#speaking of airing grievances... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

halfvalid · 1 year

Note

Hey! I was wondering if you could do a live action Zoro smut where it's enemies to lovers (boy X girl). I don't mind how hardcore smut (18+?) but I would love if there was some tension (argument or fight!) 😁

speak teeth

ABOUT

| 18+ | smut | explicit |

alternate title: i need the lord

rating: explicit

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 4.9k

description: you and zoro have never gotten along. after a incident in town escaping from marines, you resolve to sort out your issues with unconventional means. (aka sex.)

tags: strawhat!reader, female reader, enemies to lovers, except it's more like frenemies to frenemies with benefits, kissing, kiss to distract trope, no use of “y/n”, reader calls zoro "roronoa", penis in vagina sex, creampie, pwp, cowgirl position

author’s note: thanks for the request! i kind of lost the plot on this one because i'm terrible at writing enemies-to-lovers and there's not much 'lovers' involved in this since i couldn't exactly fit that into a oneshot. hopefully you still like it anyway? i tried my best.

tags make it seem so much worse than it actually is.

Roronoa Zoro did not like you.

The feeling was mutual, so you didn’t mind the fact, really. Zoro was annoying, with his three swords, and that stupid low voice, and how he never seemed interested in conversation unless it was either about alcohol or beating someone up. You were undoubtedly annoying to him for various reasons not so different in number to your own grievances of his personality. You two didn’t like each other. It was fine. It was normal.

It was pissing off the rest of the Straw Hat crew.

In your defense, you were never outwardly aggressive towards the man. You didn’t purposely exclude him from conversations or avoid looking at him if he dared haunt a room you were in with his presence. You just… didn’t speak to him unless spoken to. And maybe you had a tendency to roll your eyes or mutter some insults when he was talking, but it wasn’t that big of an issue.

Zoro, on the other hand, was a master of discord. He’d killed and hunted so many people it only made sense for him to be, but it seemed he hadn’t skipped his lessons in petty fights either. Because he was bullheaded and a buzzkill and always opened his big mouth when you were around. Those sarcastic remarks of his were common, sure, but when you were in the room they were tenfold and laced with genuine venom.

You weren’t sure who’d even started the strife between you two. It had been so long that you’d forgotten. While everyone else had seemingly bonded after your journey together, you and Zoro remained firmly in the stage you’d been while trapped in Buggy’s green room—antagonistic. Obviously you didn’t hate each other—when Zoro had nearly died to Mihawk, you hadn’t been happy—but you didn’t get along, and both of you were just fine with that arrangement.

Nobody else was, though.

And so obviously you didn’t like it when Luffy announced, as you were docked, that you were assigned to scout the surrounding village together. Your lips twisted, but you refrained from saying anything up until Luffy finished his speech with: “And that’s the plan! Any objections?”

There were head shakes from all around the deck of the Going Merry. You eyed Zoro in the very corner—his arms were crossed, and carefully he raised a hand, just barely lifting it into the air as he motioned. “Why is she coming with me?”

You bit your tongue, suppressing the irritated sigh that threatened to escape. “Because,” Luffy said, bright as ever, “You two need to learn how to be friends. Think of it as a bonding activity!”

“I’d really rather go with Sanji,” you optioned, trying to be more civil than Zoro at least. “He could use a hand carrying the stock barrels.”

“Nope,” Luffy chirped. “It makes most sense for the two of you to be the one to buy the weapons, anyway.”

“He’s right. You both are the most knowledgeable on the subject,” Nami whispered, though she gave you an apologetic look. You sighed. Zoro opted to say nothing.

“Fine. Let’s go, Roronoa,” you said, getting up off the Going Merry’s railing to start walking off the ship. You heard Zoro grumble from behind you, but he soon caught up. You said absolutely nothing to each other for the first few minutes of walking, keeping to yourselves until you eventually reached the market.

“What kind of weapons are we looking for?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder at the man who trailed just barely behind you. “I know Luffy wants backups, but did he say specifically what?”

“Probably a few guns, maybe some swords,” Zoro replied. “A katana for me. Extra staff for Nami, in case hers breaks.”

“Right. Nami gave me five-hundred thousand berry. Let’s spend it wisely. No pit stops.”

Zoro gave you a look. “It’s not like I’m going to slip into the nearest tavern and abandon you. Luffy said we go together, so we go together.”

“Right.” You turned away so you could roll your eyes in private. You had to appreciate that, at least; Zoro’s loyalty to Luffy at least meant he wouldn’t be a bitch to you if Luffy told him not to, and Nami kept you more or less under wraps too. “Pistols first. Let’s just get two, and save the rest for a sword because those are more pricey.”

Focusing on business was fine. You could be a responsible adult and not be petty. And it really did go okay for the first half-hour, wherein you bartered one of the weapons sellers down to a reasonable price for two pistols and also picked up a bo staff on the way.

You were just heading towards another district of the town when Zoro slowed to a stop. You glanced over to see what he was looking at—a wall pasted with bounty posters, various pirates plastered on paper with big numbers shouting out their worth.

“Look, it’s Luffy,” you said, eyes catching a bundle of posters near the top. Sure enough, all six members of the Straw Hat crew were there. You noticed with distaste that Zoro’s bounty was higher than yours.

Zoro tore all of the posters off, and you were almost surprised when he took yours off too. He crumpled them up into balls, about to toss them behind his shoulder before you grabbed them, carefully tucking them away in your bag. “What’s that for?” he asked.

“So I can shoot darts at your face,” you replied. “Come on. Should finish and get back to the ship before anyone recognizes us.”

Zoro shrugged, but followed you as you led him to the closest armory you could find. The shop was small and rickety, and a silver bell announced your presence as you entered the building. There were blades of every kind in the shop; you could see a table of knives and daggers, along with a stand full of long swords by the front. Near the back, you glimpsed some hanging rapiers, and—

“Katanas,” Zoro muttered, pushing past you to slip to the back of the store. You sighed, but followed, glancing over the array of jians instead. Zoro was already picking one up and pulling it out of its sheath, checking the quality of the blade.

“Don’t—” you hissed, and he glanced up at you, brow raised in question as he spun the blade around in his hand. “You’re going to knock something over.”

Zoro sheathed the sword, a satisfying click filling the room with the motion. “Calm down.”

“I am calm,” you snapped. “If you’d just stop stomping around with those big boots of yours, though—”

Zoro looked far less affected by the entire ordeal than you did, and that pissed you off even more. Logically, you knew he didn’t show much emotion in general, and even his annoyances tended to be deep and quiet—but still. He strung the katana back up where it belonged. “I am not stomping.”

“Yes, you are—” You cut yourself off as the bell of the store rang again, announcing the arrival of more patrons. These two were whispering to each other, gruff voices that sounded almost scared. “He came in here, right?” One of them asked the other. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“He tore down his own wanted poster!” The other hissed back.

You caught onto what was happening quickly, letting a sigh out from between your teeth and grabbing onto Zoro’s arm to yank him further back into the store. You turned a corner, where a narrow hall cut off at a dead end, a wardrobe of swords blocking off the area to any prying eyes. “Now look at what you did,” you grumbled, before you could stop yourself. “You’ve got fucking bounty hunters after us.” You glanced through the stands of swords for a double take—the pair were standing at the front, outfitted in familiar white-and-blue uniforms. “Scratch that, even worse. Marines.”

“I can take them in a fight,” Zoro muttered, hand going to his swords. You grabbed his wrist and gave him a look.

“No. We’re not due to leave the docks for another two days,” you snapped. “Can you figure out a way to get out of a situation without stabbing someone?”

“How can you be sure it was him, though? The Demon?” The more timid marine asked. They’d started moving, and you shoved Zoro into the corner, attempting to hide his ridiculously broad figure with an armoire of weapons. He scoffed, but made no move to adjust, back flat against the wall.

“He had the three swords. And the three earrings, too. Of course it was him,” the other one replied. You rolled your eyes.

“Ever try being a little less obvious, Roronoa?” you muttered, shooting another glare in Zoro’s direction. “You’re like a flashing red light for every marine within a two-mile radius with your stupid swords. I’m Roronoa Zoro, the pirate hunter!”

“I don’t hear you yelling at Luffy to take his hat off,” Zoro hissed back.

“They’re coming this way,” you answered, entirely ignoring his retort. “Hide your stupid swords. Shove them behind a stand or something.”

“I don’t see why we can’t just—”

“No fighting.” You swiveled around, tugging his holsters off his belt and tossing the swords behind him with a graceless clatter. Zoro just sighed. “Shit,” you muttered as the marines turned at the noise, starting to move towards the back of the store.

“Now look at what you did,” Zoro mumbled, mocking your words straight back at you. You glared at him.

“Shut up and stay put,” you snapped. “Let me think of something.” The marines were coming closer, and you huffed out a nervous breath. Zoro watched you from his position.

“They know your face, too,” he said carefully. Almost derisively, like he was looking down on your idea; making you seem stupid. “Just let me fight them. It makes the most sense.” The footsteps grew louder, then, the marines moving towards the back of the store.

“I think I heard voices,” one of them muttered to the other. You shushed Zoro, unconsciously moving closer to him until your arm bumped into his. You startled, and then looked up, finding Zoro’s chest just inches away from your face.

“Is this some new sort of hiding tactic?” Zoro asked, voice dry as a desert. “Are you trying to melt us into the wall—”

The voices tapered off as the marines moved closer. Your hand shot up to cradle Zoro’s face, covering his dangling gold earrings with your fingers to hide them away. “Fuck this,” Zoro muttered, leaning back to pick up his swords. You shushed him, and he stopped, bent halfway over you so your faces were just inches apart.

“Just trust me,” you snapped. Zoro opened his mouth to argue, but then the marines’ footsteps got louder—they’d turn the corner any moment now.

“Fine,” he breathed. “But if it doesn’t work, I’m taking out my swords.”

Your mind ran a million miles a minute trying to figure out what to do. The marines were just around the corner now, and your breath caught, eyes meeting Zoro’s as you wracked your brain for something, anything that might distract the marines away from the two of you. Zoro’s lips parted, a split-second away from undoubtedly whispering some grand insult when the marines finally turned the corner.

You were kissing Zoro before you could even think.

“Oh,” one of the marines said, as your fingers nearly pinched Zoro’s earlobe, still covering his earrings. Zoro was frozen for a moment, but the marines behind you seemed startled enough that he realized it was working. A rush of satisfaction filled you for a moment—see, Roronoa, you don’t have to stab shit all the time—before Zoro was kissing you back.

And. Well. You’d started it, but you had not anticipated this.

Zoro was almost rough, his hand curling around the nape of your neck and tugging you down closer to him. His other hand came to rest on your waist, so impossibly big around your torso that you shivered. What had started out as a simple kiss slipped into one all messy, your breaths coming out in sharp gasps as Zoro barely gave you a moment to breathe.

His teeth dug into your lip, and you groaned into his mouth, tongue darting along his gums with the motion. He snickered at that, and you felt a little bundle of vexation starting at the pit of stomach at the sound. You ran your tongue into the crevices of his mouth, licking into him with ease. Another rush of satisfaction filled you as Zoro’s grip tightened on your waist. You were winning.

He fought back just as hard, practically merciless as his tongue slid against yours, prying into your mouth like he was trying to bare you empty of secrets. You felt stripped raw like this, but it wasn’t a terrible feeling—the opposite, actually, soft whimpers leaving your lungs as he dug more fiercely into you. Zoro sucked on your lower lip with teeth, and you barely managed to suppress the stuttered sound it tugged out from the back of your throat.

There were hasty footsteps receding somewhere behind you, which was the only sound that snapped you out of your motions. You were the first to break away—another score gained there—glancing over your shoulder to ensure the marines had really left before fully detaching yourself from Zoro. The silver bell rung again, signaling the marines had made their exit, and you let out a relieved sigh.

Zoro glanced over your shoulder, straightening his clothes as his tongue ran along his top teeth. The top teeth you’d had your tongue on just seconds ago. “If you wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.”

“I did not—” You sucked in a breath, all your general irritated feelings towards the man coming back at full force with just that one sentence. “Shut the fuck up. I got us out of the situation, didn’t I?”

“You have questionable methods,” Zoro replied, leaning over to pick up his abandoned swords and strap them back along his hip. “Don’t think about that all night.”

“You were not that good of a kisser,” you snapped, though you could feel your face getting hot. Your mouth tingled, like you could still taste him on your tongue; on your teeth; in your gums. There was a vaguely empty sensation at the curve of your waist you tried your best to ignore. “Don’t be so full of yourself. Roronoa. Now pick a sword to buy so we can leave already.”

Zoro seemed irritated, but he complied, brushing past you to inspect a few more of the swords before picking out one. You paid for it as quickly as possible, in a rush to get back to the ship; not even trying to talk the salesman down from his price like you usually would.

Zoro followed you languidly, absolutely nothing urgent about his motions as you trailed after you back through the village. You wanted to uppercut him so badly.

“Oh, there you guys are,” Usopp said upon stepping foot back onto the Going Merry. You shot him an apologetic smile before breezing past, beelining for your bedroom without a second thought. “Uh—okay! You good?” he called after you, but you were too far away to respond at this point.

You slammed the door of your room shut upon entering, heaving out a breath of jumbled emotion all in one go. Fuck Roronoa Zoro and his three stupid swords and his three stupid earrings. He was the most lumbering, bullheaded oaf you’d ever had the displeasure of engaging with.

He’d been a ridiculously good kisser. Now you hated him even more.

You locked yourself in your room for the next four hours, busying yourself with various tasks whilst simultaneously seething over Zoro. It wasn’t even that he’d done anything specifically to you in the past. You just—didn’t get along, really. He was irritating, and stupid, and always tried to solve his problems with a blade rather than attempting to use his wits. Not that he had any wits of any kind. He was—

He was, as you were starting to find out, kind of attractive. Which. Okay. You’d known his face was at least easy on the eyes, despite his personality and general attitude not retaining the same qualities. But this was an entirely unappreciated development.

Someone knocked on your door, snapping you out of your irritated haze. The sun had nearly set, a kiss of dusk coming in from outside as you shuffled over to the door. You yanked it open. “What—”

Zoro was standing in the doorway, arm propped against the side and keeping your door open even as you attempted to close it on him. “Roronoa.”

“You’re hiding,” Zoro said, a tinge of mirth just barely visible in his eyes. You glared at him.

“I am not.”

“Do you have to disagree with everything I say?” Zoro asked. He was still wearing his swords even now, though he’d dressed down as the hour grew late. “You skipped dinner.”

“Leave me alone,” you muttered.

Zoro took that as an invitation to step fully into the room. “I told the rest of the crew about the marines,” he said, and you flinched. “Not about that. Just that we got away. Nami wants to leave tomorrow evening now, so we’ll be busy.”

You stared at him, suspicious right from the start. “And you care enough to tell me? Did someone put you up to this?”

Zoro stiffened. “I just thought you might want to know.”

Your eyes narrowed. He looked as normal as ever—face blank, leaving no expression to be seen. But his muscles were tenser than usual, and the veins running up his arm were prominent, like his hand was tightened into a fist where it hid away in his pocket. “You have ulterior motives.”

“You’re so annoying,” Zoro muttered, but he didn’t budge. You scoffed.

“What, are you here to admit that you were wrong and my plan really did get us away from the marines?” you asked, voice sugary sweet as you riled him up. His jaw clenched, a vein tracing up his neck bulging with the pressure. “You don’t need to inflate my ego—”

Zoro moved across the room swiftly, and you stumbled back in surprise as he pinned you to the wall, hand tight around your arm. Your words died in your throat as his lips sealed over yours with a bruising kiss. His fingers dug into the skin of your bicep—tight, but not tight enough to hurt.

“I don’t need to inflate your ego,” Zoro snapped, finishing your sentence from where it’d died on your lips. “You do that enough yourself.”

You stared at him, the tingle of his lips still left as an afterthought on your mouth. “If you’re going to make out with me, take your fucking swords off.”

Zoro barely suppressed an eye roll, hands working at his belt to slide his holsters off from his hip. “What’s your problem with them?”

“I think your emotional dependency on a bunch of oversized butter knifes—”

Zoro’s head jerked up, eyes dark when they met yours. “Don’t call them that.”

You couldn’t resist the quip off your tongue. “You asked.”

