, a gorgeous mustard and gold gown to compliment the symbols of your house. While Daemon often insisted you wear black or perhaps even red, in his head the two of you were already wed; it was only a matter of formality. What courting a woman that has been with him since his toddlerhood.

The Throne room once more had been decorated to charm the guests travelling from all over the Known World, to pay respects to the Old King and to find allegiances with their soon to be King, Prince Baelon. Many noble ladies of courts far and wide, dressed in their finest gowns, hoping to catch the eye of a Targaryen prince, perhaps the heir or perhaps his son. Prince Baelon appeared mellow, almost irked as he made his rounds. You greeted him upon arrival but his usually courteous smile to you seemingly turned to a grunt of an acknowledgment. You found solace within your known friends as they gushed over each other’s gowns while feasting over candied apples and cake. Daemon arrived later, a quirk of his as he walked in head held high and nonchalant, lips curled in a smirk as ladies began to hound him with questions of his well being.

The Kingsgaurd made their presence known as the crowd simmered to whispered conversations, everyone resumed their seats on either side of the Throne room. You sat with a few Dornish delegates and your brother Quentel Martell, he was rather chirpy about being housed by Targaryens, and odd joy or perhaps understanding bubbling in his chest as he socialised with the other heads of houses. The grand titles of the king were read out as his silhouette crowded your vision, the Old King stood in his regalia. A dying dragon yet stood commanding an entire room, people erupted in cheers as he walked to his Throne, his heir and son stood by the spiking swords by the ground.

The grandeur of the feast continued through the elaborate evening, tables coated in food and spilt wine drying sticky. Daemon and you made your rounds, inquiring of the latest salacious gossip and giggling over the older maidens that swooned over his father,when in was unsaid yet apparent that no woman in all of this court would ever be what Alyssa Targaryen was, her fire: her passion were truly unmatched. Another round of announcements were to be made, a grand toast to proclaim Baelon Targaryen as heir once more.

“It is with great pride, I once again affirm,” Jaeherys looked to his son admiringly, Baelon shuffled uncomfortably where he stood and yet you held a sorrowful smile, he truly deserved to have Alyssa beside him, she would have been a far valiant Queen than Westeros had ever seen. “My son, Baelon Targaryen is Heir to the Iron Throne and to be the future King of The Seven King,” the crowd applauded in unison as you joined them, Daemon nudged Viserys as he would be King after his father. As the applause died down, Jaehereys continued “I also with great pleasure, announce the betrothal of my grandson Daemon Targaryen,”

Heat creeped onto your cheeks as you caught Daemon’s lilac eyes across the room, crinkled at the corner as he smirked at you; both of you already aware of the verdict. Daemon contained all his animalistic happiness within him as he mouthed “my wife” to you. For moments, the hundreds of nobles and servants around you disappeared, all the remained were your eyes and his, separated by the wall from the watching gallery where you stood, here where you would be married, anointed by the King himself or the High Septon.

“With the noble lady Rhea of House Royce!” King Jaehereys’s voice boomed through the hall following thunderous applause. The crowds either turned to direct their applause at Daemon or turned to find the bronze dressed house and clapped.

Daemon's betrayed frown turned to his grandsire and his father, this couldn’t be - he was told otherwise, he wished otherwise. Lady Rhea, the great brown haired beauty she was - had already approached the makeshift altar, shuffling her way past the chairs to the Iron Throne; she stopped by Daemon, waiting from him to approach her. Daemon stood his ground, a deceived scowl began to tear through his princely composure and yet he had no choice over the demanding glare Jaehereys had fixed upon his grandson. Daemon felt the urge to empty his contents right onto the stone floor as Lady Rhea and him bowed in honour. Rhea, unaware of Daemon’s inner discomfort began to soak in the outpour of love for the new Targaryen wife to be.

While Daemon began to contemplate ways to weasel his way out of this, he found you standing at the gallery. The wine cup in your hand king dropped as you stool colourless and frozen. Not a blink nor a twitch as you stared at the window behind the throne, bile covered tongue as the sweet wine in your mouth turned bitter. The night was far from ended.

“With such auspicious news, my son, Baelon Targaryen presents you with your future Queen. To secure another reign of dragons, the Prince is betrothed to the Princess of Dorne!”

