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its-actually-minicika · 1 year

Note

Hi, love your works so much! Can't wait for more updates 🥰🥰 I was wondering maybe you'd like the idea where book!Aemond and Velarion!(Strong?)Reader are in an arranged marriage. But Reader just knows what to say and how to act so that Aemond is wrapped around her finger (kinda thought of Margaery and Joffrey situation, she was such a talented schemer, worthy of winning the Throne 😭). I don't really know about the setting, like if it's before, during or after the Dance... just thought it'd be interesting to see this kind of plot with our beloved Prince 🤴🏼🐉

If you don't like it, just ignore me ��

Dragon Sickness (18+)

Pairing: bookcanon!Aemond x Strong!Niece!Reader

Warnings: No usage of (Y/N), Greens win AU, bookcanon Greens, the obvious Targaryen incest, mentions of major character deaths (we're entering spoiler grounds, but not really), blood, gore etc.

Word Count: 3.5K+

Author's Note: I fell in love with this idea the moment I saw it! I ended up altering the plot line for this one-shot a little bit - the reader will definitely grow into the Margaery architype, but today you shall see her as she was when she just learned how to make ends meet with her newfound life at Court.

I don't know if I should turn this into yet another series, but if you guys enjoyed this, let me know

Also, thank you so, so much for your kind words ♡ i'm hugging you to the moon and back!

PART 2 IS OUT NOW ♡♡♡

Who could ever blame you for your indiscreet acts? Alliances change when the world you know suddenly turns upside down.

She remembered how weak she was. How scared she had been.

How her eyes widened into two brown specs of uncertainty, how her mouth fell agape, as she mulled over Alicent’s words.

‘You shall marry Aemond within the next moon turns. For the good of the Realm.’

The Dowager Queen had openly admitted to being against the match – of course, the prospect of her perfect son, married off to a lowly bastard of Rhaenyra's (otherwise said, her last surviving child), didn’t specifically thrill her. Much less her demanding and scornful father.

Still, it couldn’t be helped. And if the Velaryon wanted to keep her head away from a spike, she had no other choice but to comply.

Although… she wasn’t a Velaryon now, was she? Aegon the Usurper made sure of that.

His final gift to her was to strip her of all her titles. She had been openly declared a bastard – before the masses, before the Court.

With a wide smile upon his burnt lips, the “King” had told her she’d be a Targaryen instead. Driftmark wouldn’t matter, her legacy wouldn’t matter. Aemond would inherit the seat with the Usurper’s blessing, as a homage brought to his able fighting and his shown bravery on the bloody battlefield.

Never mind that he’d never partaken in a fight; save for the one that killed her stepfather, Daemon, and sent her poor mother in a downward spiral. Aemond had chosen his adversaries wisely, and managed to go through the whole war without as much of a scratch upon his silver armour.

‘I shan’t marry your son. Not now, not ever.’ Her own voice rang out.

‘You will do exactly as demanded.’

‘I would rather die than bear the treacherous children of that monstrous beast.’

A monstrous beast. That is what Aemond was.

And that is what he shall remain. No matter how many gifts he brought to her. No matter how many hours of their days and days in their weeks and weeks in their months they spent promenading those ghastly gardens.

‘You will if you know your best interests. Your own head may hold no value to you, but a single swing of my son’s sword would be enough to bring forth the ruin of House Blackwood.’

At first, she’d been restless in her attempts to escape the Keep. Her every waking hour was spent shamelessly inside the Sept, where she prayed not for the safety of her brothers’ souls, but for revenge against the mutted Greens.

The slight breeze of the cathedral mended her flesh from the heat of summer. And no one dared to approach or talk to her. The quietness was a welcomed deed.

During the first night of their betrothal, her glossy eyes scanned Aemond’s face. His hands wantonly gripped at his thighs and a slight twitch of his mouth, accompanied by an elongated hum escaped his lips.

There was no other discernable expression. And when he led her to the chambers of her early girlhood, he merely bowed and kissed her hand.

She spent the first night of their betrothal scraping her knuckles so harshly, that they broke and cracked under the stimulation of the cold water.

Her thirst for vengeance ceased after the first two months. Her wedding date was approaching swiftly, and she found herself faced with the abhorrent truth. She had no allies. No more friends at Court. The girl had shut herself in her tiny room, losing her mind with the pain and grief that flooded her at night: the faces of her mother, her brothers, her father. The sound of their screams and their endless pleas for help.

Every night, without a fail, she woke up tormented by nightmares – her throat burning with absolving shrieks of fear, exacerbated breaths of air and flimsy nightdresses, damp throughout by breaks of sweat.

The first night she lashed out onto her bedding was the night she found out Aemond had moved his Quarters next to hers. He yanked the door open and stepped into the light of her candle – looking ravished, completely out of breath and startled. Started not for his own accord and safety, but for the state that his future wife had been in.

‘Shit, it’s alright, I’m here–’

The echo of his mellow voice deterred her to let out a blood-curdling scream, that would have rivalled even the one of the late Queen Rhaenyra, after Aegon the Usurper ceased her at Dragonstone, and reeled his dragon to eat her whole.

‘Get the fuck away from me! Get the fuck out of my room!’

Her sobs pierced into the man’s heart, but his hurt expression was masked quickly with one most bitter and taciturn. He clenched his fists ruefully by his side, and spat out an apology in a low and dangerous tone.

‘As you wish.’

And how dearly he loved those words:

‘As you wish.’

'As you desire.’

Even though nothing had been, or ever will be, as she achingly wished them to.

“You could at least attempt to look happy.” His chastising tone rained upon her, as his Lady remained hammered in her seat. Maids flocked to her like lost chickens to their cock, arranging her hair and picking out dresses fit for their engagement parade.

Her face contorted into the mirror, and a faint sigh beleft her lips. Carefully she turned around, reflecting his stance with a subtle arch to her shapely brow.

“It’s bad luck to see your bride before the wedding ceremony.”

“An old wives' tale. And one that applies only on the day itself.”

“Perhaps we should encourage tradition more. Make it so we don’t cross paths at all til then.”

Just as fast as it came, the feral look dissolved over his tired face. Aemond heaved out a heavy exhale and merely settled to growl at her maids.

“Leave us. Now.”

A discontented look painted over her fair features. His niece opened her mouth in protest, to try and stop the fleeing girls from truly making their escape.

“I must remind my Prince that the engagement assembly will be held in less than an hour. I believe I should like them to stay.”

The gathered women exchanged lost and protruding glances, until the former King Regent spoke again.

“They will leave us at once.”

“They’ll do no such a thing. They must make haste to get me ready. We wouldn’t want to upset your mother.”

“I’m more than capable of lacing up a loose bodice.”

The tight expression on her face deserted her features with the leave of his smug retort. She swallowed thickly in enraged abandon, and silently beseeched her ladies not to leave her all alone.

Still ravishing her with his bold stare, Aemond stepped another foot into the cosy confinements of her tidy prison. “If I’m to turn around now and find any of you standing before me, I’ll arrange that you’re all flogged and defiled beyond the utter of salvation.”

Brisk footsteps swallowed the room, echoing wildly through the narrow dark hallways. The former Velaryon shook her head in disarray, and graced her soon-to-be-husband with a tight smile and a nod.

“Congratulations.” She uttered humorously, “I should enjoy looking like a fool tonight much more than being proper by your side.”

As if drowned below a trace, Aemond took another step in the direction of the frowning Princess. His face remained impenetrable, but as he opened his mouth to speak, his voice ran meek, unsure and hoarse.

“Turn around.” He commanded her gently, whilst grabbing a deep green garment from the cluttery made on her bed. Despite her lack of desire to abide by his request, the woman turned her back to him and muttered slowly, though much softer than intended.

“I don’t like that one. It’ll make the skirts look out of place.”

“Which one do you want, then?” His whisper had made her draw in a sharp gasp; the warmth of his breath fell soothingly over the nape of her neck, caressing her delicate skin in a way she hadn’t known was possible.

“The red one with black lacings.”

His hand came to spin her back around, and their noses nearly touched together. A smile tugged at the ends of his upturned lips, but the look inside his eye remained frigid and unforgiving.

“Your petticoat won’t be those colours.”

A conceited scowl graced her face. She reached her hand behind him and skillfully snatched one of a different design. “Fine. I want to wear this one, then.”

The obnoxious blue and silver danced across her paling skin. And if Aemond weren’t so dazed by their proximity and lack of air, he might have laughed at her feeble attempts of vexing him.

“Those are Velaryon hues.”

“Perfect. I shall honour my house well.”

“You are not a Velaryon to grace them with such a feat.”

“No, you are absolutely right. Your brother did name me a Targaryen.”

Their faces were so close to each other, that their moving lips were almost touching.

“Yet I can’t wear black and red either.” A prompted look disarmed the Prince, “It is all very confusing.”

His lone orb descended to her puffing bosom, but Aemond soon directed himself upon a more elusive image. His fingers twitched with the need to grab a hold of her – to pull away those last pieces of cloth that shielded her away from view.

“You know full well why I can’t allow that.” He hummed in unmoving disapproval, “As much as I enjoy your voice and the raptures of your closeness, I must say this conversation bores me.”

“I should be able to wear what I want.” Came her prompt and swift reply, “But of course, Your Grace, forgive me. ‘Tis not for men to pounder on laces and brims.” Her palms took to rest upon his bulging chest, and the girl nearly removed them at once, as the thrumming of his heart enterlaced with her slim fingers. Still, she furrowed her brows in a most perplexed of mockeries, and insatiably drove on, “Indeed resilient men such as yourself occupy their time much better.”

The callouses of his hands fell heavily upon her cheeks.

“Fucking their ways through brothels, getting their pricks wet, and fantasising about wars.”

The harshness of his next tug nearly broke her brave facade – her eyes widened in mistrust, and a slight recoil braced over her straightened back. Her small fingers clasped over his shaking wrist, which held onto her face with a gentleness untoward; one completely mismatching with the predatory glimmer in his eye.

The man he was, and the man he was trying to be would surely never mend to one.

A Kinslayer. A monster. A divergent freak.

Nothing more, and nothing less.

His thumb played absent-mindedly at her lower lip, and the young Princess tried her damnest not to bite him. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?”

“You are as imprudent as you are beautiful. A family trait, I assume.”

“You have my gratitude for the flattering commentary. I’m very proud of my heritage.”

His lilac orb bore into her, and the man let out a reserved laugh, “Your bastard brothers were ample proud. Look where that brought them.” The rough end of his hand gripped her own painfully, before she could make for a swing at his handsome face. “Lost in the seas, rotting at the bottom of an ocean, nestling inside Sunfyre’s belly.”

While her hands were clasped together, her mouth wasn’t sown shut. With a single and effective move, she spat harshly in his face, eliciting a groan from her broader perpetrator.

Though his nostrils flared up in disdain, the man graced her with a calculated smirk. “Did I strike a nerve with that one?” He mocked her with feigned interest.

“Fuck you,” She hissed out slowly, “Don’t you dare talk of my family – my brothers were ten times the man you are.”

“Oh, but I have every right to talk about your family. Given that I will be all yours shortly.” Once more he forced her to turn around, and kneeled over to her spasming form, to begin dressing her up; in nought else, of course, but the mundane silks of his choosing.

"Doesn't the prospect thrill you? To become my lady-wife, to finally bear a true Targaryen inside your royal womb?"

So hopeless and defeated she felt, that the youth jerked herself relentlessly, while repeating him the same plethora of words. “You cannot force me to be your whore. You cannot force me to wear this. I will not bear your Hightower green.”

Aemond could feel his patience running thin – and when her foot came into contact with his setting knee, the man let out a ferocious growl, and promptly trapped the girl in his arms, with the aid of a nearby wall.

“So you want to be difficult? You don’t want to wear this? Hmm? Well, who am I not to abide my Lady’s burning wishes?”

The sharpness of his dagger came into quick contact with the milky skin of her thighs. And she might have almost screamed, if Aemond didn’t immediately pull himself away. His hard chest grazed hers for but a moment, as the Prince cast his attention to her moving shadow.

“If you wish not to attend our engagement parade wearing the clothes I’ve chosen for you,” He muttered against her face, a scorned look adorning his own, “Then you won’t be wearing anything at all.”

She huffed out a dispensing pant and pursed her lips into a tight line.

She remained rigid and poised, until a spark of amusement swirled into her eyes.

The first crack was that of a lax smile. The next, a tremor to her lips. The calm before the storm approached, until all rattled down with a mirthed laugh cascading from her reddened lips.

“Do you mean to frighten me with this promise?” She asked through the arch of an uncertain brow, “As if every man in this cursed Keep won’t get to watch me whore myself out to you anyway, when our wedding night will come?”

His face suddenly hardened at the notion of their reality – as if he didn’t give much thought to the bedding ceremony. To his Lady being watched by a thousand other eyes but his.

Aemond suddenly darkened, and his fist came into contact with a near spot on the wall, so awfully close to her frightened, paling face.

She watched with wide eyes how his stare contorted from one of realisation to one of fury. He stiffly peeled his body away from hers, and strained himself to leave her be. The jealous and possessive knots that churned painfully inside his stomach burned his skin upon the surface, and constricted the air he brashly took in.

He nodded to her in a spry and calloused manner, and brought his hand out to touch her cheek. His knuckles had begun to bleed, busted by the force of impact that his fist had faced for him. Behind his eye danced a look of seldom shame – he gnawed harshly at his bottom lip, and pondered, for a while, on apologising to his niece; for his lack of princely conduct, for his show of impropriety – for his inability to keep himself at bay.

Still his thoughts failed to merge to words, and so the man ran his eye one final time over her defensive pose, and merely left her standing there.

