trudy-shams

[trudy-shams]

Title: Brave [16 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: You share your knowledge with the council.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: and then the plot barrels back in like a bull in a china shop—

At night you dream of fire. 

The great golden pyre, fire raging at its heart. The ground littered with sacrifices, bodies charred, rent and broken. Blackened hands reaching up to the ever silent gods. 

They don’t answer. 

They never answer.

You wake, panting and sweaty. Thoughts of King Adrys’ soldiers, his priests with their indigo stained mouths and fingers, their ruined eyes hidden behind blindfolds sewn with Halith’s star. For a terrifying moment you imagine  soldiers at the door, armored fists crashing against the wood—but there is no sound but your own heavy breath in the dark. No priests in their white robes have come to seize you for your heresy, you are safe here, truly safe. 

Or at least… you were. 

The King of Golden Pyres sends his soldiers to Tarrath. 

Your mother made wretched things of Halith’s gifts, your father had said as they’d buried her. It is why the sickness came for her. 

You know now of course that no such thing is true—Halith’s eye was never on your little village, and if it was, she remained as silent as you have ever seen her through every prayer, psalm and sacrifice. She had certainly not extended her hand to sicken your mother. She had taken ill assisting those in the village afflicted with the sweating sickness. It had taken her from you as the King’s priests scoured the streets for heretics to burn—

Wise women and midwives all.

You had been forced to watch as they had been sent to the Gods—screaming the whole time. 

Ready yourself at dawn, Sweetmeat. I will come for you, and we will go before the council together.

The sky outside your little window is still dark, with no sign of the coming morning yet on the horizon, and you lay there in your bed until the sky turns purple and pink with sunlight. A sleepy Carol helps you drag the bathing tub out from the storage room—you couldn’t move it yourself even if you tried—and you scrub yourself raw after boiling water in the hearth. 

You dress yourself in another of your borrowed items, and you sigh with relief to find it smaller than the rest—it’s only a little big, the neckline resting below your shoulders to expose your collarbones and the barest hints of your cleavage, with pretty golden embroidery all along it. With the laces in the front, you’re able to pull the sea-green fabric in around your torso. It flares out again at your waist, coming to a stop at your ankles and the sleeves are bell-like and airy. After you dress, you force yourself to eat a few slices of bread, though your stomach churns. 

The Council.

You know little of Tarrath, but the way Steve had spoken of them makes you think they are important. Extremely important. 

And you are no one. The thought of your father’s voice makes you wince. Nothing. Just like your mother. Perhaps he’s right—you rely on nothing but the kindness of the pack that had taken you, and what do you do? 

Nothing. 

You clench your fists. You will be more than a weak human pet.

The rapping of Steve’s fist at the closed door pulls you from your thoughts, and you cross the kitchen to open it. He stands before you in a fresh kilt, his blond hair freshly combed and braided back away from his face. He greets you with a smile.

“Good morning, Sweetmeat.” He reaches for you, curling a lock of your hair around his finger before letting it spring back into place with the others. You’ve taken great pains today to be presentable, and you find yourself hoping he likes the way you look. “Are you ready?” 

You swallow. “Yes.” He holds out his hand. 

“Let us go, then, Little One. The sooner we are finished, the sooner you are mine again.” He tucks a wayward curl behind your ear, and you shiver, this time for an entirely different reason. You wave farewell to Carol and then step out into the dewy morning with Steve. Your little garden is faring well, green shoots are already beginning to poke out of the dirt on the other side of the path. 

The streets of the city are quiet and empty at this hour, though the occasional straggler crosses your path. Steve holds your hand again, and this time you are under no pretense as to why he threads his fingers through yours, thumb stroking softly over your knuckles. The streets he leads you through are first a tangle of familiar cobbled paths and turns you remember taking, until suddenly you are in a different part of the city entirely. 

The structures here are grander, the architecture finer—older. There is almost too much to see as Steve guides you through the square toward the largest of them all. It reminds you almost of the great temples you had seen in the King’s City, all tall pillars and arched roofs. 

A damp sweat breaks out across your forehead as Steve walks you up the stairs, a large hand on the small of your back. You wonder if he can feel your scars through the thin layers of fabric. 

“I smell your fear.” Steve says softly, pausing. “Why?” 

“The council in my village… they were bad men.” You say quietly. How could you forget their right to the First Touch, sliding their hands beneath the bridal shawl and—

“I know.” He tucks a finger beneath your chin. “I promise you, you have nothing to fear here. But if you are not ready, I will take you back to Carol.” 

“But…you need me to tell them, don’t you?” You ask weakly, and he shakes his head. 

“I brought you because I value your voice, Little One. But should you wish for me to speak in your stead, I will do it.” Your chest tightens. I value your voice.  If Steve is to be your mate, then you must trust him, you decide, squaring your shoulders. He had called you his brave warrior, and so brave you shall be. 

“I’m ready.” 

Inside the air is pleasantly cool, sunlight streaming in between the carved pillars. Swaths of wine red fabric are draped from the walls and ceiling, and at the far end of the temple upon a dais of white marble, sits the council. Seven of them in total, three females and four males, Orcs all. You feel small before them, but you do your best not to show it, keeping your head held high and your back straight. They are dressed in fine robes, and you can see the jewels glinting at throats, ears and fingers. 

One of the Orc women speaks first, and Steve leans forward, translating softly in your ear. 

“Dethak.” It is a title, you think, certainly not his name. Her voice is husky, melodic. “You bring new blood to the city.” She nods at you. “Have you reconsidered? Will you lead the war-band?” 

“No, Duzmahem. I cannot. I have brought my mate, she comes from the lands across the grass sea. She knows of these soldiers, the ones that make for the city.” He juts his chin out proudly, eyes shining as he gestures toward you, and a bolt of fear arcs through your chest—but you clench your fists, and step forward. An Orc male, one of the oldest, leans forward, fixing you with an interested look. He speaks quickly in Orcish, and Steve rushes to catch up. 

“What can you tell me that my scouts cannot?” He asks. “What do you know of those who approach our borders?” Your mouth goes dry, and for a moment you feel the heat of the fires upon your cheeks.

“The King of Pyres, my Lord.” You say, your voice echoing in the empty temple. “That is who marches upon the city.” Another male speaks, and he is perhaps the oldest Orc you have ever seen. 

“Tell us of this King of Pyres.” 

Your hands shake, and you clench them in your skirts to hide their trembling. 

“Do… do the Gods speak, here?” You ask, and the Orcs all look at you with confusion.

“Yes.” The answer comes from one of the women. “Are your Gods silent, little human?” 

“Halith is ever silent in judgement of my people.” You reply. “That is why King Andrys built the pyres.” You look down at the stone. “That Halith might see their light and embrace us once more. He burnt���” You pause, swallowing. Steve’s hand comes to rest comfortingly on your shoulder, squeezing. I am here, he says with a touch. I am with you.

“He burnt many.” You continue, eyes rising as the words tumble from your lips. “At times he burnt the sinful—but mostly he just burnt the innocent. Anyone with a touch of magic. Healers. Wise women.” At this, a worried murmur passes through the council. 

“There is magic in the city’s bones, child,” the old Orc says again. “He cannot burn it out.” 

“He will try.” You do not know how you know this, but you do, as surely as you know your own name. “How many ride upon the city?” 

“Fifty.” Steve responds from beside you. “All soldiers.” 

“Heralds.” You reply, shaking your head. “They come to convert before they destroy.” You remember the soldiers in your village, the bright red banners with their gold stars snapping in the smoke filled air. “They came to my village. They spoke of Halith’s light and her love, and then they burnt, and burnt, and burnt.” 

Another Orc female, the youngest, drums her delicately ringed fingers against the arm of her  chair. She speaks in heavily accented Common, the syllables rolling in her mouth like marbles.

“You have chosen strangely, Dethak.” She says, clucking her tongue. “Let us hope not unwisely. You will take your little human, and treat with this King of Pyres.” She makes a fist and places it over her heart, and Steve mirrors the gesture. “Take your finest warriors, and show them that the city at the end of the world is not so easily cowed.”

Next Chapter

Brave Masterlist

[trudy-shams]

Title: Brave [15 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: You learn from your new betrothed about Orc wedding ceremonies.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: 😈

“It is decided, then.” The air in the room is still like a held breath. Steve’s hand is on your cheek and it feels like the entire world has stopped around you. You cannot hear the sounds of the busy street outside; all that matters is you and him and the moment shared between you. The affection of his gesture makes warmth gather in your belly. 

This male wants you.

You cannot call him a Man—he is not one; has proven himself different from men in every way you can imagine. You decide you like it, that he is not a Man, is more than one in all ways. He stares at you with wanting, searching eyes, like he wants to commit every bit of you to memory. He is so close to you that you can feel the brush of his breath against your skin, and for a moment you wonder if he’s going to kiss you—-

Instead, Steve reluctantly lowers his hand from your cheek, dropping it to the table. The only kisses you have received were clumsy, stolen things. An awkward meeting of mouths and teeth that left you unsatisfied. 

Would they be like that with him? 

“W-what now?” You ask, and he chuckles. Marriages in the village were cause for much celebration—but here in Tarrath there is only you. No mother remains to braid pretty flowers and ribbons into your hair, to sew the sigils of love and honor onto your bridal shawl. No father to accept your bride-price, no council of priests to test and ensure your purity. You wonder what the marriage ceremonies here are like, what the customs are, and you realize you know nothing of them. Of Steve. 

Does he have family? 

Will they like you? You are, after all, weak and small and utterly human. But… you do not feel these things when Steve looks at you, like he sees only your strengths, not the glaringly obvious flaws you know are there. 

“Naukmun Remenausan.” He smiles wide. “The bride ceremony. Your people have them, yes?” He asks, and you nod. “Tell me.” 

“Well, there is the negotiation of the bride-price,” you say, biting your lip. “And after it is accepted, the priests ensure the bride’s virginity.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. 

“Ensure… virginity?” He asks. “How?” 

“I, well… they check,” you say gently, unsure of how to phrase it. “To make sure the bride is untouched.” Steve’s expression grows dark, and he shakes his head. 

“No one will touch you but me.” He grimaces. “Least of all a wanton old fool.” The fierce possessiveness in his words reminds you of his clear anger at Peter, his insistence that you reject the younger Orc’s mating proposal. The thought makes you feel a little giddy, now, a smile threatening to spread across your lips. “We will not continue this custom.” 

“And your people?” You ask. He grins. 

“There is little Orcs love more than revelry.” He says, and then pauses. “Perhaps a good fight. At an Orcish wedding there are usually plenty of both.” He holds up three fingers. “There are three ceremonies. Fighav, the challenge, Ulvhan, the blooding, and Naumn. The claiming.” 

“The challenge, the blooding, and the claiming,” you repeat, and he nods. 

“Yes, Sweetmeat. I will prove my worth to you, as your mate.”

“What is the blooding?” He holds up his hand, and draws a finger across his palm. Like he’s cutting it.

“We will join hands before the council, and we will share our blood. One bloodline, one family.”

“And… the claiming?”  He fixes you with that hungry look again, and you swallow, torn between hoping that Carol comes back soon, and hoping she stays upstairs forever as another hot pulse spreads out from your core. 

“I will hunt you, Sweetmeat.” The sound of his voice makes gooseflesh rise on your skin. “And then I catch you, and claim you.” 

“Three ceremonies,” you say, breaking his gaze by rising from the table. You take your bowl over to the wash-bucket just to busy your hands. “And your family? Will they be there?” 

His smile is pained. “Carol will be there, yes. And the pack.” Suddenly you are embarrassed, like you have prodded at an unhealed wound. “My parents are gone from this world.” 

“I’m sorry.” The smile he gives you has less sorrow in it, but it still remains at the edges of his expression, distant clouds on a sunny day. 

“As am I. I suspect they would have liked you very much.”