Another round of shivers jolted you from your trance, this time your reddening eyes shifted to look at the King - he who searched for your mustard clothed figure in the sea of people. Baelon had sooner caught your eye than him as he approached the stairs leading up to the gallery. People all around you are cheering and you hear muffled chatter. His hands tucked behind his back as he waited for you to come to him, how do you marry a man who held nothing but fatherly admiration for you wit, how do you marry the father of your lover. You eyes hadn’t dared meet Daemon’s just yet, refusing to look at the woman that stood next to him as you pulled away from the steel railing of the gallery. Your feet mindlessly carrying you to the unchosen prince, your palms shaking as you took his hand. Any lady in your position would quake with blushed prospects, “she’s just shy” you were terrified, betrayed and above all bleeding.

There will be a part 2 :)

463 notes · View notes

chantsdemarins · 3 months

Text

New Fic: Breath of the Æsir ⚔︎🏰 (Loki X Reader)

Formally (Collapsing in the Arms of Chaos) I changed the name. 😬 I know Medieval stories aren't everyone's fav but heck, I hope you like it! It has been brewing in the coffee pot that is in my head for over a year. I feel slightly self-conscious that after my first time with COVID, my brain is not the same. I hope I still have my ability to write! My last story published a few weeks ago was written while I was falling ill and I know it wasn't my best!

Thank you for reading!! If you want to comment I would be so happy and reblogs are like the most precious thing to me. All art is mine, it's a Photoshop-crazed situation.

Summary: Disenchanted with the Danes' misuse of Norse gods to sanction their brutality, Loki finds himself ostracized. Stripped of his divine powers and bearing a severe injury, he wanders into the realm of the conquered. By a twist of fate, he arrives at your manor, where you await your husband's return. However, destiny has other plans.

Warnings: Blood.

Words: 2,471

Smut rating: Not yet...but there sure will be!

Posting schedule: Every Saturday! I am going to stick to this!

Chapter 1 The Embroidery of Destiny Chapter 2 The Stranger Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

@lokis-little-fawn @lcolumbia1988 @thesoftboiledegg @anukulee @mochie85 @lokisgoodgirl @lokischambermaid @nildespirandum @caffiend-queen @mochie85 @maple-seed @mischief2sarawr @kikster606 @thedistractedagglomeration @glitchquake@simplyholl @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @wheredafandomat @fictive-sl0th @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @muddyorbs @vickie5446 @trickster-maiden @grymrayven

Before your family settled again, you had been travelers, moving from one darkened patch of earth to the next. Soil on your boots muddied your paths, creating difficulties in finding a home. There were many things to see, some horrors, some things magical and unfounded. Shapes shifted in the forest where you camped at night. One day your father showed you where they lowered men into the bogs, decorated with bronze. These were not the ways of your people. They did not worship like that. It might have been too much for you to know where some ended up when they were no longer living, not in graves or on pyres. Something else.

By the time you reached the northern lands, your family had negotiated your belongings down to just what the pallid horses could carry. Your croft was built into the very earth you had struggled to cross, with bedrooms burrowed into the side of a hill. It was not built for so much rain. Buckets and sluices were not enough to keep out the floods.

So, when your husband came to marry you, you packed your things neatly, placed them in a pack, and left your parents’ home without drawing a breath. You walked a distance far greater than any you had as a child to his family's land, your new home. The way your family had negotiated the marriage remained a blind spot in your mind. You couldn't fathom it. From a croft to a manor.

Over time, nothing in your marriage seemed to flourish. The land, though beautiful, yielded nothing you sowed. Too sandy or too chelated, perhaps unfortunate timing. You became a wife in the loneliest ways. No spinning of yarn would produce a cloth finer than the wool you began with. Hours of practice composing embroidery resulted in nothing more than half completed sea escarpments, knots, and birds with no flight.

The elegant window that surveyed the tenants' labors only deepened your isolation. They carried on with their duties, and you retired to your quarters, curtains drawn. The chill from your childhood followed you here. The stone walls held a dampness no fire could dispel. You knew somewhere across the hills where your parents still sleeping too close to the earth. Rooms still flooded. Though your loyalty never wavered, even as your husband wandered afar, absent for days at a time, his pursuits as obscure as the horizon beyond your room filled with half-finished tasks.