As if turned into a statue, the girl barely registered the lethargic closing of the door, the hurried and heavy footsteps that travelled further and further away from her quaint and cluttered space, and the animated curse that slipped past her uncle's throat.

Did he just dare to leave her there, with her petticoat half up her legs, in nought else but a flimsy nightdress?

At first she thought that his avoidance was a blessing in disguise.

For after clashing wits with Aemond, and after his swift hurried departure, the man had barely graced her with another word.

His hand held onto hers for the whole duration of the procession. He wordlessly forced her to dance two dances, and led her to her Quarters as soon as she mentioned that she was tired.

But his palms didn’t linger on the shape of her narrow waist – his lips barely grazed her knuckles, and Aemond turned with lest a word to add after their fake sympathies were exchanged.

Had he gotten bored of her? Realised what a terrible match they made, and begged his mother on his hands and knees to break off their ill engagement?

For the first time in a while, a new notion of fear engulfed her.

The Greens couldn’t kill her. Of that, she was almost certain. It wouldn't be a wise move, and it would anger the North beyond the power of salvation. The war had had its say on every army that fought into it, yet the Crownlands were especially weak.

But if Aemond were to sever their solidary alliance, then her future would be most uncertain.

Otto Hightower would make her join with an old and withered Lord, no doubt – one with more than enough sons to further on his pesky line. One who couldn’t even get it up to her, who’d never procreate and mend their blood, who’d make sure Rhaenyra’s line would end with her.

Or perhaps she’d be sent to join the Faith – become a Septa or a Silent Sister, among the infamous Maris Baratheons of the Realm. Yet another girl who wouldn’t keep her tongue when asked.

And history might remember them as ‘the women who couldn’t be tamed’, but their lives would be thrown to ruin. Their existence would remain a sham.

No, she had whispered to herself, as she writhed into the soft bedding. If she still thirsted for revenge, she would have to marry Aemond. Keep him interested and relaxed – yearning for her voice and company.

… And if she had to whore herself to him to do it, she would obediently assume her role.

“I beg your pardon?” Aegon asked through another gulp of bitter wine, “Gods be good – I believe that now I’ve heard it all.”

Aemond paced about his brother’s room, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his face set into a deep grimace. He hummed in admission to his brother’s words, and glanced his way with the instance of a hooded eye.

“There is to be no bedding ceremony.” He repeated himself with ease, “I frightened her enough already. The girl will be plenty uncomfortable without the aid of chafing eyes.”

His brother smiled and raised his brows in nothing else but blinding wonder. A small shake of his head indicated his perplexion, and a sharp inhale his drawn decision.

“Mother insisted upon it. You know that well.” The man steadied himself in his chair as he spoke, whilst letting out a small grunt at the contact that the wood made upon his burnt remnants of skin. “I don’t see any reason to annul it. Especially now, an eve before.”

Another sip of the stinging liquor interrupted his smooth and ready trail of thought. The Targaryen brushed off Aemond’s concerns, and gleefully bided his teasing.

“It’ll do the two of you good – you’ll get to see she’s as pure as a bastard girl can be; and she’ll have no deniability that any of her future heirs are yours.” He pointed his weary digit in the direction of his stiffened form and swallowed down a hefty laugh. “Not to mention that Lord Redwyne and Tarly already placed bets on the state of her maidenhead. Would be a shame to disappoint them both, don't you think?"

“What mother thinks is of no consequence. And the amusement of the Realm matters not to me. There will be no bedding ceremony.”

“Nonsense, Aemond. It is our duty to upkeep the Realm – and to entertain its inhabitants if need be.”

When his reckless teasing was met with glacial silence, Aegon sighed as he briskly leaned forward. He watched his sibling with an indiscernible expression across his scorched veneer, and yawned greatly at his indisposed behaviour.

“Of course, we’re here to talk it out. But after so much time spent in your company, I fail to see the necessity for such a thing.” A sly smirk danced across his puffy lips, “Are you concerned that she won’t bleed? Or that you’ll be too cunt-struck by her to last enough to make a statement?”

Aemond’s fists descended upon the polished wood of Aegon’d desk. He thrashed his brother with a defiant glare, and hissed through his gritted teeth, and tight-set jaw.

“There will be no bedding ceremony for my niece and I. Tell that to every Lord that wishes to glance upon my wife – if they do so much as to cast their hands on her, they’ll be fucking their own wives with a wooden cock.”

Amusement laced with grave concern – the finality of Aemond's words ought to have vexed him, irk the King in his sibling's weighty insolence. Instead Aegon nodded, pushing back the feeling of dread that settled deep within his bones. His head jerked towards his closed oak door, signalling to his brother that his visit had been overstated. “What sort of brother would I be, to not grant you with this simple whim?”

The younger Targaryen mirrored his stance, and turned abruptly on his heel after a low grunt of gratitude.

His hand reached for the golden handle, but Aegon's words deterred him to a halt.

“But be careful with that one, Aemond. She’s brash and wholly unpredictable. Make sure the blood that stains your sheets come morning isn’t somehow your very own.”

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honeyshiddendesire · 13 days

Text

🤠Cowboys You Say?

Pairing: Zoro, Eustass, Sabo, Marco & Ace x fem!reader (separate or sharing doesn't affect the story)

*Old Note: Had a vacation out on 93 acres in the countryside and all I was thinking about…cowboys.*

Warnings: bondage! Dom/sub! Pet names! Praise & degradation! Vaginal penetration! Bimbofication! Rough sex! Spanking! Hair pulling! Yata yata smut lol y’all know I write nasty!breeding kink!

@votaeto @zorosdimples thought y’all might like this

*New Author’s Note: Out of all the stories I thought I lost from my old account Honey’s World of Fanfiction THIS one was by far my favorite so to stumble upon it again makes me sooo freaky hype!!!! AHHH So excited!!!! Hope everyone still loves it just as much as me!! Don’t be alarmed I did fix some typos as well! Lol*

*cow banner*

Acres of land as far as the eye can see was before you. Majestic and overwhelming but it was now yours. Inherited from your late father, Edward, you had no choice but to return home to his prize. The ranch he loved second ONLY to you, too precious for you to just sell.

Patches of woods and forests littered with game even open fields for horses to run wild until tamed. There was a beautiful garden that stretched around the ranch, a pond with a family of ducks. A river with a strong current that only the toughest even dare swim in, flowing just along the ranch’s right side.

The terrain was intense but luckily your father made sure he left you with a great team to help you out.

*banner*

Lumberjack Ace 🪓who jumps out his pickup truck shirtless, drenched in a layer of sweat with an ax resting on his shoulder.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who was saddened and shocked at your father’s death but happy seeing his pretty daughter inherit the ranch.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who tips his hat and winks at you with a side smirk as he walks, “Mornin’ darlin’.” The freckled face and cut abs flustering you immediately.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who pours a bucket of water over his head before taking the sweet tea you offered after hours of chopping firewood.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who cleans the chimney for you in your freakish city that gets snow storms mid summer. The grand line farmland a whirlwind of weather.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 flirts the entire time with winks and smirks. “Don’t worry babydoll I’ll have this house as hot as you in no time.” Tossing the wood he chopped inside with a dramatic sigh.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who ax throws intruders wanting to harm you

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who makes you wear his hat when you ride him cause you’re his pretty cowgirl princess. “Aren’t you just a spitfire?” His moans drawn out all nice and sweet for ya.

Lumberjack Ace 🪓 who fucks you hard against the trees he plans on chopping. Using you to see if they’re sturdy enough as your back rubs against the rough bark.

“Yeah pretty girl ya like that don’t ya?” He’ll ask as he nips at your bottom lip making you whimper, pussy clenching. His cock will destroy your insides as the harsh tree rubs your skin raw. “Want my seed deep in that cute lil pussy of yours? I bet you do baby girl. Take every drop alright darlin’.”

Fucking your cunt hard in the forest as your screams bounced off the tall trees making him grunt as he paints that pussy white. “That’s my pretty girl.” 🪓

🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓🪓

Doctor Marco 🩺 who rode in on a fucking horse with flowers in his hands to show his condolences.

Doctor Marco 🩺 who even studied animals in order to help your father when he stressed over his prized horse, Whitebeard, growing sick.

Doctor Marco 🩺 who made it a point to stop by everyday on his gorgeous marbled stallion, saying it was important for your mental health on such a secluded land.

Doctor Marco 🩺 who comes to your aid during the harsh heat when you almost had a heat stroke. “Wow there birdie~ can’t have you getting dehydrated on me.”

And !!

The treacherous winter when he finds you passed out in the house shaking still not used to a single fire heating up such a big house. “Sweet bird what would you do without me~” He’ll coo at you.

Doctor Marco 🩺 who sheds his clothes to warm you up the fastest way you can in the countryside. “Come here birdie I’ll keep you warm.”

Cock plunging deep into your pussy to make you sweat. Your gasps and moans make him shiver, back arching off the bed as you claw at his skin. “D-doctor~ M-Marco ah~ you feels so warm.” You whimper as he leans over pushing his weight on his hands.

“I know dove~ let me keep taking good~ care of you. Make sure you stay nice and warm inside and out.” Marco’s thrust would be deep and really rough to make you sweaty and gasping. “I reckon I’ll have you feeling peachy in no time birdie.”

Doctor Marco 🩺 who even checks your gag reflex with his cock buried snug in your wet throat.

“Take a little more pretty thing.” Hand brushing your hair back with a gentle smile. Your eyes watery as you looked up at him in your pretty sundress soaked in your drool.

“There ya go dove doin just~ fine.” Marco would grunt out as he shallowly thrusts into your throat. Cumming deeply into your tight mouth making you moan softly at the taste. Semen dripping down the sides making you whine and even messier for his greedy eyes.

🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who picked the prettiest mustangs for your father.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who supplies all the best horses in town. Even trains them too.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who washes your horses and loves watching you braid their hair afterwards in different styles. “I think that's one of my favorites sweet pea.” He’ll say coming up behind you all close.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who holds you tightly when a horse passes because he too knows your pain of losing a stallion.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who gets to train ladies all week but still doesn’t get behind them for a lesson, opting for his own stallion but insists on doing it for you. Saying you need the best.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who teaches you to ride. Thick cock brushing up against you as he wraps his arms around you. Breath heavy from the close proximity, “Doing great doll~” Voice raspy after a long ride of his cock brushing against your pretty self.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who buys you matching gloves for riding saying they’re the best and they’ll last the longest because of the quality but it’s actually because he likes you matching.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who wins all the horse racing championships

“Looking good doll.” Sabo drew out as he leaned against the railing where you were sitting in the front row. All the other women were jealous, wanting his attention too.

“How’s about I take a pretty lady like you out to a fancy dinner and a nice ride?” He winks at the last part hinting at a night of mystery that you so said ‘yes’ to.

Horse Tamer Sabo 🐎 who also makes you wear his hat when you ride him cause that’s just what cowboys do.

Eyes rolling back as he tugged on the knots you were bound by, “Just like that sweet pea move’em nice and slow fa me.” Sabo groaned out, voice raspy making you whine. Fat cockhead pushing past your cervix making you choke out moans.

“Ooooooowweee doll listen to you howl. Go head and cum on me ‘kay sweetheart.” Sabo’s cocky when he fucks his fat cock up into your dripping pussy. His blue hat bouncing with his powerful thrusts, pussy squirting making his ego grow more. “Now that’s a prize winning stallion! Fuck~!! I’m gonna have to breed you full after that ride.”

🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎🐎

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 Who brought you the biggest cow in the shop to show his condolences.

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 who still delivers fresh meats weekly even though you’re not sick like your father and very capable of doing it yourself.

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 who always offers to sharpen your kitchenware when he delivers the meats to ensure you the best.

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 who loves pulling up to you grilling or smoking some meats and seeing your proud smile when you used his ingredients. “Please Zoro! You just have to join me for dinner! I think you’re gonna love how the steaks turned out! It's a great cut.”

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 who can hog tie the fastest in the countryside. Seeing him wrangle up that boar with his cocky smirk made your thighs press together. Feeling like a sinner in church needing a sip of sweet tea with the way he wiped the sweat off his brow.

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 who always winks at you and tips his hat after winning the hog tying contest making everyone jealous.

Butcher Zoro! 🔪 who puts you in gorgeous knots and suspended ropes to stretch you out in.

“Dammit woman look at you suckin’ in this cock like a champion.” Zoro grunted as he watched his cock disappear down your sloppy throat. Spit and cum from an earlier load dripping all over your front. Pulling away he ripped your top open and latched his hungry mouth onto your breast. Your arms above you in ropes as you hung like a butchered pig ripe for his taking.

“Prettiest little piggy to ever be eaten by me, I tell you what.” Zoro smirked as he left mark after amazing mark all over your sweaty skin.

Tying your legs up and spread out so he can slide that fat ass cock all the way in with no interruptions. “Fuck yeah piggy lemme hear you squeal for this cock just butchering your insides.” He was definitely merciless in all the things he did but you weren’t about to complain.

🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪🔪

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who still tends to your 100+ acres of land cause, “Ain’t no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing a pretty lamb like you is doin all the work.”

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who calls you almost every farm/animal he can possibly think of. Lamb, pig, mouse, bunny, chickie, calf, heifer,etc

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who comes to your aid whenever you need repairs around the house, but only does them shirtless.

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who drives the tracker shirtless in his overalls with a piece of straw in his mouth, hat tipped real low. Winking at you when you give him a cool glass of lemonade for his hard work plowing the fields, though you couldn’t help but desire that he was plowing something else.

“Thanks lil calf but I think I might wanna drink on somethin’ else you can gimme me. Maybe some milk?”

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who buys you the prettiest dresses and shoes cause he’ll be doin all the hard labor anyways.

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who gets handsy the fastest cause he can’t help but want to let out all his stress on you. Looking like a sweet lil belle that he wanted nothing more than to corrupt into his pretty bimbo after a long day.