Your chest warms at his compliment. “Even though I’m human?” You ask, and he laughs. 

“Because you are my human.” The heat is there in his words again. Your fingers are still wet from the wash-water, and you twine them nervously in your apron. “Come here to me, Little One.” You move forward as he rises from the table, stepping into his arms. They close around you, walls of solid muscle—but you are not afraid. He smells like sunlight and something earthy and familiar. Slowly, you press yourself to his chest, just beside the thick plaid that comes up from his kilt to wrap around his torso. His heartbeat thrums beneath your cheek.

His hands rest on the curve of your hip, thumbs rubbing circles through your dress. He leans down and presses his nose into your hair, breathing deep. You have seen these hands rip and tear, wield sword and axe—and yet he touches you softly. Steve noses over the shell of your ear, the point of his tusk scraping against your cheek. You gasp, and he chuckles. 

“Do I frighten you?”

“Not anymore.” You answer, and feel his hands tighten on your hips. 

“Good.” He rubs his cheek against yours again and your knees tremble. “You smell so good, you know that?” He says lowly, practically humming with pleasure as he rubs the tip of his nose against yours, his lips a hair's breadth from yours. “Like wildflowers.” 

Your pulse roars in your ears, and you want nothing more than to kiss him. Gods you want that so badly. You lick your lips, and you watch as his keen eyes follow the movement. 

“Will you not… will you not kiss me?” You ask breathlessly, and he tucks a finger beneath your chin. 

“Another human custom,” he says, a small smile on his lips. 

“Orcs do not kiss?” You feel silly even asking, and Steve laughs a little before tapping the tip of one sharp tusk. 

“Makes it a bit difficult.” You make to pull away, embarrassed, but Steve’s arms are an iron bar about your waist. “I did not say I would not try for you, little mate.” He tucks a finger beneath your chin. “Come.”

 You have to stand on your toes to reach him, and still he must bend down to brush his lips against yours. Lightning blazes through you at the contact. You move your mouth over his, pressing first softly before you drag your blunt teeth over his bottom lip. He growls, the sound deep and hungry before he pulls you tighter against his chest. Steve nips at your lips with his sharper teeth, humming with pleasure as you gasp. 

He presses his tongue against the seam of your lips. You gasp, and he sweeps inside, tasting every inch of you. His tongue is longer than yours, rougher, and you feel yourself clench as he strokes it against yours. His fingers knot in the curls at the base of your skull, holding you still as he explores you with unhurried, deliberate strokes. His other hand rests just above the curve of your ass, fingers twitching like he wants to move them lower. 

You’re dizzy when he pulls away, panting and lips swollen. Steve drags his thumb across your lip. If not for the arm around you, you fear you might collapse to the floor. Your core is slick and clenching with want, and you watch your betrothed’s nostrils flare. 

Gods. Nothing like the village boys at all. 

He sighs, nuzzling against the side of your face one last time before he releases you. There is a rustling above the hatch, and your face burns as it opens. You jump away from Steve as Carol comes down the winding steps—or at least, you attempt to. He twines his fingers with yours, chuckling as you scramble to extricate yourself.

She takes in the two of you with a smirk, shaking her head. 

“Like younglings, the two of you.” 

Next Chapter

Brave Masterlist

[trudy-shams]

Title: Brave [13 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: You explore the great Orc stronghold of Tarrath, and what you find is unexpected.  

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse, Fighting, Monsters, Animal Death, Violence, Mildly described gore

A/N: thank you as always for any and all feedback and interaction with my work! tentatively re-considering starting a taglist—let me know what you guys think!

Tarrath is easily triple, quadruple the size of the Kings’ City, and Steve takes great care as he guides you through it. In another life, you might have been joined by a chaperone to ensure no impropriety were to occur. But in this new life the two of you make your way without a third party for modesty, your hand held in his massive one. 

Just to keep from being separated.

“I trust Carol showed you the market.” Steve ushers you through an alleyway, and you emerge in a small, tiled plaza. There is a fountain in the center of the little square, and children laugh and play in the clear water. 

“A-a little. It was…” 

“Overwhelming?” He supplies. “It will be better when you’ve learnt our tongue.” You nod.

“It seems rather difficult,” you admit. 

“Not so difficult as yours,” Steve replies with a laugh. “So many vowels.” 

“I—where did you learn? Common?” You ask, following him through the space between the houses. The street you exit onto is busy, but the crowd of people part for Steve, like water curving around a stone. He grasps your hand again, and you feel the familiar warmth in your cheeks and belly as his thumb curves protectively over your knuckles. 

“In the King’s City.” Steve says after a moment. “When I was still a youngling.” His eyes go dark. “It is a story for another time.” You try to imagine a young Steve, an Orc in a city of Men, but it is difficult to see him as anything other than what he is—

Power.

The sky is bright over the tops of the shops and houses, the sun a brilliant circle set into the peerless blue. And beyond them—

The cliffs. Your heart pounds. 

“Will we go over?” You ask, and he grins. 

“Oh yes Little One,” he says. “I will show you the Fall.” 

The edge of Tarrath is worn smooth with the passage of time and many, many people. Just beyond it the ocean crashes against the rocks, the scent of saltwater rising up from the distant shore below. Steve holds out his hand when you hesitate. 

I’ll fall, I’ll fall and die—

“The city’s magic is old and strong,” he says, one foot on the cliff’s edge. “It will not fail us today.” He smiles at you gently. “Trust me.” 

Do you? Do you trust him? You recall that first day—the last day, you suppose, the last day of your old life. 

I’m telling you to run. 

You are not that woman anymore, scared, incompetent. Your blade hangs above the mantle just the same as Carol’s, your deer horn on the little table at your bedside. 

You’ve only to make it to the river!

The woman you had left in the river could not kill a deer. Nor could she skin a rabbit, hold a sword or navigate the stars—it is she who doubts him, you decide. She who whispers fearfully that he will lead you to death and ruin. But you?

You place your hand in his and step forward with him over the very edge of the world. 

For a moment there is a rush of air, and the sensation of falling—before your feet touch paved street once more. The world is shifted on its axis now, the sea sparkling at you from the end of every street, like a great wall of endless blue stretching up above your head to that infinite place where it meets the sky. 

You stare at it, breathless and wide eyed, too stunned to notice that the orc’s gaze is not on the spectacle above, but on you, a soft smile on his lips. 

—

“Are you hungry, Sweetmeat?” 

You realize that you are—starved. The meal you had shared with Carol earlier that morning is long gone now, and your stomach twists as if realizing that it is completely empty. 

“Yes. But I—”

“You’ve no need of coin with me.” Steve replies, silencing your objection. 

Oh.

Your face grows uncomfortably warm again, and you are ever more aware of your hand in his, of every time your bodies brush together as you pass through the streets of Tarrath. 

“There is a tavern by the library.” 

“There’s a library?” You ask excitedly, and Steve chuckles. 

“There is no rival in all the lands. I will show you another day—the hour grows late, and the archivists do not stay long past dusk.” Disappointment dulls the spark of your excitement, but only barely. Steve is a man—well, an Orc—of his word, you know you can trust that he will make good upon his promise. 

You’ve been wandering the city the better part of the day, and now the sun hangs low in the sky, close to setting. The heat has abated a little, but not much. Still, you enjoy the breeze that rises up from the sea, cooling your sweaty face.  Steve leads you down a merchant-lined street, toward a wide building with a wooden sign out front. There is writing on it that you can’t read, the letters strange and unfamiliar. As you squint at it, Steve chuckles. 

“Don’t worry, Sweetmeat. I’ll teach you.” He pulls aside the cloth covering the entrance and ushers you inside. 

The inside of the tavern is brightly lit with a fire roaring in the hearth despite the heat outside. A few rabbits roast over it on a spit, and beneath them is a huge, bubbling pot. You sniff the air and your stomach rumbles. It smells good, like warm spiced meat and ale. 

There are not many empty tables, but Steve finds one, settling down onto the wooden seat with a sigh. The seats are rather large, and your feet dangle a little off the ground when you heave yourself up into it. The barmaid approaches, furiously wiping down a warped looking glass. She chatters something in Orcish at you, and you smile apologetically. 

“I-I’m sorry, I don’t—”

“Com-mon?” She asks brokenly, her smile still broad. “Food eat you?” She asks, pointing at her mouth and then the cauldron over the fire. She holds up two fingers, and you realize after a moment that she means money. You look to Steve for help, and he laughs, before answering for you. You watch as he roots around in the pouch on his belt before producing two bronze coins. She takes them happily, biting one hard before reaching into her massive bosom and producing a purse of her own. She drops them in and then stows it away again. 

“Bowl,” she replies happily. “I bring.” She bustles away, returning shortly with two full bowls bigger than your head along with two mugs of ale. She’s given you a healthy portion of stew and a good chunk of rabbit. You look to Steve. 

“How do I say thank you?” 

“Ahn lat.” 

“Ayn lat,” you try, and the barmaid giggles, and says something else before she hustles back over to the packed bar. You glance at Steve. 

“What did she say?” A small smile creeps across his face as he lifts the spoon to his lips. 

“She said that my pretty human has nice manners.” He takes a bite as you choke on air. Your whole body goes cold and then hot, skin prickling beneath your borrowed dress. 

“I—I’m not—” You grab for the ale, taking a big swallow. “I’m not, I mean, we’re not—” You think of Peter’s rejected courting gift, of the shell on your little table. 

“Of course not.” He replies, though it doesn’t look as though he means it at all. You’re unsure of whether or not that bothers you. “Eat your food, Sweetmeat,” he says, eyes glittering as he takes another bite. “While it’s still warm.”  

You do, taking your first bite with the too-big spoon, and it’s delicious. You close your eyes, savoring it. The spices are new and rich, and you wonder what plants they come from, if you might grow them in your little garden. 

“What’s in this?” You ask through a mouthful, and Steve cocks his head. 

“Probably aissa, maybe some spice-leaf. Easy enough to grow.” He smiles at you. “Would you like some seeds, Little One? For your garden?” You look down bashfully. How had he known? ”I will bring your seeds, then.” 

Gods, you don’t know what to make of the feeling in your chest, joy, anticipation, and some new kind of terror that leaves you breathless. It isn’t like  when the zhut had descended upon the pack, or when you had seen the village fall. This is softer. Newer. 

When you are done eating—try as you might you cannot finish the massive bowl—Steve takes you back to Carol. The sun is nearly set, the first stars beginning to appear in the sky as he opens the gate for you. Carol is waiting in the doorway, arms folded with a wide, knowing grin that makes you want to flee back the way you’d come. 

“Showed her the city, did you?” Carol asks. You nod.

“It was wonderful.” You turn back to Steve. “Thank you.” 

“It was my pleasure.” He runs his thumb over your knuckles before letting you go. “And I shall bring you your seeds.” You watch him go until he disappears into the tide of bodies. Carol leans over to pat your shoulder. 

“Makes quite the tender suitor, doesn’t he?” She asks, laughing. You stare at Carol, open mouthed, breath caught. Suitor? No. No. He isn’t. Least of all to you.

“What did you say?”

“Your suitor. Tender, isn’t he?” The smile on her face grows impossibly wider as you turn tail and flee up the stairs to your room as Carol’s laughter follows you. 

To be continued…

Brave Masterlist

[trudy-shams]

kiss from a rose

in which steve rogers gets the girl… and then loses her?

PAIRING: steve rogers x avenger!reader, steve rogers x fem!reader

WARNINGS: jealousy, slight angst, typical marvel violence, witty banter (thank you Natasha), yearning!!

WORD COUNT: 3.9k

🎶 : kiss from a rose - seal

AN: yay steve!! successfully brought back my Marvel obsession!! reader has nature powers, plus telekinesis but it's green!!

It was late when he realized it. They’d just gotten back from a two-week-long recon mission when it clicked. Her hair glistened in the dim lights of his apartment, his apron wrapped around her waist as she made them dinner. 