Zoro slowly made his way across the room again, steps careful and languid as he moved closer. “I take it back,” he said, voice a near whisper, every word crisp on his tongue. You shivered.

This time, you expected it when he kissed you. He wasn’t careful with it, and you didn’t want it any other way—your arms wrapped around the back of his neck, tugging him down closer to you. It got aggressive quick, his fingers coming down to clutch your waist, one of your hands tight around the locks of his hair as you pried open his mouth with your tongue.

Neither of you complied easily, both trying to get the better of the other. Zoro’s tongue forced itself into your mouth before you tugged on his lower lip with teeth. Both his hands came to wrap around your waist, now, hoisting you up and onto your hanging bed in the center of the room. His fingers dug in hard enough to leave bruises.

Zoro abandoned your mouth in favor of your neck, biting open-mouthed kisses into your jawline before moving down your jugular. Each one was more hasty than the last, wet and warm with licks of tongue and scrapes of teeth. You didn’t bother moving to give him better access—he had to do that himself, a large hand coming to rest on the back of your skull and pulling your head back to bare the rest of your neck to him. You heard him mutter something in Japanese—probably some obscenity, which pleased you more than you’d like to admit.

His kisses stopped at the hinge of your neck and shoulder, Zoro pausing to lean over and work his fingers up your spine. They danced over the clasp of your shirt, and you had to choke back a wry laugh, surprised. “I thought the Demon just took what he wanted,” you murmured.

Zoro didn’t seem to like that. He started unfastening the buttons going down the back of your top. “At least I was polite enough to ask,” he muttered.

“Just take my clothes off already,” you said, and he stopped his work, leaning back to glare into your eyes. You let out an annoyed sigh, and he rolled his eyes, going back to what he’d been doing. “Are we going to talk about it?” you asked, eyeing Zoro’s chest in front of you.

You pressed a kiss to his neck, sucking at the skin before grazing it ever-so-slightly with your teeth. His throat hitched under your mouth.

“Nope,” he grunted, finally unclasping the last button and pulling your top over your head. Since you didn’t have an issue with that arrangement, you didn’t say anything, even as Zoro practically shoved you flat on your back.

“Rude,” you muttered. Zoro didn’t bother apologizing; he just leaned down to take your breast in his mouth, tongue circling around your nipple. You weren’t fast enough to suppress your gasp this time—a point in Zoro’s favor then, one you allowed with a bitter taste on your tongue. Zoro’s mouth formed a smile against your skin. You brought your knee up between his legs, shoving into his crotch in retaliation.

“Stop,” Zoro hissed, the consonants of the words brushing across your skin when he spoke. You ignored him, and he let out a groan, hand clamping around your thigh to keep you from moving. “Do you have to be such a brat?”

“I am not a brat.” You hooked your ankle around his, causing him to slip from where he lay suspended above you, mouths mashing in another too-aggressive facsimile of a kiss. “You’re just a gigantic manwhore with an overinflated ego.”

“You did not just call me—” You shut him up with another kiss, teeth digging deep into the inner gums of his lip. You ran your hands up the sides of Zoro’s figure, trying your hardest to ignore the stiff muscles of his ribcage. He wasn’t that well-built. He wasn’t even that attractive, you tried to convince yourself. Still, you found the buttons of his shirt, trying to unfasten them quicker than Zoro had with yours.

One of them caught, and Zoro had the audacity to laugh. You grumbled something incoherent under your breath, tugging his shirt off all the way and tossing it somewhere behind you. “Shut up.”

“You’ve been the one complaining this entire time,” Zoro replied easily. He leaned down, tugging at your trousers to pull them off, pressing sloppy kisses down your torso now. You resisted the urge to say something in response, knowing it would just give him the satisfaction of being right. Were your points tied now? You couldn’t remember.

Zoro had pulled your pants down to your knees by now, and you kicked them off all the way, watching as he pushed them off the bed and leaned down to work at the inward slope of your hip. You shivered, legs trembling as you felt your core grow tight, the cloth of your underwear already wet with anticipation. Seeing the ever-steadying tent in Zoro’s pants made you feel just a little bit better, and you were nice enough to let a stuttering moan out as his tongue licked down to the band of your panties.

He pulled your underwear all the way off, then, but to your distaste completely ignored your fully exposed core to unbutton his own pants instead. “I hate you,” you muttered.

Zoro stopped in the middle of what he was doing, pants halfway down his thighs and length already out. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, voice careful—you could still hear the mocking tone beyond the coolness of his voice, though, and your jaw clenched in irritation. “Did you want something?”

“Yeah, for you to shut the fuck up.” You pushed yourself up by the elbows, grabbing one of Zoro’s arms and yanking him down onto the mattress. You used both hands to strip him of the last of his clothes—God, his legs were long—before returning to press your own open-mouthed bruises along his neck. His hips bucked up against yours, insistently chasing any friction, but you tightened a grip on his thigh to get him to stop. “Give me a second.”

“I don’t like that I’m suddenly under you,” Zoro said drily, and you could feel the words as they formed in his throat, still biting hickeys into his skin. You rolled your eyes, lips disconnecting from skin with a dull pop.

“Deal with it, Roronoa. I’m not moving.” With that, you finally reached down to coax his legs apart, hovering your core over his hips as you lined your entrance up with his length.

There was an audible hitch of breath on Zoro’s part as you sunk onto him. Point.

One of his hands tangled in your hair when you started moving, the other coming to press on the small of your back as you worked yourself up and down around him. For the complaining he’d done about the position, he didn’t seem so bothered about it, pulling you into a rough kiss.

You bit back with force, breath escaping you as your hips bucked against Zoro’s. The wet pool in your lower belly only grew stronger with every thrust, pressure building up inside of you as Zoro’s tongue ran across your teeth. You moaned freely now, too lost in the daze of your pleasure to remember to be annoying. Evidently Zoro felt the same way—he swallowed every one of your gasps up, grunting as you pulsed around him.

Your hips stuttered, thigh muscles contracting with the effort as you clenched down on Zoro. Still, you pushed through even as your muscles started to tire, encouraged by the deep, throaty sounds that escaped Zoro's lips between each kiss. He was big, filling you up damn near wholeheartedly, the crevices inside of you seeming to mould to his skin as you worked yourself on him.

Zoro started moving against you, and you gasped as his angle changed, somehow reaching farther in your body and causing tingles to erupt all along your skin. Your mind buzzed as he thrust into you with renewed vigor, core pulsing as you felt yourself come closer and closer to the edge.

You came all at once, teeth biting down in Zoro’s mouth before you parted from him. You let out a gasping moan, attempting to toss your head back as stars burst across your vision. Zoro’s hand in your hair dragged you back into a kiss, though; this one was slower, less teeth this time, like him coming had lessened the urge to bite.

Your movements slowed, coming to rest against Zoro’s skin, warm and—although you wouldn’t say so out loud—almost comfortable. His hand hadn’t budged from where it was pressed against your lower back, holding you tight to him.

There was a sticky wetness spreading fast by your thighs, and you grimaced, lifting yourself off of Zoro and rolling beside him on your back in one fluid motion. He stifled a groan at the movement, clearly irritated at the fact you hadn’t given any warning.

You lay there, breath heaving, rising out your high and making no move to touch the man laying by your side.

After you’d regained some of your dignity, you sat up, eyes narrowing at Zoro. “Get off my bed.”

Zoro gave you an exasperated look, but he didn’t argue; he just climbed off your bed, retrieving his clothes from where you’d tossed them about the room. He donned them slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Your eyes traced along his figure while he did, and you only felt sort of annoyed by it.

“I still hate you,” you snapped, after he’d finished changing. Zoro just scoffed, picking up his swords and slinging them across one shoulder. You could see a bruise purpling by his neck. At least you’d done damage.

“Fine by me,” he replied, straightening his shirt and giving you a look—not quite irritated, not quite sarcastic. “Dinner’s still waiting for you.”

You glared at his back as he opened the door to your bedroom. “Get lost, Roronoa,” you said, and that was that.

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arabellasleopardcoat · 7 months

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Vūjigon (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Daemon has been having sex without love his whole life. It's easy. Marriage should be more of the same, right?

Warnings: Smut. Rough oral sex, male receiving. Daemon is smitten, he just doesn't know it.

A/N: Part two to this, can be read as a stand alone. You only need to know that they don't speak the same language. Whole credit for the idea of a blowjob / character study to @precious-little-scoundrel

Westeros was full of people who hated Daemon Targaryen. It had never bothered him. Daemon knew that when you were closer to a God than a man, there were many that would envy your position. Natural superiority was challenging to accept for those of inferior stock, after all.

Your father was the kind to care about that sort of thing. He had probably found out when the two of you had been trying to trap someone with Valyrian blood to marry you. Daemon wondered if you cared about that. Or if you thought about joining their ranks.

You very well might, after this. But since you had no words with which to air your grievances, Daemon wasn't too worried. Besides, there were plenty of wives who hated their husbands, and as far as he knew, you didn't seem to like commonplaces.

It was why he was going to introduce you to this practice, after all. Daemon hoped that your foreign education and your natural curiosity might stop you from slapping him.

He pulled you in for a kiss. Eager thing that you were, you sat yourself in his lap with a saucy grin. Daemon wondered at the walking dichotomy that you were. One second you could put the most expensive whores to shame with how wanton you were, the next you turned shy, still not having fully shredded your innocence.

“Bodmagho.” Daemon says, tapping your lower lip to get your attention. It proves a dangerous thing to do because you give him a little pout, pushing your lower lip against his thumb. And Seven Hells, Daemon is just a man. When you stick your lip like that, he wants to bite it so bad.

“…” You peer up at him, with your widest eyes. Clearly waiting for your lesson. Daemon can't focus. His cock throbs painfully in anticipation of what is to come. Your small, wet mouth, spreading around him. Hot and tight, just how he likes them, but made better, because this is a hole no one has ever used before. Your astonished eyes, when you hear what Daemon is about to propose.

You jab him in the ribs, hard. Daemon shakes himself out of his lust induced stupor. There is a lesson to be taught here. Otherwise, his fantasies will never come true.

He unbuckles his belt with one hand, lifting his hips to be able to lower his breeches. His movements jostle you, and the motion makes you giggle, so Daemon lifts his hips a few more times, making you bounce even more.

It’s not often that Daemon actively tries to make others laugh. Those times were left behind in his youth, when he didn't know of other ways of charming women. He thinks himself out of practice, but is pleased to notice that you do laugh. Defenseless, he just smiles back.

Daemon grabs your hand and guides it to his cock, between the both of you. A crimson red blush stains your cheeks, and you give him a wide-eyed look. This is the first time in all of your couplings that you have touched him there. He can feel your inexperience, the way your hand strokes way too lightly, trying to get used to the feel of him. Daemon knows it is fucked up, but it arouses him even further.

Nothing is better than a maiden's touch. Perhaps your grip isn't the best, nor do you have much of a rhythm going, but your hands are soft. He can tell just by the skin on your palms that you are a lady. Someone who should be loved and protected, and that is currently debasing herself for his pleasure. The thought makes his stomach clench, cock hardening.

There is a tiny furrow on your brows, almost confused by what you are feeling. You lean in and kiss him, and unsubtly try to peek a glance at his member. Daemon chuckles, and opens up his posture even more, letting you look as much as you want. He even guides your hand on a few strokes, showing you how to touch him to get him hard.

The sight of your small hand wrapped around his shaft threatens to lead him to insanity. It's made even worse by the fact he has to guide your hand when you get a little shy. Daemon wraps his hand around yours, dwarfing it, and jerks himself off inside your smaller fist.

He is fully hard in almost no time, and he then lets go of your hand to allow you to explore on your own. Almost without noticing, you rub the head of his cock. Some of his seed is already leaking. You smear it around, curiously chirping something or another in that language of yours. Daemon has no idea what you are saying, but it amuses him how similar your accent is to those from Dorne.

They say the most beautiful women are from Dorne. Daemon wouldn't be surprised if you had family there. You are a lovely little thing, all sultry eyes and a pouty mouth that you use to great effect. You seem bright, though his assessment of your intelligence is seriously impaired by the language barrier.

Some men at court have jested about his luck, in finding a wife that never nags. Daemon no longer shares their opinion. At first, he had, but now he finds himself often wishing he could speak your language. See what hides behind your eyes, get to know you in more profound ways. Sometimes, even, he catches himself trying to find translations of his favorite books to see if you would like them.

He smiles at you, fondly, before shoving you off his lap. You let out a startled yelp, before coming up to your hands and knees. You glare at him, starting to push yourself up. Daemon stops you.

“Daor.” He says, trying to get you to stay on your knees. And fuck, if the sight of you kneeling between his spread legs doesn't do something to him. You obey with a confused and hurt look. Daemon cannot stand it. His pretty girl, all pouty and feeling unwanted. He can’t have that, can he? “Vūjigon.”

You stare.

“Come on. Vūjigon.” Daemon repeats. You still give him a puzzled look, tilting your head to the side. He fights the urge to coo at you. Instead, Daemon points to his cock, and brushes his fingers over your pouty lips. “Vūjigon.”

Sudden understanding lights up your face. The triumph at understanding what he wants only last a second, though. You balk, trying to get up. Apparently, even non westerosi noblewomen know that what Daemon is asking is somewhat debasing.

A whore's trick, Mysaria had called it, when she first introduced him to the practice. Daemon had greatly enjoyed seeing her on her knees, subjected to the indignity of having him thrust wildly inside her mouth.

With you, it was bound to be even better. There was nothing like corrupting innocence, and nothing like bringing uppity women to heel. Daemon had been eager to do this, picturing it the whole day. His pretty highborn girl, wantonly sticking her pink tongue out, eager to lap up his seed.

Rebelling, you tried to get up. Daemon placed a hand on your shoulder, and firmly ordered.

“Daor.”

You spluttered something and glared. Daemon glared back. He stared you down until you lowered your eyes. There was a prideful look in your eyes, quickly being replaced by embarrassment.

Daemon brushed your pretty hair back and gently repeated his order.

“Vūjigon.”

This time, you folded. You pressed a kiss to his shaft, scrunching up your face. Daemon tutted, and smoothed down your frown.

“Ñuha kēlītsos.” Daemon smiled. His kitten. You glared, but understood that word well enough. You gave him small, kitten licks, making him shudder. Daemon had been planning this for almost a fortnight. You probably now understood his insistence at teaching you the names of animals, and your indignation was justified. All your lessons had been for naught but his hedonist tendencies.

His eyes dropped. The look on your face was priceless. All prideful highborn girl forced to do something she thought demeaning. With your pretty jewels and expensive dress, you were all that he had fantasized about and more. The gift that keeps on giving. His precious, obedient girl.

“Daor?” Daemon asks, softening a little. He doesn't want you to suffer, after all. Only be a little uncomfortable. You stop your kisses and kitten licks to give him a fierce look.

“Bodmagho.” You glower, before wrapping your pretty mouth around his leaking tip. Your brows furrow a little at the taste, but you look up at him, patiently.

Daemon can feel the heat of your gaze going straight to his cock. It turns impossibly hard. He lightly caresses your cheek with his thumb. You blink up at him, shy.

Never before have you looked more gorgeous than with your pretty mouth stretched around his cock. Daemon beckons you closer with a hand gesture, encouraging to take more of him inside. Molten, liquid heat accumulates in the base of his spine when you give a little awkward shuffle on your knees, advancing towards him.

He keeps petting your hair and muttering sweet nothings that you are probably unable to understand. You press forward, gluttonous little thing that you are, until you are choking on him. Daemon has to slow you down then because no matter how delectable your throat feels when contracting and spasming around him, the sight of tears on your face is not as arousing as he expected.

Somehow, it looks better on whores. He would like much better to see you stricken and crying from pleasure than pain.

You are his precious girl. Not deserving of rough treatment, of having to kneel on rough floors. Fuck, he hadn't even checked to see if you had a rug under your knees. He was a cunt. Daemon yanks you off his cock, and pulls you upwards. He places you on his lap.

You pout. You try to go back to his cock. He brushes the tears away from your face and wipes the corners of your mouth, getting rid of the spit gathering there. He even presses a kiss to your forehead.

“Daor, kēlītsos.” Daemon kisses you, softly. You respond poorly to the endearment, probably because you can't understand what he means. You associate it straight away with sucking his cock, which he now realizes wasn't the best idea. He taps at your lower lip to get your attention and rubs his face against your neck. You giggle, squirming like there is no tomorrow. “Kēlītsos.” Daemon orders, and you rub yourself against him, all kitten like. It would be the most adorable thing he has ever witnessed, were it not for the fact that you are rubbing against his hard cock.