In kindness or disappointment, he had ensured your education extended beyond your lowly beginnings. Through travels and courtly audiences, barons and other titled men and women recounted their lives' poetry over each glass of mead or wine. You listened for moments when they forgot their lines, most days this was more interesting than their images they wanted you to see.

Although had you not met Isolde of Easting, you would not have thought to plant the spiky yellow gorse along the manor's borders. When the proper conversation waned, you had discovered the titled people still spun tales of their lands. The places they had come or been uprooted from. In the best conversations, you gleaned knowledge of the plants, herbs, and tokens from the first peoples, their ways overshadowed by the new cultures but nonetheless seeming to flow from them to you during the quieter moments—the men away hunting, the embroidery thread running low, the teapot empty. These things were spoken of in hushed tones so the servants would not get ideas.

You spoke of the hawthorn tree, the ravens' work, the swords warriors cast into the cold estuary, found along all the lakes' shores. The Roman merchants who brought tales of Jesus and his cross. The god Woden came from the Angles, and Odin, from the North. Their wars and bloodshed filled the spaces between village homes and now the courts. If asked if you prayed to the Christian god, you couldn't say. You longed to speak of the place where they lowered men into the bogs, the place your father once showed you. Later, in the quiet of your room, you would pull out a relic from beneath the blankets in your chest, and it would look unrecognizable. It once held meaning, but that meaning didn't travel with it.

Sometimes when you were awake much too early, the nightingales still singing, you would dip your quill into the small pot of black soot. You would unroll a small piece of parchment, discarded by the cooks, and write down your dreams. Which had room in your sleep since they were so often unimpeded by the presence of your husband. You wrote in the lais of the Frankish people, counting eight sounds to the line, braiding your dreams with your words.

Had I found a small shell, not rope I would have held it to my ear The ocean's song would have come to me Instead, I was swallowed wholly

This was how things proceeded until the day they did not.

As you came to learn, in the void and closeness of life, nothing is reliable enough to expect its continuation the next day. You should allow for change to slip through the crevices of even the dampest chambers. It just had not happened in so long you almost did not recognize it when something remarkable unfolded at your manor.

On this day, as you sipped your tea, with half-finished yards of cloth draped across your lap, and the unopened book of hours on the small, worn table, your gaze was fixed on the wind billowing the emerald curtains—silk from an era long past, traded by hands unknown. Like much of the decor in the manor, these were vestiges of your husband's family's trade in finery, symbols of their stature akin to that of minor kings.

Elinor, your companion for the last 10 years, rapped on your door abruptly, breaking your contemplative gaze.

“My lady, please excuse me,” she croaked, as the door opened before you could arrange a pretext to delay her entry.

“What is it, Elinor?” you asked, not wishing to dwell on the trivialities of the manor that day. Clearing her throat, she reported urgently of a man in a bad way, injured and lying on the steps. She hastened to your window, the portal to the land beyond your manor, and pointed to the makeshift courtyard where a man lay seemingly lifeless if not for the faint moan you heard.

“Why have you not sought my husband or some other man of decisions?” you questioned with a twinge of fear edging into your refuge of solitude.

“Lady, your husband has traveled beyond into the land of the Scots, and the aldermen are not present either,” she informed you.

“A household of women only, then? How did I overlook such an event?” you pondered.

“Lady, you are often engrossed in your own pursuits within these walls. How could you have noticed your husband's departure?” Elinor reasoned, her words not easing the panic now fully upon you. The thought that your husband had left you unprotected added another layer of anguish.

“At such a time, Elinor, how shall we defend ourselves?” you barely articulated.

“I suspect he gave little thought to the matter,” Elinor replied, her head bowed even lower than her subdued voice.

“Then it falls to me to act in their absence,” you reasoned. Not wanting this conflict or the talk that may ensue you knew you must act quickly. This man perhaps knew your husband, or perhaps it was only a small political scuffle that may have resulted in his injuries. You thought of the many reasons he could have ended up at the steps of your manor of this day. None of them added up entirely.

As you navigated the long, narrow corridors, your thin morning jacket provided little relief from the chill as Elinor aided you with the heavy door. You both stood in awe of the man at your feet. Having seen men before, chiefly your husband. This man’s appearance was now shocking at close view. He was unlike your husband in all ways you could imagine.

“Holy Jesus save us,” Elinor yelled through her missing teeth.