He’d offered to help, she’d said she’d wanted to. “After this mission, you deserve a break, Cap.” 

He glared playfully, fighting the blush forming on his already rosy cheeks. “Please don’t call me that.” 

“Why not?” She smirked. “That is your title.” 

“But not my name.” He muttered, staring at her intently. “I like it when you call me my name.” 

It was her turn to blush. “Fine, fine.” He held her hand, rubbing the back gently with his thumb. Of course, she gave in. “Steve. Now, go set the table.” 

He’d never set a table faster in his life. 

And then, when he turned around and watched as her face focused on their dinner, tongue peeked out from behind her lips, his heart fluttered. He stalked over, holding the crook of her arm gently as he spun her around. Her eyes widened, pupils growing for every second she stared at him. “Steve? What are you-” 

He dove down, kissing her like it was his last moment on Earth. Like he needed her. In a way, he did. 

Her eyes fluttered shut, arms wrapping around his neck. He smiled, pulling away ever so slightly. “You’re beautiful.” 

Her cheeks felt like he’d lit them on fire. “Steve. What’s gotten into you?” 

He shrugged, nudging her nose with his. “Thought I should make a move.” 

She laughed, and his heart fluttered. “You have good instincts.”

“Are you sure?” He asked for the millionth time. “Peg’s been dying to meet you.” 

He was too nice, she told herself. She knew Peggy could not care less about seeing her. “Steve, I’ll be just fine waiting for you here.” 

“I-” He nodded. “I’ll be back.” 

“Go on.” She smiled, kissing his cheek. “You’re already late.” 

He hadn’t been gone long when she received two texts from Nicholas Fury. She frowned reading it, their boss had always had the most inconvenient timing. Walking down the hall, she gazed into Peggy’s room, smiling at the pair. Steve sat diligently at her bedside, every week, like clockwork.

“I couldn’t leave my best girl-” 

Jealousy ripped through her like a disease. 

Peggy and Steve had had their time, but she was married. She wasn’t even someone Steve was remotely interested in anymore. 

But when Y/N watched the man she’d grown to love staring at her like that, she couldn’t help but listen to the tiny devil on her shoulder. It’s not like they were dating, they’d only kissed for the first time last night. She shouldn’t care, she told herself over and over.

She shouldn’t be jealous. 

A tear fell down her cheek, and she gasped, turning away from the door to wipe it away.

“Something wrong?” His voice pulled her from her thoughts.

Shaking her head, she turned back around, smiling lightly. “Not really. Fury texted. Said we still needed to turn in some paperwork for the mission.”

“Ah.” He looked disappointed. She didn’t blame him. 

“I can do it, no need to leave her or-” 

“No! No, I’d be happy to help.” He smiled, reaching for her hand. “I would love to.” 

God, he was charming. It was hard to be jealous when he looked at her like that. “Maybe it would be best…” Her voice grew quieter with each word. “It would probably be quicker if I did it by myself.” 

“Oh.” He sounded weak. “If that’s what you want.” 

She nodded, not trusting her voice. Handing him the keys, her heart skipped when his fingers brushed hers.

His head tilted. “Are you walking?” She nodded once more, and he looked utterly confused. She would be too, considering she had been the one to drive here. It was a company car, but still. “Let me drive.” 

“It’s fine, really-” 

“I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.” He spoke like he meant it. She knew he meant it. “Please.” 

How could she say no?

She’d been home for approximately four hours when she realized how stupid she’d been. Using the spare key Steve had given her months ago for ‘emergencies’ she slipped into his apartment, smiling to herself when his cologne fell out of the shadows. Throwing her coat on the counter, she walked over to the light switch, about to flip it on when a voice broke through the quiet. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

She pulled her gun out of its holster, aiming at the corner. Fury’s face peeked out from the dark, and her shoulders loosened, lowering her aim. “What the hell, Nick?” 

“What the hell to you too.” His voice was gruff. “What is my little green thumb doing in Captain America’s apartment?” 

“None of your-” 

“Business?” He raised an eyebrow. 

Her cheeks flushed. “I could ask you the same question, sir.” 

“My wife kicked me out.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “What wife-” Fury raised his phone, the text reading ‘Shield compromised.’ 

“Shit.” She hissed. “Did she-” 

“Y/N?”

“Steve.” She turned around, glad for the dark. It hid her hot cheeks perfectly. “I-” 

“Did I do something earlier?” He threw his coat next to hers, walking down the hall with a horribly beautiful look in his eye. “If-” She tilted her head toward the corner, and his eyes darted to Fury, glaring. “I don’t remember giving you a key.” 

“Do you really think I’d need one?” The old man looked at Y/N, smirking. “It’s a select group, I see.” 

Y/N glared, avoiding Steve’s gaze. “Fury-” 

“My wife kicked me out.” 

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. He was using the same line he’d used seconds before. Steve stepped in front of her, turning on the light. “I didn’t know you were married.” 

“A lot of things you don’t know about me.” 

“I know Nick. That’s a problem.” 

“Cap.” She hissed. “Be kind.” 

“Cap?” Steve hissed back. “What did I-” 

Fury held his phone up, the words he’d shown her still typed in large bolded letters. Steve’s eyes widened, and he gazed around his apartment. His arm stuck out behind him, pushing her behind him. Her heart fluttered. “Stay.” 

“I’m sorry to have to do this.” 

“Who else-” Steve sounded tight. “Who else knows about your wife?” 

“Just my friends.” His phone read ‘us three.’ 

Steve scoffed. “Is that what we are?” 

“That’s up to you.” Fury stood up, barely out of his seat when an attack of bullets shot through Steve’s wall, hitting him square in the chest. 

They dropped to the floor, pulling Fury behind the kitchen counter. “Shit,” Y/N whispered, checking for his pulse. “Shit, Cap.” 

He glared. “We’ll talk later.” 

“Why would-” He raised an eyebrow, and her cheeks flushed. “Just be safe, yeah?” 

“I will.” He nodded, smiling lopsidedly. “Are we-” 

Fury stuck a shaking hand out at Steve, a grey flash drive with Shield’s logo in his palm. “Trust no one.” 

The operating room was cluttered, with doctors and equipment at every corner. Her hands gripped the windowsill tightly, staring at her boss getting cut open on the table. “C’mon Fury. Please don’t die.” 

Steve’s hand laid over hers, a comforting presence. He said nothing, just staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. She dared to look over, frowning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Y/N-”

“How is he?” Nat’s voice was panicked. Y/N pulled out of his hold, hugging her friend quickly. 

“Not good, Nat.” 

All they could do was watch helplessly as Fury died. And when Steve held her in his arms, flash drive digging into her back, she knew their talk would have to wait. Fury’s body was presented to them minutes after he’d been declared dead. 

She’d never seen Natasha so shaken. 

“I need to take him.” 

Nat stayed firm by Fury’s side, and Steve stepped forward. “Natasha.” 

The redhead took one last look at her boss before stalking down the hall. Leaving Maria by herself, they chased after her. She whipped around, anger flooding her normally playful gaze. “Why was Fury in your apartment?” 

“I don’t know.” God, Steve was a horrible liar.

“Cap.” Y/N turned around, looking at Rumlow with disdain. “They want you back at Shield Headquarters.” 

“Yeah, give me a second.” 

“They want you now.” His voice held something else, a secret that Y/N couldn’t decipher. 

“Okay.” 

“You’re a terrible liar you know,” Nat shot back, walking away. 

“I should-” Y/N whispered. “I should go.” 

“No.” Steve shook his head, holding her hand tightly. “Fury trusted you with this too.” His eyes looked wild. Not with passion or love, but with confusion, and worry. “I need you with me.” 

She could never say no to him. One thing stuck in the back of her mind, one thing Steve had told her without saying anything at all. Trust no one meant something bigger than a single person. It meant a system, an organization they’d both worked for, that they both protected. They were going to take down Shield. 

Shields headquarters, much like its field of work, was dark. Gloomy, grey, and dark. Absolutely no green or foliage to be seen for miles. Like always, she complained to Steve as they walked. “I understand why we have to wear our suits, but I’ve never felt more uncomfortable in my life.” 

Steve laughed, a smile cracking from beneath his normally hard exterior. “As soon as we-” His smile faded. “As soon as you get home, you can change. I promise.” 

“Steve-”  

Pierce and Steve’s supposed neighbor were huddled outside his office door, speaking in hushed tones. Y/N made an effort to stand taller, their talking coming to a halt as they approached. ‘The neighbor’ smiled, greeting them both as she left. “Captain, Terra.” 

Steve didn’t even bother to look in her direction. “Neighbor.” 

“Captain.” Pierce stuck out his hand. “My name is Alexander Pierce.” 

Y/n fought the urge to roll her eyes. The older man had always given her an unsettled feeling in her stomach. They had met multiple times before, and she saw no reason to shake his hand for the millionth time. 

“Mr. Pierce. It’s an honor.” 

Y/N raised an eyebrow. What an honor indeed.

“Nick ignored my direct order and carried out an unauthorized military operation on foreign soil, saving the lives of a dozen political officers, including my daughter.” 

“So you gave him a promotion.” Steve seemed skeptical. Good. 

“I’ve never had any cause to regret it. Captain…” His voice held a sort of curiosity. In Y/N’s opinion, it was closer to nosiness. “Why was Nick in your apartment last night?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Did you know it was bugged?”

“I did,” Steve confirmed, leaning forward. “Because Nick told me.” 

Y/N placed a reassuring hand on Steve’s arm. “Fury told him months ago. And, between you and me Mr. Pierce, Nick’s been having family issues.” 

“Ah.” Pierce’s hard gaze hadn’t moved from Steve's. “Did he tell you he was the one who bugged it?” She hadn’t known that. “I want you to see something.” 

“Is that live?” Steve turned around. 

Her eyes widened at the video. “Where is that?” 

“We picked him up last night in a not-so-safe house in Algiers.” 

“Are you saying he’s a suspect? Assassination isn’t Batroc’s line.” 

“He may be a deranged man, but he wouldn’t put a hit out on Fury,” Y/N whispered. “No way.” 

“It’s more complicated than that. Batroc was hired anonymously to attack the Lemurian Star. He was contacted by email and paid by wire transfer, and then the money was run through seventeen fictitious accounts. The last one going to a holding company that was registered to a Jacob Veech.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” 

“Veech died six years ago. His last address was 1435 Elmherst Drive.” Her heart dropped. She and Fury were by no means close, but after working with him for longer than she cared to admit, she came to know his past, just like he came to know hers. She knew things, like his first pet's name, or his family’s home address. Shit. “When I first met Nick, his mother lived in 1437.” 

“Are you saying Fury hired the pirates?” 

“The prevailing theory was that the hijacking was a cover for the sale of classified intelligence. The sale went sour and that led to Nick’s death.”

“Mr. Pierce, with all due respect, Fury would never do that. You know-” Her eyes welled. “You knew him, I knew him. He may have played dirty occasionally, but he was no traitor.” 

“Why do you think we’re talking?” The older man replied. “I took a seat on this council because Nick asked me to because we were both realists. We knew despite all the diplomacy and the rhetoric, that to build a better world, sometimes you have to tear the old one down. You two were the last people to see Nick alive. I don’t think that’s an accident. And I don’t think you do either.” Y/N held her breath, remaining cool under his suspicious stare. “So I’m going to ask you again. Why was he there?” 

“He told me not to trust anyone.” 

“I wonder,” Pierce murmured. “If that included him.” 

“I’m sorry. Those were his last words. Excuse me.” He grabbed his shield, and both of them walked toward the door. 

“Captain.” The pair turned around, and she ignored the annoyance that grew in her stomach. Pierce tended to only respect the men in the room. “Somebody murdered my friend, and I’m going to find out why. Anyone gets in my way, they’re going to regret it. Anyone.” 