He holds you to him with one hand, and unbuttons your dress just enough so he can pull your teats out. For the first time in the night, you struggle. You pull your dress up and squirm, trying to cover yourself. Daemon gives you a warning growl, and holds your hands to your sides.

You avert your eyes. Your shoulders hunch, as if you are trying to hide yourself. Embarrassed, Daemon realizes. You are embarrassed.

“Daor.” He kisses your jaw, then your neck, and makes his way to your pretty teats. He cups them in his hands. “Gevie.”

“Gevie?” You frown, puzzled. So Daemon repeats it fumblingly in your language, until your face lights up, and you are fully convinced he is calling you nothing but pretty. You give him a blinding smile, and something in him warms at seeing you so happy. He decides to just grind his hips against yours while fondling you a little. He can try teaching you how to suck his cock another night. After all, as a married couple, you had all the time in the world.

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endless-ineffabilities · 2 years

Text

in the shadow of your heart (part two of two)

Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader

requested by anon: inspired by the plot of the movie Flipped, where the reader openly pines for Daemon, but he always brushes her off until one day, she stops bothering him.

word count: 11.2k ▪︎ part one ▪︎ masterlist

themes: pining, angst, language, Daemon being Daemon, slight Cregan Stark x f!reader, some smut (18+)

“Greetings, Prince Daemon.” Cregan Stark is the first to speak. His genial manner is something that draws everyone to him, warm and earnest. The Lord of the North is much beloved, and with good reason. As he assesses Prince Daemon, he easily notices the agitation in the prince’s stance. The confusion in his eyes. If Cregan also notices the subtle envy collecting in Daemon’s expression, he does not let it show.

“Lord Stark,” he saunters in your direction, slowly, like a predator who has finally cornered his prey. Taking in the competition like a practiced fighter.

“Lady Y/n.” He calls you by name, and you realize how much of a rarity it is. It’s always just You, a statement more than an endearment, or my little shadow. You still don’t know what to make of the latter. Shadow. Does that mean you are indispensable, a part of him he can never shake? Or does he see you as an unwanted presence?

“Daemon. How have you been, my prince?” An attempt at cordiality from you. You know Daemon doesn’t care much for such dialogue, but what else is there to say?

Why did you not show up at my nameday, like you promised?

Have you been finding comfort in Mysaria’s arms?

Have I even crossed your mind, even once, or is my absence something that you welcome?

But you don’t make any of these thoughts heard. You don’t believe there would be a point. Besides, there is no need to air out your grievances whilst in the company of Cregan.

“I don’t know, my lady. Perhaps you could enlighten me. I have roamed nearly every inch of the palace grounds, and I’ve only just found you. You have not come to see me as of late, either.”

“I was not aware that you were expecting me, my prince.”

He scoffs, hating how formal you were being. Was this a show you were putting on for the Stark boy? Where are your throwaway smiles and your playful quips? Your appreciative gaze, drinking him in as if it were always the first time?

Cregan comes to your rescue, “I’m afraid I may be to blame for taking up the lady’s time, Prince Daemon. She makes for excellent company, as I think you know. She’s kindly been showing me around King’s Landing.”

“You’ve been around King’s Landing before, Stark. We were not aware you have taken a particular interest in the ins and outs of the city, but we’d be more than happy to provide you with our best maester to tell you everything you need to know. I’m sure the lady has much better things to do with her time. Besides, after a while, you might like a change of scenery. One that she wouldn’t know how to provide.”

What in the seven hells is that supposed to mean? Of course, the first time you meet in a long while, Daemon has surely stored some kind words to tell you.

“Don’t worry, Daemon. I can assure you that we’ve been making good use of our time together,” you look at him directly, no longer bothering with the niceties. Daemon knows how you really are, after all. He’s seen you flustered, embarrassed, angry. Mostly, he’s seen you pining. Wanting. For him. You’ve always been open around him, not holding anything back. Daemon enjoyed your brazenness, so unlike the other frilly maidens who clamber for his attention. But what changed?

“If you don’t mind, Lord Stark, I’d like a moment alone with the lady.” Daemon readily meets your gaze, barely giving mind to Cregan, who is now halfway covering you from his vision, as if preparing to protect you from him should the need arise. The nerve of this fucking Northern Lord.

“Honour demands that I only leave if this is what the lady wishes, Prince Daemon.” Cregan declares, his voice steady.

Bloody Northerners and their honour. “I was not presenting you with a request, Stark. Try not to get on my nerve.”

“Alright,” you speak up, “it’s okay, Cregan. I’ll come find you later.”

Daemon notes the familiarity with which you addressed the Stark boy, and it doesn’t sit well with him. “Yes, run along, young wolf.” He doesn’t drop your gaze, doesn’t watch Cregan walk away.

So, he also does not notice Cregan throw you a comforting wink as he disappears from view, leaving you with Daemon on the rooftop. Daemon’s mood considered; this is probably for the best.

The air is thick with words unsaid, and while Daemon relaxes his stance, his face betrays a storm of emotion. Ones that he is not equipped to deal with. Jealousy? Unrequited yearning? Uncertainty? What can he possibly say that would be enough? So he settles for, “You look well, my shadow.”

“As do you, my prince. Enjoying the comforts of home, I’d hope?”

“Tell me this,” Daemon impatience flares, “why have I not seen you around? They used to be rare, the days in which you would not simply make your presence known to me.”

“That’s why I got to be called your shadow, was it not? That I was always following you around like a pest, driving you to irritation. There were moments wherein I could swear that I saw you grimace at my arrival - ”

“A pest?” He looks taken aback. He reaches for your arm, but you sidestep and fold your arms behind you, “Y/n, where is all this coming from?”

“I think you know quite well, Daemon.”

“Would it delight you to hear that I may have missed your company, no matter how unreasonably persistent it might have been?” Daemon’s smirk is dangerous, capable of breaking through your icy approach.

“Unreasonably persistent? Is this your way of making amends, my prince? You might need a lesson in tact from your markedly more diplomatic brother.”

“I was never one to bother with needless flattery. Unless directed at me, of course.” His smirk grows even wider, enjoying the resurgence of your familiar banter.

Your tone turns sour, almost angry even, one that Daemon has not heard before, “You promised that you would attend my nameday festivities, and yet you did not. I waited for you, like the stupid little shadow that you have deemed me to be, and for nothing. I don’t know why I even expected you to come, given what you clearly think of me.” Your voice breaks at the end, and it snags at Daemon’s heart.

“I did not think you cared much for such frivolities, and…well, I…”

“No, I did not. I don’t. I only cared whether you would be there, so that I might see you. So that you might greet me with the smug smirk of yours. So that you might even ask me for a dance,” you pace around Daemon, your mind lost in thought of what could have been, “But no matter. It’s all over and done with now. We can keep such nonsense in the past, Prince Daemon. You no longer need to waste your time with me.”

“Y/n,” he says your name with such clarity, such emotion, as he moves to narrow the space between the two of you, “I sincerely apologize if I was not there for your nameday. Had I thought that my presence would mean that much to you, then I surely would have come.”

That’s not enough, Daemon. That’s not what I need.

You notice the sincerity in his eyes as he continues, “I don’t want you to be cross with me. And… I don’t want you to think that I… think little of you. You are not. You are - ”

“You were like my sun, you know. My entire world revolved around you. You were in everything that I could see.” Your face morphs into a mixture of sadness, and longing, and acceptance. Daemon notes that you were speaking of things as if it were already in the past, and he does not like it at all.

He lets you continue, even though it pains him to see the turmoil in your expression, “Daemon, I… I thought about you when I woke, and when I went to bed. You were intoxicating… and fucking infuriating, because you clearly did not share the same sentiment when it came to me. I was simply there.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you fucking expect of me,” he counters, not willing to comprehend that your words can bring him to fold so quickly, “but you know exactly who I am. What I am, my shadow.”

“Did I not make it clear to you just how I felt?” You ask. Your gazes are locked and heated. The distance between you has narrowed, and he can feel your warm breath on his face. He notices the way your chest rises and falls, the slope of your breasts, the furrowing of your eyebrows which he finds endearing. You stand so close, an alluring distraction, nearly making him lose all train of thought.

“For fuck’s sake, of course. Everyone could see it!” He snaps, raising his voice at you.

“And yet, it did not matter.”

“No, it matters - ” he pauses, looking away, “I just… don’t know…”

You straighten, “You know what, it’s perfectly fine, Daemon. Why were you looking for me?”

“I thought I already mentioned. I was wondering where you’ve been all this time. Whatever wrongs you believe I have done to you, it was never my intention. I do not wish to be rid of your presence. It does not…” When his eyes capture yours once again, you see the inner turmoil reflected within, “It does not feel right without you around… my shadow.”

You want so badly to take his hand as you had done so many times before, and reassure him that everything is fine. But Rhaenyra’s advice had struck you, so well that it rings true in your mind as you look at Daemon. “Make him hunger for you,” she had said, eyes glinting mischievously, “so that he may realize what it is he may be at risk of losing, if he does not get his act together. And, well, if he still does not treat you as you deserve, then surely someone else will.”

You would have chased Daemon to the ends of the Seven Kingdoms, but you can only pursue someone so far before you might tip over the edge of the world yourself.

“I understand, Daemon. I am not angry at you. Truthfully, I don’t think I could ever be.” You offer a comforting smile, but it does not reach your eyes.

“Very well, then. On the morrow, I shall once again conduct my training in the courtyard. I expect you to be there.”

When you narrow your eyes at his implication, he adds, softly, “I mean, I want you to be there.”

You smile, and echo his exact words from weeks ago, when you gave word to him about your festivities, “I’d be loathe to miss a good training display of yours, my prince. I’ll be there.”

There may be a lot more than needs to be said, that Daemon wants to say. But he cannot find the words. He is not even certain what it is that compelled him to seek you out today. Or if he is, he is not ready to face it yet.

“I shall take my leave, my prince,” you curtsy, “I’ll be seeing you.”

He watches as you walk away. He is covered in sunlight from where he stands, the wind gently blowing mild and pleasant. And yet he feels cold, and his spirit is strained, as if this unspoken stalemate between the two of you casts a gloom over his days. As if you had taken all warmth along with you.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Daemon swings forcefully, toppling his opponent to the ground.

“Again!” He yells, “I thought you cunts are supposed to be decent fighters, at the very least. And yet even the whores in the Street of Silk might make for better competitors.”

Not one of his gold cloaks makes a move, and they all look at him warily. Their commander has been heated all morning, and they have taken the brunt of his rage.

The spectators have created a wider berth around him than usual, while they mostly whisper to each about the prince’s nasty temper.

One of the braver gold cloaks, Maron Tyrell, decides to approach him, “My prince, perhaps we should conclude our training exercise for today. The men are drained and wish to - ”

“We finish when I say so,” Daemon emphasizes every word in his displeasure, “not at your fucking heed.”

Maron persists, forgetting to mind the risk of talking back to Daemon when he is in this state, “We noticed that a certain Lady is not among the spectators, my prince. Your shadow, I think that is what you deem her to be, and rightfully so, I mean… don’t you think that actually made this morning’s activities more bearable, without her needlessly yapping at you at every-”

Maron does not get to finish his jibe about you, as Daemon pummels the young knight into the ground. His fist collides with Maron’s face, again and again, until he is pulled back by several of his struggling men.

“Prince Daemon!” A cacophony erupts around the courtyard – pleas for him to cease, gasps of shock and worry, even some callous laughter at the absurdity of the situation. The rogue prince has assailed one of his very own men. One of his loyal devotees. An undignified act, even for the volatile prince.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” Daemon squirms out of the grip of his men, and storms out of the courtyard, people parting like waves in his path. His knuckle is bruised and partially covered in Maron Tyrell’s blood. Yet, he cannot bring himself to care.

For what is a man without his shadow? He might as well just be gone.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Lord Mathias Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden, your Grace." A member of the Kingsguard announces the new arrival, his clear voice resounding in the throne room.

The imposing hall is nearly empty, apart from King Viserys who stands at the foot of the Iron Throne, several members of the Kingsguard, and his Hand, Lord Otto Hightower.

The elderly Tyrell walks in with a dignified air. There is a slight hunch in his posture, but his gaze is trained straight ahead. King Viserys meets him halfway, with a welcoming smile on his face, "My Lord Tyrell, what a pleasure this is, truly."

"My King," Mathias bows his head once, then looks at Viserys again, eager to finally make his appeal known, "I do hope my arrival is not untimely. It has been a while since we last convened, you and I."

"Not at all, Mathias," Viserys says, "I am always at your disposal for any important matter that you wish to bring to my attention, as I understand this is the case at present."

"Yes, well, let me begin by relaying my wife Lady Lenna's well wishes for you, my King. She feels honoured to have been a friend to your late wife Queen Aemma, and we only hope the best for your family."

Viserys nods amiably, accustomed to such flattering declarations from Lords and Ladies alike. He also knows by now that such, while potentially genuine, are usually followed by either a complaint or a petition. As if he was being softened up for what follows.

“Which is why it saddened me greatly to hear that a certain member of your family had attacked one of mine. The inducement of this remains beyond my understanding. My nephew, Maron, a member of your gold cloaks, is currently being attended to by our finest maesters, after suffering several injuries at the hands of Prince Daemon.”

“What?” Viserys’ friendly expression falls, “Daemon?” He looks toward Otto Hightower in hopes of some clarification.

“My King, we have just received word of this incident, and we were planning to discuss this in our council meeting on the morrow. The prince is required to attend, after all, which gives him a chance to elucidate his actions.” Otto explains placatingly.

“Daemon,” Viserys repeats his brother’s name, breathing it out like a curse. It was no longer any surprise to him to hear of such an act committed by his brother. He merely hoped that their occurrences would grow fewer and farther between.

“I knew you would understand the seriousness of this matter, my King. House Tyrell has, after all, always supported House Targaryen since the age of the Conqueror. All I want is for Prince Daemon to answer for what he had done to my nephew, in any way that you see fit.”

Viserys puts on his best placating smile, “Of course, Mathias. It shall be done. Now will that be all? I’m afraid I have some other matters to attend to.”

The Lord of Highgarden does not fail to notice the poorly hidden irritation in the King’s face, and he is quick to be done with the formalities of making himself scarce, exchanging a few choice words before bowing and promptly leaving the throne room.

“Well?” Viserys looks around the throne room, addressing whoever might have answers, “where the fuck is he?”

Otto squirms where he stands, “I can send for him right away, your Grace.”

They will soon realize that Prince Daemon’s whereabouts will elude them that day, as he had taken refuge in the clandestine quarters of the Lady Mysaria after the incident in the courtyard. However, the usual pleasures will not be exchanged between the two. Daemon no longer possesses the eagerness to lose himself in his apparently favoured woman. Mysaria does not press on, letting the prince get some much-needed rest. She does take note of one name uttered from his lips as he succumbs into slumber. Yours.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The members of the Small Council settle around the table, each one placing their round totem in front of them. The council meeting has begun.

Each Lord sits alert, ready to present their reports and findings for the week. Lord Corlys on the ongoing war in the Stepstones. Lord Beesbury on lowering the common tax for grain. Lord Lannister on arranging a play for the nobility. And so on. At the head of the table, however, their King does not appear to give off his usual air of graciousness. He leans to the side of his chair, routinely running his hand over his face in frustration.

Lord Beesbury speaks up, “Your Grace, shall we start with - ”

“Where is my brother?” Viserys’ voice is irate, his query directed at Lord Otto.

“We summoned him, your Grace, but he made it clear that he had other pressing matters to attend to.” Otto speaks slowly, clearly, in hopes that Viserys does not take his frustration out on him. “He mentioned having to meet with the Lady Y/n,” At this, Otto looks at your father across the table.

“My daughter?” Your father says, “I assure you, your Grace, I am not aware that she has any pressing matter with Prince Daemon. I would not even go so far to say that they are acquaintances.”

“Oh, Lord, you must know,” Tyland Lannister says, almost mockingly.

“Know what, my Lord?” your father asks, incredulous.

“Your daughter has been openly pining for the rogue prince. It’s common knowledge. She has not been shy about her affections, mind you,” Tyland smirks.