“He will not assist with this, Elinor,” you responded, your eyes surveying the severe wound from his stomach to his chest, the dark blood pooling around his lean form.

The man’s hair was a shade darker than the darkest night. Had night possessed more depth, it would resemble the hue of his locks. His attire suggested nobility, which only intensified the chill you felt. He had clearly been bested in whatever skirmish he had come from, and with no healer at hand, it seemed likely that a burial might soon follow—until his eyes fluttered open.

A striking blue that drew your own darker gaze, hinting at his foreign language or origins. His hand reached out feebly before falling back to his side.

He whispered faintly, “Ásjá.”

“He's alive!” you declared, as if the statement itself could reverse his fate.

“Yes, lady, he lives, I told you. Now what shall we do?” Elinor asked, concern evident in her voice.

“We save him. It is the right thing to do,” you answered.

“But without a healer, we risk much by sheltering him,” Elinor’s voice trembled.

“Then we shall tend to his needs ourselves,” you declared, your courage unusual, unfounded, drawn from the same well that had seen men saved from death at a distance. An instinct came over you. You directed Elinor to gather wood, cloth, herbs, and other necessities that seemed more from your imagination than any practical experience. You quickly cut away his clothes, exposing the dire wound more fully.

“Lady, he may not survive this,” Elinor observed with a somber tone. The unhinged flesh flapping against the seemingly unended torrent of blood emerging from him. How could there be so much blood.

“Silence, Elinor,” you hushed her. Your hands, though failed in the art of tapestry, were adept with needle and thread. So much failure had given you courage.

“We must stem the bleeding before we can stitch him up,” you instructed, asking for a branch from the fire.

“Lady, you cannot—” Elinor began, but you had already pressed the smoldering wood to the wound. The man awoke suddenly, thrashing in pain.

“Hold him down!” you ordered. Elinor, small but determined, restrained his arms.

You envisioned repairing his injury as if it were the "Galley of the Titan’s Moons," a rare piece of embroidery from the northern lands.

“I shall map the night sky upon your body, sir,” you said, speaking into the silence as he drifted further from this world. You sensed the ancestors gather, ready to welcome him, but you were not ready to let him go.

“No, not yet” you whispered, a soft rebuke to the invisible presence.

Elinor looked at you, puzzled. To whom were you speaking?

You were determined. This man would not die. Though you had sent for a proper healer, your task was to keep him alive until they arrived, hoping they would be sober enough to be of use. Much worse would be a drunk priest should your help not find any healer available.

It was not until you had finished suturing his wound that you noticed how his body appeared in the dim light of the great room. Your loneliness resonated with the landscape of his injury. It was a peculiar reaction, but there was something else broken within this man, beyond the sword wound. It was something familiar to your own. You held you own stomach for a moment, it felt as if you were the one almost slain, not him.

Eventually, his bleeding ceased, and the healer arrived, tended to him with poultices and what looked like grain spirits. You wrapped your furs around his sleeping form. He did not pass away. The stranger in your home survived. You had been told he might still not make the night. You watched him for as long as your eyes could. His faint inhalations mirrored in your own. But the exhaustion took over, and before you could retreat to your own chamber, you found yourself lying at his side.

“How improper, Lady!” Elinor’s voice pierced the quiet as dawn crept in and your eyes, heavy with sleep, opened. You hadn’t realized you had fallen asleep beside the stranger. Startled, you rose, wrapping a blanket around yourself. Quickly finding a reason that you had slept at his side.

“He remains unconscious, Elinor. The healer was unsure if he would wake,” you confided in the servant who had been by your side for so many years. She looked briefly placated. Yet you knew her mind was racing. The healer would tell the burgh folk of this strange man. Your husband was nowhere to be known. Northman had recently been subdued with heavy piles of church silver, and that arrangement was delicate at best. They would be back and this time they would perhaps sack the village since you knew the last of the silver had been promised away to visiting bishops and clergy. The wealth had run its course.

“He must stay until he awakens, until he can speak for himself,” you quickly decided.

It was better to know who he was. He would surely tell you since you saved his life.

“But what if he is a demon, my lady? Have you considered that he may have come from Hell to bring us further misfortune?” Elinor ventured, instantly regretting her words as her face contorted with shame.

“I apologize. I did not mean to imply you are cursed,” she hastily added.