“Is that a threat?” Y/N stepped in front of Steve, her hands glowing ever so slightly. 

Pierce simply shook his head, a strange sort of smile on his face. “Simply a promise.” 

“There’s always been something off about him.” She muttered as they waited for the elevator. “That is exactly the person we shouldn’t trust. The type of person that Fury warned us about.” Steve just stared out the window, arms crossed. She frowned. “What’s on your mind?” 

The elevator door opened, and he walked in, Y/N trailing after him. “Operations Control.” 

“Cap-” 

“Not here.” His eyes looked gloomy, like the beginning of a storm. 

“Keep all S.T.R.I.K.E. personnel on sight.” Rumlow walked in, accompanied by three agents Y/N had never seen. “Cap. Terra.” 

“Rumlow.” 

“Evidence response found some fibers on the roof they want us to see. You want me to get the tac team ready?” 

“No. Let’s wait and see what it is first.” 

“Right.” Rumlow looked jittery. Odd, she thought to herself, he was normally quite calm. Four more agents entered on the next floor. With no warning, Steve grabbed her hand, pulling her in front of him. She could feel his breath on her neck. Rumlow’s voice was hushed. “I’m sorry about what happened with Fury. It’s messed up, what happened to him.” 

“Thank you,” Steve muttered. 

Three more agents entered on the floor after that, and she squeezed Steve’s hand. A fight was imminent. Steve squeezed back before letting go. Summoning the small bit of energy in her hands, she stood tall, her face hardening. 

“Before we get started-” Steve’s voice was confident, firm. “Does anyone want to get out?” 

It was all a blur. She threw three agents against the door, knocking them out. Steve broke out of their hold, smacking the one who’d held him in a chokehold against the window. Rumlow pulled out his taser rod, slamming Steve in the back. 

“Hey!” Y/N yelled, building up an energy blast in her hand and breaking the rod out of his hand. “That’s not very nice, Rumlow.” 

Rumlow scoffed, pulling his two backups out of his belt. “Whoa, big guy.” Y/N rolled her eyes. “I just want you to know, Cap, this isn’t personal!” He jumped forward jabbing Steve in the side before he was thrown into the ceiling.

“It kinda feels personal.” Steve grabbed his shield, turning around and looking her over for injuries. “Are you alright?” His voice was barely a whisper, pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

She hummed, leaning into his touch. “I’m fine.” She wiped his brow with her sleeve, the smallest bruise forming. “Are you?” 

“Fine.” He lied. He canceled the emergency stop, the doors opening to reveal twenty Shield officers aiming straight at them. He stilled, placing a protective arm in front of her. 

“Drop the shield and put your hands in the air.” The lead yelled out. 

Without any warning, Steve spun around, cutting the elevator lines with one fell swoop. After the elevator stopped, he tried to door again, even more agents waiting for them than before. 

“Steve-” She hissed, watching as he eyed the window. “Don’t-” 

“There’s no other way out.” He quipped. 

Her hands glowed as she shook them in the air. “Hello?” 

“I have to say-” She whispered, burying her face in her hood. “Hiding the top secret hard drive in a public vending machine is not your smartest idea.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Did you have a better one?” 

“Keeping it on my person crossed my mind.” She teased, nudging his side. “It’s not like all of the secrets Fury has been hiding from us are on it.” 

“Stop worrying. It’s-” Empty. All the gum had been bought, along with, Y/N thought to herself, a free flash drive. Nat’s face reflected off the glass, popping a bubble from the gum she had bought. In any other situation, she would have laughed. 

Steve grabbed her arms, pushing her into the room behind them. “Where is it?” 

“Safe.” 

Y/N watched with mild fascination. 

“Do better.” 

“Where did you get it?” Nat questioned. 

“Why would I tell you?” 

“Fury gave it to you. Why?” 

“What’s on it?”

“I don’t know.” 

“Stop lying.” He shook the super spy.

Y/N’s smirk broke. “Steve-” 

“I only act like I know everything, Rogers.” 

“I bet you knew Fury hired the pirates, didn’t you?” 

“Well, it makes sense. The ship was dirty, Fury needed a way in so do you.”

“I’m not going to ask you again.” Steve was practically seething. Y/N reached out, placing a hand on his arm before Nat spoke once more. 

“I know who killed Fury.” 

“The Winter Soldier. Five years ago, I was escorting a nuclear engineer out of Iran. Somebody shot out my tires near Odessa. We lost control, went straight over a cliff. I pulled us out. But he was there, and I was covering my engineer. So he shot him, straight through me. Soviet slug, no rifling. Bye-bye, bikinis.” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I bet you look terrible in them now.”

“Going after him is a dead end. I know, I’ve tried.” She held up the hard drive. “He’s a ghost story.” 

“Then let’s find out what the ghost wants.” 

“How much time do we have?” The three of them huddled around the computer as Nat tried to access the hard drive. 

“About nine minutes from…” She plugged the drive in. “Now. Fury was right about that ship. Somebody is trying to hide something. This drive is protected by some sort of AI, it keeps rewriting itself to counter my commands.” 

“Can you override it?” 

“The person who developed this is slightly smarter than me.” 

Y/N laughed. “I thought that wasn’t possible.” 

“Ha-ha. I’m running a tracer, so if we can’t read the file, the least we can do is find out where it came from.” 

“Can I help you guys with anything?” 

Nat laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, no. Just fulfilling my maid of honor duties. Helping my brother and his fiance find some honeymoon destinations.” 

“Right,” Steve spoke through his gritted teeth, slinging an arm over Y/N’s shoulder. “We’re getting married.” 

She felt like she was on fire. Steve looked down at her with heart eyes, and she melted, relaxing in his hold.

“Congratulations.” The employee smiled. “Where are you guys thinking about going?” 

“Jersey.” She smiled back. 

“Huh.” The employee stared at Steve, too long for it to be nothing. “I-” Shit, he knew. “I have the exact same glasses.” 

Oh. “You two are practically twins.” Y/N teased. 

“Yeah, I wish.” The other man laughed. “Specimen. If you guys need anything, I’ve been Aaron.” 

“Thank you.” Y/N smiled, looking up at Steve as she mouthed the words ‘perfect specimen.’ His cheeks grew red. 

“You know it?” Nat gestured to the screen, breaking the moment in two. 

Steve looked solemn, nodding. “I used to.” 

Nat hissed as they moved out of the Apple store. “I’ll meet you in the parking garage, don’t get caught.” 

“What?” Y/N widened her eyes. “Why-” 

Steve grabbed her hand, pulling her onto the escalator. “It’s alright, we’ll get out of here soon.” He tilted his head, taking his turn to tease her. “Scared to be alone with me?” 

“Steve.” She gasped, smacking his chest. “Don’t fish for compliments.” 

“Oh?” He smirked. “So you had a compliment?” 

She turned around, eyes widening when she saw Rumlow step onto the adjacent escalator. “Kiss me.” 

He looked pale. “What?” 

“Rumlow-” She sighed. “Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortabl-” Steve’s lips smashed against hers, his arms snaking around her waist. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she received a sudden burst of deja vu. Pulling away, she turned around, walking the rest of the way down. “I wasn’t finished.” 

Steve shrugged. “I got the point.” 

“So-” Nat leaned forward, looking between the two. “What happened?” 

Y/N tensed, looking back at her friend. “What do you mean?” 

“You two haven’t looked at each other since you got in the car.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What happened?” 

Steve cracked the smallest smile, and Natasha gasped, smacking Y/N’s arm. “You kissed him!” 

“What?” Y/N yelled. “Why was it me that kissed him?” 

“Oh.” Nat’s smirked widened. “So it happened then?” 

Steve laughed. “Is this something you talk about?” 

“I-” She felt like she was going to burst. This was much too much attention on her. “It was for the mission, Nat.” 

Steve frowned. “I wouldn’t say so.” 

Nat was fully grinning. “He wouldn’t say so.” 

“Natasha.” Y/N hissed. “Leave it be.” 

“Fine, fine.” She held her hands up in defeat. “Where did Captain America learn how to steal a car?” 

“Nazi Germany. And it’s not stealing, it’s borrowing.” 

“All right.” Nat nodded. “I have another question for you. Of which you do not have to answer. But I feel like if you don’t answer, that sort of answers-” 

Steve sighed. “What?” 

“Was that your first kiss since 1945?” 

Y/N choked on air, and Steve placed a hand on her back, rubbing it gently. “Breath.” 

She glared, flipping him and Natasha off. Nat smirked. “I was just wondering how much practice you’ve had.” 

“You don’t need practice.” 

“Everyone needs practice-” 

“It was not my first kiss since 1945. I’m ninety-five.” He cut her off. “I’m not dead.”

“Nobody special though?” Nat egged on. If there were no repercussions, Y/N would blast her out of the car then and there. 

Steve quickly looked over at Y/N before looking back at the road. “There’s someone.”  

“Do tell.” 

“Nah.” He shook his head, smiling to himself. “I don’t think I will.”

taglist:

[trudy-shams]

Yours, Whether You Know it or Not

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Falcon and the Winter Soldier Timeline

Word Count: 1K

Summary: You’ve been running missions with Sam and Bucky for a while now, and everything was fine—until John Walker started showing up and taking an interest in you. Bucky isn’t having it. Not because he’s jealous. Definitely not because he’s jealous. He just doesn’t trust Walker. Right?

Unwanted Attention

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking, but you knew Bucky was beside you—silent, brooding, and absolutely vibrating with tension.

Again.

It had started a week ago. After the whole Flag Smashers fiasco in Munich, John Walker and his annoying sidekick, Lemar, had started appearing more often. They were always just there, cocky and insufferable, flashing that stolen shield like they had any right to it. But that wasn’t what had been bothering Bucky the most.

It was Walker’s interest in you.

Ever since you’d first been introduced, Walker had made it painfully obvious that he found you attractive. The first time, it was a comment—something about how you were “too pretty to be running around with these two grumps.” You’d rolled your eyes, but Sam had snickered, and Bucky had muttered something under his breath that you hadn’t quite caught.

Then, it became touches—a hand on your lower back, a brush of fingers against yours when he handed you something, a lingering grip on your wrist after a mission. It was all casual enough that you couldn’t really call him out on it, but you weren’t an idiot. Walker was testing boundaries. And every time, Bucky got pissed.

At first, you thought it was just his general hatred for Walker. But then you noticed other things.

Bucky started standing closer. His arm would “accidentally” brush against yours when you were walking. He’d place a firm hand on your back before Walker could, guiding you away without a word. And, most notably, whenever Walker so much as looked at you, Bucky’s jaw would tighten, his fists clenching like he was barely keeping himself from decking the guy.

Which led to this moment right now.

You, Bucky, and Sam were walking back to the safe house after a tense meeting with Walker and Lemar—one in which Walker had, yet again, spent way too much time trying to get your attention.

“You don’t have to act like I’m gonna drop dead if he talks to me, you know,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

Bucky didn’t look at you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” You stopped walking, turning to face him. “Every time Walker so much as breathes in my direction, you look like you’re about to rip his throat out.”

Bucky scoffed, looking away. “I just don’t trust him.”

Sam, who had been trailing a few steps behind, smirked. “Right. That’s what this is about.”

Bucky shot him a glare, but Sam just shrugged.

“Man, you’re jealous,” Sam said. “It’s written all over your grumpy little face.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You’re so jealous.”

“I—” Bucky cut himself off, taking a deep breath like he was trying to calm himself. “He’s an asshole.”

“No arguments there,” you said. “But if you don’t like him flirting with me, there’s a pretty easy solution, Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. “Yeah?”

You smiled innocently. “You could just tell me why it really bothers you.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, blue eyes dark and unreadable. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “Let’s go,” and kept walking.

Sam sighed. “Man, you are hopeless.”

You didn’t disagree.

A Game of Possession

The next time you saw Walker, things escalated.