“I know nothing of this. My daughter has just begun a courtship with Lord Cregan Stark himself, and this I approve of. It would be unseemly for her to get involved with Prince Daemon in the way that you are insinuating.”

“What is the truth?” Viserys raises his voice, then turning to Otto, he adds, “Have you heard of this development?”

“I did not believe it to be consequential, your Grace. The prince has his share of admirers, after all.” Otto replies.

Viserys sighs heavily, thinking of how things will never just be simple when it comes to his brother. “Well, has he been receptive of the young lady’s affections?”

Lord Beesbury says, “The consensus has been that the prince has largely ignored them, your Grace.”

“Seven hells,” Viserys lets out a dry laugh in disbelief, “How come everyone knows of this matter except for me, the man in question’s own brother?”

“If I may respond to what Lord Beesbury just claimed, it does not seem that way. At least not anymore. Word has been circulating of yesterday’s incident, and apparently, the reason why Prince Daemon assaulted Maron Tyrell is because the latter brought up the subject of Lady y/n, and not in the nicest way.” Tyland says.

Lord Corlys intervenes, “Might we get on with more urgent business, lords?”

Viserys sits silently for a moment, letting all of the information sink in. He looks around the council table, baffled at the ridiculous scenario in front of him – the highest-ranking officials of the Seven Kingdoms prompted to engage in chitchat all because of this whole affair between yourself and Prince Daemon. “My lords,” he finally says, “Lord Corlys is right. We have better things to do with our time than to fucking gossip. I shall deal with my brother myself.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The same morning, in another corner of the sprawling castle, you stand in your chambers, arranging the books on the shelf. You have just gone on a stroll with Rhaenyra, and are just taking a short rest. You startle slightly when your lady-in-waiting Hestia walks in.

“Good morrow, my lady.”

“To you as well, Hestia.” You smile in return.

“I have a message to relay, my lady,” she timidly says, “Earlier, when you had departed, Prince Daemon visited your chambers.”

You freeze. “Daemon?”

“Y-yes, my lady. I had walked in to change the linens, and he was already sitting there at your desk. Waiting for you, it seemed.”

“And? Did he mention anything to you?” You ask gently.

“He wants to meet you in the godswood, my lady. He said that he will anticipate you there at around noon.”

You note to yourself that noon is fast approaching. “Hmm. I see.” Hestia smiles comfortingly at you, and you can deduce that there is more that she wants to say.

“How did he seem, the prince, whilst he was here?” You engage her further, genuinely curious yourself.

“If I may be blunt, my lady, he seemed quite distressed. He appeared as if he was lacking in rest, and well… he really did seem eager to find you.”

You walk over to your chair and slump down in a dramatic huff, “Ah, it appears that I have found myself in quite the conundrum.”

Hestia smiles, following you, “What a conundrum, though, my lady. Prince Daemon and Lord Cregan vying for your hand? Nearly every eligible lady in all the kingdoms would feel envious of you.”

Your smile is wistful when you say, “It’s not quite the fairy tale that it seems, Hestia. I mean, you know how Prince Daemon is.”

“So it is Prince Daemon whom you favour?”

“What made you think so?”

“Well, I can’t be certain, my lady. It’s just that… he’s the one you chose to mention. His is always the name that you bring up, as opposed to Lord Cregan’s.”

Huh. I really must have been fixated on Daemon, haven’t I, if everyone is still of the impression that I want him, even with Cregan in the picture.

Do I want him?

“My lady?” Hestia’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts, “are you alright?”

“Yes,” you clear your throat, and stand, “I think I have somewhere to be.”

“To meet with Prince Daemon?”

How could I ever not want him?

“Perhaps.” You look back at Hestia, eyes glinting in anticipation, before leaving your chambers.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

You walk through the hallways, still uncertain whether the godswood will be your destination. Whether Daemon will be your destination.

The weather is quite lovely anyway. Why not sit and enjoy some calm in the godswood? Deep down, you know that your reasoning, while sound, is a mere excuse for wanting to see Daemon.

Turning the corner, you see your father coming your way. He calls for you with a wave, and you rush toward him with a smile, “Good morrow, father.” You kiss him lightly on the cheek. “I was just heading to the godswood. Perhaps I shall take a book from the library and - ”

“To meet with Prince Daemon?” Your father's voice is stern, and you become nervous.

You tilt your head, unsure of how to respond. Your father continues, “This matter was brought to my attention, in the council meeting of all places! I felt like a bumbling fool. My own daughter, and I did not know.”

“You’re certainly not a fool, father. And - ”

“How long has this been going on?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Your brows furrow in frustration.

“This affair between yourself and Prince Daemon. Do you not have any mind for decency? How must this look? Cregan Stark is courting you, and here you are, running around with the rogue prince.” He speaks in hushed whispers, as if he is afraid of being overheard, but the anger in his tone can easily be detected.

“I am not sure what you heard, father, but I am not having an affair with Prince Daemon.” You lean back, also growing irate at his tone.

“Everyone knows, my child. I do know that you are intelligent, and that you mean well, but this - ”

“I was quite… smitten with him. Only that. But it is over now.”

“Is it? Then how come he apparently came to your defense yesterday, assailing Maron Tyrell when he spoke out of turn about you?”

“What?”

“Word has spread, and King Viserys has been saddled with the laborious task yet again of having to make amends on his brother’s behalf.”

“Oh, I didn’t know.” You remember that you meant to visit the courtyard for his training, but instead opted to read with Cregan Stark in the library. You did not think Daemon would particularly mind, and truth be told, you wanted to give a taste of his own medicine. You made your mistake in believing that Daemon might approach it just like anyone else – with a reasonable amount of impatience and irritation. But of course, it’s Daemon.

You want to appease your father’s worries, so you say, “The next time I see Daemon, I shall make things clear. There will no longer be anything between him and I. Not that there ever was anything before.” You can’t help but look away sadly, but then your father pulls you in for a hug.

“I trust that you will do the right thing. Lord Cregan is a man of true honour and kindness. You deserve someone like him.”

“I know.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Moments later, just before you make a turn into the open area of the godswood, someone catches you by the elbow.

“Hello, lass.” Cregan says. “I am happy to see you.”

“Cregan,” you attempt to hide your surprise with a smile, “ perhaps you were simply following me?”

“That idea did cross my mind, yes,” he jests in return, “but I’d much rather have you aware of my presence so you can indulge yourself in my undeniable charm.”

“Ever so humble, my Lord of the North.” You have grown accustomed to his witty quips, easily shared, making whoever he converses with comfortable. When you had mentioned it, he assured you however that the doting glint in his eyes is reserved for you only.

“Having a good day so far?” He draws you in close by the waist, his sincere gaze boring into yours.

“Very much so, thank you. I was just about to, uhm, spend some time in the godswood.”

“I shall accompany you then, my lady, if you would allow me.”

“Oh, I - ”

“There you are.” You turn towards the familiar voice. Daemon has found you. “I thought I heard you.”

“Ah, Prince Daemon, ever a pleasure.” Cregan loosens his hold on you, but he does not let go. You notice Daemon’s eyes draw downward to Cregan’s arm around your waist, and his jaw clenches.

“Oh, I wish I could say the same, young wolf. But I have been waiting in the godswood for the Lady Y/n, and I can see that you are taking up her precious time. Keeping her from me.” Daemon spits the final words, making his annoyance clear.

“Daemon, I was just about to come see you,” you say.

“I thought you were going to spend time in the godswood?” Cregan looks at you confused.

“Yes, she is,” Daemon chimes in, “with me.”

“Simply to talk.” You start to become anxious with how the two men are sizing each other up, cold expressions plastered on their faces.

“No matter,” Cregan shrugs, “might I accompany you too, my lady?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You and Daemon speak at the same instant, your contrasting responses putting a pause on the whole exchange. The silence is filled with tension, with Daemon staring at you intently. A slight smirk rests on his lips, and you can tell, he is enjoying this. He takes pleasure in being able to get under your skin.

You might be right, but in that moment, Daemon’s mind also wanders to the smoothness of your skin. The fire in your eyes. His stare grazes your decolletage, exposed by your dress, the very same dress he had disparaged weeks prior. How foolish of me. Anything she wears is immediately more refined as a result. Although I’d much see rather that dress on the fucking floor.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that there is still something between the two of you.” Cregan’s voice cuts through the silence. When you turn to him questioningly, he explains, “I have heard whispers here and there about a possible mutual affection that you share.”

“Prince Daemon and I are merely friends,” you clarify, “and even this I have reason to doubt.” You glare at Daemon, imploring him to not cross the line.

“We are friends,” Daemon grits his teeth, “come with me, Y/n.”

You continue to challengingly stare at Daemon, and any passer-by would immediately feel the tension. They would also be quick to assume that the connection lies between yourself and Daemon, not Cregan. Not that you would be willing to admit it straightaway.

“Forget about the godswood,” you look between both men, “Rhaenyra tells me of a travelling theatre troupe that will be conducting their show in the Red Keep this afternoon. I think I fancy heading over and seeing it for myself.”

You start to walk away, not paying mind to either the dragon or the wolf.

I’m done with this bickering. Let them follow me if they wish.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

After a short period of deliberating and preparing, you find yourself walking the streets of the Red Keep, with Daemon walking close to one side and Cregan to the other.

Hestia follows suit, conversing with Cregan’s young squire, Pod. You had looked back to her to give a comforting smile, and you could tell that she was slightly intimidated by the member of the Kingsguard accompanying your little group. The knight is a looming figure of hunkering armour, walking close behind her and Pod.

Daemon and Cregan both offered an arm for you to hold onto at the start of your stroll, but you avoided the pain of choosing by clasping your hands in front of you, walking forward with your head held high.

You reach the city centre, and Cregan points to a fountain in the middle of the plaza. “I remember when you took me there, darling. We had the most pleasant afternoon.”

Daemon snorts upon hearing that, “The bloody fountain?”

Pod comes up to speak with Cregan about the tasks he has to fulfill for the day, demanding his attention, and they shuffle to the side in discussion.

“Yes, Daemon, the bloody fountain. We sat, had the best lemon cakes, and conversed with the common folk. Activities that are not to your taste, I’m sure,” you matched his sardonic inflection.

“I thought you would have preferred mulberry tarts,” Daemon responds, matter-of-factly.

Your lips part in mild surprise. “How could you have guessed that?”

“You might have mentioned it once, weeks ago.”

“Huh.” You continue to stare at him in disbelief. So he does listen to me.

You had the impression that all those times when you prattled in his ear, your words would simply dissolve into air. Like an incessant tune droning on in the background. Daemon always looked as if he was pondering some other more important thought.

“You continue to surprise me, Daemon.”

“And you never fail to pleasantly disrupt my life at every turn,” he remarks, the corners of his mouth turning upward.

“Since you used the word pleasantly then I shall assume that it’s a good thing. But disrupt? How so?”

He kicks a pebble across the cobblestones, lost in thought, “This is the last thing that I would have ever expected, my shadow.”

You continue to look at him in suspense, your heart thudding in your chest. Try as you might, Daemon still has that effect on you.

He continues, “I never expected to… feel this… about you.”

“Feel what?” He turns to you, and softens at the sight of your innocent expression, your eyes wide and glistening. You’ve always gazed at him in such an open and caring manner, unaffected by the reality of his reputation. Very much unlike other people, who are almost invariably wary or distrustful when dealing with him. He has accepted that he needs someone like you. But recently, it became clearer. He only needed you.

“Prince Daemon,” a familiar soft, accented voice calls out.

The spell is broken. You turn toward the new arrival. The lady Mysaria.

“Good day, my lady,” you greet her reluctantly. You badly wish to move close to Cregan and engage him in conversation, just so you would not be privy to the interaction between Daemon and Mysaria, but something keeps you rooted in place.

“Good day to you as well, lady Y/n.”

“Have you come to watch the performance?” you tilt your head toward the stage that is being set up on one side of the plaza.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the time for such frivolities at present, my lady,” she smiles thinly, before turning to Daemon, “I am glad I found you, my prince. I would have waited until you eventually came to see me again, but since you are here, I want to return this to you.”

She reaches out her hand, and in it lies an ornate ring, decorated with an exquisite blood-red ruby. An inscription in High Valyrian is carved on the band.

Daemon snatches it swiftly, “Right. Good eye.”

“I recognized this to be one of your Targaryen heirlooms. You must have dropped it when you spent the night with me.” She steps closer to him, caressing his arm.

Your heart sinks. What did you expect – that Daemon would ever commit to you? He has been making gestures that are unusual for him, giving you just the slightest hint of hope. And now, this.

He was right. You do know exactly who he is. What he is. The lady Mysaria can be taken as confirmation of this.

“Would you excuse me?” you clear your throat, and start to walk over to Cregan.

Daemon notices the drop in your spirits - in the frown that formed on your lips, and the way your shoulders scrunched forward. He knows that you are aware of him looking at you imploringly. You refuse to meet his gaze, and continue to ignore him as he stares daggers at your retreating figure.

Daemon shrugs Mysaria’s hold off his arm, taking a step back. He is not certain what to say, and Mysaria senses his agitation.

“You desire the lady Y/n,” she states, not a shred of doubt in her enticing voice.

“You know nothing of it,” Daemon spits defensively.

“You do. You want her. I can see it in your eyes,” Mysaria repeats, “It’s a novel thing, as you once told me that she is someone whom you merely tolerate.”

And I fucking wish I knew better. “I’ll be damned if I’m not capable of changing my mind.”

“Or perhaps you always wanted her, and you just were not aware of it? You did speak plenty of her even before,” she muses, as she knows that Daemon will not deny her keen eye for observation.

Daemon and Mysaria look over to you, as you stand with the rest of your group. You smile, and stroke Hestia’s back soothingly. Cregan leans over to you, and you laugh at whatever he has whispered.

Daemon sulks, hands firmly clasped in front of him. “Fucking Stark.”

“She wants you too, you know,” Mysaria smiles.

This piques Daemon’s attention, though his face remains sour, “Don’t toy with me. Perhaps she did, but now - ”

“She still does. In time, you will both see the truth of it all. Good fortune, Prince Daemon.” she walks away, her long tresses blowing softly in the breeze, but pauses and turns halfway, “Just don’t be stupid.”

Daemon nods once, feeling hopeful anew.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

One brisk morning, you sit peacefully in the gardens, a new book in your hands. You sit comfortably, your legs tucked underneath you on the seat. Daemon once remarked of how he liked the careless way with which you sit, to which you rolled your eyes, “Don’t mock me, Daemon. My father has scolded me plenty about how I don’t sit like a proper lady.”

Daemon just snickered at that, and playfully pulled at your ankle. That was one of your more amicable exchanges. Even now, your mind trains back to him, as if his absence is a thing that demands to be felt. Even after you believe yourself to have grown resolute at giving up any romantic notion when it comes to Daemon, after the encounter with Mysaria a few days prior.

Hestia sits beside you, crocheting, her needle deftly held between her slender fingers.

“My lady,” she says, looking to the side at the hedges, “I think you have a shadow.”

You follow her gaze and see him. The prince currently occupying your thoughts. As he always has. Daemon leans against the bark of a tree, evidently watching you. A smirk forms on his lips when he sees you finally notice him.

Your shadow.

You throw him a questioning look from afar. He merely shrugs his shoulders and starts to confidently walk toward you. He reaches you, and you just stare at each other in relative silence.

“You,” you say, as he had always done upon seeing you.

“Excuse me, lady Y/n, Prince Daemon,” Hestia curtsies to the both of you, then proceeds to take her leave. She smiles slyly at you over her shoulder, and you know she will want to be filled in about what happens later on. You consider yourself fortunate that your lady-in-waiting grew to become one of your closest confidantes.

“My shadow,” he says smoothly, then sits beside you.

“I might go so far as to say that the tables have turned. You are my shadow now, Prince Daemon.”

“Hmm,” he sneers, “No Stark boy today?”

“He’s visiting his sister, but he shall return soon. He promised me.”

“I’d much prefer it if he were to never set foot in King’s Landing ever again,” he comments casually.

“Jealous are we, my shadow?” you look at him teasingly through your lashes, realizing in that split moment, how easy it is. Being around him feels natural, despite the flares in his disposition and his offhand remarks.

You also realize that it is not completely the same with Cregan, as sweet and perfect as he might be. There is a sense of trying to fulfil your duty as a lady from a noble house, when it comes to your courtship with the young wolf.