You felt pity for Elinor, she was not as traveled as you had become. Had not the stories you knew, but you also could not see beyond, you had no way to know if it was safe to keep him with you. If your husband should arrive back, there would be no way to convince him that this man had not abused you in some way, but you did know something of him. There was something you did recognize.

“This man is no curse, no demon,” you affirmed, your gaze fixed on his hair, as dark as the ink with which you wrote.

“How can you be certain?” she queried.

“He spoke in the old tongue, asking for aid. Did you not hear him, Elinor?” you questioned, your voice steady.

The woman stepped back, tossing another log onto the fire, her confusion apparent. “I did not recognize the language, nor do I understand how you did,” she admitted.

The language was familiar to you, it was the tongue of your people from so long ago. From the place of your birth. The place that was destroyed till there was nothing but darkness.

Chapter 2 below!

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki fandom #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki smut #loki x reader #mcu #norse mythology #medieval fanfic #AU loki #tom hiddleston

119 notes · View notes

piedpiperslists · 2 months

Text

Seokjin One Shots (XXXIV)

* s - contains smut

Whipped by @syubits wc~3k / baker!Seokjin, strangers to lovers Summary: The new intern at the bakery down the street is kinda cute.

A Prince, Pauper and Pear by @jinpire wc~3k / prince!Seokjin, fantasy au Summary: You squinted at him dubiously for a moment before dragging your gaze pointedly up the immaculate leather boots with silver trappings, form fitting trousers and delicate embroidery on the lining of the coat. The shiny bar of silver hanging from his left ear. “Uh….were you trying to hide that?”

Sweet, Inedible Things by @jinpire wc~4.6k / ft PJM, bakery au Summary: Two more tense twelve hour shifts in the bakery have passed, in which Seokjin and Jimin have taken turns snapping at each other over innocent desserts and one confused assistant baker—you—to the point that customers are starting to notice.

Glazed & Dazed by @floralseokjin s wc~30.3k / pornstar au Summary: Vanilla, that’s what you do best as one of the industry’s most loved stars. Only you want a change. Taking the plunge to taint your pure image, knowing so many fans would love to see it sullied, even if just for one movie. There’s only one man for the job in your eyes. One you’ve always admired from afar, and the only one who’s perfect enough to take your innocence in the most fitting way. Seokjin Kim. Even more famous than you; a pro, a veteran, and someone you can’t wait to give your all for. Together you will be unstoppable.

Lovesick by @jimlingss wc~4.7k / ft PJM, angst, unrequited love Summary: In a world where love is a disease…your heart skips one too many beats.

The Devil’s Advocate by @jimlingss wc~11.8k / devil au Summary: The devil is a lazy. selfish. bastard. He never shows up for work and forces you to take his place at the gates of Hell. But when he follows you on your vacation — you have an inkling of his intentions. After all, you are his advocate.

Worshipers of the Sun by @jimlingss s wc~15.5k / god au Summary: After the war, the God of Sun married the Goddess of Love to exemplify that such devastation will never occur again. But you knew his affections were untrue and fled. After a century, Seokjin goes looking for you to bring you back home.

White Sand by @liveyun wc~3.3k / angst, exes au

Down The Rabbit Hole by @oftenderweapons s wc~12.5k / divorced!Seokjin, FWB, PWP Summary: Seokjin has been meeting Fawn at The Rabbit Hole for a while now. A place of debauchery and foregone inhibitions, and yet only one rule would not budge. Will Fawn finally have a taste of the forbidden fruit?

Brat by @hamsterclaw s wc~4.9k / chaebol!Seokjin, boss au Summary: Kim Seokjin is a lot of things to you. The high school heartthrob you never got with, the fuckboi you hooked up with occasionally in college, and now the chaebol boss you didn't sign up to work for. Things he's never been? A man you can rely on.

#ksj list #seokjin oneshot

101 notes · View notes

autumncottageattic · 2 years

Photo

PDF PATTERN

fox_and_blueberry

236 notes · View notes

cerisahh · 2 days

Text

GREEN-EYED GIRL

SYNOPSIS ꒱ gun gives goo's number to someone flirting with him, reader is unaware and gets jealous

REQUEST ꒱ hiiiiii may i request a drabble of gun x f!reader where he took her out on a date but when she went to the restroom she saw a girl ask him his number and he still gave it to her (and reader got jealous lol), but it turns out that he gave goo's number instead of his to that girl. eventually gun found her jealousy cute and decided to tease her before revealing the truth to her >< thankewww <3 - @vynnyll

NOTE ꒱ THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE!!! thank you for the request, vynn. it was a pleasure experimenting with this one!