It was supposed to be a simple recon mission—stakeout, gather intel, get out. But, as always, Walker found a way to insert himself where he wasn’t wanted.

“You know,” Walker said, sidling up beside you, “we’d work a lot better together if you ditched these two and joined Lemar and me.”

Bucky, who was standing just a few feet away, tensed immediately.

You sighed. “Not interested.”

“Come on,” Walker pressed, flashing that annoyingly charming smile. “I’d take good care of you.”

Before you could retort, a heavy, warm weight settled around your waist.

Bucky.

His metal arm wrapped around you in an unmistakably possessive gesture, tugging you snugly against his side. His fingers splayed against your hip, and when he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.

“She’s already taken care of.”

The air went thick with tension. Walker’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered.

“Oh yeah?” he challenged. “By who?”

Bucky’s grip tightened. “Me.”

Your heart stopped.

Walker raised an eyebrow. “Huh. Didn’t peg you for the type to settle down, Barnes.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

Walker let his gaze linger on you for a beat too long before smirking. “Alright, alright. No need to get your vibranium arm in a twist.”

And with that, he strolled off.

Bucky didn’t move. Neither did you.

Finally, you found your voice. “So. That was… something.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. Slowly, his hand eased away, though his fingers brushed lightly against your side before leaving entirely. “Sorry.”

You turned to look at him. “Are you?”

He hesitated. Then, in a rare moment of honesty, he admitted, “No.”

You bit your lip, heartbeat unsteady. “So… am I actually taken?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Do you want to be?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stepped forward, closing the space he’d left between you.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you murmured.

Bucky swallowed hard. His eyes flickered to your lips. His fingers twitched at his side like he wanted to touch you again.

Before either of you could do anything about it, Sam’s voice rang out from across the way.

“Hey, lovebirds! We’ve got work to do!”

You pulled back, trying not to grin. Bucky just sighed.

“This is your fault,” he muttered.

You smirked. “If you say so, boyfriend.”

Bucky groaned, but the tips of his ears burned red. And you had a feeling that, jealous or not, he wasn’t going to let the title go.

Not anymore.

[trudy-shams]

Daddy's Pride and Joy

Summary: Andy wanted you. He wanted things right. But your dad refused. What other choice did he have?

Pairings: Andy Barber X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, narrow views of sex due to the time period, slut shaming, unprotected sex, breeding kink, PIV sex, first time, creampie, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 3.9K

Andy Barber Masterlist

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics

Your mom fiddles around with a bouquet of roses and daisies, refusing to meet your eyes. You’ve heard her talk about how you made a mistake for weeks now. How you put yourself in this position. That you should consider yourself lucky that things are going the way they are. And still you feel her judgemental gaze as she peeks at you over the bouquet.

“Marge?” your grandmother questions your mother. Picking up your dress, she then turns to look at you. “What did you do, you stupid girl?” You hold your head high as your sister starts to zip the dress up. Grunting when she reaches a snag. Well…it is now too tight.

“How far along are you?” You play dumb. The dress wasn’t supposed to be a give away. Your grandmother walks behind you to help your sister. “You could have gone with a bigger dress.”

“It fit last week,” your sister is much too young, and does not understand the adult conversation happening between you and the women who are ashamed of you.

“That far along, huh? Are we going to have to bribe someone to lie about the date on the marriage certificate?”

“No,” Andy told you everything would be okay. And it would be. Everything would be just fine.

“Marge?” Your dad peeks out the front window, watching as the little boy from down the street pushes you in the swing. “Marge!”

“Yes, dear,” your mother responds. She wipes her hands on her apron as she walks into the living room.

“Who is that boy?” He points to the little boy with the bright blue eyes that had captured your heart the moment he and his mother moved down the street. “Hmm?”

“The kid from the old house up the street,” it isn’t like your father didn’t know this already. He asked about him every time you played with him. The problem was your father didn’t like him. Didn’t think the son of a single mother was good enough for his precious angel.

“The one whose father is in jail?”

“That would be the one. She fancies him.”

“I think he just sees an access to money,” your mother rolls his eyes, as she starts to step back into the kitchen to prepare lunch. “You laugh at me, but kids younger and younger are being taught by their parents the best way to money is finding some stupid girl that has a rich family to marry. He sees an in. A respectable man that owns a magazine, like myself. The heir…”

“We’re not royalty. His mother says he wants to be a lawyer.”

“Bah. That kid is a loser.”

“Sir,” your father attempts to close the door in Andy’s face, but the younger man places a foot there first. “I would like to take your daughter out on a date.”

“No,” he deadpans. “Is that all?”

“Why can’t I take her on a proper date?” He looks the man up and down. The scrawny little kid has filled out. But the reputation of a son raised by a single mom still lingered. A son who had to get a job far too young to make sure that he and his mother could survive. A son that was accepted into college, and now about to graduate Harvard law. And still he isn’t good enough for you. He is no good. And never would be.

“What do you mean by proper?”

“Oh, umm…I didn’t mean anything by it,” he meant he didn’t want to wait below your window as you snuck out with him. In order to not be spotted, he’d just take you on long walks at night, where eventually the two of you would lay looking at the stars. It was kind of infuriating to have you all alone. But you are a respectable woman. And clothes always stayed on.

“You know, Dwayne down the street mentioned something about you and her. Now, I thought it was a bit crazy to suggest that my daughter was riding in a car with the likes of you after midnight,” Andy stands up straighter. Nothing had ever crossed a line. But he has every intention of marrying you, and would prefer it be done the right way. “I want you to stay away.”

“I want to marry your daughter.”

“Over my dead fucking body,” Andy’s cheerful face turns sour, and he glares at your father. “You know nothing about my daughter.”

“I know that she prefers the moon over the sun. I know that her favorite flower is a lily, but your wife thinks her room looks better with roses and daisies. I know that she wants a big family, and wants to live just out of the city. I know she wants a dog, a golden retriever, and name her Bagel,” your dad stumbles back on that. You said you never would tell anyone that unless you knew they loved you. “I know she loves baking, and she loves to read. I know that you taught her to type.”

“You’re not marrying my daughter. Do you know why?” Andy shakes his head. He has done everything a man should do. He even has a job lined up. He has a home he is going to buy, just for the two of you, and eventually your children, and Bagel. He has a car. He will provide for you. “You’re a piece of shit, born from a piece of shit. Do you not think I know about your bastard father rotting in prison? Do you not think I don’t know about how your mom was making some extra money? You’ll never be good enough for my daughter. Never.”

—

You lean outside of your window, smiling when you see Andy on the lawn. Throwing your legs out of the window, you shimmy towards the tree branch, and make your way towards the most perfect man you have ever met. Getting down to his arms, where he gives you a bruising kiss. His hand is holding onto you a bit too high on your rib cage, and his thumb grazes over your breast before you jump away from him. He shouldn’t touch you there while at your parents’ home.

“Where are we going tonight?” your voice is so soft as he grips your hand, and leads you down the road and to his parked car. You are so proud of Andy and all that he has earned.

“Did you talk to my dad?” Andy opens the door of the car for you, and closes it before he crosses over to the other side. “Andy, did you talk to him?” He has to let you date Andy now. He is a lawyer. And you weren’t some shy little girl anymore. You wanted to become his wife, and have cute babies with him. And the sooner that this was public, the sooner you can have that, “Andy?”

“He said no,” your arms cross over your chest as you look out the window of the car. “It’s not stopping me.”

“Why is he like this?” it upsets you that your father can’t see the Andy that you see. He is perfect. And he will give you a perfect life.

“Because you’re his oldest daughter. His pride and joy, and he just doesn’t want you to be married off to some boy.”

“Except you’re not some boy,” you give him a smile, scooting over on the seat towards him. Your dainty hand rubs up and down his chest as you snuggle in, “You’re all man.”

“You have no idea,” he gets the most devious plan. It’s not as evil as it may sound. Andy plans on marrying you anyways. Currently he doesn’t have your father’s blessing, and this way wouldn’t exactly be a blessing. But at least he couldn’t say no. You are just like every other girl, and would only get the proper talk until you were engaged. You didn’t fully understand how babies are made, or the ways that Andy could love you, and evour you.

They’d tell you how a woman has wifely duties. But sex with you isn’t a duty. Sex with you almost seems like a life force for him. It is proper to wait for marriage, but this marriage doesn’t seem like it’s going to be approved by your father. And he’d hate to see you leave Andy behind because you needed that.

But…if you were to accidentally fall pregnant how could he say no? You would need to have a man to marry you. What man would marry a sullied woman? Leaving him with no choice but to approve the marriage. Demand it.

It’s not evil. It’s just changing up the way he would like things to go. He doesn’t want you to be looked down upon in the community. He wants you. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants his future wife properly. He’d taken way too many cold showers after leaving you. Relieved himself way too much.

His car turns in a different direction. The house was supposed to be a surprise. But he was also supposed to be given your dad’s blessing. It’s empty, and a bit bleak right now. But if he’s going to have your properly, he wants it to be in your future home with him. You would no longer be a lady, and sex didn’t automatically mean pregnancy, but he wasn’t going to stop until you became pregnant.

Andy has always played the long game with you. He knew the moment he saw this sweet little girl rocking in her saddle shoes as you stood there holding out a coloring book and crayons for him, and told him that you have a swing that he was in love. He fell instantly and even told his mom that he was going to marry you. And he will. Even if you have to get pregnant out of wedlock for it to happen.

“Andy, where are we going? We’ve never been here before?” You ask after a while of silence. You are perfectly content rubbing on your boyfriend as he drives. He gets all fidgety and squirrelly when you do. It makes you feel better knowing his heart is racing just like yours always does around him.

“I bought us something.”

“Oh?” You look up at him with doe eyes, and kiss him on his neck. Giggling when he makes that sound. Kissing on his neck always makes him squirm. You love watching him adjust how he’s sitting and even how he pulls you closer to him. Letting his hands roam where they want to roam. You don't mind as long as you are alone.

“It might not be much. But this is just a starter,” he says, slowing down as he turns onto a road. You squeal as you look forward. Your hand lays on his upper thigh, and he clears his throat. Andy is such a funny man when you touch him in certain areas.

“Andy, it’s perfect!” It truly is. The cutest little white house with a white picket fence. A perfect starter home. “Can we go look?”

“That’s why we’re here,” you don’t even wait for him to open the door before you spring to the house. Having to wait a bit too long for him to come to your side and unlock the door before you're running through the empty house.

Home.

Yours and Andy’s home.

The kitchen is bigger than your mom’s, and a few modern appliances. The living room is huge, but maybe that’s because there was no furniture. Running down the hall you see the perfect room for a nursery. Can already envision the crib.

“Honey,” Andy pulls your hand down the hallway, leading you towards the biggest room in the house. It is mostly empty, sans a bed. “This will be ours.”

“Ours?” You sigh, turning towards him, and run both hands up his chest. “And we’ll get to sleep in the bed together,” your mother hadn’t quite taught you anything concerning marriage. And you’d heard your friends gossip a bit about their husbands, but it just made you queasy. You didn’t want to think about another man. You just want him. You want those conversations with Andy or nobody.

“We can do more than sleep,” he says with a sly quirk of his mouth.

“What else does one do in the bed with their husband?”

“Well,” he says softly, pulling you into his body. His meaty hands run up your sides before they’re high enough for his thumbs to caress over your breasts, and you sigh leaning into him. You were in private, and there’s nothing you wouldn’t let Andy do. Or touch.

Your body heats up with ministrations, and you stare up at him with your eye lids at half mast. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to try with you.”

“And what’s that?”

“I want to make love with you,” your tongue flicks out of your mouth, and you pull your bottom lip in. Biting on your perfect pout as you look up at him. “Do you know what that is?”

You shake your head no as Andy’s hands go to your back, and he grips tight to your zipper as he pulls it down. You gulp, allowing him to undo your dress. It feels right. And you love Andy, so making love sounds right. “When two people love each other, they give each other their bodies.”