But you have always chosen Daemon. If only he would choose you in return.

“I could ask the same of you. I saw the way you were glaring at Mysaria,” he smirks, raising his eyebrows tauntingly.

“I was not glaring at her.”

“Oh no, apologies, not glaring,” he raises his hands in faux surrender, “Not glaring. Seething.”

“Can you honestly blame me?” your face turns gloomy as you look off into the distance.

Daemon feels the drop in your demeanour, and his heart sinks. Must I always be the root of her heartache? Have I not done enough?

As if on instinct, he reaches across, and squeezes your hand, “My shadow, you must know, I have not bed any other, have not even looked at any other, ever since…”

You look down at your joined hands, his hand wider and calloused around yours. You’ve always known, when you would hold his hand to give him comfort, that it was always for your sake as well. His touch calmed you, but it was as if you had to steal moments of it for yourself.

This feels different. His thumb lazily strokes the back of your hand. You watch his eyes roam your face, from your eyes to your lips and back.

You wait for him to say the words. To say anything that would validate your longing.

“Now, I’m going to attempt something, my shadow, and you mustn’t be angry with me. Alright?”

“Daemon.”

“Alright?”

“Okay.”

Your breath catches in your throat when he leans closer, close enough that you feel his warm breath on your skin. Even closer, as you feel his lips graze yours, ever so gently. His eyes continue to search yours, gauging your reaction.

Then he presses his lips to yours. The countless times you had imagined that way it would feel, certainly does not do it any justice. Not even a little bit.

You let out a sound of appreciation, a soft little moan against his mouth, overwhelmed by the sensation. He pulls away for a second, hums affectionately, and runs his thumb over your lips. You let out a laugh, feeling light-hearted. He smiles at you, at his little shadow, before motioning towards your lips with a tilt of his jaw.

You kiss him again, and he feels his heart beating faster than ever before. The rogue prince, quite possibly one of the most notorious philanderers in the Seven Kingdoms, feeling flustered over you. You blossom into him, revealing yourself like you never had, his beloved shadow being engulfed and warmed by his sunlight.

His mouth becomes insistent in brushing against yours, his tongue tracing your lips. A shiver runs down your spine, your nerves set completely alight. His tongue mingles with yours, and you savour the taste of peppermint and sweet wine.

Reluctantly, grudgingly, you find whatever little impulse you have to pull away.

Your breath comes out in pants, and you raise your fingertips to feel where his lips were once on yours.

He studies your face, wondering what thoughts fill your mind.

You stand abruptly and begin to pace in front of him.

“Shadow?” he stops you, keeping you still with his hands on your shoulders.

“W-why?” you question.

He is still half-dazed from your taste, your scent all around him, “Don’t you see? I want you.”

“You want me?” your tone rises in disbelief.

“Must I repeat myself?” he nearly rolls his eyes, but keeps his manner sincere, “I’ve never been the sort of man to deny myself the desires of my heart. And my heart only wants you.”

Just give in. Kiss him again, throw reason away to the wind. Forget any doubt, any past grievances. He says he is yours now.

But you remember all those moments wherein you made yourself available to him. To be his friend, his source of comfort, his defender. Any way he wished to have you. You desired him. You wanted him. You loved him.

You love him. But for so long, he turned the other way. You had held your heart out for him to take, and he did not. He merely tolerated it.

“Daemon,” you shut your eyes, needing to clear your head, “what of Cregan?”

“What of him?” he hisses, eyes narrowing.

You become infuriated, “Seven hells, I am in the middle of a fucking courtship!”

“An empty formality.” Of course Daemon would believe so.

“We should not have kissed. It is not respectful to Cregan.”

His hand moves to grip your face, tilting your head, and you are caught up in the passion in his violet eyes, “Did you not enjoy it? Did you not like kissing me?”

“You know I bloody well did.”

“We can speak with your father and end this farce of a courtship. You need not continue - ”

You interrupt, “It wouldn’t be right. Cregan is a decent, and loving man. My father says so himself. He would make for a good husband.”

“And I wouldn’t?” his hands drop to his side, and he takes a step back.

“I don’t know. I have to learn how to trust you again. After everything.”

His eyes are tormented as he looks away.

“Daemon, I need time. I want to be completely certain if I will have to give up a life with Cregan.”

“Because he matters so much to you,” he sighs, appearing dejected.

“I’ve grown to value him for who he is. He’s my friend, and I had entered this courtship in hopes that it would help me forget about you. And I was thinking that perhaps, I could learn to love him… in time.”

“Don’t,” is all he can bring himself to say.

“I did not believe you cared for me, as I did you. It is only now that this,” you gesture between the two of you, “ever became anything. For you, at least. There was once a time wherein there was only you for me, but now, I just need some time.”

Daemon says nothing, letting your words sink in. His jaw clenches, deep in thought.

“Daemon,” you take his hand, “say something.”

He doesn’t. In a flash, he simply connects his lips to yours again, sucking the breath from your lungs. Your worries cease, as you give in to him. You reach upward to entangle your fingers in his silver hair; his hands hold your waist tightly.

In true Daemon fashion, his lusty resolve breaks, and he lets his hands slide downward to grip your backside. You moan, and bite his lip as a result.

He smirks, breaking the kiss, his forehead pressing against yours, “Okay, my shadow. I will wait.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The days are long and languid. Daemon thinks so. He does not have much to occupy his time apart from his duties as Commander of the City Watch. He used to gain just the barest enjoyment from it, from ensuring that the city’s vermin are put to justice. But everything feels gray, devoid of any appeal. Nothing made him incandescent. He merely watched, and waited. For you.

He remembers you as he sits in the courtyard. He remembers the way you cheered for him while he trained, the way you sneered at his opponents, cussed at them even. The intensity in your expression was almost too much at times; you were so invested in his insignificant, little displays of skill. You were always there for him.

He remembers you when he strolls into the gardens, where you first met. You had been reading in solitude that fateful afternoon, your brows furrowed over a passage that baffled you. Something about witches in the histories of Westeros, you told him afterward. He responded, “Why, do you fear you might be a witch yourself? You certainly possess the ferocity.” So crude, you thought, so intriguing. So this is Prince Daemon Targaryen.

“Careful now, my prince. I just might put a spell on you.” you smiled at him, the very first time. He thought you very comely, but then again, he thought the same of several dozen other ladies. You thought him inexplicable, his reputation preceding him. The Rogue Prince, the rebellious second son. The patron saint of delinquents and whores, Otto Hightower once told your father. But you thought him amazing. Different. Dangerous. That very night, he filled your dreams. Since then, Daemon Targaryen became your sun.

On one of these mindless strolls, he comes across you. He cannot help it, and so he trails you, like a shadow. Every step feels heavy, because you are not alone. Your arm is looped around the wolf boy’s, walking too close for Daemon’s liking.

When he sees you kissing Cregan Stark, he sees red. He feels ill, fueled with rage. He saw it unfolding, the Stark boy running his fingers over your cheekbone, and then slowly closing the distance between you two. You stand arrested by the moment, seemingly apprehensive, but you don’t move away. The way the Stark boy curls his fingers firmly on your waist, drawing you close, he wishes he had done that.

He wishes he had pulled you close when you wiped the sweat from his forehead on those days you watched him train. In those moments when he was overcome with emotion and you would hold his hand. He had walked away, or turned to someone completely insignificant, when he could have held you. When he could have kissed you, much better than the Stark boy kisses you now.

Every part of him wishes to end the Stark boy’s life. He wants to strike him down in front of you. He wants to get you back.

But seven hells, Viserys would cast him out for good. He has only just returned to his brother’s good graces, the incident with Maron Tyrell having just been resolved.

And you. You would never forgive him. You would never speak to him again. And he can’t have that. He can’t live with that. He won’t.

He needs you, he knows this now.

He loves you, he is certain.

You had become Daemon Targaryen’s sun. As he was once yours.

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

There is a storm raging over King’s Landing. Heavy rain is pelting against your windows, and thunder echoes across the skies, a blanket of shadow covering the kingdom’s capital.

You sit in front of your mirror, absentmindedly running a comb through your hair. The week has felt long and languid. You certainly think so. You’ve had much to occupy your time – Cregan, duties with your father, lessons with the Septa, poring over books in the great library.

And yet, everything feels gray, as if devoid of warmth, not unlike the state of the city at present.

Daemon has been flooding your thoughts, despite your reluctance. You have been trying to not let your mind flash back to the kiss, without much success. A knot in your belly formed the moment Cregan’s lips touched yours, because you realized that you wish it had been Daemon instead.

It is as if your heart is sound in its resolve, its verdict clear. It is now left to you to either embrace the truth that it speaks, or stifle it, for the sake of an obvious consolation.

Daemon. You close your eyes, in remembrance of how he tastes. What if he loses heart? What if he no longer waits?

A sound catches your ear, one you think to be a faint knock, but it is overshadowed by a crackle of thunder booming outside at the same time.

The knocking repeats, a consistent rapping on the heavy wooden door.

You cautiously walk over, confused as to who would be visiting your chambers at this late hour.

“Who’s there?” you call out.

“Shadow.” You freeze, you would recognize this voice anywhere.

With tentative hands, you push the door open, and you are at once met with the sight of Daemon. His hair is unkempt and he is clad in only a loose white poet shirt, and dark trousers.

Words fail you, and you drink in the sight of him, as if it was the first time.

He rasps, holding your gaze, “I’m done waiting.”

“Daemon.”

He lunges forward, flooding all of your senses, gripping your face tightly in his hands and smashing his lips to yours. It’s different this time. More heated, passionate, greedy. He kicks the door shut with his foot, and he leads you deeper into the room.

“Daemon, what - ” you break away, in an attempt to catch your breath.

His forefinger flits across your lips, silencing you, “Hush, my shadow. I need this. I need you.”

You hum in agreement, and throw all caution to the wind. This is your Daemon. It has always been clear, he is the one you will always want.

Your hands roam, feeling his neck, his collarbone, and his chest exposed by the flowing shirt.

He stands captivated by you, and the gentle way in which you touch him. Your eyes filled with adoration. This is exactly what he needs. The storm might be raging outside, but right now, in this glowing candle lit room, he has his sunshine.

You had gone from being his shadow, to his light.

“I love you,” his voice is a mere whisper, and yet it electrifies your entire being, “I love you, my light.”

You look at him in a daze, and your vision becomes cloudy as a tear threatens to fall, and it does, when he kisses you again. He lifts you up on the table, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You lean backward, pulling him with you, making his pelvis press onto yours.

He groans, his frustration heightening even more when your hands roam under his shirt, gliding across the chiselled plains of his stomach, down to the line of his trousers.

He breaks the kiss, burying his face in your neck, “I want to… do this right.”

He straightens, kissing you once, before declaring, “I shall wed you first, my dearest love. Then, I shall have you.” His hand comes up to squeeze your breast, as if to make a promise, “All of you.”

Heat rushes to your face, and you can feel all this yearning prompting a knot to unravel low in your belly, “I must admit this is not what I expected of you, my prince. You were never one to exercise such restraint.”

“Be that as it may, my light, this is different. You are not like the others. Granted, I am not one to shy away from the pleasures of the flesh.” His fingers caress your ankles, before slithering gradually up your legs. He savours the softness of your flesh, squeezing your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You will soon find, my light, that fucking is a pleasure, and I especially want to show you how satisfying it can be,” his hands slide higher, and higher, “in every way possible.”

“Daemon,” you bite your lip, encouraging him, “my love.”

“Yes, my light?” he taunts.

“For fuck’s sake,” you curse impatiently, guiding your pelvis so that his fingers finally graze your undergarments.

“Impatient are we?” he shifts the cloth to one side, tracing one digit over your folds, “You are exquisite.”

“Mmm,” you tilt your head back, and brace yourself on the table, your hands struggling to keep yourself upright, “please, Daemon.”

Urged by your mewling, sensual music to his ears, he pushes one finger inside your warmth. He pumps it inside, outside, watching you all the while.

With his other hand, he undoes the delicate string on the front of your nightgown. The thin fabric haphazardly falls to your waist, revealing your torso to his hungry eyes.

“Fuck,” he hisses, pushing another finger inside you, picking up the pace. He then moves to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips, before trailing downward, licking and pecking his way until he reaches your breast. His tongue swirls freely on your nipple, and your hand comes up to brace itself onto his hair.

“This is fucking torturous,” he nearly growls, once again kissing you. Daemon wants to lose himself in the sight of your unravelling, as you unabashedly fuck his fingers. He prays to the gods that he might learn to control his lust, his desire to just forego tradition and bury his cock deep inside your pussy threatening to take over him.

“Gods, Daemon, this is so much better than I imagined,” you pant, your lips turning up in a smirk.

“Is that so, my light? Have you touched yourself to the thought of me?”

When you nod, he purrs in your ear, his lips grazing the skin, “Have you dreamed about fucking me? As I have you?”

His thumb circles rapidly around your clit, while his two soaked digits relentlessly plunge into your pussy. “Y-yes, Daemon.” His movement grows ever so careless and wild, fingers curling inside you, eager to bring you to climax. Your eyes flutter closed, as your pelvis begins to feel tense, that familiar spasm gathering below.

“Let go, my light,” he commands, “Release yourself onto me.”

Once more, you pull him by the neck, and taste him. When his tongue collides with yours, you let go, gushing down on his fingers. He feels your juices drip down to his palm, but he makes no move. He leans back, memorizing the sight of you. His shadow, his light, covered in a sheen of sweat, thin nightgown pooled by your waist. Your legs spread wide open for him, your cum still warm on his skin.

He cleans his hand, first sucking some of your orgasm off his fingers, and wiping the rest on the back of his shirt. He leans forward, palms on either side of your thighs on the table.

“Daemon?” you breathe, eyes half-lidded from the aftermath, “What is it?”

“I love you.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Daemon’s arm is wrapped around you, as your head rests on his chest, listening to his faint heartbeat.

You found yourselves lying down on your bed, atop the silken sheets, after that delightful table incident, deciding to call it thus as you now fondly think back to it.

You had been sharing stories of mixed significance, ranging from what you had for breakfast to the culmination of the war in the Stepstones.

“I may have to go into battle,” he confesses, “sometime in the days to come.”

Worry floods you, knowing how reckless he can be when faced with the thrill of war. Violence is not something that deterred Daemon, let alone the pain of death. If anything, he seemed to welcome it, and it frightens you.

You do not want to ever lose him. It was true then, but now, your very being depends on it. With him gone, you are afraid that you would never be whole again.

“Must you go?” you whisper.

“You need not worry, my light,” he kisses the top of your head lovingly, “I will always return to you.”

“But must you go? Is it necessary that you be there?” you prop yourself up on one elbow, so that he may see the sincerity in your expression.

“No,” he decides, “the war is all but won. There are just some loose ends to tie up, and the Velaryon army is more than capable of putting an end to it all. I had just half a mind to proffer aid from myself and a portion of the King’s army.”

“So let the King’s army go, and you can stay here with me.”

“My love?” he grins, “are you truly demanding that of me?”

“Just this once?” you plead, smiling at him, “I don’t wish to forbid you from ever stepping into battle. I just… I’ve only just had you. I prefer not to take any foolish risk, as little as it might be.”

A smile forms on his lips, as he relishes in knowing that you truly must care for him.

“As you wish,” he relents, “I shall stay.”

You kiss him, certain that you will never tire of the feeling of his lips flush against yours.

You look down at him with stars in your eyes, “I love you, Daemon.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

The members of the Small Council try to hide their surprise at the presence of Prince Daemon, already sitting comfortably at his chair, as they enter the room and each shuffle to their place around the table.

“My lords,” Daemon casually greets, “I had thought you all had forgotten about the council meeting.”

“Prince Daemon, I assure you that we are exactly on time,” Lord Beesbury responds, failing to understand the jest.

Viserys is the last to walk in, accompanied by his Kingsguard. He pauses upon seeing his brother, but quickly carries on to his seat at the head of the table.

“Brother,” Daemon says, amused, “do try not to look so amazed.”

“Daemon,” Viserys merely nods in acknowledgment, before turning to the rest of the council, “let us begin.”

The minutes seem to pass by at a snail’s pace, at least for Daemon. He unknowingly gazes out the window now and again, as if in a daydream, eliciting several scolding glares from his brother.

Taxes, festivities, tapestries, resources. All these concerns fly over his head, especially since it was only the night before last when he finally claimed you. Or more aptly put, when he surrendered himself over to you.