Gun isn't exactly what most would call a 'hopeless romantic'.

That's why you're surprised when he asks you to have dinner at an exclusive restaurant in the heart of town. Not that you hadn't gone on dates before, but they tended to be more secluded, the atmosphere more relaxed. Not right in the hustle and bustle of central seoul.

Now imagine your further surprise when he turns up at your apartment the night before with the most gorgeous gown - because it would be a great disservice to simply call it a dress - and a smirking grin at your instant fawning.

Your boyfriend delivering an outfit for you to wear to a date? Now this is pretty romantic.

"I take it you like the dress?" He asks, still holding the gown as you continue to pour over the details and embroidery.

"Like it?" You say breathlessly, still mesmerised, "Oh, Gun, you really didn't have to - I love it - but you really didn't have to."

"I wanted to, so I did." The corners of his lips lift up into a slight smirk, "Besides, you shouldn't thank me too much. Not like you're gonna be wearing it for long."

"Gun!"

Romantic while it lasted, anyway.

You kick him out shortly after so he can return to his work, and so you can return to admiring this masterpiece. Seriously, where did he find this?

You go to sleep late that night, having tried on the gown and pretending you were a princess for an entire hour. I mean, no judgement, you look like one in that getup.

Gun arrives at your door at seven o'clock sharp. The door opens and it takes quite a fair amount of willpower for his jaw to not go slack.

You look breathtaking. He notices you've done your hair up all fancy and you've adorned yourself with jewelry that matches your outfit perfectly. He chose the right dress for sure. And the right girl.

"My, my." His arm snakes behind you at your waist and pulls you closer to him. Mine, he thinks, "Don't you look delectable."

"Delectable is certainly a choice of words." You grin, relaxing into him, placing your own hands atop his chest.

He hums and it reverberates through his chest, "I can think of a few more. Ravishing, opulent, enchanting," With each word his hands wander until you're flush up against him and the wall. God forbid any of your neighbours decide to peek their head out of their doors. One wrong move from him - or right, depends on how you're looking at things - will have you both tumbling back into your apartment and forgetting about your date tonight. Besides, you did not want him roughing up your dress.

You will your heated cheeks to cool down, "You can add late for our reservation to the list if you carry on that way."

He does, in fact, carry on that way. You both arrive at the restaurant twenty minutes later than what you had arranged, which is shrugged off by the waitstaff due to the fact that Gun knows the owner personally.

Which is another way of saying that Gun had threatened the owner personally, but who cares about details.

You two are escorted to a more secluded part of the restaurant, well, as secluded as the place could really get. It was a weekend so naturally it would be full of more people.

Gun levels a threatening glare at the waiter before he gets the chance to pull out your chair, doing so himself much to your amusement.

“Someone fancies themselves a gentleman tonight.” You muse, patting down the skirt of your gown as it adjusted to the chair.

“Gotta get in all the niceties before I get you back to my place tonight.”

Gun was lucky you had the patience of a saint right now, otherwise you would have flicked him with the cloth napkin you were holding.

The dinner was nothing short of delightful. You're no stranger to the finer things in life but between the food and the company in attendance, you had no complaints. It was nice to be seen in a more public place with Gun, somewhere that didn't involve fighting or gang wars.

It wasn't as nice to see a woman a few tables behind Gun's shoulder staring at you two. What was her problem?

"I need to powder my nose." You say to Gun, who was in the middle of taking a bite of a particularly bloody slice of steak. How he can stomach eating meat that rare you'll never know.

He hums, chewing thoughtfully, "You just said that to sound fancy, didn't you."

"Would you rather all the grizzly details of my bathroom escapades?" You ask, folding your arms against your chest.

"Would you judge me if I said yes?"

"Might do."

"Then no."

You roll your eyes and walk yourself to the bathroom, checking your hair to make sure it hasn't lost any of its volume or shape, it could use a little hairspray. Good thing you have your bag and a patient boyfriend.