“And then what,” you release a wanton mewl when he fully unzips your dress. Placing his hands back on your shoulders, he pulls the dress down, and you watch with bated breath as it pulls at your feet. Andy’s hungry eyes roam over your body before he reaches back behind you, undoing your bustier, and you’re the one pulling it off.

He stands there, taking your nearly nude body in. “Then what, Andy?”

“I taste you,” you gulp. “You taste me,” you shudder. “I enter inside of you,” you whimper. “I come inside of you.”

“Inside where?” Andy’s finger taps between your legs, and your knees start to buckle. Leaning more into him for support, and you shyly pull at his jacket, and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. “Have you ever came inside someone?”

“No,” it isn’t a lie. He’s had sex, and only because he wanted to be the best for you. But that part of him…it is only for you. “Can — I touch you?” You nod your head enthusiastically, and he leans forward. Both hands cupping your breasts before he sucks one into his mouth.

“Oh, god,” the other breast he squeezes and pulls until he reaches your swollen bud, and gives it a little pinch. You pant as you stare down at him. Sucking on your nipple before he pulls off with a pop, and moves to the other one. “Andy…I can’t breathe.”

“We’re just getting started,” he practically growls. He grabs your hand, and places it on his crotch, while you moan. Slick heat races to your core, and your mind goes all fuzzy. Andy always has this innate ability to make butterflies race to your belly.

Feeling Andy like this doesn’t even feel criminal. He’s showing you exactly why he adjusts his pants, “This is what you do to me.”

“And this,” you take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts. You can feel his pulse under your fingers. He’s so hot and heavy under your palms. Yours. This is all yours. “This goes inside me?”

“It does.”

“Show me,” Andy steps away from you before sinking to his knees. He starts to slowly peel away your panties and stockings down your body. Assisting you in kicking off your shoes, and stepping out of your confines while you stand completely bare in front of him.

“Andy,” you coo before he kisses you over your naked mound. “Andy,” you start to melt as he coaxes your legs apart, and he licks through your slit. “Oh dear,” Andy is getting a part of you that no man has. Open and so ready for him. Whatever it means. Is this what people are talking about when they mention the wedding bed?

Wedding be damned. You can’t stop this now. You want to feel him inside of you. “Andy, I want you in there,” he glances up at you with an almost evil smirk. “Will you show me what that means?” He will marry you. He will make an honest woman out of you. Your father drove him to do things this way.

Lifting you up, he lets your legs wrap around his body, while he moves you to grind over his enlarged bulge. Your eyes blow wide open with curious lust and the simpering sounds of your needy voice make his movements so much quicker. He could just about come looking at you like this alone. Laying you down on the bed, he spreads your legs so wide to stare at your weeping cunt. Perfect. And all his.

“Andy,” you whine, wiggling around. You feel so exposed, and want him so bad. You want him all over you. You want him to feel a part of you that no one has.

“Shh,” he whispers as he starts removing his clothes. You gasp as his cock springs free. Scooting back in the bed, suddenly scared of where he says he’s going to have you. “You can take it. You’ll take it all, and if it doesn’t fit, we’ll make it fit.”

Andy clamors onto the bed, using his wide berth to keep your legs parted as he lines himself up with your center. Pushing just the tip of him in you and quickly pulling back out, and you yip. “Honey, you can take it, huh?”

“Y-y-yeah,” you take a deep swallow as he goes deep, but doesn’t pull out. “Oh, golly,” he slowly sinks his girth deeper. Letting your body adjust to the intrusion inch by inch. “Oh…oh!” Panting when he fully sheaths his steel rod all the way inside of you, and into the depths of your soul.

Both of your bodies hum with the throbbing intensity that is the two of you becoming one. It’s overwhelming and lovely all at the same time. All these years have led you here. Spread wide open for him. Taking him. Loving him.

“There’s a good girl. There is my sweet good girl,” it is overwhelming having Andy inside of you. Stretching you out deliciously. You want him always there. It just feels right. How dare your father try and take this from you. You belong with Andy with him inside of you.

“Andy, I love you.”

“I love you.”

“I want a baby with you,” fuck yes. Yes. Just what he was wanting to hear. “I want to marry you, and live here with you, and have you inside me every single night. I want to take care of our sweet babies, and —“ he pulls himself out of you again, causing you to pout, but then he pushes back in with a jolt. “Oh, Lordy be!”

“You like me fucking you?”

“Uh huh,” such terrible language, but right here, right now, it feels wrong not to be saying that. “Fuck me harder. I like that,” he snaps his hips, barreling back into you. Again. Again. And again. And tears spring to your eyes, but he kisses them away. Pistoning into your body with such force you cry out.

The fullness of him. It makes it hard to breathe. Even the sting of the stretch doesn’t hurt all that much.

“Good girl. You sound so pretty crying for me,” you just cling on for dear life as Andy’s movements make the bed slap against the wall. “You were made for me, Sugar. Nobody can ever take this away from us. I won’t stop fucking you until I plant a baby in your belly.”

You’re too far gone to truly understand the implications in that statement. You just nod your sweet little head, opening your legs wider. Andy leans back, pinning both legs to the bed as he watches himself impale you. Your tight little cunt clings to his cock. Even your body didn’t want him to leave you. It was begging for him to stay buried deep inside you.

And he would be. He’ll keep fucking you, and planting his seed until it takes. What is your dad going to say when you’re swelling with Andy’s pride and joy? He wouldn’t want to ruin your good name, therefore the family’s. He’ll be forced to allow you to marry. And he’ll have you exactly how he wants you.

On your back, taking him every night, while every day he gets to worship you. The dream.

“Sugar,” Andy pants, his movements stiffening up. “I’m gonna give us a baby.”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Fuck,” he crows, keeping himself lodged deep in your body. “Fuck!” Warmth blooms in your belly, and your mouth goes slack as you stare up at him. “This will be our little secret, okay?”

Until your belly is so round that everyone knows that he’s fucked you good and hard enough to get a baby. Men will stare jealously knowing that Andy has had you with no inhibitions. There will come a day that he will get to tell people that the two of you are trying for a baby. Meaning they’ll know he’s fucking his come inside of you every night.

It will come. But for now, he’s going to keep coming inside of you. Creating a life in secrecy. In hopes that your father will approve this union. He won’t have another choice.

“Beige,” your grandmother huffs as your sister pulls the veil over your head. “You seriously think people won’t notice you’re wearing beige? You spread your legs for the first man that whispered how much he loves you in your ear. You will ruin this family!” your sister looks back and forth between you and your grandmother, but you keep your head held high. Today you become his wife.

“You were supposed to marry the astronaut.”

“Guess he wouldn’t want to marry some whore, huh, Nana?” You let your hand drift down your stomach, rubbing over the barely there bump. “Andy did ask daddy for his permission to marry me. He said no, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be Mrs. Barber.”

“He trapped you,” your mother gasps, holding her hand over her mouth, while the other fans her face. “Sweetheart.”

“Don’t feel sorry for me. I wanted this. I begged for him to give us a baby. And now he’s giving me his last name. We have a home, and he has a job, and will move up at the firm. Let me have this happiness. He kept his promise. So let me keep mine.”

Let your mom continue to pray that nobody sees the weight you’ve put on. Four months, and six weeks, it is becoming harder to hide. There wouldn’t be a honeymoon. There would only be you going home to your husband. Sleeping in the bed right beside him where you belong. No more sneaking around, and leaving before sunlight. Everyone may know that you didn’t wait, and you don’t even care. Because he still kept his promise.

There would be no more lies. Only the truth, and that’s what has always been known. You love Andy Barber.

Andy Barber loves you.

And Andy is yours.

Masterlist

Taglist: @tis-thedamn-season @marveloustaylortot @pono-pura-vida @peaches1958 @seitmai

@smile1318 @andydrysdalerogers @cjand10 @midnightramyeoncravings @kmc1989

@pandaxnienke @donutloverxo @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @bambamwolf87 @musingsfromthemitten

@theinheriteddutchess @buckybarnesisdaddy @distractingbeth

[trudy-shams]

The Rainmaker Masterlist

A Mob! Steve Rogers x Forensic Scientist! Reader Series

Part of the Outta Nowhere AU

Main Masterlist

Series Summary: You’re just trying to do your job, solving crimes and running tests. It doesn’t help, though, that a certain ‘business man’ keeps showing up, a little too curious about your work

1. Fix Your Shoelaces

2. Cooks in the Kitchen

3. Pick Up The Pace

4. Splash Zone

5. So That’s What It Means

6. Storm Warning

7. Help the Bear

8. Never Be Sorry

9. Shortcut

10. Waste of Lime

11. Luke Warm

12. Alone Together

13. How About Pizza?

14. Cold, Then Hot

15. Banana Pancakes

16. Your Man

17. I Know You Do

Drabbles & Extras

Getting Along (ask answered)

Decks vs Honeybee Character Distinctions

How the Outta Nowhere AU Chapters line up

Conflict Resolution (ask answered)

Woman In Black (Future Halloween)

[trudy-shams]

Title: Tonality [6]

Pairing: Prince!Geralt x Princess!Reader

previous chapter

Summary: “The white wolf wants you. He’ll have no other.” As you grieve the loss of your father, your mother marries the king. Whilst you struggle to acclimate to your new life, you begin to suspect the interest your new brother has in you is less than familial.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Dark Fantasy, Darkfic, Step-cest, Medieval/GoT inspired AU, Genre Typical Violence, Mild Descriptions of Violence, Slow Burn, (Future)Smut, Dubcon/Noncon, Manipulation, Gaslighting, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: thank you so much to everyone who continues to read and support my work. i really hope you all enjoy this next installment, please don’t hesitate to drop me a comment or inbox me. reblogs are always golden ❤️

You are not, and then, all at once you are again. Awareness spreads like  contagion down each limb, and you know them again as it does. With it, though, comes the pain in your belly, sharp and biting like—

Like a blade. 

It fades as you force your eyes open, your clumsy hands searching yourself for the dagger’s handle. You do not find it, but the relief that floods you at its absence is short-lived. The darkness that greets your wide, panicked stare is so deep and unyielding that for a moment you wonder if you have gone blind—but as you raise your trembling hands before your eyes, you can see them clearly. But beyond, there is only darkness.  

No, not darkness—nothing. 

“H-hello?” Your voice is muted, muddy even to your own ears, the syllables thick and sticky like they passed through honey on the way. “Please-!” The hungry nothing swallows nearly everything but a sluggish, dull thump that echoes in your ears—it is the only sound in the resolute silence. You stumble forward with your hands out before you, fingers outstretched as you wait to encounter something, anything. You do not, though. There is nothing. No cool stone beneath your feet nor the caress of wind your skin. Even the sound of your footsteps is absent, stolen. All there is is the drum. 

It must be a drum, you think, because the sound is so deep it reverberates in your bones. Sluggish. Steady. Panic rises in your chest and you force it down with gritted teeth, your nostrils flaring. 

If this is death, I was right to fear it. 

Your dry tongue tastes like ash and earth in your mouth as you gulp down thick, gasping breaths. But there is no relief in the action, nor in the thick void that flows in through your lips, filling your throat with ink. There is only that sound, deep and heavy—thump, thump, thump.

A hand flies to your breast, pressing against the cool skin above your collar—but you feel nothing. There is no answering pulse from your own veins, your chest cold and quiet. A terrified gasp rips from your throat and you stumble, hands tangling in the torn fabric of your dress. Your blood should be racing, your ears thundering with the roar of it in your veins—but there is nothing. Nothing but the silence and the sound—

Thump.

Thump.

Steady like a heartbeat.