“Princess Rhaenyra is to embark on a tour to several neighbouring cities, as part of her duties as princess of the realm, and as my heir,” Viserys announces, before addressing your father, “She kindly wishes to have your daughter, the Lady Y/n, as her companion for this particular excursion.”

Daemon’s interest is restored at the sound of your name, and he straightens, eager to hear the rest. Little does he know, Viserys notices this slight movement, peering at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, what an honour that is, your Grace,” your father beams, “she will surely only be glad to accept the princess’ request. I shall relay the news to her when she returns from Storm’s End, in around a day or two.”

“Y/n is in Storm’s End?” Daemon speaks for the first time since the council discussions began, and all heads turn to him. There is an intimacy with which the prince mentions your name, a genuine curiosity with which he inquires about you, that drew everyone’s attention.

“Yes, my prince,” your father responds carefully, “she wanted to treat with Lord Cregan Stark, who has been visiting his sister Sara, the consort of Lord Baratheon’s eldest son.”

“How goes the courtship, my lord?” Tyland asks purposefully, knowing that it might turn Daemon irate, as he is already sulking in his seat, looking as if the wrong word might set him off.

“I’m afraid she plans to put an end to it,” your father finally says, regret perceptible in his voice, “as she has divulged to me that she might never see Lord Stark as more than a friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my lord,” Viserys expresses genuinely, although he continues to closely watch Daemon’s reactions. His amusement grows at his younger brother’s inability to hide his emotions when it comes to you. First, intrigue at the mere mention of your name, then disappointment upon hearing that you are to see Cregan Stark, and finally the most obvious sense of relief regarding the end of your courtship.

A laugh threatens to escape Viserys. Being the elder brother that he is, he craves the pleasure of playfully taunting Daemon over his increasingly apparent affection for you.

“Nothing to be sorry about, dear brother,” Daemon speaks, breaking Viserys out of his thoughts.

“Oh?” Viserys turns to him in anticipation.

“My wish is to wed the Lady Y/n, as promptly as can be expected.” The entire council falls into silence, and Viserys finally lets out the dry laugh he has been holding back.

“M-my prince?” your father looks as if his heart would cease, and he certainly feels so, his chest significantly tightening at the prince’s declaration. Due to elation, or horror, he is yet to determine.

“Seven hells,” Otto exclaims, turning to Viserys, “won’t this be improper? The Lady Y/n has just ended a courtship with another lord, immediately to be wed to the prince?”

“I don’t suppose so,” Viserys easily counters, placing his hand atop his brother’s, “Daemon, I would hope that the lady is aware of your desire to be wed to her, and that you are not simply about to spring this upon the poor girl?”

“Of course she is,” Daemon confirms, his voice steady, “we are in love, if you cunts must know.” He could not help his less than tasteful remark, growing defensive about you.

“Gods be good,” Lord Beesbury balks at the prince’s crudeness.

“Alright,” Viserys raises a hand to appease the council, “Daemon, brother, I would be glad to see this come to fruition. Your marriage to the Lady Y/n would be exceedingly advantageous after all, for both our Houses.” He addresses your father, “I would assume that you believe so as well, my lord?”

Your father’s thoughts race, and with your best interests in mind, he speaks only to Daemon, “Do you truly love her, my prince?”

There is not a shred of doubt in Daemon’s voice when he answers, “More than anything.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

You sit in your usual spot in the gardens, accompanied by Hestia. A book rests on your lap, but you pay it no attention, your mind elsewhere.

Having just returned from Storm’s End, you feel at peace. You already knew that Cregan would accept your choice, but you did not wish to cause him any pain. It may have just been his natural charm, or a sense of ease with which he can hide his displeasure, but when you finally confided in him about Daemon, he was only quick to offer you a smile and pull you into his arms.

“Quite frankly, my lady, it only seemed a matter of time before Prince Daemon would break and accept that he needs you,” he said sincerely, his smile unwavering, “and I can recognize love when I see it, and it certainly exists between the two of you.”

Love. You shut your eyes, thinking of him, and savour the warmth of sunlight on your skin.

“My lady,” Hestia whispers, and your eyes slowly flutter open. You see her looking toward a figure in the distance.

“I think you have a shadow.”

🖤🖤🖤

The longest fuckin chapter I've ever written, gods be good. It did get a bit rushed towards the end. There was meant to be this whole scenario about Daemon heading into battle after hearing that the reader went to Winterfell instead to treat with Cregan Stark. Then I read how long it actually takes to travel from King's Landing to Winterfell and the timing just didn't fit with the events.

The parallels between Daemon and the reader were my favourite parts to write. They really are just two sides of the same coin.

Also, I did not expect myself to be writin' spicy content for this chapter, but I guess it just happened?? Oh well. 🤷‍♀️

I apologize this took aaaages to be put out. The amount of times I altered some parts I'm telling you, y'all would have just wrenched my laptop from me and I would not have blamed you 😂

My inbox was indeed flooded with demands for this chapter and I can only thank you all so much for wanting to read on!!! 🤍

taglist: @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @itscheybaby @my-dark-prince @keep-beating-my-dear-heart @mamamooqa @63angel @azucarmorennna @kate16sstuff @thoughtfulfreakalpaca @alexandra-001 @babywolff @gloryekaterina @writer-lee5 @lockleysgrl @alexa4040 @piceous21 @softtina @bregarc @ramennoodles212 @siriusdumblittlepuppy @captainweirdo42 @thx-rn @merovingianprincess @clarap23 @itisjustwhatitis @blushinyouth @aeisnoa @a-lil-bit-nuts @paprikaquinn @just-some-random-blogger @cantstoptherecs @baybieruth @wondergal2001 @pax-2735 @immyowndefender @moonmaiden1996 @wrendermeuseless @schniiipsel @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @icarusignite @flourishandblotts-inc @siriusdumblittlepuppy @booknerd2004 @just-a-harmless-patato @moni-cah @boofy1998 @huntycola @sanguinalia @thelastcitysposts @daeneeryss

#daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen imagine #house of the dragon imagine #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen #matt smith #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon targaryen smut

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captainamericasmotercycle · 2 months

Note

Can I request one for Jacaerys Velaryon where Rhaenyra betroths him to his twin sister and they're both super awkward about it. You can write it as you wish.

warnings: i didn't make them twins so interpret her as you'd like, targ!cest (unintentional?), aemond and aegon taunting jace, high valyrion (i'm not fluent forgive me), takes place in 1.08 (lord of the tides), more angsty than awkward, aemond x reader if you squint really really hard?

“Her children are bastards! And she is a whore,” Vaemond Velaryon spoke with vemon on his tongue.

You and your brothers shared a glance of embarassment with one another.

Viserys hobbled up from his seat on the throne, “I will have your tongue for that.”

Before Viserys could get any further Dark Sister flung through the air, taking Vaemond’s head with her. Everyone in the room jumped back, your mother pushing you behind her, as your younger brother gasped.

“He can keep his tongue,” chaos erupted with the King’s guard.

“Disarm him!”

Daemon wiped the Velaryon blood off his sword and sheathed it, ushering you and his daughters out of the room, “No need.”

Later in the dining hall, you and your estranged family stood around a large table, Viserys was carried in and sat in between your mother and Alicent, “How good it is… to see you all tonight… together.”

One he was situated, all sat in the respective places, you between Jacaerys and Lucerys.

Alicent looked to her husband, “Prayer before we begin?”

“Yes,” your family was not the most religious, you looked to Jace, you looked back at you with an annoyed expression.

“May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love. May the Smith mend the bonds that have been broken for far too long. And to Vaemond Velaryon, may the gods give him rest.”

Viserys was the first to speak, just barely lifting his cup, “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandson Luke, will marry his cousins Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses. A toast to the young Prince… and his betrothed! Hear, hear!”

The rest of the table rose their glasses and toasted to your younger brother.

Aegon, sitting next to Jace leaned over and spoke quietly, “Your younger brother bests you once again. Laying with a women before you.”

Viserys spoke again, “Let us toast as well Prince Lucerys… the future Lord of the Tides. Hear, hear!”

You smiled at him, squeezing his hand, “You’ll be great.”

Aegon continued on with him, “You do know how the act is done, I assume? At least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

“Let it be, Aegon,” Helaena chastised him, tired of his jokes.

“You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my sister,” Jace defended you.

Your family sat in tension, your grandsire felt the need to clear the air, “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world… yet grown so distant from each other… in the years past.”

He takes his mask off his face and drops it on the table, “My own face… is no longer a handsome one… if indeed it ever was. But tonight… I wish you to see me… as I am. Not just a king… but your father. Your brother. Your husband… and your grand sire. Who may not, it seems… walk for much longer among you.”

He breathes heavily and struggles with his next words, “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. But set aside your grievances. If not for the sake of the crown… then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

Your grandsire sits and the room was filled with silence, your mother arose from her place next to him.

“I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father. But I must admit that no one has stood… more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with… unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude… and my apology.”

Alicent smiles solemnly to Rhaenyra, “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess.”

She stands and raises her cup, “We are both mothers… and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow. I raise my cup to you… and to your house. You will make a fine queen.”

Each at the table took turns toasting to the family, each aggrivating Jacaerys more.

Aegon, drunkenly, rose, turning to Luke, “I, um… I regret the disappointment you are soon to suffer. But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.”

Aegon smiles and turns to Jace now, “Ask me, of course. Your older brother would not know how to guide you.”

Jace stands, slamming his hands down on the table, you grab his wrist, “Jace.”

Sternly looking at him, he glances to you before raising his glass, “To Prince Aegon and… Prince Aemond,” Aemond’s face hardens, “We have not seen each other in years, but I have fond memories of our shared youth. And as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncles.”

Jace sits and Heleana stands, “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you… except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Aegon rolls his eyes in embarassment, Viserys smiles at his youngest daughter, and Daemon gently laughs.

Viserys feels ill and is taken out of the room. Only the Hightower side of the family is left.

You’ve always had a strained relationship with your uncles, but you did love Helaena, often times strolling in the gardens with her, or her teaching you some embroidery tricks.

Aemond glances at you from across the table, a dark and hungry look in his eyes. You look away from him and to your mother. She nods at you, as a way of saying that she would take care of it.

The pig comes out of the kitchens and is brought to the table, Luke chuckles at the sizzling pig. Aemond slams his fist on the table, capturing everyone’s attention.

“Final tribute. To the health of my nephews: Jace… Luke… and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise… hm… strong,” he looks to you and smirks, “And my niece, you are of age now, luck to you in finding a husband. Perhaps someone strong, maybe you will find home in the Riverlands.”

“Aemond,” Alicent warns.

You can see Jace fuming from beside you, but you gently nudge his foot under the table with yours. You keep your composure.

You hum, smirking back at him, “Kirimvose, yn nyke gīmigon nyke kostagon become tolī than sepār mirtys’s riñnykeā ābrazȳrys… Kepa.” Thank you, but I know I can become more than just someone's lady wife… uncle

“Kostilus se ābrazȳrys hen nykeā darilaros?” Perhaps the wife of a prince?

“Nyke unyishishk jorrāelagon daorun tolī than naejot sagon se ābrazȳrys hen dārys's tȳne tresy.” I would love nothing more than to be the wife of the king's second son.

Aemond’s face hardened. Only you, Aemond, your mother, and Daemon fully understood the words exchanged. Your mother and Daemon shared a look of pride.

Alicent looked at the interaction with confusion and furrowed brows.

“What are they saying?”

“Aemond has proposed a marriage it seems,” Rhaenyra speaks.

Jace looks at you almost angrily, “What did you say?”

All eyes were on you, “What she said is not important,” your mother interrupted.

She cleared her throat, “What matters is that my daughter will wed her brother, Jacaerys, heir to the Iron Throne. She will become queen one day; something more than someone’s lady wife.”

Everyone’s eyes widened. You felt heat rise to your cheeks. There is no way that your mother would have you marry your brother?

Aemond’s hardened grin turned to a smug one, “Well then, congratulations is in order to my niece and her strong husband.”

Jace stood and walked towards the center of the room, challenging his uncle, “I dare you to say that again.”

Aemond stood with him, walking to him, “Why? ‘Twas only a compliment,” he leaned into Jace, whispering into his ear, “Do you not think yourself Strong?”

Without hesitation, Jace swung at Aemond, getting in a good punch onto his jaw. Everyone around the table gasped, your mother yelled sternly, “Jace!”

Aemond reached for his blade, but his mother’s voice stopped him, “Aemond! That is enough!”

“Go to your quarters. All of you go, now.”

You stood and watched Jace walk out. You didn’t follow him to his quarters to check on him. You stayed in the hall and waited for your mother.

As she came out of the dining hall, you caught up with her.

“Mother!”

She turned to you, “Were you telling the truth… about me.. and Jace?”

Holding your face in her hands she stroked your cheek with her thumb and smiled gently at you, but you could not meet her eyes, “You will make a great queen one day, my sweet girl.”

She tugged at your chin to force you to look at her, “But now, you need to rest, we have quite the journey ahead of us back to Dragonstone, tomorrow.”

You nodded before heading back to your quarters. Nodding at the guards standing at your door, you pushed them open.

Jace, who was waiting for you on your bed, stood at your entrance. You sighed and rolled your eyes.

“Jacaerys, it is not proper for you to be in here… not anymore.”

“Please just listen.”

You walked around the room, releasing the maids of their duties, “Leave us.” The maids were quick to exit.

“I did not know she was going to say that!”

“I did not know Aemond would try to wed me tonight.”

“I’m sorry. We do not have to wed if you choose to take someone else’s hand—”

“No,” shaking your head, “It is.. our duty now, as the future queen’s eldests.”

“I promise to be a good husband—”

“Jacaerys, I do not wish to speak of this any longer.”

He spoke your name softly, “I’m sorry.”

“Leave me, Jace.”

He said your name more sternly now.

“Leave me, your grace.”

He sunk into himself, hands on his sheathed sword, nodding at you, “As you wish.”

You watch him leave, the door slamming behind him. You groaned in frustration, running your hands over your face and through your hair.

How are you supposed to marry your brother of all people?

#jacerys velaryon x reader #jacerys targaryen #jacerys velaryon #jace velaryon #jace velaryon x reader #x reader #house of the dragon x reader #hotd x reader #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys velaryon #jacaerys x reader

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dyssonant-skyline · 4 months

Text

Full Moon Spoilers: The Final Scene

I have some thoughts.

Okay let me start with saying, the Stolas & Blitzo conversation should not have been relegated to the last 5 minutes of the episode. I think the rushed nature of the conversation doomed any chance of it being a satisfying exchange between these two characters that covers the full reality of their situation. I’m listing this up front because a lot of my grievances could have been resolved with more time, which the team spent on 15 minutes of lead up that I believe were ultimately unnecessary to the show's central plot and actively hinder the direction the showrunners want the story to go in.

During the episode he acknowledges that Blitzo is in a horrible situation. He states that the deal was wrong, implicitly acknowledging guilt for thrusting it unto Blitz and trying to resolve that by giving him the Azmodean crystal. He has decided to end things, and goes through with it even though he displays clear interest in Blitzo’s advances.

Then what does he do when Blitzo assumes that Stolas hasn’t changed? When Blitzo believes that Stolas, the person who he has only had transactional relations with, is setting up a new kind of transaction?

Instead of further ensuring Blitzo and trying to clear the air. He throws a tantrum. When things didn’t immediately resolve in his favor. Then he immediately goes into blaming Blitzo for only thinking about sex in their, again, transactional relationship. This gets worse because Stolas doesn’t wait to establish a healthy non romantic/sexual relationship before insinuating that he is still interested in Blitzo sexually, opening Blitzo up to misunderstanding his intent… then not being willing to clarify his intent.

“I have wanted you for so long, the fact that you couldn’t believe that I might have these feelings about you, that your first instinct is that it’s always about sex… that’s enough to know what this is.”

My brother in christ, you confront him about this during the sex deal night and don’t expect him to expect sex? You give him ~10 seconds to react to this information before deciding you don’t want to deal with his emotions anymore because they aren’t what you wanted?

The monologue that Blitzo had after that was completely justified and extremely gratifying to hear.

“Fuck you Stolas! You spring this feelings bullshit on me, are you fucking kidding?” - “Can I get a fucking minute to think after everything you put me through?” - “You can’t just dismiss me like that.”