Almost as soon as you left to 'powder your nose' - Gun thinks that saying is ridiculous, by the way - some woman wearing a dress that is way too low cut for the establishment they're in had sauntered up to him and started talking. About what, he wasn't sure, he wasn't in the mood to entertain some random whore who was clearly only looking for a rich man and a quick lay.

He notices she's stopped talking a few seconds too late and watches as her phone is pushed into his field of view - effectively moving his plate of food away, the arrogant bitch - he picks it up and stares at it for a moment, before putting Goo's number into her contacts. He's been pissing him off more than usual lately, he can deal with whatever train wreck is standing next to him.

"Are you busy later, handsome?"

Would this girl just fuck off already? She already thinks she's got his number so what more could she possibly want? He opens his mouth to tell her something of that nature before he gets interrupted.

"He is."

You're standing behind her glaring with your arms folded, mostly glowering at the woman but he sees you flicker that murderous gaze at him too.

Would it be so wrong to say he liked it?

Coming back to your table to see the staring woman, who now that you're looking closer looks like she's wearing an awfully cheap Jessica Rabbit cosplay, flirting with your boyfriend for everyone to see was not on your bucket list for tonight.

Seeing him put his number into her phone wasn't exactly thrilling either.

The woman cocks her hip to the side and looks you up and down, "And you are?"

You smile mirthlessly, "His girlfriend. You're standing in front of my seat."

"Really?" She asks, raising a brow, "You're his girlfriend?"

You're not an insecure person. Especially not with the way you know you look now, and you can see it in her eyes: she's intimidated.

Good. She should be.

"That's right. Now move along." You shoo her away with your hand.

She harrumphs at you and throws a 'whatever' over her shoulder. You make a sound of dismissal as she stalks off, you've half a mind to follow her to the table she came from and slam her head onto it a few times.

...

Where did that burst of violence come from? Gun must be rubbing off on you.

Speaking of Gun, you turn to him. He's leaned back in his chair and is all but smirking up at you, "Something bothering you, sweetheart?" He asks, examining you whilst you take your seat opposite him.

"Someone is bothering me." You manage, your expression must look similar to that of someone who has just sucked the juice out of a lemon. "What was that?"

"What was what exactly?" His head tilts slightly to the side with his question and he looks and sounds so stupid that you almost slap that stupid grin off his stupid face. Grinning like a moron like he hadn't given his phone number to that simpering whore. The nerve.

"Why were you talking to that... woman?" Bitch had been on the tip of your tongue but you caught yourself just in time.

With an air of nonchalance, he shrugs, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He takes a sip before he speaks again, "She wanted my number."

"Right. So you just decided to indulge whatever fantasies she was concocting in her head for shits and giggles and give her your number just because she wanted it?"

Oh he liked this side of you. Seeing you sitting there all irritable and enraged, albeit quietly, as to not make a scene, made his blood pump hotter. Jealousy looked real good on you.

He supposes he should set the record straight, having you think he would ever give his personal number to some rouge-wearing tramp when he had you was laughable. Guess he'd have to get that through your skull later, one way or another.

"I gave her a phone number. Not mine."

"What?" You pause, the angry flush that had been festering dissipated quicker then it rose, "Who's?"

He shows you his phone instead of responding verbally, “Goo?” You say, confused.

“Didn’t really think I’d let any woman have my number did you?” He tucks his phone back into his suit pocket.

"You weren't exactly telling her to leave."

He looks at you, "I wasn't even listening to her."

"Well... I don't like it."

"Like what?"

He's gonna get a kick out of this one, you let a beat pass as you try to gather some words that won't make you sound like a jealous control freak that doesn't want her boyfriend to even acknowledge the existence of other women.

"Women talking to you."

That was absolutely not the correct choice of words. He snickers.

"Shut up. You know what I mean." You huff, cross at yourself.

"I do, but hearing you admit that you were jealous is music to my ears. Say it again."

Holding up your middle finger doesn't do much to deter him. "Say it, you were jealous."

You roll your eyes, "You really want to hear me say it?"

"Desperately." He admits, taking a sip of his drink. Nodding at you to begin your confession.

"Will it shut you up?"

"For all of thirty seconds, maybe."

You lean back and look to the side, "Fine. I was jealous. Hope you enjoyed that because I'm never saying it again."

"Once was more than enough."

"You still have twenty five seconds left."