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who’s a total stereotype. Wanting a beer and his dick sucked the second he steps foot in the door. Don’t worry he always returns the favor 😉

“Been thinkin’ bout these lips wrapped around my cock all damn day out on that field. Fuck~ that’s it chick, slobber all over me.”

Farmer Eustass 🤠 who roughly shoves your face in the hay as he fucks you ass up in the barn. Spanking you and pulling you back by your pigtails.

“Good fuckin’ calf. Letting me breed you full till you’re swollen wit my kids, tits drippin with milk for me.” Hips rocking into your cunt with a mission to fill you full. Stuffing your womb full of his children to run and play on the farm.“Fuck-my little cow being so good. Stay just like that babe.” Spanking you as he grabs both your pigtails in one large hand. “Sweet little heifer letting me breed her like she’s supposed ta wit outta fight. Come on moo for your owner baby.” Voice raspy as he’ll grip your ass, fucking you hard on his heavy cock. Hay scratching into your face as you cream around his dick with a shaky scream. “Soundin’ so pretty when you get loud like that fa me.”

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austinbutlerslovers · 1 month

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Update Feyd Fantasy Finale ⚔️

The finale will be split into THREE parts. 2 will be released ASAP 🙏🏻 and the 3rd TBA (all in final stages of being edited) I wrote so much you guys said let it flow. I’ve literally been typing since then… just awaiting my beautiful proof reader/editor ✍🏼proof reader @faegoddessog 🫦smut consultant @burnthheparaphilia 📖 plot consultant @magicovento

Here you are some sneak peeks ☺️ ♥️ (I split up the smut requests)

‼️Spoilers ahead if you have not read 1-4 ‼️

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

Thank you for your patience 👌🏼☺️

Part 5 Endless Empire NEW!

Feyd Rautha becomes the Baron of Giedi prime and inherits all the responsibilities it entails.

The former Baron Vladimir on his deathbed was enraged at how well you corrupted Feyd. Implanting him with the idea to kill his own uncle in order to ascend as Baron ahead of his time, (keeping you together) . His nephews love and obsession for you disgusts him. But he still wants his favorite prodigy to succeed… just without your interference.

He lays a treacherous plot to separate you from Feyd forever.

Smut requests •Feyd initiating sex while you are distracted• Feyd denying you an orgasm •Feyd restraining himself to be gentle•Feyd addicted to you• Feyd makes love to you

Part 6 Brazen Baron

Feyd Rautha has a massive coronation. Excitement fills the air as his people look forward to a better future for the planet improving beyond his uncles reign.

Feyd begins blurring all the lines of his Harkonnen heritage for you. Everything he has been raised to value crumbles when he’s in your presence. You give him everything he never knew he desired and his infatuation for you becomes even deeper. His Lord in waiting takes notice and fears for his sanity and rational thought.

Will his undying love for you make him a great ruler or a passive counterfeit?

Smut Requets: Sex against a window•sex in the throne room• Dom Feyd •Sub Feyd •Feyd wearing a collar •Feyd being handcuffed for sex•Feyd being whipped(with a crop!)•semi public sex• Feyd BJ•size kink• Feyd willing to give up his kingdom for you• Feyd gives up his kink (what?!

Part 7 Honor & Heir COMPLETE

During your final month of pregnancy you and Feyd are summoned to the Emperors palace on the planet Kaitain by decree. Feyd is upset at any inconveniences to you with his unborn during this fragile time.

You reunite with your Reverend mother in the palatial gardens and a fated decision must be made. The stress of the decision is so great you go into labor. For Feyd his world stops. He drops all of his responsibilities with the Emperor to be by your side.

Requests: Feyd gentle with you•Feyd adoring you•Feyd forgoes his pleasure for your own • face riding• Bene Gesserits kidnapping plot•gender reveal•Feyd as a father

More Input from you guys: ✅Make it longer ✅More talking ✅Feyd loses his kink(Im crying) ✅Happy ending please

⬇️Thank you for the feedback! ♥️😍⬇️

Fic Tag List ⚔️

@faegoddessog @burnthheparaphilia @elvismylove04 @lindszeppelin @obsessedvibee @abswifey @jessica987 @hardcoredisneynerd @austiebuttbutt @oh-my-front-door @slowsweetlove @purejasmine @i5uckersblog @phil2135561 @lovereadingfanfic @steph-speaks @rougegenshin@maloribarnes1999 @meetmeatyourworst @moony-artemis @xxxstormyninixxx @prettypinkblogger @thegabbyh @magicovento @aoi-targaryen @austinswhitewolf @skinny-baby-4eva @mimsie95 @the-wanderer-2022 @jakesullyissopookie @francis-writes @shiranai-atsune @berlinalv @everyonelovesavalet @dacreshoney @caroline334 @szapizzapanda @berlinalv @landlockedmermaid77 @sophroniaclark @moonsoulk @lolllulroofl @emeraldsgirl @larrysdughter28 @alana4610

#feyd rautha x you #feyd rautha x #feyd rautha smut #feyd rautha x reader #feydrautha #feyd x reader #feyd smut #feyd rautha harkonnen #austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler smut #austin butler x reader #austinbutler #fanfic #austin butler smut fic #smut #austin butler fic #austin butler x fem!reader #feyd x you

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milliesdiary · 2 years

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𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; you and aemond targaryen grew up together. as a pair of royal children, you shared smiles, feasts, and hushed talks of duties — until a physical altercation changed your relationship forever. after six years, you find that the young boy has become a fiery man and your betrothed. seeing each other again is difficult, but dealing with old feelings is harder.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; aemond targaryen x princess!reader

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; arranged marriage, descriptions of past violence (physical fight between young aemond and reader)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; to be as inclusive as possible, i do not mention the reader’s parents’ descent. i also do not specify the reader’s skin tone, body type, eye/hair color, or hair texture (braids are used but they contribute to most hotd hairstyles). enjoy!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭; pic 1 — pic 2 — pic 3

“𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑.”

Those were your father’s words when you asked why you had to marry Aemond Targaryen.

Perhaps it was to be expected. As the daughter of a king in Westeros, you found that power was a constant battle to be fought and that you would not be shielded from the crossfire. In order to ensure a stable, unchallenged reign, you were to be wed to another child of royal descent — which meant being auctioned off to the most powerful house your father could get in touch with.

It also meant being fucked, then laying in a birthing bed and living a life of what you considered to be imprisonment. And due to your family’s faithful history with the Targaryens, the wielders of dragons, and the king’s desire for ancestral power, for elite grandchildren... it shouldn’t really be a surprise, should it?

You don't wish to argue with your father, but you don't want your frustration to go unnoticed either. Although your feelings have no real impact at the end of the day, there is value in them. They matter.

But why him?

You may have dreamt of being married to a charismatic Baratheon or a seductive Velaryon. Someone who would pledge to take you on a tour of the realm's most intricate castles and verdant gardens, stealing kisses and embraces.

Things cannot be so simple, can they?

You begged to call off your betrothal to Aemond, claiming that you would not get along, though your mother seemed to think otherwise with her rekindled political ties to the Targaryens. It was no use. Your parents had their minds set.

This is the world you are condemned to, in which, despite yourself, you must somehow live.

And now you are expected to meet your old friend after all these years, after that terrifying, horrific night. The night Aemond stole Vhagar, how he was beaten, how you contributed, how he left scarred for life.

The memory is still fresh in your mind. Six years ago.

One night, long after dusk, you heard arguing in the dragon pit. Curious, you approached the scene only to find Aemond in a stand-off with his nephews and nieces. He spoke of treacherous things, but was effectively shut down by Baela and Rhaena’s assaults.

It wasn’t long before Jace and Luke both engaged in the conflict. They could not be stopped. Violent, uncontrollable rage could be heard in the loud cracks of knuckles meeting flesh and bone. Jace attacked Aemond at some point — a terrible idea — because Aemond took a swipe at him and sent him into the dirt, leaving you just... standing in shock, fear, mouth agape.

When Aemond grabbed Luke by the front of his tunic and prepared to bash his face in with a stone, you were no longer frozen. An anger brash and hot consumed you, and before you knew it, you reacted on impulse.

You ran over and pushed Aemond in the chest, effectively launching him to the ground. The boy looked up in shock to see who appeared; you remember watching the look of surprise on his face, and then the betrayal that flashed across his eyes. Before he could even speak, you had him pinned to the dirt and slammed your fist into the bridge of his nose.

His head snapped back up to look at you after that. For a moment, he stared at you wide-eyed, before his face screwed into an expression of rage. It must had been a mix of fury and instinct, because Aemond retaliated.

Quickly, he shoved you off of him and threw a punch your way. The harsh force of it struck your cheek, painful, hard enough that you heard something crack. You were knocked over and ended up with your face pressed against the sandy pit.

You can’t recall what happened after that. There was a bunch of screaming, and then the rushed footsteps of guards who had heard the commotion. Someone had gripped your shoulders to urge you to your feet, and you almost fell forward again when everything blurred into blotches of red. The rest of the night was almost traumatic with the Queen challenging Rhaenyra, and your parents vowing to never bring you back to House Targaryen again.

The greed for power over the years must have revoked that plan.

You’re still not ready — not ready to confront the reality of what has become of your friendship. It hurts to even think of Aemond being impassive toward you, as you’re sure you will be to him.

You’re not even sure what he looks like now, but you have heard stories of the man he has become.

He doesn’t need a weapon anymore. He is a weapon.

Which begs the question: how much change can a person endure before turning into someone else completely, before it is almost considered murder?

You feel sorry for the rest of castle servants and commoners; they didn’t get to experience him the way you did. They didn’t get to see what you saw when you were with him. Gods, he was perfect.

Although it was probably your parents and the Queen who encouraged you and Aemond to meet all those years ago, they were delighted to learn that you were friends. Your father had just been crowned king, and it was necessary to meet the other Houses in the realm after doing such. You and Aemond just seemed to click after that.

You two had identical souls, the only children who understood one another in a life that ate people alive. He never teased you for hating the duties that came with being a princess, and you never teased him for not having a dragon. When you were unified, you were more powerful.

It’s funny how things can turn out.

Now, because the marriage in King’s Landing is next moon, you will be attending a feast tonight to see your betrothed: sitting at the same table as Aemond to dine, speaking about marriage, engaging in talks of bearing children.

It’s all too much.

Enduring change can hurt. It's frightening and adds to the lengthy array of things that make you scared. But that does not mean that it should be deemed unnecessary or ignored. You understand that.

Still, you curse this life as you step out of the carriage and onto the land of Dragonstone, peering up at the palace ahead of you. You curse it to hell.

The second you step into the Targaryen household, you realize that you are not really sure what to expect. It has been so many years. You are not prepared for this, not in the slightest.

And you certainly aren’t prepared to have the Queen greet you at the palace door instead of the knights.

It seems like a decade since you last saw her in the flesh as opposed to your memories. Her face is the exact same somehow, as if she had long conquered the battle of aging, and her brown hair is sweeped into a wavy half-up style. The emerald dress she wears sparkles with sequins, draping over her beautifully and accentuating the strings of gold jewlery along her neck. A small smile upturns the corner of her lips, and she seems pleased. Sympathetic.

It must appear that you’re somewhere far away in thought — which is relatively true, you suppose — because Alicent says your name in greeting to grasp your attention. With a smile, you dip your head in a bow.

“Your Grace.”

Alicent lets out a breath of... is it relief? She moves toward you quickly, enveloping you into a bear hug. You let her. You know what she’s trying to do.

She’s trying to reduce the rift that has grown over the years of being kept at a distance. Her embrace is a white flag, a message of peace, a silent apology. It’s successful.

“You have grown into a fine woman, my dear,” Alicent says softly into your shoulder.

The words conjure a strange knot in your chest; they hurt, but not out of hate or animosity. They hurt because they make you nostalgic, make you realize how much you missed House Targaryen. Your eyes prickle with the onset of almost-tears which you blink away rapidly.

And you reckon that today, in spite of Alicent's weight in your arms, you're going to have to consider what you want regarding the future. Talk about it with Aemond.

This is not about your mother, father, or the current state of your House anymore. This concerns you and your future husband.

Alicent pulls away after a few long moments, setting her hands upon your shoulders as she looks you up and down. “Your gown is lovely,” she says fondly, the statement lilted by her accent. “It suits you. Your House has always been exceptional when it comes to fashion.”

She’s right about that; your hand-maidens have always been sure to dress you beautifully. Today was no exception.

You’re wearing a silky fitted dress, made with an airy chiffon that fades from a silvery white to a dark, shadowy hem. Sparkling silver vine details adorn the chest, drawing attention to your breasts, along with a gem-stone belt that hugs your waist. A white cape is fastened around your shoulders, accentuating the graceful flow of the gown and nearly sweeping the floor. The necklace hanging from your throat gleams — a moonstone gem — and although it’s gorgeous, your hair almost always gets tangled in it. To prevent it from happening, your servants have started pulling your hair back into a half-up dutch braid crown, not a single strand out of place. It takes hours, but the end result is worth it.

You’re practically glowing.

You offer her a kind smile as you see her eyes light up. Your stomach churns and the nape of your neck prickles, but this woman has the same open expression that Aemond had when you first met him. It brings you a jittery sort of optimism.

“Thank you,” you say bashfully, dipping your head in thanks. Alicent then beckons over your father from where he stands behind you, two armored-knights stationed by his side.

“It has been too long, Your Grace,” your father says, plastering a polite smile onto his aged face. Alicent returns it with one of her own.

“It has,” she agrees. “The King would dearly desire to be here, but he regrettably cannot due to his health.” She must not be willing to say much else on the topic, because her face drops. She turns on a heel to face the hallway then, holding her arm out for you to grab. “Shall we proceed to the feast?”