After that sincere outburst, instead of Stolas recognizing what Blitzo is saying and taking some accountability or apologizing… he reacts with

“I didn’t realize you think so low of me.”

HUH? What happened to the transactional deal not being right? Surely if he knows he isn’t right, he knows that Blitzo would probably have a pretty low opinion of him? Breaking the deal doesn’t make his victim required to forgive him, especially not within 5 minutes.

Sidenote but: Stolas’s desire for immediate reconciliation is compounded by the fact that Stolas buries the lead at the beginning of their conversation. He keeps things vague with statements like “I need [the grimoire] back permanently” and “I’ve made up my mind” that lead Blitzo to believe he is being fired. I don’t really believe that the way that Stolas talks here speaks to his character, it reads more like bad writing in favor of a misunderstanding to get Blitzo worked up. It doesn’t seem in character to dwell like this, you could argue it is nerves but I’d argue there is no positive reaction to those first few sentences and Stolas isn’t socially inept enough to fail to realize that.

Honestly, if they were gearing up to have Stolas as a villain still and if Blitzo hadn’t had an apology cut off, I would have loved this exchange as it characterizes Stolas as a villain very well. It shows that Stolas still doesn’t care about Blitzo, just the version of Blitzo he has built in his head in excruciating detail. It shows that despite Stolas trying to make amends through words and actions, he still can not face the hurt that he has caused his victim and will run away when confronted with them. Unfortunately I’m pretty sure the writers are just going to make Blitzo into the one that Stolas hoped would fall into his arms immediately. So whatever.

#full moon episode spoilers #helluva boss spoilers #helluva boss critique #helluva boss critical #vivziepop critical #dys rants

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bunviie · 5 months

Text

you sit on the floor, utterly defeated. your mind drifts over countless thoughts and feelings at once. you stare at the numerous binders and loose paper sheets, eyes hot and threatening to slip your unwanting sorrows.

your boyfriend stumbles into the room, breathless as his eyes dart around before finally landing on you. he’s quick and crouches before you, a blatant startled expression scattered across his features.

“i heard a loud thud, are you okay?” he scans your body for any injury, hands gently holding your head while adjusting it left and right. he stops mid-inspection and notices your sullen expression. “yn, baby what's wrong?” he caresses your cheeks and for some reason, this only makes you cry. his eyes only widen and he stands on his feet, offering his hands to you. with blurry vision, you take them naturally. he helps you up and guides you to the bed behind you. he sits down first and welcomes you in his embrace.

you continue to sob, tears now completely clouding your vision, falling freely down your cheeks and onto your shirt. leaving small wet droplet stains.

“talk to me, what happened?” he feels frantic but keeps his composure for you. he didn't want to provoke the situation further. you take a deep breath, swallowing past the awful lump in your throat that left your breath choppy and stuttering. too overwhelmed to steady your cries.

“it's too hard,” you start, agitatedly wiping your wet face. eren doesn't say anything and only stares at you sincerely, giving you the room to speak. “i just…i try my best a-and nothing works out,” you glance at the paper mess below you two and eren follows your gaze. “i-im gonna f-fail and never graduate. i’ll forever be stuck and stressed about things that don't even make sense,” you ramble, pouring your emotions out into the room. his hand smooths over your back soothingly allowing you to air out your grievances as he listens intently.

once you’re done, he kisses the side of your head and wipes away the remnants on your face. his thumb massaging along your now silky skin.

“feel better?” he asks sweetly. you aren't able to see his face, yet you still felt his kind smile, beaming assuringly. you sniffle and shake your head. he chuckles lowly, finding your response endearing. “well…know that i'm here for you and that there’s nothing at all you can't do. you’ve come so far, there is absolutely nothing you can't figure out. even if you have your moments of struggles, just know that i'm here to support you through it,” his words were even sweeter and were said with so much love. his lips meet your knuckles tenderly before he stares up at you fondly. you swoon internally, wondering how you managed to be so lucky.

“so, how about, we get you something to eat– or sleep, whatever it is you’re in the mood for right now?” he moves to hold you securely in his lap. you shift, making yourself more comfortable as you drape your arms around him, nestling your face in his warm embrace.

“can you just hold me?” you request softly.

“of course,”

eren lays down slowly, careful not to ruin your relaxed position. he lays you on his chest and you hug him tightly. he doesn't mind, his hand soothingly rubbing long strokes on your back. your worries went away one by one. emotions quelled down with ease, almost like you were never upset at all. you sigh contently, remaining close to him as you both lay still in each other's affectionate hold.

#eren x black reader #eren x chubby reader #anime x chubby reader #attack on titan x black reader #eren x black y/n #x chubby reader #x black reader #bunviie writes #aot

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nayziiz · 5 months

Text

Bridges | CS55

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x reader (you)

Author's note: I'm trying something a little bit different with shorter form fics, so please send through any requests or feedback. These one shots will likely not have a second part unless it really speaks to me to continue with it. Thank you!

Masterlist

Navigating a relationship fraught with distance and conflicting schedules can feel like traversing a rocky terrain, where every step forward is met with an unpredictable stumble. For you and Carlos, the challenges seem insurmountable at times. His perpetual travels, fueled by professional commitments or personal adventures, create chasms of physical separation that no amount of digital connection can bridge. Your own demanding job adds another layer of complexity, leaving scant pockets of time for meaningful interaction.

In this dynamic, the moments of togetherness become precious, almost elusive treasures hidden amidst the hustle and bustle of life. Video calls, once envisioned as lifelines, are reduced to fleeting encounters, struggling to capture the essence of your bond in pixels and sound waves. The warmth of his embrace, the sound of his laughter, the nuances of his expressions—these are distilled into fragmented pixels on a screen, a pale reflection of the real connection you crave.

The minimal time spent together often ended in arguments, particularly about your job. It wasn’t that you couldn’t work remotely—because you could—but rather, it was a matter of principle; sacrificing everything to please a man didn’t sit well with you. Carlos, to his credit, respected your career and never explicitly demanded such sacrifices, but the thought lingered, occasionally slipping out during heated debates. In those moments, you'd shut down, refusing to speak to him for days before mustering the strength to be civil again. You couldn’t help but wonder why he couldn’t consider giving up his job if it were so easy.

The aftermath of Carlos's slip of the tongue left a bitter taste in your mouth, a cocktail of resentment and hurt that soured the air between you. The weight of his words hung heavy in the silence that enveloped your shared space, casting a shadow over the once-intimate moments you cherished. The resentment festered, morphing into a simmering disdain that threatened to consume any remnants of affection.

Sleeping in the spare bedroom became an act of self-preservation, a physical manifestation of the emotional distance you felt compelled to maintain. Meals were solitary affairs, punctuated by the hollow echo of his absence and the gnawing ache of unresolved conflict. You sought refuge in the sanctuary of your bedroom, retreating behind closed doors as a shield against the pain that lingered in the spaces between you.

In hindsight, you couldn't help but question the pettiness of your actions. Was it fair to punish him with your silent reproach, denying him the opportunity to apologise and seek reconciliation? Perhaps not, but in the throes of hurt and indignation, rationality often takes a backseat to raw emotion. The desire for acknowledgment, for validation of your pain, outweighed any semblance of reason.

For Carlos, the silence was deafening, a constant reminder of his transgression and the widening chasm between you. He longed for the chance to express his regret, to extend an olive branch in the hopes of mending the fractured bond. Yet, each attempt was met with a wall of icy silence, leaving him stranded on the shores of remorse with no path to redemption.

In the end, both of you found yourselves trapped in a cycle of resentment and regret, each harbouring grievances left unspoken in the name of pride and stubbornness. The space between you grew wider with each passing day, a gaping void that threatened to swallow any hope of reconciliation. And as the silence stretched on, the echoes of unsaid apologies reverberated in the emptiness, a haunting reminder of the love that lay buried beneath the rubble of unresolved conflict.

Recognizing the toxicity of the situation, you came to the sobering realisation that the only path forward was to bring closure to the tumultuous chapter of your relationship. Amid the tangled web of hurt feelings and unresolved conflicts, the prospect of an amicable parting seemed like a distant beacon of hope, offering a glimmer of light in the darkness of uncertainty.

It was a decision fraught with emotion, tinged with a bittersweet mixture of sadness and relief. Ending things meant confronting the painful truth that the love you once shared had morphed into something unrecognisable, weighed down by the burden of unspoken grievances and unmet expectations. Yet, it also offered the promise of liberation, a chance to reclaim agency over your own happiness and well-being.

As you walked side by side along the familiar path to the nearby park, the weight of the impending conversation hung heavy in the air, casting a palpable tension over the otherwise serene atmosphere. The chirping of birds and rustling of leaves provided a backdrop to the silence that stretched between you, punctuated only by sporadic attempts at small talk that faltered and died as quickly as they began.

Each step felt like a journey into the unknown, a hesitant march towards a destination fraught with uncertainty and apprehension. You stole glances at Carlos, noting the furrow of his brow and the downturn of his lips, a reflection of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface.

As you walked together, the weight of the impending conversation still heavy on your mind, Carlos's sudden shift in focus caught you off guard. Following his gaze, you spotted the source of his attention—a young boy, no older than six, standing alone with tears streaming down his cheeks.

Without hesitation, Carlos reached for your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, as he guided you towards the distraught child. There was a sense of urgency in his movements, a silent determination to offer comfort and assistance to someone in need.

As you approached, the boy's cries grew louder, echoing through the quiet surroundings of the park. His eyes widened in surprise as Carlos knelt down beside him, his voice gentle and soothing as he offered words of reassurance.

“Hey there, buddy. What's wrong? Are you lost?” Carlos's voice was calm and steady, a beacon of comfort amidst the storm of the boy's emotions. The boy sniffled, wiping tears from his cheeks as he nodded hesitantly.

“I-I can't find my mom,” he whimpered, his bottom lip quivering with fear.

“It's okay, we're going to help you find her, alright? What's your name?” Carlos's expression softened, his eyes filled with empathy as he reached out to gently pat the boy's shoulder.

The boy sniffled again, his tears beginning to abate as he whispered, “Nicolas.”

you couldn't help but instinctively pull him closer, enveloping him in a protective embrace as you offered what comfort you could. His small frame felt fragile against your side, a poignant reminder of the vulnerability of youth and the universal need for reassurance in times of distress.

Swallowing hard against the lump that threatened to rise in your throat, you fought to maintain a façade of composure, knowing that your own tears would offer little solace to the frightened child in your arms. Instead, you focused on projecting an aura of calm and reassurance, drawing strength from the warmth of Carlos's presence by your side.

Turning to him, you met his gaze, finding in his eyes a reflection of your own concern and worry. Yet, beneath the surface, there was also a shared determination—a silent pact to weather whatever storm lay ahead, together.

“We'll find his mom, Carlos,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you sought to reassure both the boy and yourself. “We won't stop until we do.”

Carlos nodded, his expression a mixture of resolve and compassion as he reached out to gently squeeze your hand.

“We'll do whatever it takes,” he replied, his voice steady despite the hint of emotion that lingered in his tone.

“What does your mom look like? Can you remember what she was wearing?” you asked the young boy.

As Nicolas described his mother's appearance, you listened intently, committing every detail to memory as you scanned the park for any sign of a woman matching his description. Carlos, ever vigilant, was already casting his gaze across the sprawling expanse of greenery, searching for the telltale hint of pink amidst the sea of foliage and fellow park-goers.

Your heart raced with each passing moment, the urgency of the situation driving you forward as you navigated the maze of pathways and shaded groves. Every rustle of leaves, every flash of colour, sent a jolt of anticipation coursing through your veins, heightening your senses as you strained to catch a glimpse of Nicolas's missing mother.

Minutes stretched into eternity as you combed through the park, your determination unwavering despite the mounting sense of unease that gnawed at the edges of your consciousness.

As you lifted Nicolas into your arms, feeling the weight of his small frame against your chest, a surge of maternal instinct washed over you, driving you forward with a sense of purpose and determination. His tear-streaked face nestled against your shoulder, his sobs muffled by the fabric of your shirt, and in that moment, you knew that you would do whatever it took to offer him comfort and reassurance.

Caught up in the whirlwind of emotion, you barely noticed Carlos's approach until he was by your side, his eyes soft with concern and tenderness as he reached out to gently take Nicolas from your arms. His touch was gentle yet firm, his arms cradling the boy with a sense of ease that spoke volumes of his natural empathy and compassion.

“He's too heavy for you to keep carrying,” Carlos remarked, his voice gentle yet firm as he adjusted his grip on Nicolas, offering him a reassuring smile. “Let me take him for a while.”

Reluctantly, you relinquished your hold on Nicolas, watching with a mixture of awe and admiration as Carlos effortlessly carried the boy in his arms. The resentment and anger that had simmered between you for weeks seemed to evaporate in an instant, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude and love.

As you watched Carlos interact with Nicolas, his face alight with warmth and kindness, you couldn't help but feel a swell of pride welling up within you. Here was a man who had faced his own struggles and shortcomings, yet had risen above them with grace and compassion. In that moment, any doubts or misgivings you had harboured seemed trivial in comparison to the depth of love and admiration you felt for him.

And then, just as doubt began to creep in, a flash of pink caught your eye—a figure emerging from behind a cluster of trees, her black hair glinting in the sunlight as she approached.

“There she is!” Nicolas exclaimed, his voice tinged with relief as he pointed towards the approaching figure.

You followed his gaze, your heart soaring with gratitude and relief as you spotted the woman, her pink shirt unmistakable amidst the verdant backdrop of the park. With a sense of urgency, you guided Nicolas towards her, Carlos at your side as you closed the distance between yourselves and the reunited pair.

As Nicolas's mother enveloped him in a tight embrace, tears of relief streaming down her cheeks, you couldn't help but feel a swell of emotion welling up within you. The tension that had gripped your chest began to ebb away, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude and relief as you witnessed the joy of their reunion.

“You've been so kind,” Nicolas’s mother murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

“Of course,” Carlos replied, his voice soft yet resolute as he met Nicolas's mother's gaze with a reassuring smile. “We're just glad we could help.”

Carlos’s eyes reflected the warmth and sincerity of her words. With a nod of acknowledgment, he tightened his arm around your shoulders, drawing you close in a gesture of solidarity and support.

Feeling his embrace, you couldn't help but return the gesture, wrapping your arms around his torso and pulling him closer with a sense of gratitude and affection. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the park and the gentle hum of evening, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace and contentment wash over you, enveloping you in a comforting embrace.

Turning back to Carlos, you met his gaze with a soft smile, a silent acknowledgment of the strength and compassion that had drawn you to him in the first place.

“I can't be without you,” you confessed, your voice barely above a breath as you voiced the depth of your need.

As the words tumbled from your lips, carried on a whisper of vulnerability and longing, you felt the weight of their truth settle heavily in the space between you. In response, Carlos's expression softened, his eyes reflecting the sincerity of your words as he reached out to gently cup your face in his hands.

“Me either, my love,” he murmured, his voice a tender echo of your own sentiments as he leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead.

The warmth of his touch sent a shiver of emotion coursing through you, reaffirming the depth of the bond that bound you together. Yet, even as you revelled in the comfort of his embrace, a nagging sense of unease lingered in the recesses of your mind—an unspoken acknowledgment of the challenges that lay ahead.

“I don't know how, but we need to fix this,” you added, your voice tinged with determination as you met Carlos's gaze with a steadfast resolve.

The words hung heavy in the air, a solemn vow to confront the obstacles that threatened to tear you apart and find a path forward, together. Carlos nodded, his grip on your body tightening ever so slightly as he met your gaze with a fierce determination of his own.

“No matter what it takes, we'll find a way to make this work,” he replied, his voice infused with unwavering conviction.

In that moment, as you stood locked in each other's gaze, you knew that the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and uncertainty. Yet, with love as your guiding light and determination as your compass, you were ready to face whatever obstacles lay in your path, hand in hand, united in purpose and resolve.

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minhosbitterriver · 21 days

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──── * ˚ ✦ THE LAST STRAW ( stray kids )

❛ After a final argument with your toxic, manipulative mother over your irresponsible younger brother, you decide to cut ties with your family, only to be overwhelmed by doubt and panic until your supportive boyfriend, Felix, reassures you that choosing yourself was the right decision.

𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐨𝐧𝐞-𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.5k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 14 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ Here's a wonderful request made by @lixies-favorite-cookie! I hope you guys enjoy, reblogs and feedback are much appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Non-Idol AU, emotional abuse, family conflict, mommy issues, mental health struggles, parental neglect, parental favoritism, depression and self-worth issues, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

The kitchen feels like a war zone, the air thick with unsaid accusations and the sharp remnants of long-festered wounds. Your mother stands at the sink, her back rigid and unforgiving, hands submerged in soapy water as she scrubs a dish with a ferocity that speaks louder than words. Each stroke of her hand seems to scrape away at the silence, but instead of clarity, it only stirs the storm between you. You can almost see the tension rippling off her like waves of heat from a furnace, feeding the blaze that has been building in your chest, threatening to consume you.

“So, that’s it?” you ask, your voice taut, straining against the anger simmering just below the surface. “You’re really going to ignore everything I’ve said and expect me to drop everything—again—to drive him around?” There’s a tremor in your tone, a plea for acknowledgment masked by the bitterness of your words. But she doesn’t turn to face you. Instead, she sighs, a heavy, exaggerated breath that fills the room with disdain, as if you are the one being irrational, ungrateful.

“He doesn’t have anyone else,” she replies, her voice dripping with exasperation, as if you should already know this. “And it’s not like it’s a big deal—you’re already out and about. What’s a little detour to help your brother?”

Her words hit you like a slap across the face, stinging and familiar. “A little detour?” you echo, a disbelieving laugh slipping out, sharp and brittle. “Mom, I have a job. I have classes. I’m barely keeping up as it is. But sure, let’s add ‘chauffeur for the man-child’ to my list of responsibilities.”

At this, she finally turns, her face set in that hardened expression you know so well—eyes narrowed, lips pulled into a thin, unforgiving line. “Don’t talk about him like that,” she snaps, her voice a low warning. “He’s your brother. He’s just going through a rough time.”

A bitter, exhausted laugh escapes your lips, and you can feel the years of buried frustration rising up, threatening to overflow. "A rough time?" you repeat, your voice growing louder, each word carrying the weight of all the grievances you’ve kept bottled up for so long. “He’s been ‘going through a rough time’ for the last five years! And every single time he screws up, you’re right there, wiping his slate clean, making excuses for him. He never has to face the consequences of anything, and somehow, I’m always the one left to pick up the pieces!”

Your voice cracks, and the room seems to tremble with the force of your words. All the times you’ve been overlooked, all the sacrifices you’ve made without a second thought, all the nights spent wondering why you were never enough—everything comes crashing down in this moment. You stand there, breathless, waiting for something, anything, that resembles an acknowledgment of what you’ve endured.

But she doesn’t see it. She doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t even flinch. And that, more than anything, is what breaks you.

"That's not true," your mother snaps, her voice cutting through the air like the crack of a whip, cold and biting. "You don’t know what he’s going through. You’ve always been so hard on him, never understanding." Her words hang in the air, thick with accusation, and you feel a familiar frustration beginning to coil tightly in your chest.

You scoff, the sound escaping before you can stop it, disbelief etched across your face. "Understanding?" you fire back, voice laced with incredulity. "You mean like how you’re 'understanding' when he crashes his car because he was out partying, and you expect me to drop everything, put my entire life and future on hold, to make up for it? Or how you’re 'understanding' when he blows all his money on God knows what, and I’m the one who has to lend him my hard-earned cash so he can pay his rent? You’ve always been ‘understanding’ of him, but when have you ever been ‘understanding’ of me?"

For a moment, the room falls silent, heavy with the weight of everything that has been left unsaid for far too long. Your mother’s eyes flash dangerously, a mix of anger and frustration, a glare that once would have made you swallow your words, scramble to backtrack and apologize. But not today. Today, the exhaustion has settled too deeply in your bones, mingling with the anger that has simmered for years, bubbling to the surface.

"You think I don’t care about you?" she spits out, her voice rising, each word sharp and defensive. "I’ve done everything for you! You grew up with food on the table and a roof over your head. You have a job now, you’re in college, you have everything going for you. Do you think that just happened by itself?"

Her audacity stings, her self-righteousness fanning the flames inside you. Every vein feels like it’s on fire, adrenaline surging through your body. “No,” you say, voice trembling but strong, each word pushed out with a force that surprises even you. “Don’t you dare take credit for what little good I have in my life. Don’t you dare. Everything I have going for me is because I worked for it. I was the one who graduated as valedictorian in high school—not you, not him. I worked my ass off to get into college, scrapping for every scholarship I could find so I wouldn’t have to drown in debt later. I found my own place to live, found a job so I could pay my own bills, held myself together when everything around me was falling apart.”

Your words pour out like a flood, each one more bitter than the last. You can see her eyes narrowing, her lips tightening, but it only pushes you to keep going. “But you? Sure, you fed me, you put a roof over my head—like the law says you should. But you only ever noticed me when I was useful to him, when I made things easier for your golden child."

The silence that follows is deafening, filled with the echoes of things that have finally been said, the raw truth laid bare between you. The tension in the room is electric, the weight of years of imbalance, neglect, and misplaced loyalty pressing down on your shoulders. But for the first time, you feel something shift inside you—a spark of liberation, a sense that perhaps, just perhaps, you’ve finally stepped out of the shadow that has loomed over you for so long.

"You're being so selfish," she spits, her voice trembling with a barely controlled fury that makes the walls tremble. The dishes slip from her hands, clattering into the sink with a loud clank as she whirls around to face you. Her eyes are wild, nearly bulging out of her head, her face flushed with indignation. "You have no idea what it's like to be a parent, to have to make these kinds of decisions." The venom in her words seeps into the air, choking you with its bitterness.

But you don’t flinch. Your fists curl even tighter at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you stand your ground, locking eyes with her. "I'm selfish?" A bitter laugh escapes you, sharp and brittle, and you can feel the hot sting of unshed tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Do you even hear yourself? You've spent years bending over backwards to coddle him, to fix every single one of his messes. And every time, it's me who gets caught in the crossfire. It's always me who’s expected to be the 'responsible one.' And what do I get for it? Nothing. Not a thank you, not a 'good job,' not even a fraction of the support and understanding you so eagerly throw at him."

Your mother’s hand slams down on the counter with a thunderous bang, making you jump. Her face is a twisted mask of rage and frustration. "You've always had a chip on your shoulder about him," she sneers, her tone dripping with condescension, as if speaking to a petulant child. "Maybe if you weren't so jealous—"

"Don't even start." You cut her off, your voice cracking under the weight of everything you’ve kept bottled up for so long. "I'm not jealous, Mom. I'm tired. I'm tired of being the one who has to sacrifice everything while he coasts through life, knowing you’ll always be there to bail him out. I'm tired of you making me feel like I’m never enough, like I’m only here to clean up his messes and make things easier for him."

The air thickens, a suffocating silence falling between you. Your mother’s face hardens, her eyes narrowing into icy slits. "If you don't like it, then maybe you should just leave," she says, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. "You're an adult now, aren’t you? You can make your own choices."

Her words hang in the air, daring you to speak, to react. For a moment, you’re stunned, the breath catching in your throat. Then, softly, like a truth you've kept buried, you say, "Maybe I should." The words taste like freedom on your tongue, a release from years of guilt and fear. "Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep letting you use me to prop him up while you tear me down. I deserve better than this."

For a fleeting moment, something flickers in her eyes—something almost vulnerable, almost human. But it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by the same cold indifference that has always been there. "Fine. Do what you want," she says dismissively, her tone devoid of emotion. "But don’t come crying to me when you realize you can’t handle the world I’ve protected you from."

A humorless laugh bubbles up in your throat, but you swallow it down, taking a deep breath instead. You feel the weight of years of resentment, of pain and unspoken truths, settling into place. "I won't," you reply, voice steady as a stone. "Because I've been handling the world all my life. You never protected me from it—you only ever protected your golden child. And I’m done."

You turn away, leaving her standing there, leaving behind the suffocating grip of a mother who never truly saw you. You walk out of the kitchen, out of the house that never felt like a home, and with each step, the air feels a little lighter, the world outside a little more open. For the first time, you feel the distant, hopeful glimmer of something new—something that belongs to you, and you alone.

You sit in the driver’s seat, fingers clenched around the steering wheel with a grip so tight that your knuckles have turned ghostly white. Each breath you take is shallow and ragged, barely filling your lungs. Your heart hammers in your chest, erratic and wild, a drumbeat of panic. The weight of the argument you just had with your mother crashes over you like an unrelenting wave, cold and suffocating. It presses down on you with a force that makes you feel as if you’re drowning, gasping for air but finding none.

Your eyes remain fixed on the house in front of you—your childhood home, a place that should have held comfort and warmth but instead feels like a prison. Each window, each door, every familiar detail seems to glare back at you like a hundred judgmental eyes, watching, waiting. This is where you learned the rules of a game you never asked to play. A place where love was conditional, tethered to sacrifice and silence. And now, it’s a place you’ve walked away from—perhaps for good.

Your vision blurs with unshed tears, and you let out a shaky breath that comes out more like a sob than you intended. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the sting from your eyes, but it’s useless. You can’t stay here, not in front of this house where the walls seem to whisper accusations, where every step closer feels like sinking deeper into quicksand. You can’t risk your mother storming out with that familiar fire in her eyes, her voice like a vice, twisting your emotions to suit her will.

With trembling hands, you fumble for your phone, fingers unsteady as they swipe through your contacts. You need an anchor, something to steady you before you’re pulled under by the crushing weight of it all. You find his name—Felix. Your thumb hovers for a moment, then presses the call button. You raise the phone to your ear, the screen blurring with tears as you pull out of the driveway. You don’t have a destination in mind; you just need to be moving, to put distance between you and that house.

The line rings once, twice, and with each unanswered ring, the panic coils tighter in your chest, rising into your throat like bile. What if he doesn’t pick up? What if he’s busy? What if you’re left alone with the noise in your head? But then—

"Hey, sunshine," his voice breaks through, warm and steady, like the first rays of dawn piercing through the darkest night. His tone is so familiar, so safe. "You okay? I'm just—"

You don’t let him finish. Your voice cracks as you speak, holding back the sob that threatens to spill over. "Felix...I—I did it. I told her...I told her that I'm done. I can't...I can't believe that I actually did it." The words rush out of you in a breathless stream, a confession that feels both terrifying and freeing.

There’s a pause on the other end, a silence that feels heavy with the weight of his understanding. You can almost hear him processing your words, feel the concern threading through the line. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, careful. "You talked to her?" he asks, his tone gentle yet laced with worry. "What happened?"

His question hangs in the air, pulling at your heartstrings, inviting you to pour out the torrent of emotions swirling inside you. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel like you can breathe, even if just a little, knowing that someone is there to catch you as you fall.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, a futile attempt to push back the tears that threaten to spill over. Your heart is pounding in your chest, a heavy, uneven rhythm that matches the chaos in your mind. When you open your eyes again, you force yourself to focus on the road, blinking rapidly to clear the blurriness from your vision. You suck in a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, to find some semblance of calm amidst the storm raging inside you.

"It was about my man-child of a brother again," you start, your voice wavering as you speak. Each word feels like a shard of glass, cutting through the tightness in your throat. "She wanted me to...to fucking drop everything and take care of his mess again. He crashed the damn car, and she’s not even mad at him. She was actually more pissed at me for not wanting to drive him everywhere." The bitterness in your tone is unmistakable, tinged with a raw edge of frustration that’s been simmering for far too long. "And I just...I couldn’t take it anymore, Lix. I told her I’m done. I told her I wasn’t coming back."

Your breath hitches, and a sob finally breaks free, raw and unrestrained, as you come to a stop at a red light. The tears you've been holding back spill over, warm and unwelcome, streaking down your cheeks. "But what if I made a mistake? What if I’m wrong?" you choke out, the words heavy with doubt and fear. "I mean, they are my family at the end of the day, and I’m nothing without them. What if I...what if I shouldn’t have done this?"

On the other end of the line, you hear a soft rustling, a familiar sound that brings a small measure of comfort. You know he’s moving, pacing like he always does when he’s worried. Felix’s voice comes through, steady and gentle, like a lifeline. "Hey, hey, take a breath for me, hmm?" he murmurs, his tone soothing. "Just breathe. In and out, yeah? I’m right here."

You try to follow his instructions as you ease off the brake, the traffic lights changing to green. You take a deep breath in, filling your lungs, and then let it out, but the exhale is shaky, faltering, as if your body is resisting the calm he’s trying to instill. The tears keep flowing, unchecked, but his voice remains a steady anchor amidst the turbulent sea of your emotions.

"You did the right thing, love," he continues, his voice firm with conviction—a conviction you desperately need to hear right now. "You’ve been dealing with their bullshit for so long. Too long. You deserve to let it go. You deserve to be free of it all."

Without much thought, you turn the car to the right, feeling the pull of his reassurance guiding you, even if you’re not quite sure where you’re going. "But what if...what if Mom’s right?" you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. "What if I am being selfish? I just...I grew up with this rule in my head that family always helps family, so what if I’m being a shitty person by refusing?"

For a moment, there’s a pause, a breath of silence that hangs in the air, heavy with all the questions and fears you can’t quite voice. Felix’s next words are gentle, but they cut through that fog with a clarity that brings you back from the edge. "You’re not selfish," he says quietly but firmly. "Sometimes, family isn't about blood; it’s about who stands by you, who sees you. And you’ve been standing on your own for a long time. It’s okay to want more than just survival."

Tears spill down your cheeks, hot and unrelenting, blurring your vision as they cascade over your skin. You press the heel of your hand against your eyes, trying to stem the flow, but it’s like trying to dam a river with a single stone—futile. The weight of everything, the argument, the years of silent endurance, crashes over you in waves, threatening to pull you under. With a shaky breath, you pull onto the side of the road, the tires crunching over gravel, and the car comes to a halt.

"I’m scared, Lix," you confess, your voice breaking, small and fragile as it escapes you. "I’m scared that I’ll regret this." The words hang in the air, and for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath with you. Your heart is a clenched fist in your chest, squeezing tighter with each passing second.

Then, his voice breaks through the silence—a warm, comforting presence that feels like a soft embrace, wrapping around you when you need it most. "You won’t," he says, his tone gentle yet firm, a soothing balm for your frayed nerves. "You know why, huh? Because you’re finally choosing yourself. And that’s not something to regret, not ever. Love, I’m not trying to say it’ll be easy from now on, but you deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved for who you are, not for what you can do for someone else."

A shaky breath escapes your lips, and the tightness in your chest starts to loosen, if only a little. His words are like a lifeline, grounding you, pulling you back from the edge of your doubts. Deep down, beneath the fear and the uncertainty, you know he’s right. You’ve carried this weight for so long that it feels strange to think of setting it down. But his words are a steady anchor, keeping you from drifting away.

"Can I come over?" you ask, your voice almost a whisper, raw and vulnerable. "I don’t... I don’t want to be alone right now." The admission feels like exposing a wound, but with Felix, it’s okay. It’s always been okay.

There isn’t a moment of hesitation before he responds, his voice filled with that unwavering reassurance you’ve come to rely on. "Of course. I’m not home right now, but I was already on my way from class, so I’ll meet you there, okay? Just stay on the phone with me until I get there. We’ll figure everything out together."

You nod, even though he can’t see you, feeling a small, tired smile tug at the corners of your lips. There’s still a lingering ache in your heart, but it’s softer now, more manageable. "Thank you, babe," you whisper, the words heavy with gratitude and love.

"Always," he murmurs back, his voice a soft promise that settles deep within you. "Just keep breathing, sunshine. I’ve got you. I always will."

With his voice still in your ear, you restart the car, feeling his presence as a guiding light through the darkness that’s clouded your path for so long. The road stretches out before you, uncertain and unfamiliar, but with Felix by your side—even if only through the phone—it doesn’t seem quite so daunting.

For the first time in what feels like years, there’s a flicker of something warm blooming in your chest. Hope. Fragile, tentative, but undeniably there. And for now, that’s enough.

꒰ 🏷️ ꒱ ミ Permanent taglist: @agi-ppangx @sunnyrisee @jisunglyricist @nxtt2-u @nebugalaxy @bokk-minnie @tajannah-price1 (Click on the link to join! All you have to do is answer a few questions to help me stay organized!)

🍉 FROM THE RIVER TO THE SEA, PALESTINE WILL BE FREE! DAILY CLICKS!

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