Your heartbeat, drumming in the dark, empty nothing. The echo of it is dull in your ears as if through cotton, but it is the only sound, the only thing in the vast absence aside from you. It rumbles in your bones as you stagger blindly forward, your hands outstretched. The void that presses back against your hands is like spiders silk, strands of ephemeral nothing. You fist your hands in it, and for the first time you feel… something. Like ripping apart fragile cloth—only something inside of you tears too. 

The sensation of it makes you gasp, choking on the dark as it rushes past your lips and into your mouth like dry water. You pull at the ragged strips of nothing and they stick to you like wet paper. You push through the ragged hole into the white light beyond—and fall to your knees on hard stone coughing and choking. You draw the back of your hand across your trembling mouth and it comes away stained inky black, the texture like wet sand. 

For a moment, you heave there on the floor, sticky, pulpy blackness forcing its way up out of your throat. The air you gulp down tastes of something so distinctly alive that it nearly brings you to grateful tears. After a few desperate breaths, you force yourself up to your knees, bracing your hands against the wall as you stagger up to your feet. You feel weak, as though the earths pull might drag you back down to your belly at any moment. 

These… these are my chambers. 

You had not thought of this place as home before, but you are relieved to see it now. The siting area is a mess of gauze wrappings, half-mixed poultices and dried herbs scattered across every surface. It looks as though Healer Janna has been hard at work here, you note with a small, grim smile. The sound of rasping, labored breath draws your attention toward the bed. Though the dark, heavy fabric is almost entirely drawn, the soft firelight shining in through the gaps illuminates the shape of a figure beneath the covers. 

You cross the room with slow steps, trembling as you approach. The drumbeat roars in your ears again as your eye adjusts to the gloom. Your own features swim out of the darkness at you, pained and ashen, your lips pressed into a grim line. The shock of it draws a horrified gasp from your throat, and you stumble back, nearly falling over. The feeling it evokes in you is new, a mixture of terror and disgust as you tear your eyes away from the empty vessel laying before you. That’s it, you think to yourself as you slap a hand to your mouth to hide the violent gag. My body is empty. You retch, your hands fisting in the stiff, dirty cloth of  your dress as you fight to remain standing. 

“To see oneself without a soul is quite a sight indeed.” The sight of Geralt is nearly enough to send you to your knees as you stagger against the bedpost. “I think perhaps that is why they drew the curtain.” He stands by the fireplace, his hand resting upon the mantle. His molten eyes seem lit with the fire’s eerie glow. 

“I am glad to see you, Little Doe.” 

“What’s happening to me?”  Your voice is just as dull and muddy as it had been in the other place, the dark place. You shudder to think of it again, gripping the bedpost tightly. Even the sensation of that seems far away, as though your grasping hands merely clutch at the idea of it. Your step-brother’s expression turns concerned. 

“You’ve left your body, Dreamwalker.” The thought of looking back at the shell on the bed turns your stomach. “A living thing cannot be without a soul, my little witch. The body needs a soul.” The fear that twists in your belly at his words is sharper than the Duke’s dagger. Your eyes widen, your mouth trembling as you cling helplessly to the bedframe as Geralt moves toward you. 

“I—I am—I am not—” Your rebuttals fall from your lips unfinished, scurrying over each other in their haste to leave your mouth. You hold out a hand to halt his approach, and he passes through it like smoke. “I am not a witch!” His amused smile is as off-putting as the sensation of his body diffusing yours. 

“Not yet,” he agrees. “But you could be.” You think of the witch, her fingers tipped in purple-black ichor like they had been stained with pitch. “There is power in your blood. The same as mine.” The smile that flits across his lips is grim, and does not reach his golden eyes. “We are more alike than you know.” He moves as if to touch you and then stops, seeming to remember that he cannot. 

The fear coiling in your chest beats wildly against your ribs. He knows. You wonder if this means word has reached your mother—or worse, the King. There are no elves in the city save the Witch—and you. 

“My mother—”

“Knows nothing.” You’ve little idea what has inspired your step-brother to keep your secret, and a pit of iron forms in your belly as you wonder what steep price he will extract from you for the privilege. 

“Why? Why would you not…” The words stick in your throat. “You’ve no reason to lie for me.” Geralt scoffs. 

“It is an unwise King who would lead his people willingly to civil war.” Geralt looks tired, then, far older than the summers he has weathered. “We are not all so ruled by petty superstition as Duke Emhyr.” There is no lie beneath the words that you can tell, but they ring hollow anyway, like you’re missing parts of them. “It would be quite a waste to see you hung in the square.”  You swallow, your lip curling. 

“So I am to be your pawn?” The sneer curls your lips and bares your teeth. “Your grateful servant?” He laughs then—a deep, loud peal of laughter that strikes like lightning. You jerk backward, forcing space between you. 

“If my aim was your servitude there are more apt ways to ensure it.” He seems content to say no more than that, his golden eyes glittering like coins. 

“But there is a price.” You say, and the corners of his lips curl. 

“You think too poorly of your brother,” he purrs. In an instant, he is again the Geralt you are coming to know and despise. “I would ask nothing of you that you could not give.” His lips curl into a deceptively charming smile. “Indeed, nothing you would not want to.” Geralt’s eyes seem to focus on something behind your head, and the smile slips. 

“We might discuss this later. For now, little Doe, you must return to your body.” You cannot hide the repulsed shudder that passes through you at the thought of looking at yourself on the bed again. “You spent too long in the ether.” 

“Ether?” He rolls his eyes, and beneath the mask of his cool charisma, you see true irritation. Strangely, it pleases you. 

“The dark place, the between place.” He sighs. “Lay on the bed.” He pulls aside the curtain, and you swallow the violent retch that builds in your throat. You close your eyes and crawl onto the bed. You feel nothing against your palms but perhaps the slightest pressure. There is abnormal warmth emanating from the body beside you, however haggard your appearance. It is welcoming, even, like a soft embrace. You want to lean into it, so you do—though you doubt you could help it even if you did not. 

The room shifts, warping and twisting like smoke. You do not want to return to the cold, dark nothing, and you fight against it with all you have. Your will, however, seems as incorporeal as your spirit. As you spin back down into your own subconscious, Geralt’s voice seems to come from every crevice of the chamber—

“And do keep your promise this time, little witch.” 

—

When you wake, there is pain. 

Perhaps it is more apt to say that you wake beacuse there is pain, deep and biting as you force your eyes to open. Your lids feels heavy, like you’ve not abided the task of lifting them in quite some time. Each breath feels strange, rattling in your chest. Sunlight streams in through the parted canopy curtains, and you wince, blinking away the spots trailing across your vision. 

I live.

You feel… weak. Disconnected from your body. It nearly takes more strength than you have to sit up, and you gasp, falling back against the pillows as pain lances through your belly and up your spine. With clumsy fingers, you pull back the covers. You are dressed in one of your loose cotton shifts, and as you tenderly trace the shape of your own body through the fabric, you can feel the thick layers of bandages wrapped tightly around your middle. 

Gingerly, you roll up the hem of your nightdress, your jaw set tight. You follow the edge of the wrappings with your finger. It’s fit snug around your waist, padded thickly with gauze to the left of your navel. It still seems somehow like fantasy, that the duke had stabbed you, that you had felt the cold bite of his steel deep in your belly—

That you had lived. 

“Witch.”

Trembling, you press your hands to your face. Duke Emhyr’s accusations still sting as they echo from your memories, his hatred burning hot like coals behind his eyes. Is he only the first of many? You wonder, wincing sharply as you reach for the goblet of water on the stand by the bed. It’s almost too heavy for you, but you grip it, and bring the edge to your lips. 

The sound of voices begin to echo down the hall, heralding the approach of other people. As quickly as you can, you adjust your dress and draw the covers back up again, waiting for the door to open. 

“—asleep, Your Majesties, when I left to fetch a clean pail of water—”

“And left her alone?” Your mother’s incredulous voice grows louder as the doorknob rattles, and then clicks open. She glides in first, her ornate gown trailing behind her, whispering against the stone. Her eyes narrow as she peers around your chamber in distaste. 

“Have the servants clean up this mess,” she says, the words cool, authoritative. Your mother has always been one for orders, only now there is a smugness to the command, an expectation that the bearer dare not fall short of. Kassandra hurries in behind her, water sloshing in the wooden pail she holds by the handle. She sees you first, nearly dropping the bucket in surprise as her eyes widen. 

“Y-Your Majesty!” She gasps, practically throwing the bucket to the ground as she rushes to your bedside. “Oh thank the Gods!” Your mother gasps at the sight of you, her delicate brows rising. 

“Thank the Gods indeed.” Your mother approaches you, perching herself on the edge of your bed before embracing you. “My daughter… I thought I might never see your eyes open again,” she cups your face affectionately, and though you had not felt the urge to weep before, suddenly your eyes fill with exhausted tears. She is, after all, your mother, staring down at you with concern and relief lining her face. You press your face into the crook of her neck, breathing in the honeysuckle scent of her skin as you sob.  

It’s so much—the Witch, the duke—your mind feels both full to bursting and disjointed with the knowledge of every moment of it all. Elf-kin. Witch. Princess. My lady. Your Grace. Doe. Who are you? What is your name? You know not when last you heard it. You do not know when you became such a meek little thing, so easy to trap in a box to bring a hammer down upon—

But you hate it. 

“You may leave us. I shall call when we need you.”

Your mother hums softly, stroking your hair with gentle passes. She works through the tangled mess as you cry, parting each snare with a motherly diligence that reminds you of summers spent catching fireflies and frogspawn. You cling to her, like a child with a scraped knee. When she has worked her way through every section of your hair, she sighs, massaging your scalp with the tips of her fingers. Finally, when your sobs turn to hiccoughing breaths, your mother sighs, her hand dropping from your head to your bandaged middle. 

“That man is paying for what he’s done to you.” You do not know how her voice manages to be so soft, and yet so hard at the same time. “I will not allow this sin to go unpunished.”

You shiver. “What…what do you mean? Where is Emhyr?” You are glad you cannot see her face, because the smile that drips from her words sounds crueler than anything. 

“The place he’s going to die.” Your mother sounds almost joyful. After a moment more, she releases you, dabbing at your tear-stained cheeks with the soft, flowing fabric of her sleeve before stroking the pad of her thumb over the curve of it. 

“Why did you leave the castle?” Your mother’s face looms before you, her brows knitted together with concern. There’s something else, though, something beneath that. You don’t know how you see it—by rights, she’s given nothing away, and yet you see it still. 

Suspicion. 

Why would your own mother be suspicious of you? You hang your head. 

“I—I just wanted to see the city.” You make the words sound like an admission. “Without a guard.” 

“And look what your stupidity has wrought!” She hisses, gesturing at your belly. “You’re lucky Geralt noticed your absence when he did—did that little, the—” Your mother purses her perfect lips in frustration as she attempts to recall your only lady-in-waiting’s name. “Katherine? Did she help you with this idiocy?” As far as you can tell, she has swallowed your lie whole. You hope it does not work its way up out of her throat to bite you later.

“No, no, I… I just snuck out while the guards were changing, Kassandra knew nothing of it.” You are more glad than ever that you had ordered her to stay behind, the thought of what might’ve happened to her had she come along makes you shiver. The duke did not seem to be much in the mood to deal with stray ladies. The mention of Geralt makes you press your teeth against the inside of your cheek.  Your mother sighs, shaking her head as she pinches the bridge of her nose.

“You are too important to lose.” She regards you with serious, dark eyes. “Do you understand me? You are my only daughter—I can have no more children, you know this. Nor could I replace you if I tried, my love.”

“Yes, mother.” You place your hand over hers. “I understand.” You can find no sign in the relieved cast of your mother’s features that betrays any heritage other than the one you know, and your father is too long in the ground to ask yourself. “I’m sorry I scared you.” You had never been particularly good at lying, the words sticking together and jumbling on your tongue as you tried to string them into something coherent. Now, however, you deliver one after another, your hands steady as stone. 

I’ve more to lose now than I did stealing biscuits from the kitchens.