Upon entering the dining room, it’s exactly how you remembered it to be.

Warm light fills the space; swathes of bronze and gold from the setting sun dip through the windows on one side, illuminating every crevice of the room. The food is already splayed out along the table, where Halaena and Aegon sit in their respective chairs. Aegon gives you a perverted look over, seemingly surprised at how much you’ve changed. If he senses your disgust, he doesn't express it. He’d likely find delight in it anyway.

On the contrary, Halaena beams and jumps up to give you a massive hug. It fills you with such a great warmth. You’ve missed this. She was always like a sister to you.

Halaena comments on your dress and makes a pathetic attempt to mold her joyful smile into something more polite by saying, "You look beautiful, Princess."

Of course, she fails horribly, and you compliment her back. She pulls away with a giggle and loops her arm around yours to lead you to a seat — and then you see him.

There, Aemond is seated at the end of the table, leaning back in the chair with practiced poise. Cool, composed, unmoving.

You lock eyes.

Aemond’s hair is his crowning glory; diamond-white, perfectly straight, and soft as sin as it sweeps along the edge of his jaw. The long strands drape over his broad shoulders, a stark contrast against the black high-neck tunic he’s wearing. Silver buckles pull the leather taught across his wide chest, definitely tailored to fit his well-built frame.

And his face... Gods, his face. It looks so much more different than you could have ever imagined.

He has the type of profile that marble sculptors carve: a razor-sharp jawline and high cheekbones, lips drawn into a serious expression and one eye a gleaming blue. The other is covered by an eyepatch, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat when you see the deep-set scar that stretches along his face.

You understand it now: the Gods didn't drive away darkness when light was made. Instead they created the color obsidian, ravens, and a person known as Aemond Targaryen. A wild, fiery man sculpted from the elements.

Aemond stares on back, and you can see how he takes a heavy breath. His eye scans you up and down, studying the silk gown, your braided hair, and every curve of your body. For a brief moment, he focuses on your breasts — almost as if he’s realized you’ve grown into a beautiful woman: more mature, more composed, fertile and ready for the taking. Something dark rests in the twist of his lips before he brings his attention back onto your face. Your cheeks feel impossibly hot.

It looks like he wants to say something, but bites it back with a slight nod of his head in greeting.

The earth seems to pause and cease its spinning. Your heart slams frantically against your ribcage, like a pendulum or a hare trapped in a cage, lungs refusing to completely submit to your breathing. Slowly, you tread over to the chair adjacent to him and sit down in it.

He feels the shift in the atmosphere too. Same place. Same family. Different you.

“Princess,” Aemond finally says. His voice is so much deeper now, smooth and rich with that accent of his. It has your stomach flipping.

You take a slow breath and urge yourself to glance at him, because you know you'll hate yourself later if you don't. You will stare into that intense eye of his, even if it kills you. You’re sick of all your regrets.

“My Prince,” you respond, trying to control the tremor in your voice by busying yourself with your fork. If Aemond notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “It has been awhile.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgement. “You are surprised by what you see, I presume.”

"And why do you say that?"

“You were staring,” Aemond says coolly. You can feel a heat climb up your cheeks — was it that obvious? “Though I cannot say I blame you,” he adds, finally picking up his utensils and cutting into his meat with a fork and knife.

"You are rather confident, My Prince," you murmur under a breath. “Have you not gained restraint over the years?”

"That is a virtue I am hardly accused of possessing. Don't pout, Princess, it ruins the shape of that pretty mouth.”

You remain silent, blinking at Aemond dumbly while trying to think of a response. He must be able to tell of your embarrassment, because his eye gleams with a feeling too intense to be stated in words. The best word to describe it is pride. Stupid pride.

“We are not married,” you respond in a rush. “Yet you speak dangerously.”

Aemond only stares at you, analyzing your expression, the ends of his lips slightly curled. You take the moment of silence to stuff your mouth with the delicious food in front of you, trying your hardest not to glance back up at him.

The clock is ticking. When will the shouting start, you wonder. How long before there are tears, recriminations, and pain?

A part of you wants to talk about the fun you and him had as kids, but you would feel guilty for bringing it up. Who’s to say that Aemond thinks fondly of those times anymore? Have the good memories been tarnished by the bad? Are they now piles of debris, comprised of grit, black dust, and ever-vanishing with time?

Does he even want to talk about the past at all? You could explain your viewpoint, how you reacted on fear, anger, and impulse that night — and he does deserve to know, because if you were in his place, you would care. You would care to know why the one person you trusted contributed to your downfall.

But … but now is not the right time. Not when your father is indulging in a chat with the Queen, or when Halaena is enjoying her food as Aegon drowns himself in wine. Especially during a supper that is supposed to be joyful and unmarked by the shadows of what’s happened.

Some things are better left unsaid.

So you remain quiet, attempting to listen in on any conversation available.

“Tell me; how do you feel about the betrothal?” Aemond suddenly asks. It takes you aback.

You work up the confidence to look at him again, searching for anything concrete, but all you see are ripples of emotions you don't understand. Swallowing thickly, you bring your attention to your goblet and press the metal to your lips, sipping down some wine. You’re going to need it.

“It was to be expected,” is all you say. Setting your cup down, you clear your throat. “And what are your thoughts?”

Aemond says nothing right away, placing his cutlery onto his plate as his face melts back into a cool expression. You steel yourself for whatever retort he may toss at you.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, his tone is steady when he speaks again. “Marrying you is my duty, Princess. I do not intend to stray from it."

“Well then.” You give him a polite nod. “Your family is very lucky to have someone so dedicated to the cause.”

“I take it that you understand your duty as well,” he says. “And it’s significance.”

“Of course. I’ll do what must be done.”

You watch the bob of Aemond’s throat as he swallows. He looks off into the fireplace that sits across the room, seemingly in thought. Just when you think he’s done talking to you for the night, he speaks, voice almost musical.

“Did you perhaps find a man of interest over the years?”

It’s a question that has your mind reeling and both eyes flying up to him. He’s not looking at you though; his stare remains on the dancing flames, expression scarily neutral. Despite that, you can see the distaste on his lips.

“W-why?” you ask, before steeling your surprise and resorting to humor. “Afraid I might replace you?”

“It is a fair question,” Aemond states. The man leans further back in his chair, the wood squeaking under his weight as he presses for an answer. “I would prefer to know if my wife will be engaging in secret escapades with a low-born.”

Truthfully, you don’t know what to say. Aemond asking about your past love life wasn’t on the agenda for today.

You debate telling him that you still thought about him all these years. That you never thought of another man, or searched for a suitor. Yet the words stick in your throat, and the thought of his handsome face screwing up in protest makes you sick.

The silence urges Aemond to spare a glance your way. His stare alone could have you on your knees, dark and vindictive; you see the spirit of the dragon in his blood, and imagine that’s why you always found him — find him — so much more magnetic than anyone else.

You change the subject.

“Once we marry, you are to be associated with my House forever.” Before he can question the switch in topic, you quickly add, “It will not be good for your image. I love my parents, but they only think about status these days. People may think you are marrying me for strength. To gain power.”

Aemond seems to mull this over. If he agrees, you wouldn’t know; he has trained his face to remain neutral. It tells you nothing. “Then let it be.”

You tilt your head at him now, a slight frown blooming upon your mouth. “So I am to marry a prince who does not pay any mind to what his subjects think of him?”

“A tragedy that is,” Aemond says sarcastically. He crosses his legs and rests an arm on the table, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose. “I am grateful that our roles are not switched, for I would have dove headfirst into the Dragon Pit had I been in your place.”

“You should have your tongue removed for that,” you say boldy, half-joking.

"My body is yours. Do what you will.”

You’re honestly surprised at his answer. It’s not supposed to be dirty, no, but there is hidden intent behind it. It plants some interesting images in your head. Aemond’s cold eye is still on you now, chilly and unrelenting. You are vaguely aware of how he taps his fingers along the wood of the table, awaiting your reply.

“Do not say such things,” you almost stutter. “Your name cannot protect you forever.”

“The name you will be taking?”

Your mouth slightly agape, you can only stare at him. Aemond turns his attention back to his food, lifting his cup to his mouth; but before he takes a drink, you catch his gaze flit over to meet yours. It almost looks like he’s fighting a smirk, the way his lower lip seems to quiver.

It feels like he’s taunting you. Testing you. You don’t like it, not at all. And even still… it reminds you of the days you used to gently tease each other. A fond memory.

You can’t bring yourself to actually be mad.

“Does something humor you, My Prince?” you ask anyway, egged on by him. You try to sound upset, but fall short; a tinge of glee laces your tone.

“Hmm,” Aemond quietly hums, setting his goblet down. You think you can see the ghost of a smile on his face: barely there, almost invisible. “Not a thing.”

Much to your delight, the dinner went well. Better than expected.

You had engaged in conversation with Halaena after awhile, listening to her stories of the bugs she has caught over the years and what they do. In return, you tell her of the things you have done which she listens to with an unbridled joy and sparkling eyes.

Aemond had watched everything in silence. Not an angry sort of quiet, but one where there are no words that have to be said. If anything, he seemed sort of pleased with how well you and his beloved sister were getting along.

Now it was late, with the sky having melted into a navy-black, pitted with the dappled light of stars and wisps of clouds. You have been thinking of Aemond ever since you made it back to your chambers earlier, changing into your night gown and undoing the braid in your hair. Although you tried your best to repress the gnawing feeling, there was one thing you knew you must do.

You need to talk to Aemond.

There is no dodging the elephant in the room. You need to sort out boundaries, talk about the wedding, children.

So, gathering as much courage you could possibly muster, you slip out of your bedroom and pad down the corridors. One thing you notice is that the Red Keep is remarkably calm at night compared to how active it is during the daylight hours. Tranquil, almost. The only noise you hear are the echoes of your feet on the stone floors.

You reach the entrance of Aemond’s chamber quickly, remembering exactly where it was from when you were kids. Taking a deep breath, you rap your knuckles on the wooden door.

You wonder how much courage it will take to engage in casual conversation with Aemond again, something that has never given you trouble with him as a child. A worry you experienced with other people but not with him. Never with him. When will you be able to speak to him about normal things?

Nothing happens for a couple moments. But just when you are about to knock again, the door swings open to reveal Aemond on the other side.

There’s no more of that boyish charm.

Aemond holds himself taller now; his shoulders look broader, his back looks straighter, and his head is held higher. He appears serious, yet also perplexed, probably wondering why exactly you are showing up to greet him in the middle of the night. He must notice that you are in your night clothes, judging by how his attention turns to the flow of your silk gown. “Trouble sleeping, Princess?”

“Do you … wish to discuss some things?” you suggest gently, which brings Aemond’s eye from your body and onto your face again.

“It is unavoidable, is it not?”

“Yes,” you agree. Aemond hums.

He opens the door wide then, gesturing with a hand for you to walk in.

Walking into his room slowly, he closes the door behind you before standing beside the fireplace, clearly falling deep in thought. A part of you wants to give up and abandon ship, but before you can even take a single step, Aemond turns his head to meet your eyes.

You offer him a rare smile which he responds to with a look of suspicion, clearly picking up on your agenda for coming here. “You wish to speak about the wedding, I presume,” he finally says. You nod.

“Humor me, then, Princess. What will you need in this marriage?”

“It’s not what I need,” you tell him softly, crossing your arms over your chest in thought, thumbs stroking at smooth fabric. “It’s what I want. For the future.”

“And what would that be?” Aemond replies, the fireplace’s flames painting swirls of orange and yellow upon the razor-edged plains of his face.

“I want to have freedom. I do not wish to be condemned to the palace all day. I also want to keep our children out of as many political affairs as possible. The court is no place for kids.”

“Already pondering the idea of children?” Aemond taunts.

It’s a struggle for you to keep your composure at that. You’re actually a bit embarrassed. "If we are to be wed, we are expected to produce as many children as possible. To spread the Targaryen name. It is not abnormal to plan these sort of things out.”

“Perhaps,” Aemond states simply. “I admire your resolve, Princess, but you speak of something that cannot be done.”

You try to ward a potential frown from spoiling your face. “You are the Prince. I am sure you can figure out something. Or are you not as clever as I have heard?”

Aemond gives a small smirk. His tone conveys some form of appreciation which makes you feel proud. “You have high expectations of me, then.”

“I suppose,” you admit.

“I have the same high expectations for you.”

You fight back the shyness that his statement causes, but you doubt you’re as successful in appearing deadpan like him. “And?”

“And,” Aemond continues lowly, “You have upheld them and more.”

You nearly choke, both surprised and flattered by the answer. Aemond can tell; he has a dark amusement in his profile, which you flick your gaze down to avoid. It is hard to ignore him for long though: Gods, he's just so gorgeous.

He’s the balance between elegance and danger. Distant because of his righteousness, and having such a moral fortitude that he is beautiful in a seductive and forbidden way.

You curse him. Curse him for having hair as fair as snow and eyes the shade of Lobelia flowers. Curse him for having the grace of a panther and skillful, slender hands.

That’s when you get the feeling that Aemond is just waiting for the right moment to unload what's been going on in his life. You beat him to it.

“How have you been?” you murmur. It seems to catch him by surprise with the way his lips slightly part and his brow softens into a straight line. He pauses and turns beside the fireplace, one hand propped against the stone.

When Aemond says nothing, you add more boldly, “Did you miss me, My Prince?”

He glances over his shoulder then and just stares, soaking in every piece of you he can. Each feature of his face is adorned with conviction. Your skin begins to tingle, goosebumps dancing along your spine, radiating outward to your exposed arms with a hair-raising energy.

“You ruined me,” is all he says.

You notice that he's trying to withdraw from the situation — not physically because he's firmly planted in place — but rather by burying any emotional aspects of himself. His face is awash with frustration, distress, and contempt.

“I have done nothing to you, My Prince,” you defend.

Aemond’s eye swivels to you slowly. That once-familiar stare is suddenly unnerving, forcing your breath to halt in your throat and your body to freeze like a frightened animal. You are ready. You know what he is going to say. But it still rips into you and burns as fiercely as barbed wire coiled around your heart, twisted until the organ may burst.

“You betrayed me.”

“I did not,” you say, voice shaking. “You were out of line. You stole Vhagar and proceeded to toss insults around. Hurt your nephews and nieces.”

“I was doing what must be done. The Valeryans had their chance to claim Vhagar,” Aemond retorts. “Is it my fault that they waited so long? That my nephews are not proud of their name?”

“Everyone was angry because the second you got a dragon, you acted like you were better than them. You humiliated them. And now?” You take one heaving breath, your entire body trembling. “People are afraid of you. I have heard the rumors of how you can be when you train with others. It’s not training with you. If you had a sharper edge to your sword, they would be attending their own funeral; you know it, I know it, they know it. You bully others just like you were. Does that make you proud?”

For the first time since you’ve reunited, you glimpse a hint of hostility in Aemond’s eye. He is obviously making an effort to appear composed and unbothered to impress you. But you’ve hit a nerve and his gaze hardens to glare daggers at you.

“So that is all?” Aemond proclaims harshly. His tone is wolfish now. “You have come here to remind me of my proclaimed wrong-doings? To spit in my face everything you have been wanting to say all these years?”

“When did you become so bitter? So hateful?” You stare at him wildly, profile twisted into something turbulent. “I was just protecting the people I consider my family!”

It must trigger something in Aemond. The words knock down those walls of his, burst the damn, sending that fury inside him whirling, coaxing him to raise his voice and finally yell:

“I was your family!”

The only way to express the sensation that explodes inside your chest is to imagine walking slowly on a broken window. So slowly that you can feel every bit of glass pierce and glide upward into the heel of your foot, each step digging red, horrific lines into your skin.

The tempest in your soul has officially burnt out.

And here, with your blood thundering through your body and drumming an even rhythm upon his, Aemond is just a boy. A vulnerable boy that could be stopped by a sharp enough blade, as long as its your hand on the hilt.

Those words Aemond said — they were ones of anger, yet none had the intent to injure or bruise. You should know how approach him, except you don’t. You need to say something that can release you from the desolate and ominous silence that fills the room.

“I’m sorry,” you eventually whisper.

You expect Aemond to retaliate. To fight back, defend his honor. He doesn’t though. Instead, he fixes his gaze onto your profile and speaks.

“I used to think the Targaryen name was descending into one ruled by hatred. I presumed it was our doing, that the blood feud ruined all that was honorable,” Aemond says gravely. “But I have been hateful for a long time.”

You know what he means.

His nephews. The ordeal with the pig. Being dragonless and teased by his peers for it. Feeling like the odd one out, overlooked by others by his incompetent brother’s potential future reign. It all invoked an anger in him that he buried — until it was dug up by family and unleashed one night, black-red and hot and stinging.

But it’s not the complete truth.

“You weren’t hateful,” you say slowly. “Not to me.”

It’s scary: you expected that to spark something inside of him, to wither the hurricane brewing. But Aemond is so calm in the throes of shock that it's as though any breeze would be nothing more than a breath whispering over him. There is no tremor in his jaw, no twitching in his shoulders, and not a single tear on his ivory cheeks. Nobody blinks.

You told yourself that no words could heal the broken trust between you. Despite that, they continue to tumble out. “I understand if we cannot go back to the way it was before. That’s alright … well, it’s not, but I understand why. I really do. And—”

“Who am I to you after so many years?”

You don't immediately understand what Aemond asked, and it takes a moment for it to process. But then you do realize, and it comes with a painful stab in the chest and a wince, because Aemond thinks you loathe him, and he shouldn’t … he shouldn’t be thinking like that because it could not be further from the truth.

You really want to have a break down. Not one that has you going mad, throwing shit and screaming, but perhaps a cry with panting breaths and shivering and a few tears. One that is completely internal and rips you apart from the inside out.

When you look up, Aemond is directly in front of you. He had bridged the gap at some point. You just keep staring and staring — because there is nothing else you can do but ogle him as if he were the most extraordinary thing you have ever seen. Finally, you speak.

“You’re Aemond,” comes your response. Small, meek. “You’re Aemond.”

The middle of your core stings then, like the fireworks that laid dormant there had finally been set aflame, torching every artery — as if the weight of the man’s stare was too much, as if being looked at by Aemond was unbearable.

And it is, you suppose. But not in a bad way; unbearable in that you wanted him. You wanted to meld your friendship so bad that it hurt. You're preoccupied with the way your subconscious shouts the truth: you adore him endlessly.

You cannot hold back anymore.

You kiss Aemond Targaryen with everything you have, drenching every worry of yours and love for him onto his lips, knowing that you … you are acting appropriately this time. This feels good. This is right.

Aemond releases a low, deep grunt as a surprised response, urging you on. You kiss him fiercely, to taste the warmth of his mouth, and feel stars erupt and dissipate behind your closed eyes. He swallows down the desperate sigh that spills out of your mouth as you steady his pointed jaw with both of your hands.

There’s the ridge of his scar under your thumb, the drumming of the blood in your jugular, and the softness of his platinum hair as you move to twine your fingers in it. There’s the sweep of his hands — sliding over your hips, waist, ribs — soothing burning skin as he reels you closer against him.

It feels like an eternity before your lips separate with the slightest sound. You rest your hands on Aemond’s wide shoulders, pressing your foreheads together between trembling exhalations.

“I could never hate you,” you assure, squeezing the leather of his tunic in your hands as your noses brush together. Aemond has a palm on the nape of your neck, holding you in place with the heaving rise and fall of his chest, gazing at you like you’re something celestial. His one eye, so intense and blue and electric.

You don’t want to let go. Not when the edges of Aemond’s lips coyly turn upward and he tilts his head to kiss your neck quietly, followed by more kisses that are sprinkled across your collarbone like a vow or a promise. You let out a shaky sigh and he finally pulls back, his voice deep and rich but soft. So, so soft.

“Ride Vhagar with me. See what it means to be with a Targaryen.”

You look up at him in surprise. “Right now?”

“Tomorrow,” he corrects.

“I have never ridden a dragon—”

“And?”

“I do not know how.”

“No one knows how to ride a dragon until they ride a dragon.”

Your expression must soften, because Aemond’s does in return. There’s a few seconds where neither of you say anything, until his calloused fingers come to settle on your cheek.

“I will see you tomorrow at dawn, Princess.”

At a loss for words, you offer him a weak nod, breath coming out as a stutter. Aemond trains his eye on you, searching for a single bit of protest. When he comes up empty, he leans down to whisper close to your lips, hot breath puffing along your chin. “Be ready for me.”

In that beautiful, terrifying moment, there’s an epiphany. A realization.

An understanding that maybe... just maybe ... this can be fixed. This rift, these burnt bridges of the past. You can see the yearning in Aemond too: he wants the same thing.

It can be mended. Your friendship, your trust, your love — the feelings are still there between the two of you.

Bent, but not broken.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fic #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond oneshot #aemond targaryen one shot #millie’s works — 📓

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blackpanda48 · 2 months

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NEWS AGAIN!!!!

Description:

As Lucifer, the enigmatic ruler of Hell, sweeps you, the reader, into the depths of the Garden of Eden, the stage is set for an unforgettable journey. But this infernal paradise is merely the beginning of a tale that will challenge the very fabric of your beliefs. In "My Angel," love and betrayal intertwine in a complex web of desire. Caught in a love triangle between Lucifer and the main antagonist Adam, a second creation made from your essence, you must navigate the treacherous waters of temptation and redemption. While the Garden of Eden sets the scene for the initial encounter, the stakes are raised as the story unfolds. As Lucifer and Adam clash in a battle for your affections, the fate of your soul hangs in the balance.

A/n: I made another story! Yey!!!

#fan fiction #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader #hazbin hotel lucifer x reader smut #hazbin hotel adam fanfiction #hazbin hotel adam #adam x reader #hazbin hotel adam smut #hazbin hotel adam x reader

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shopwitchvamp · 1 month

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We've got three @vetiverfox designs up for preorder now!!

Constellation Skaters; Treacherous Garden and Black Velvet Joggers Preorders are open now thru March 26th at 11:59pm CT. Come take a look while there's still time (and take advantage of unlimited inventory)!! 🖤witchvamp.com🖤

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tylermileslockett · 10 months

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All right folks, Argonautica is a go! woohoo!

I wanted to start with a map just so i could wrap my head around the journey and get familiar with the major locations and events in chronological order. I'll do another image showing the major heroes, and then we can dive into individual scene/event illustrations. Ill probably do around 12 -14 images for this myth, so I'll have to be picky about which scenes i illustrate.

Argonautica 1: Overview and Map Route

I.) Iolcis; The crew departs from Jason’s hometown. II.) Lemnos; the island tribe of women who murdered their husbands. III.) Doliones battle: a mistaken battle results in the death of King Cyzicus IV.) Chios: Hylas abducted by water nymph, Heracles left behind V.) Phineus, a blind seer, is rescued by the Argonauts from Harpies. VI.) The Symplegades (Clashing rocks) a treacherous passage. VII.) Stymphalian birds: the heroes drive away the man -eating birds VIII.) Colchis; Jason overcomes three trials of King Aeetes to obtain Golden Fleece with the assistance of the sorceress Medea. IX.) Brygean Islands: Medea and Jason trick and murder her brother Apsyrtus to escape Colchian pursuit. X.) Circes Island; The goddess purifies Jason and Medea of blood-guilt. XI.) The Sirens; Orpheus drowns out the sirens calls with his own song. XII.) Scylla and Charybdis; Thetis and Nereids guide Argo through XIII.) Drepane Island: escaping 2nd Colchian fleet, Jason and Medea wed. XIV.) Syrtes: three Nymphs instruct crew to carry Argo on their backs for 12 days XV.) Garden of the Hesperides; XVI.) Lake Triton: Triton, Son of Poseidon, instructs crew on passage to sea XVII.) Crete: Medea uses her magic to defeat Talos, a giant bronze warrior XVIII.) Aegina Island: the journey ove r, they perform rites for Apollo

Do you like this art? would you like to own a book jam packed with over 130 illustrations like this? Then please support my kickstarter for my book "lockett Illustrated: Greek Gods and Heroes" coming in OCTOBER.

click on my LINKTREE for the Kickstarter link to "notify me when the project goes live." In my linktree is also a link to join my free email newsletter for book updates in the coming months, with free Hi res art and a 25% etsy print shop discount!

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evilwizard · 2 years

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Remember to provide enrichment for your backstabbing counselors, scheming viziers, and nefarious court wizards!

Consider adding some, or all of the following to their enclosures:

An eerily pristine rose garden with extremely sharp thorns!

Statues of yourself (or busts of your face) for them to smash against the wall!

A pair (or triplet) of orphans with a disgustingly large fortune!

Secret passageways and lairs! (Remember, they get stressed if left out in the open for too long!)

An animal companion who is also, inexplicably, evil!

A chess set where the white side has your house crest emblazoned upon the pieces, so they can symbolically tip over the king while chuckling menacingly!

Hidden daggers! Everywhere! Truly, you can’t have too many hidden daggers.

If all this doesn’t work, you can always consider letting them think they killed you for a bit. Just slumping over after enjoying your evening wine can do a world of good… just let them get their monologues out every now and again!

We all know caring for Schemers can be a big hastle. But it is so, so worth it to see the hate in their eyes as they smile treacherously at you each morning. That’s what being a pet owner’s all about :)

#please read this in the tiktok lady voice

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nincompoopydoo · 2 months

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CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

THE GARDENIA SOCIETY — ; PART 9 / 10

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.6k SUMMARY: As Theseus enters Mrs Monet’s apartment, he learns the truth and The Gardenia Society. Meanwhile, you’re on the run from someone who seems to be Theseus, but you quickly learn that nothing in this world is ever what it seems. A/N: Second last chapter let’s goooo! Thank you to everyone for being so patient and I hope you enjoy this as we reach the finale of this series! gif credited to @maanemand from this gifset WARNINGS: Swearing. Angst. Injuries. Mentions of hurt. Being chased (if it scares you as much as it scares me). no beta we die like men. MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

All you hear are your heavy breaths – cold and dry with every inhale. It sends needles to your heaving throat as you gasp for as much air as possible. The damp air clung to your skin, and every footfall against the cobblestones amplified the growing unease that gnawed at your gut. You’re in a full-out sprint, weaving through the winding alleys, somewhere in the city you cannot recognise at the moment because your sight is almost blurry in the dimness of the night – relying on pure instinct.

In relentless pursuit is Theseus, who bores down your every step. He shouts your name, and it reverberates against the aged brick walls, and it's like thunder in your ears, articulated with such a deep sense of anger and frustration that you are sure it’s not the Theseus you knew. It makes your skin crawl.

You hear his footsteps growing louder, and through all the adrenaline, you feel the tears begin to seep from your eyes, etched in fear. As you sprint through this treacherous maze, your breaths become heavier and desperate as your lungs scream, and fatigue grips your feet.

You don’t know who is chasing you anymore, wondering if he can fathom the fear you’re feeling at this moment.

The alley breaks into a junction, and as you stumble around the corner, you catch a glimpse of him, expression blinded with anger – it propels you forward, muttering a flurry of curses to yourself. Just then, you hear him cry an unknown word when a flash of blue passes you by an inch. You yelp, head ducking instinctively, palms pressed to the sides of your face as your feet stumble momentarily.

Magic.

He’s using magic against you.

The panic grips your throat like a vice, constricting the air you desperately need, and it is so heavy it leaves you breathless.

You tell yourself you need a plan, but the problem is you have no idea where you are.

You need time … to assess. Everything has been moving too fast.

Taking another turn, nearly skidding as you run, your heart lurches when you see a set of steps, narrowly nestled between the back of two homes, almost camouflaged through the obscured overgrown plants that hung at its entrance. You muster the courage to glance behind to only see emptiness – he isn’t there, but you know he’s close.

Your steps stutter to a halt, weaving through vines that adorn the rustic gate that leads to someone’s unpolished and unkept back garden. You burst through the plants as quickly and cautiously as possible, diving behind a wall of nearly dead bushes. Instantly, you’re on the ground, knees tucked to your chest with your trembling palm pressed against your mouth as you willed yourself to stay quiet.

Footsteps – closer and closer. He can’t be more than a foot away now.

It feels as though your heart has been squeezed so tightly and is lodged at the back of your throat, ready to burst any moment. You feel your heart drumming, the rush of blood pounding in your ears.

You hear him huffing, catching his breath. His footsteps grow louder. You can only imagine his gaze darting around the area, scanning for any movement, any trace of you.

Then, you see him through the leaves that appear by the entrance. His eyes drift above your hiding spot, searching for anything that might indicate you’re here.

He calls for you. Quiet, merely a whisper. It sends a chill down your spine.

Silence.

You pray that you are hidden from his line of sight. The external sounds of the city dissipate, and the sounds of your body swell like a ringing in your ears. Everything feels too loud.

Don’t move.

A hand to your chest, you feel the rise and fall with each breath you take. You’re taken back to your childhood, when you used to run through the docks with your brother, hiding in dim corners of warehouses and alleyways like these, taking turns to seek each other out. If you focused hard enough, you could almost hear your brother’s laughter while calling out your name as you suppressed your laughter, hidden around the corner. You remember how it felt, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, your heart pounding and pounding in excitement.

You were children. Everything was a game for both of you.

But this isn’t a game, and your brother isn’t here.

Theseus heaves a heavy sigh, almost as if in an ultimate decision that you are too much trouble for tailing down the winding streets. He tucks his wand into his coat, and in utter perplexity, you strain a gasp as Theseus’ features contort and shift under the moonlight, morphing into the countenance of a stranger.

Your eyes widen, knowing that you had called his bluff moments ago. He shifts his hand to smoothen the frizz of his hair. This man, though unknown, still carries an air of familiarity that triggers an itch in your brain.

Then, it hits you.

Blinding flashes of green, red, and blue, and you think you’re about to die. A stranger, Theseus, grasped your shoulders with a profound assurance that you almost fooled yourself and that you’ll make it out alive.

There was Theseus … and two other men.

Prewett ...

Oh.

Mulberry.

You don’t remember much of him. He spoke to you once, introduced himself, and never saw him again.

This is when everything truly starts to click. He’s the mole in the Ministry.

With a shift of his feet, Mulberry swiftly turns and disappears. You hear his fading footsteps against the cobblestones, leaving you in an eventual deafening silence. A moment, seconds, or minutes pass. You don't know how long you’ve been here, too afraid to move.

With your hand still on your chest, you feel your heartbeat finally regulate to a natural rhythm.

Beating.

Beating

You huff, gasping for air. It’s as if you’ve been holding your breath all this time. The back of your head connects with the wall behind you, and you let the tension roll out from your shoulders. With both hands on your chest, you close your eyes, feeling the warmth of liquid seeping from your eyes – tears of relief.

For now.

Breathe, you tell yourself.

Begrudgingly, you find the courage to pick yourself up from the ground, leaves rustling, and emerge out into the narrow lane that courses through humble, nearly abandoned homes – wait, these aren’t homes. Duplicated structures that run for a mile with capsized windows and bricked Victorian chimneys. A heady blend of earthiness and warmth begins to fill your senses. It lingers in the air around you.

The tobacco warehouses. You must be on the docks.

You couldn’t help but huff in amusement that you drove yourself to the one place you spent much of your childhood in – the area now reeks of familiarity. Beyond the shadows of the warehouse, the Tower Bridge gleams in the distance as ships drift by.

For a moment, you feel like a kid again, wide-eyed, with gaps in your smile, like he’s beside you.

You wish he were here.

–

Mrs Monet was certainly a lady to behold, rake-thinned and frail with sharpened eyes – quick-witted with a passionate sense to pry into people’s lives. She was clever in ensuring she would somehow slither into your life, social circles, everything. One of those elderly women without anything better or much to do.

To Theseus, Mrs Monet hovered like a great vulture on the Scamanders. The family friend that isn’t a friend, but you invite them every year for Christmas dinner.

Mrs Monet was vile but was also kind and helpful – well, only when she wanted to.

To his mother, she was affectionately known as Miriam.

She was also Theseus’ landlady.

Despite the borderline criminal surveillance and obsession with the lives of everyone she could her clammy hands on, Mrs Monet was never harmless. She never had ill intentions.

Well, until now. If your brother’s findings are accurate.

Considering that the Ministry wants your brother for murder, Theseus remains partially sceptical of his words. Although, it’s profusely perplexing how a concealed letter, intended for you months before you even crossed paths with Theseus, holds information about an investigation shrouded in secrecy. It leaves him to wonder if details of the investigation were leaked before the mole and found its way into hidden correspondence.

He has a theory, but he isn’t sure of the logic.

All he knows is that your brother sent you that letter, knowing you would somehow end up in this situation.

It sends a chill up his spine.

His theory is also why he stands at the doorway of his landlady’s apartment. He knows launching himself into a solo investigation without waiting for backup is a terrible idea, but he also feels that time is running out. And your life frankly depends on it.

The wooden door to Miriam Monet’s apartment is coated in a deep red and stands before him like a normal defenceless door. The door to an apartment of a defenceless woman. Theseus exhales as something unsettling stirs within him.

The door looks … too big. It’s too jarring. Perhaps in times like these, when certain people have betrayed his trust, things become scary.

But he thinks of you and how this could be the final piece to finding you.

To seeing you again.

Theseus grips his wand a little tighter as he steps towards the door. The floor parquet of the stairwell landing creaks beneath his shifting weight, the echoes resounding in the space. He brings his knuckles to meet the door’s surface, mouth agape with her name at the tip of his tongue when the door responds with a creak. The door opens, and Theseus halts and faces the expanse of Mrs Monet’s quaint apartment.

It’s empty. Dark.

Theseus wonders if he had walked into a trap.

“Lumos,” is the spell that instinctively escapes his lips, brandishing his wand in defence mode. It’s the auror in him, prepared for any sort of threat.

The light emerges from his wand, casting a narrow beam that cuts through the entrance’s interior. As he advances through the narrow hallway, the living room comes into view – pastel, knittings, and rustic antiquities.

The light dances over the furnished room, furniture casting shadows against the wall. Dust specks billow through the area as Theseus cautiously scans his surroundings. His eyes start to play tricks as the shadows tend to elongate into humanoid figures, tall and stretched. He spots a cage by the windowsill, seated on top of a settee – the parrot. It’s missing.

In that moment, Theseus can’t shake the feeling of being watched. As if the walls themselves harboured eyes, observing his every move, every step, across the room.

Then, a noise. Rustling.

Theseus’ eyes quickly dart around the living room, and his wand’s glow swings with every sharp turn he makes in his stance, to the point that it almost makes him light-headed for a split moment. The noise continues, and as he whirls to his left:

– Squawk!

A sudden screech pierces the silence of the apartment. It sends a sudden jolt in his heart as a vague figure materialises from the shadows, lunging for him. Theseus yelps, immediately hunched over with arms over his head as he braces for impact. But in an immediate absence of an expected hit, he stands and whirls around to see a flurry of wings, feathers rustling.

It’s the parrot.

“Merlin’s fucking beard –” Theseus swears under his breath, his thrumming heartbeat settles as the initial shock subsides, beckoning a chuckle from the ridiculousness of the situation. The parrot, perched on an antique work desk, watches him with beady eyes; the vibrant hues of its feathers are a stark contrast to the muted tones of the room's dimness.

Theseus stares at the bird for a moment. It blinks at him.

“Squawk! River Wapping! Squawk!”

He frowns. The parrot blinks at him again.

As Theseus shifts his wand within his grasp, the light momentarily sweeps across the desk, piles of papers and photographs scattered across its surface. Yet, something glints in the shadows. It’s subtle, but Theseus catches it.

Intrigued, Theseus edges closer, light now a focused beam on the desk. The glint resolves into a golden photograph frame, housing a photograph. It’s tiny, circular, and dusty, and its glass covering is cracked. He can’t help but allow his fingers to gingerly trace the edges of the frame, lifting it from the desk. He sees four faces, formal and taken at a studio, and recognises it as a slightly younger Miriam Monet, her late husband and a young man, assuming to be her son and daughter.

He didn’t know she had children.

They look ... so familiar.

Theseus brings the photograph closer, and his breath catches in his throat, heart dropping.

The daughter ... it’s Morrigan.

He knows it. Younger, but it’s the same face.

His eyes shift to the sun, and it finally sinks in.

And ... Mulberry.

Immediately, Theseus knows he’s the mole. It makes perfect sense. At best, Mulberry was a mediocre auror, but he recalls his time with him during the Auror recruitment programme. Mulberry stood out among the rest, having natural metamorphic abilities that allowed him to pass the Concealment and Disguise portion of the training.

Your brother was right.

Not good.

Theseus feels guilty for looking through Mrs Monet’s personal things, wanting nothing but to get out of her apartment, but something else catches his eye. It’s hidden behind the photograph, layers of dust seated over its surface with cobwebs entangled to it.

It is a brooch. A wooden frame encasing an embroidered flower. It’s faded, thread yellowed over time, but Theseus swears he has seen the same pattern.

He shifts the brooch within his grasp, fingertips brushing the dust off its surface to get a better glimpse.

Yet, he spots words lined at the curve of the wood. It’s meticulously engraved, and under the dim moonlight that cuts through the table-side window, the words shimmer to clarity and reveal: THE GARDENIA SOCIETY.

He freezes at the sight of those words.

He had only ever heard of The Gardenia Society from his mother. They were women who sought protection as witches, including their families living in Scourer-founded communities that developed a deep hatred towards magic.

The society mainly established itself in America in secret. It expanded throughout Europe as Scourer descendants, but the society became scarce as threats against witches and wizards decreased.

Theseus never knew there was ever an establishment in England. Perhaps they were so small that nobody outside their community knew about them.

The symbolism of Gardenias finally makes sense to him.

Yet, you never mentioned anything about this and as far as everyone was concerned, you were a muggle.

Theseus guesses that your mother kept this a secret from you.

It’s always the secrets. Your family and their skeletons in the closet.

Maybe it was never about you, your brother or your father, but always has been about your mother.

“– Squawk! River Wapping! Squawk!” The parrot speaks again, and Theseus looks up to meet the bird’s watchful gaze.

Is he crazy, or is the parrot trying to tell him something?

… River. Wapping.

River. Thames. Wapping. Docks.

The London Docks.

He knows Mrs Monet’s late husband had worked at a pub by the docks. The pub turned out to be a front for secret and illegal operations of brewing dark potions.

Theseus recalls the raid. He had just become an auror at the time. Though, there was no evidence of Mr Monet’s involvement with the backroom operations.

He cannot believe he had just received a lead from a parrot.

“Bloody hell.”

“Squawk! Bloody hell!”

–

Wapping is a docks town – tiny and old.

Shipmen toil with tumultuous diligence, hurling hefty cargo onto ships that sway to the rhythmic laps on the lowering tides. You stagger through the shadows, low moonlight cracking through the lanterns that line the docks as your eyes linger, the workers chat in loud conversations, superiors barking orders from the warehouses.

Of all the memories of you and your brother’s childhood maritime fascination, you don’t hold the same excitement as you did years ago. Not when you’re being hunted like an animal on the loose.

Your feet have gone past aching, now numb against the rough cobblestone lane. Your mind isn’t present; it’s far away and clouded by constant panic. It’s how your mere instincts carried your feet through the alleyways and onto the moss-clad stairs leading to the shore of the River Thames.

You see that the tides are low, revealing the rocky expanse that stretches along the river – you stumble down the stairs, finding that the area is secluded, though you hear laughter from the bar a mile from where you were. Other than that, it’s quiet out here.

The rocks crunch beneath your feet, and the wind bustles through. It makes you shudder.

Then, you hear your name. It echoes, sounding desperate, and for a moment, your heart drops.

Whirling around, you see a figure through the growing fog, running towards you. It begs you to stumble further away, your heart thrumming as you feel your stomach start to hurl.

It almost looks like –

It’s Theseus. From initially worried eyes transform into an expression of relief once his gaze meets yours. A smile creeps onto his lips, grinning so widely that you see it gleaming from where you stood under the darkness of night.

But your mind reeks at the very sight of him, unsure if he’s real or fake. You continue to stagger backwards, forcing a wider distance between you.

“Don’t come any closer!” you scream, tears threatening to spill at your words. Theseus immediately halts, hands raised in defence.

He says your name again. Surprised, yet sad.

You swallow. “How do I know if it’s really you?!”

He brings his hands down to his sides, frowning. He’s clearly confused. “What?”

You almost think you see the hurt in his gaze.

“How do I know if it’s really you?” you accentuate every word, making it clear that you truly mean your question. That this is serious.

No more tricks.

Theseus doesn’t say anything for a while but blinks, almost in contemplation. As if he’s trying to dechiper the situation and everything that has happened to you.

“I–I know about Mulberry. I know he’s the mole.”

You stand your ground, though you want to believe his words. You cannot trust yourself.

Theseus takes a careful step back, recognising that you lost all trust in him sometime between the fire and now.

It’s a silent understanding, the way his eyes glimmer in the moonlight. You almost think it’s tears, but you cannot tell.

Theseus exhales. It shudders in the cool air and recalls the first time he spoke to you.

We’ll protect you. I promise.

“… I promised to protect you. To keep you safe. And I failed you. I know that.”

A beat. You can feel your guard slipping off, giving in to Theseus’ sincere words.

You know a liar when you see one.

This man before you is not one.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words.

Enough to bring yourself to close the distance, and you’re pulling him into your arms. You feel the warmth of his grip, holding you so close as his head slips down to touch your cheek.

Hand on the back of your shoulder. Hand on your waist.

It’s strong. Firm. As if with one move, you’ll disappear into thin air.

Theseus smells like everything you’ve come to associate with the feeling of being safe: the soft embers of his fireplace, the sweetness of ink and the warmth of cinnamon.

You let yourself shut your eyes. Your hands grip the back of his neck a little tighter, his hair beneath your touch. He exhales, breath fanning your ear, and now, in his arms, you finally let yourself fall apart.

“Thank you for coming back for me.”

It’s quiet, a mere breath. Softer than a whisper.

Theseus holds you a little closer in response as if you aren’t any closer than before. He decides then that this ... this would be enough.

“Always.”

But the warmth of his touch and the feeling of safety quickly vanished. Now, replaced with an excruciating pain that transcends through your body. It’s searing against every muscle to your back that a cry leaves your lips. But your senses freeze at its impact, your voice merely an echo in the distance as your ears start to ring.

All you think about is how much it burns.

Before you know it, you’re slipping to your knees, but Theseus holds you so tight that you don’t feel yourself falling to the ground.

You see shadows in the fog. They grow with every passing second.

“Do you really think you could get away from me?”

A voice. Loud. Booming.

Your head is spinning, your heart gasping.

Theseus’ heart drops as he grasps you, staring down at you with pain carved across your face. Your eyes are wide, fighting gasps as if you had the air knocked out from your lungs. Panic surges through him like fire, and it burns his thumping heart.

He just got you back.

He should have seen this coming.

Theseus brings his gaze forward, knowing all too well it was the voice of the very woman behind all the chaos that has been happening to you.

From the shadows emerges Mrs Monet with Mulberry and Morrigan by her side. Rage flares and settles within his chest as he watches her grim smile appear, a sickening twist to her naive facade. The lines on her face now portray a hardened look rather than the fragile woman she was deemed to be.

This is Miriam Monet. Not the woman whom his mother trusted. And at this very moment, Theseus will do everything in his power to not lose you. All over again.

TAGLIST:

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

@inlovewithfictionalcharacters27

@aterriblelangblr

@yournewmommy

@mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@eternallyvenus

@poolnoodlerescuer

@mads-weasley

@decrepit-bees-knees

@lanespeaks

@127djarin

@iceman-kazansky

@wilmasvensson

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander imagine #theseus scamander x you #caught in a crossfire

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youryurigoddess · 3 months

Text

The stuff dreams are made of, or the interesting case of Anthony J. Crowley

We’ve talked a bit about Crowley’s trauma and his way of reclaiming the narrative in the past, but it’s time for some deep dive into the story he’s trying to tell. A story that meanders through the fabric of time and space, slightly changing with the human fashion trends, but slowly and surely bringing the demon closer to a certain angel like the red thread of fate.

1793

Some stories start in a garden, some even Before the Beginning, but this one starts with an Arrangement. Or, to be precise, a little bit after that.

See, most of the iterations of Crowley we saw throughout the history until then didn’t delve too deep into human cultural tropes. If anything, they were the inspirations behind more or less prominent biblical figures, maybe some nameless villains matching his demonic provenance and role assigned to him by his employers.

But in the hustle and bustle of the revolutionary Paris, Crowley emerges as a prototype of the Scarlet Pimpernel — a chivalrous Englishman who rescues aristocrats before they are sent to the guillotine. Stan Lee famously called him “the first character who could be called a superhero”.

Sir Percy Blakeney, the main character of the novel and the West End play under the same title, leads a double life. Appearing as nothing more than a wealthy fop, in reality he’s a formidable swordsman, a quick-thinking master of disguise and an escape artist. Even his own wife, Marguerite, has no idea.

Unfortunately Marguerite is being blackmailed with her brother’s life to find and expose the wanted Pimpernel. She regrets betraying her husband the moment she's forced to do it and spends the rest of the plot working to save him. She does, they make up, and return together to England.

In Aziraphale and Crowley’s case there was just a short stop for crêpes. But what seems to be an inspiration of a specific scene might as well come up later in the wider perspective of the show, so keep in mind those fragments of the musical’s libretto:

We all are caught in the middle

of one long treacherous riddle.

Can I trust you?

Should you trust me too?...

We shamble on through this hell

taking on more secrets to sell

'til there comes a day

when we sell our souls away.

We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!

Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?

Where is that damn elusive Pimpernel!

1941

The London Blitz is when we see a full-fledged iteration of the superhero Crowley performing dashing and heroic deeds under the literal cover of darkness and air bomb smoke. In a bespoke double-breasted suit and a fedora — still free from the unfortunate modern connotations from the internet culture — he’s clearly channeling Humphrey Bogart as a private investigator Sam Spade in The Maltese Falcon (1941) now.

It all starts with a woman and a simple plan gone wrong: Spade’s partner is shot dead, just like the man he was supposed to be tailing upon the request of a mysterious Miss Wonderly. And when a very soft-looking, sweet-scented man named Joel Cairo appears in his office willing to pay a hefty price for a "black figure of a bird", Spade starts not only a new job, but also his own quest for truth.

On the surface, The Maltese Falcon ends happily: the killer gets caught, and the hero winds up with the Falcon. But Spade's victory is completely hollow. The Falcon itself, originally meant as a symbol of loyalty, transforms into a symbol of a corrupting, futile, and self-destructive greed that makes people betray their own loyalties.

The treasure is just a worthless forgery and he’s fallen in love with the criminal — one of the first femmes fatales on screen. Despite his feelings for her and a kiss, Spade gives her up and submits the statuette as evidence, describing it as "the stuff that dreams are made of".

Remember the eagle lectern? The eagle was believed to be flying highest in the sky and therefore closest to heaven, symbolizing the carrying of the word of God to the four corners of the world. Aziraphale in the 1941 church scene is the closest to Heaven we’ve seen him on Earth. Just look at him: dressed in a smart, well-fitted coat with peaked lapels, symbolizing his Heavenly allegiance, and doing good this time not as a work assignment, but of his own accord. Being the closest to Heaven means the furthest and most unattainable for a demon like Crowley.

The Maltese Falcon is a metaphor for unattainability — things out of reach to desire and fight for, although never truly possess. It’s “the stuff that dreams are made of”. But Crowley secured the original — made of gold and encrusted with jewels, but hiding its real value under black enamel — eerily reminiscent of the demon himself and the unending kindness behind his inappropriately tight black clothing.

Quoting Michael Ralph — the production mastermind behind Good Omens — from the S01E04 “Saturday Morning Funtime” DVD commentary, “We wanted to tip our hat to the Maltese Falcon as being a precious object that no-one thought really exists but it does”. So we can safely assume that Crowley can and will achieve his dream in the future.

1967

Do you know what else happens in 1941 in Scotland? Ian Fleming, a British naval intelligence agent, meets with the famous occultist Aleister Crowley and asks him to lead the interrogation of newly imprisoned Rudolf Hess — a leading member of the Nazi Party in Nazi Germany appointed Deputy Führer — given the two men’s shared enthusiasm for the occult.

This meeting has a significant impact on Fleming’s work as a writer; Aleister Crowley becomes the inspiration for his first villain Le Chiffre and creates a blueprint for most of the James Bond’s franchise ever since 1953, the publication date of the novel Casino Royale.

Meanwhile our Anthony J. Crowley believes in himself not being the villain he’s usually and sometimes forcefully painted as, but a superhero in disguise. The character of James Bond in particular inspires him so much that he buys petrol to get the limited You Only Live Twice (1967) window decals for his Bentley, dons his own tactical turtleneck, and sets off to organize a heist like no other. Sean Connery style.

Like a typical superhero, Crowley’s once again both saved and betrayed by his love interest. Aziraphale leaves him with a thermos of Holy Water, a faint smile, and a hope that they’ll soon match their speeds to meet halfway at the Ritz. The cancelled heist is not an ending, but a promise of a new beginning. And the fact that UK decriminalizes homosexual acts in the very same year is more than telling in this regard.

2019

An exceptional situation calls for exceptional solutions, and what’s more important than the impending Apocalypse? Demon Crowley does his best to put the arsenal of his 20th century film inspirations to good use.

"Ask yourself, do you feel lucky?" Crowley drawls, clearly imitating (although slightly misquoting) the titular Dirty Harry (1971). He’s hoping to be menacing and making the point of being the one on the right side of the law and history.

Some situations require more than quoting action heroes is not everything though. He knows what to do:

A jeep was heading purposefully towards the gate, and it looked as though it was crowded with people who were about to shout questions and fire guns and not worry about which order they did this in.

[Crowley] brightened up. This was more what you might call his area of competence.

He took his hands out of his pockets and he raised them like Bruce Lee and then he smiled like Lee Van Cleef.

'Ah,' he said, 'here comes transport.'

When in doubt, Crowley acts. He transforms into a combination of a stoic martial arts phenomenon and a sardonic, menacing character. His smile alone — even on Aziraphale’s angelic face, as seen in one of the final cut scenes — seems to be enough to ward off evil spirits, angels, and humans alike.

But we all know that even as breathtaking performances as those can’t protect anyone from the cogs of the Heavenly machine and its plans.

2023

No wonder that Crowley’s tactical turtleneck comes back in style after mere four years of retirement with a self-introduction “Former Demon, hated by Heaven, loathed by Hell. How will our hero cope?”. Something has changed during this time; he’s more mature now, not playing pretend by hiding behind the usual veneer of sarcasm and movie quotes anymore. Finally comfortable with the fact that this is his own story and there’s no need to become anyone else than himself.

The bookshop fire and the Heavenly trial still seem to haunt the demon in a way that makes him realize what all humans know: that every hero is his own biggest enemy. His ultimate dream might effortlessly change into his greatest nightmare any moment now, and the only thing he can do about it is hover in a two-minute distance from the epicenter of his feelings. But Crowley has no time to work on it when a new mission appears, to protect his angel from Gabriel and the combined powers of Heaven and Hell. Even if this — rather ostentatiously — is the last thing he wants to think about at the moment.

Crowley tries to plan ahead, while his story slowly warps into a different genre due to Aziraphale’s interruptions. He eventually changes back into his usual Henley shirt after agreeing to swap places and guarding the bookshop while the angel is off to Edinburgh, collecting more clues. Did he finish his personal quest off-screen? Did he just give up on it in the whirlwind of matchmaking shenanigans? Remains to be seen.

In the S2 finale our master of disguise in yet another turtleneck proves that he can successfully infiltrate even the universe’s back office. We don’t know where he drives off in the end, but one thing is certain — he’s got a plan. And a world (and his dream) to save, like a superhero he is.

#a turtleneck kind of day #crowley is a superhero #and a master spy #with a plan #good omens #good omens 2 #good omens meta #go2 meta #ineffable husbands #crowley #turtleneck crowley #yuri is doing her thing

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voidpetrova · 8 months

Text

we've got spirit — stiles stilinski x reader

☄. *. ⋆

content warnings: none!! aside from corny clichés — hurt/comfort

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

synopsis: you had spirit, there was no doubt about it. but with stiles? you had chemistry.

✧.*

beacon hills high school was a microcosm of teenage life, complete with its cliques, dramas, and the unlikeliest of crushes. stiles stilinski, the resident “sarcastic loser”, navigated the treacherous halls with the grace of a newborn deer on roller skates. his unruly hair, a chaotic mess of brown curls, seemed to mirror the chaos of his daily life. stiles had a knack for getting into bizarre situations, thanks to his penchant for meddling in the supernatural mysteries that plagued their town. but amidst all the weirdness and danger, there was one thing that remained perfectly normal: his infatuation with you, the most beautiful, popular cheerleader at beacon hills high.

your name was a melody that echoed through his thoughts, a name he'd never dare utter aloud. you were like a vision of radiance in the halls, your cheerleader uniform fitting you like a second skin, the blue and gold colors accentuating your flawless features. your long, graceful legs seemed to stretch for miles, and your smile could light up even the darkest corners of the school.

stiles often found himself daydreaming about you in the most inconvenient moments, like during history class when mr. harris was droning on about the civil war. he'd imagine scenarios where you'd notice him, where you'd flash that dazzling smile in his direction, and where he'd somehow manage to utter coherent sentences. but alas, stiles was convinced that you were light-years out of his league. you were surrounded by the popular crowd, including the likes of lydia martin and jackson whittemore, who were more likely to be seen discussing the latest fashion trends or planning extravagant parties than mingling with someone like him.

as fate would have it, the universe had other plans. it was a warm, sunny monday morning when the school's chemistry teacher, mr. dawson, announced a dreaded announcement. “class, i've decided to assign lab partners for our upcoming chemistry project,” mr. dawson declared, his voice sounding like a death sentence to stiles.

stiles slumped lower in his seat, dreading the impending humiliation of being paired with someone who undoubtedly cringed at the thought of working with him. he glanced around the room, noting the looks of indifference from his classmates. except for one person. you.

with a grin that could melt glaciers, you turned to him, your sparkling eyes locking onto his in a way that made his heart race. “looks like we're lab partners, stiles,” you said, your voice sweet as honey.

he blinked in disbelief, half-expecting someone to burst into laughter or for this to be some cruel prank. but no, it was real, and you were smiling at him like he was the most fortunate person in the world.

“y-yeah,” stiles stammered, his cheeks flushing crimson. “lab partners. lucky me.”

as you settled into your seats and mr. dawson continued his lecture, stiles couldn't help but steal glances at you. this was a dream come true, a fantasy he'd never dared hope for. and little did he know, your life was about to get a lot more complicated too, as you discovered that maybe, just maybe, the sarcastic loser had captured your heart as well.

while the days passed after the fateful lab partner assignment, stiles found himself sinking deeper into his infatuation with you. it was as if he had stumbled upon a secret garden, and you were the most beautiful, elusive flower within. every time you smiled or laughed, it was as though a piece of sunlight had broken through the clouds that often hovered over his life.

one sunny afternoon, stiles sat in the bleachers overlooking the football field, watching you and the cheerleading squad practice the routine you had come up with one your one. the sight of you in your cheerleader uniform, executing flips and high kicks with precision, was nothing short of mesmerizing. each graceful move you made, each toss and catch of your pom-poms, sent a rush of adrenaline through stiles, making his heart race. he had been so entranced by your performance that he didn't even realize when you approached him, taking a seat on the bleachers next to him. the soft rustling of your cheerleading uniform drew his attention, and he turned to see you, looking even more stunning up close.

“hey, stiles,” you greeted him with a warm smile.

startled, he nearly toppled over in his attempt to sit up straight. “oh, hey there,” he replied, his voice cracking slightly. you chuckled at his flustered reaction. “i was just wondering if we could discuss our lab project. maybe work on it together?”

it took stiles a moment to process your words. he was so caught up in the whirlwind of emotions that your presence induced that he almost forgot the reason you had come over in the first place. finally, he managed to form a coherent response. “uh, yeah, sure. my house would probably be the best place,” stiles replied, his heart still pounding like a drum in his chest.

you agreed to meet up at his place later that day, and as you walked away, stiles couldn't help but feel a sense of exhilaration. this was it—the opportunity to spend time with you outside the confines of the school walls. he was on cloud nine.

however, when your discussion concluded, and you left to rejoin your cheerleading practice, stiles was blissfully unaware of the disapproving glares that jackson and lydia exchanged from a distance. they had noticed your interaction with him and were far from pleased. lydia, always sharp and opinionated, leaned in to whisper to jackson, “this is a terrible idea, jackson. she's risking her reputation for someone like stiles.” jackson, who had an inflated sense of self-importance, scoffed. “exactly. she's the most popular cheerleader in school. she shouldn't be seen with him. what if it ruins her image?”

lydia sighed, recognizing that their words of caution were falling on deaf ears. stiles had cast a spell on you, one that seemed to defy all reason. but little did they know that your heart had already chosen, and no amount of reputation or peer pressure could sway your feelings for stiles stilinski.

the day moved swiftly, and the sun began to set as the time for your lab project meeting with stiles drew near. you couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nervousness as you approached his house. the thought of spending time alone with him outside the confines of school was both exhilarating and daunting.

you arrived at the stilinski residence, standing before the front door. taking a deep breath, you knocked softly, wondering how this evening would unfold. the door swung open, revealing stiles' father, sheriff stilinski, who greeted you with a warm smile.

“hey there, you must be (y/n), right?” noah asked. you nodded, feeling a bit surprised by his friendly demeanor. “yes, it's nice to meet you, sir. is stiles home?” despite the aura your beauty radiated, it was safe to say that his father was pleasantly taken aback by your formal and respectful demeanor.

the sheriff chuckled. “yeah, he's been waiting for you to come. so, come on in.” as you stepped inside, you couldn't help but overhear sheriff stilinski muttering to himself, “stiles, you scored a good one.”

unaware of his father's comment, stiles rushed into the living room, his face lighting up when he saw you. “hey! you made it. thanks for coming.” you returned his smile, feeling your heart skip a beat. “of course, stiles. let's get to work.”

you both settled down at the kitchen table, textbooks and lab equipment spread out before you. as you began discussing the project, you quickly noticed that stiles was struggling with some of the concepts. “so, this is where we need to calculate the molar mass,” you explained, pointing to a section of the textbook. “and then we can use that to find the moles.” stiles listened intently, his brows furrowing as he tried to grasp the concept. it was in this moment that you realized something important: not only were you popular and beautiful, but you also had a natural talent for breaking down complex ideas into simple, understandable terms.

“wow,” he muttered, looking at you with admiration. “you're really good at this. i mean, you're not just a cheerleader. you're— smart.” you couldn't help but blush at the unexpected compliment. “thanks, stiles. i like to think there's more to me than meets the eye.”

he nodded, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “definitely. you're like a multi-layered mystery. i'm starting to think there's a lot more to you than just pom-poms and cheer routines.”

emboldened by his words and the growing connection between you two, you leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a soft, flirtatious tone. “maybe you'll just have to stick around and find out.”

stiles swallowed hard, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. this was the moment when the tables turned, and it was you who had left him utterly flustered. the chemistry between you wasn't just limited to the lab project; it was an undeniable attraction that had taken root in both your hearts.

as the evening wore on, you continued to work on the project, interspersing it with moments of laughter and shared stories. it was a night that neither of you would forget, as you discovered that there was so much more to each other than the stereotypes that had once defined you. and in that quiet, shared moment, your feelings for stiles only deepened, setting the stage for a love story that defied all expectations.

the chemistry project continued, and so did the playful and flirtatious interactions between you and stiles. each moment spent together seemed to solidify the connection between you, making it feel as if you had known each other far longer than just a few hours. stiles' sarcastic humor was a perfect match for your quick wit, and you found yourself laughing at his quips and jokes, feeling completely at ease in his presence. as you discussed the intricacies of chemical reactions and balanced equations, you couldn't help but let your legs brush against his under the table. stiles, in his usual fashion, pretended not to notice at first, but the spark between you was undeniable. the air was charged with anticipation, as if the universe itself was conspiring to bring you closer.

stiles glanced up from the textbook, his gaze locking onto yours. “you know, i never thought chemistry could be this exciting.” you chuckled, your eyes locking onto his. “oh, it can be. you just need the right elements.”

stiles leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a soft whisper. “i think we've found them.” your heart fluttered as his words hung in the air, the tension between you almost palpable. it was as if the world had faded away, leaving just the two of you, lost in each other's eyes.

however, not all stories have a fairy tale ending. the following day, as you walked through the crowded halls of beacon hills high school, you couldn't help but notice the worried glances exchanged between jackson and lydia. it wasn't long before they approached stiles, pulling him aside for a serious conversation.

you watched from a distance, trying to read their expressions. their faces were stern, their words intense, and it became clear that they were voicing their concerns about your growing relationship with stiles. their gestures were dramatic, arms flailing as they argued vehemently.

stiles, on the other hand, seemed torn between his loyalty to you and his desire to avoid causing you any harm. the weight of their words hung heavily on his shoulders, and he looked conflicted, glancing in your direction several times during the conversation.

finally, jackson pointed forcefully in your direction, and lydia gave stiles an ultimatum. it was clear from the way she spoke that they believed your relationship with stiles was jeopardizing your reputation as the school's head cheerleader. feeling your heart sink, you watched as stiles reluctantly agreed to something. it was then that you realized what he had decided.

as he walked over to you, his expression was pained. he cleared his throat, and his voice was shaky as he spoke, “we need to talk.” the knot in your stomach tightened as you followed him to a quieter spot, away from prying eyes. you knew that something had changed, and you dreaded what was about to come.

stiles took a deep breath, his eyes filled with regret. “look, (y/n), i've been thinking—i can't do this anymore.” confusion washed over you as you tried to comprehend his words. “do what?”

he sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “us. our— thing. it's not good for you. i don't want to mess up your life and your image.” your heart ached as the realization hit you. he was ending things, breaking off the connection that had felt so incredibly real and promising just moments ago. tears welled up in your eyes, but you fought to keep them at bay.

“but stiles,” you began, your voice trembling, “i don't care about that stuff. i care about you.” he looked at you with sadness in his eyes, as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “i care about you too, (y/n). that's why i have to do this. i can't let you throw everything away for me.”

with those words, stiles walked away, leaving you heartbroken and miserable. the world around you seemed to blur, and the cheerful chatter of your classmates became a distant hum. the love that had blossomed between you and stiles had been torn apart, and the pain of that loss was almost unbearable. as you stood there, trying to hold back tears, you couldn't help but wonder if you would ever find a way to mend your broken heart and make sense of the whirlwind romance that had been so abruptly extinguished.

the following days were a torment for you, as the misery of losing stiles weighed heavily on your heart. every glance in the hallways, every moment between classes, was marked by his absence. stiles refused to meet your gaze, as if he had become a ghost in the very halls he used to roam. it was as if he had vanished from your life completely, leaving behind a void that you couldn't fill.

you would catch glimpses of him in the distance, talking to scott or discussing some new supernatural mystery with his friends, but he never so much as acknowledged your presence. the playful sarcasm that had once defined your interactions was replaced by an agonizing silence.

one day, as you sat in the history classroom, unable to concentrate on the lesson, the pain became too much to bear. the tears that had been threatening to spill finally overcame your efforts to hold them back. it was as if a dam had burst, and the emotions you had been bottling up for days now flowed freely.

with a choked sob, you stormed out of the classroom, not caring about the bewildered looks from your classmates or the concerned voice of your teacher calling after you. the only thing that mattered was finding a place to let it all out.

you stumbled into the nearest bathroom, hastily locking yourself in one of the stalls. the tiles were cool against your clammy palms as you leaned against the door, tears streaming down your face. you cried not only for the love you had lost but for the pain of losing a friend, too. it was a loss that cut deeper than any breakup. minutes turned into hours as you allowed yourself to grieve, the bathroom offering a solitary refuge where you could let your emotions run their course. the echoing sobs seemed to reverberate off the cold, unforgiving walls, a testament to the turmoil that had taken hold of your heart.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, you took a deep, shuddering breath. you knew you couldn't let this pain consume you forever. you had a game to prepare for, a team that depended on you, and an audience that expected nothing but perfection. with trembling hands, you wiped away the tears, determined to put on a brave face and push through the heartache that threatened to engulf you. you knew that the moment you stepped back onto that field, you had to be the confident, charismatic cheerleader everyone expected you to be. the show must go on, no matter how shattered your heart felt.

summoning all the strength you could muster, you composed yourself, fixing your makeup and taking a moment to gather your thoughts. as you looked at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you saw not just the tear-streaked face of someone who had loved and lost, but a resilient young woman ready to face the world, no matter the obstacles in her path.

with a deep breath, you opened the bathroom door, leaving behind the echoes of your despair and stepping back into the world outside. it was time to prepare for the game, to rally your team, and to prove that you were more than just a reputation or a broken heart. you were a fighter, and no matter how tough the game got, you were ready to give it your all, even if it meant hiding the pain that still lingered beneath the surface.

when the night of the big game had arrived, the atmosphere was electric with anticipation. the lacrosse field was bathed in the warm glow of stadium lights, and the stands were filled to capacity with enthusiastic fans. as the head cheerleader, you were responsible for rallying the crowd and boosting the team's spirits. it was a role you had always embraced with enthusiasm, but tonight, it carried a weight of significance that went beyond the cheer routines.

as the game began, your squad performed flawlessly, their synchronized movements and infectious energy setting the tone for the evening. the cheers of “go, team, go!” and “beacon hills, all the way!” reverberated through the stadium, matching the rhythm of your pounding heart. however, something was different tonight. You couldn't help but notice stiles on the bench, something he had chosen to do voluntarily. it took you by surprise that he was there, watching you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine. the realization that he had come to support you, despite the pain of your recent breakup, filled your heart with a mixture of gratitude and longing.

the game unfolded with exhilarating intensity, and your school's team played with unmatched determination. beacon hills high school was on fire, and the scoreboard reflected their dominance. the cheers grew louder, and the excitement in the air was palpable.

then, the final buzzer sounded, and victory was theirs. your school had won, and the crowd erupted in a deafening roar of celebration. as the head cheerleader, it was your moment to shine, your moment to address the crowd.

stepping forward with the microphone in hand, you felt the eyes of thousands fixated on you. your voice trembled slightly as you began to speak, “ladies and gentlemen, tonight, we've witnessed a remarkable victory on this field. but there's someone special i'd like to dedicate this win to.” silence fell over the stadium as you locked eyes with stiles. in that moment, all the pain and uncertainty melted away, leaving only the burning intensity of your feelings for him.

“i know this might be unexpected, but I can't hold it in any longer,” you continued, your voice unwavering. “i want to dedicate this win to someone who has shown me the true meaning of courage and love, even when it meant sacrificing his own happiness.”

the crowd leaned in, captivated by your words, as you confessed in front of everyone, “i'm in love with stiles stilinski.”

a hushed gasp swept through the crowd, followed by a moment of stunned silence. then, as if on cue, applause erupted, drowning out any doubts or judgments that might have lingered. the stadium thundered with cheers and claps, showing their support for your courageous declaration.

and then, as if drawn by an irresistible force, stiles ran onto the field, his eyes locked onto yours. in the midst of the celebration, he reached you, capturing your lips in a sweet and passionate kiss. the world around you disappeared, leaving only the two of you in that perfect moment.

breaking the kiss, stiles cupped your face in his hands, his eyes glistening with emotion. “i love you,” he whispered, his voice filled with sincerity and devotion. tears of joy welled up in your eyes as you replied, “i love you too, stiles.”

with the cheers of the crowd still echoing around you, you both embraced, knowing that in each other's arms, you had found a love that was worth every obstacle and sacrifice. the night that had begun with uncertainty and heartache had transformed into a storybook ending, proving that love could conquer all, even in the most unexpected and public of declarations.

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