“I won’t do anything like that again.” She smiles at you, and it is like sunlight, warmth washing over your skin. You do not know how she does that, make her approval something to crave and bask in, even when you cannot trust her. She makes you want to. 

“Thank the Gods.” She presses a kiss to your forehead. “Then all is forgiven.” 

—

You have slept for nearly a full week, you find, as Kassandra helps you bathe and dress. Your mother excuses herself to attend to other matters, and you breathe a sigh of relief at her absence. After all, your head still reels with the truths that you’ve had little time to untangle yourself. You revel in the quiet as Kassandra helps you peel off your old nightgown and step into the copper tub. The water smells vaguely of cloves, and you know this is by order of the closest thing to a witch Rivian faith will abide within the castle walls. 

Healer Janna’s meager magics have kept your body on this side of the abyss, even as your soul has wandered. What little she is allowed she has done, and you are grateful for it, though you suspect the Witch in the lower city might’ve done a better job. 

As Kassandra assists you in unwinding the soiled bandage around your waist, you grimace at the sight of your wound in the mirror. On your side, practically parallel with your belly button if you traced a straight line around. It is not particularly long, but you know by the ache inside that the damage is far deeper than the external cut you see. 

“Tis a miracle he missed anything important,” she says, applying ointment to the wound with gentle fingers. “Damnable man.” She winds fresh, clean bandages around you, and you grit your teeth against the pain. You are growing used to it, though. Your mother has laid out another Rivian dress for you, but you do not even consider it, grimacing as you return it, unworn, to the wardrobe. Winter is coming, and you know the light, flowing dresses of your home are ill-suited for the biting chill that already permeates the castle halls, but you reach for one of them anyway. 

You reason that the tight corsetry your more local garments might irritate your healing wound, and Kassandra makes no mention of it as she helps drape you in the comfortable and familiar dress you choose. A small part of you, though, knows this act for what it truly is and revels in it—defiance. 

“I was so worried,” Kassandra says, sweeping aside your curls to pin a swath of gold colored fabric across your shoulders to create the illusion of sleeves. She has gotten quite good at it, and you wonder if she has been practicing. “When you didn’t come back, and then the prince—” She shakes her head. “I never should have let you go!”

“I shall not have you claim responsibility for my actions,” you reply. “Nor those of the duke.” 

“Did you… Did you meed the Witch?” She asks, her eyes wide. For a moment you consider your answer, and then you nod.

“She… She was not what I expected.” Kassandra has proven herself more than trustworthy, she has been loyal—and not just to the crown, but to you. And even so, you hesitate to tell her what it is you know now, the thing that changes everything and nothing all at the same time. Less elf blood in you than I could hold in my hand, but aye, kin we are, still. You have had so little control since you arrived on these shores, so little choice. One stands before you now, a forking path toward ends you cannot see.

“She told me things about myself I had no way of knowing, but that I feel in my marrow to be true.” You swallow. The last person who heard your name and the word elf in conversation drove a dagger into your belly, and the instinct to hide, to coil yourself up like a snake and be unseen, but you forge ahead anyway.

“What? What did she tell you, my Lady?” 

“She… she told me I was elf-kind.” You watch Kassandra’s face, waiting for her to run for the guard—but she remains seated, earnest concern still gracing her features. She seems to take it in, her brows scrunching before she nods. 

“You are still my Lady, Princess of Rivia. This does not change that.”

You practically sob with relief. Your mother’s coronation had done more than tie you to this strange, new city—it has made you enemies. Scores of them, actually. You suppose you should not feel something akin to joy at the knowledge that Kassandra is not among them, but it blooms in your chest as a grateful smile spreads across your face. 

“I know not from whom this lineage comes,” you say. “But the duke…” You grimace. “He knew, though how I can only guess. He said he could see it in my features—he could tell their favor simply by looking at me. Can you?” To your surprise, Kassandra scoffs. 

“As winter feeds spring, so does suspicion feed doubt. His theories needed little proof, I’m sure. If I might be blunt, Majesty, I have observed you many times, and never once have I wondered if you might be anything other than human.” She finishes pinning your dress, stepping away to admire her handiwork. It’s almost as good as when Madge did it, but there was a distinct Rivian quality to the neckline she has created with the flowing, loose fabric.

“May I be blunt myself, Lady Kassandra?” You ask, turning to face her. She nods. “I am grateful for your loyalty, do not think I question it’s truth. You have been a true friend to me, even when the very Queen has demanded otherwise of you. Why?”

She thinks for a good few moments, her brows furrowed. She seems to choose her words carefully, ordering them all together before she answers. 

“The Queen does not even know my name, Majesty, despite my father sitting upon her very own husband’s council.” She replies. “Your mother knows her allies, and she knows her enemies; and I suppose that leaves little space for those who belong in neither camp. Loyalty is not given, Lady, it is earned. Any that is acquired easier than that should not be trusted.”

The jewelry you are required to decorate yourself with feels especially heavy and overly ornate today, the crown weighing heavily on your brow. You know it would be near scandal to be seen without it, though, and so you remain good and still as Kassandra pins it in place. Now, at last, you may finally leave your chambers, aided in part by Kassandra’s steady arm. Walking is an arduous task, and you find yourself tired and panting by the time you reach the end of the hall. You have no destination in mind, but staying in your chambers feels claustrophobic. 

“And here I thought I would find you resting.” Geralt’s voice spreads out over the silence like honey. “I suppose I should have known you would not stay abed longer than it took to open your eyes.” He stands at the curve in the stair, his hand resting on the bannister. His silver-white hair is pulled back away from his face, and the silver wolf pendant at his throat peeks through the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt. 

“I am pleased to see you on your feet again.” The insinuation behind his words makes your cheeks warm. You have not forgotten the closeness of him, the safety of being pressed against his chest. 

“After a week, I fear I have slept long enough.” You reply with a wry smile. “Thank you.” 

“Were you going down?” He ascends the last few steps and offers you his arm, and after a moment of brief consideration you accept. After all, Geralt is much sturdier than Kassandra. Quickly—so quickly you almost do not notice it yourself—he softly sweeps his thumb over your knuckles as he settles you on his arm. It’s an overtly affectionate gesture, one that makes your stomach churn and flutter. 

“Thank you.” 

Geralt holds you steady, patiently waiting for you to situate yourself on one stair before lowering yourself to the next. Patient was not a quality you associated with the prince, but he demonstrates it now, taking the staircase step by halting step. His hand is warm on the small of your back, and it does not wander. After a moment, you feel the rumble of his voice begin in his chest just before he speaks again, turning back toward Kassandra, just behind you on the stair. 

“Ah, I did almost forget, my Lady, your mother did bid you join her at your earliest convenience. I do believe she mentioned a Lord Arasmus?” Kassandra’s pale cheeks instantly go cherry red as she stares down at her clasped hands. The corners of her lips, though, curl upward into a small, but telling smile. You feel a mirroring one growing on your own features as you chuckle. 

“Why Lady Kassandra, you did not inform me of your impending engagement.” You tease, and she huffs, her entire face turning scarlet as she glares at you. 

“Tis nothing of the sort, Highness. His Lordship is quite a skilled botanist, a-and p-provided my expertise in the gardens—” She stammers out a parchment thin explanation that you fight not to poke holes through as you nod seriously. “I m-might assist with the selection. A-and the planting, maybe.” Her eyes flick up to yours. “Might I be excused, my Lady?”

“Of course.” Kassandra skirts around the two of you, glancing back.

“Thank you, Majesty.” She bows her head politely before she disappears around the curve in the staircase and is gone. Her footsteps fade too, and as the silence settles, you realize you are well and truly alone with the prince. He helps you down another few stairs before breaking the pregnant silence. 

“You choose interesting allies, Princess.” He’s so close you can smell his skin pine and sun and earth. “But that one I think you have chosen especially well.”

“Have you only come to complement me?” You ask, hoping fleetingly that you look as unaffected as you sound. He sees too much, you decide stoutly, stomping down the butterflies filling your belly. Even when you don’t think he sees anything at all.

“And if I had?” Your own reply turns to cotton in your dry mouth. For a moment, Geralt’s golden eyes go hot and hungry like they had that night in the corridor. Your skin pebbles with the awareness of him, his size, his proximity. His breath ghosts over the curve of your cheek.

“Then I suppose it is lucky for you that I come with more than one purpose.”

“And that purpose would be?”

“Clarity, Princess,” he helps you down the last few steps to the landing. “Clarity.” The hall is dotted with servants, and stray lords and ladies whose names and exact stations all escape you, but you accept each gracious bow and earnestly delivered platitude with as genuine a smile as you can manage.

“Oh Your Majesty! How good to see you up again, I do trust your mother gave you my condolences.” 

“You poor thing! Princess please, you must rest!”

“Highness you look wonderful, I do love Redanian fashion so.”

“That vile, treasonous man! How awful, I trust you have kept well?”

You are grateful when you’ve finished wading through them, their cloying perfumes and grasping hands are almost overwhelming to bear. As you clear the crush of lower nobility crowding the outer hall, Geralt steers you toward the throne room. 

“What do you know of the Hunt, Princess?”

The Hunt. You know what everyone knows, you suppose. “The Witcher-Kings of old led them first, to cleanse the land of monstrosities.” You had learned this fact as surely as you had learned your letters. “I know the last one was before I was born.” Geralt scowls at this, his brows furrowing. 

“My father has not led a hunt in over sixty years.” You cannot stop your shocked gasp. From what you’d thought, they were led every fifteen years like clockwork. There were always monsters, things born of chaos and flesh, and there always would be, so long as chaos remained tangled in the realms of man—that was what you had been taught, at least. But to hear one had not been lead in over sixty years… You shook your head with disbelief. 

“In the days of old, there were many Witchers, Princess.” There is no emotion in his voice nor on his face, but somehow, you can taste the sorrow beneath his words, heavy and cloying. 

“And now?” 

“There is only one.” Geralt brings his free hand to the wolf pendant. He does not lead you into the throne room proper, instead steering you past the massive carved doors. “My father called a hunt two nights ago, while you still slept.” Your brows furrow. Why now? Why after all this time?

“Why?” 

“I aim to find out.” 

Geralt casts a swift look down the empty corridor, and pulls aside a heavy woven tapestry, one of many lining the hall. Instead of stone behind it there is a narrow door, one with no knob or handle—only a keyhole. Geralt produces a slim silver key from his pocket, pressing it silently into the lock. You have to step sideways to make it through the doorway, but once you do, you find yourself in a cramped, dark hallway. You start at the feel of Geralt’s hand on your shoulder. 

“Forward, Princess.” With one hand dragging along the wall, you take a few cautious steps into the dark. 

“Where are you taking me?”

“To learn the answers to both of our questions.” The ground slopes upward beneath your feet, and behind you, Geralt urges you forward. You are reminded uncomfortably of your time in the dark place—the prince had called it the ether—the crushing weight of the silence and the vast emptiness of it all…You shiver. Finally, there is light ahead, and you feel your shoulders sag with relief to see it.

The tiny circular room is perhaps no wider than an arm’s length, light filtering in from the gold mesh that runs around it in a tight band. You realize you are in one of the pillars of the throne room, and you stand on the tips of your toes to peer down through the thin braided metal to observe the scene below. You do not recognize every person in attendance, circled around the stone table behind King Vesemir’s throne, but you can place enough of their faces to understand—the council is gathered here, and they are gathered because of you.

“—is Treason. It cannot be argued.” Lord Jakoby is perhaps the youngest member of the council, aside from Kassandra’s own father. “And it cannot stand.”

“No one argues that Duke Emhyr has committed a grave offense—”

Your mother’s cool voice silences every other in the room. “Conspiring to murder the Princess is more than a grave offense.”  You watch her tilt her head, threading her fingers together beneath her chin. “Would you have us send him back to Nilfgaard to gather his armies with a spanking, then?” There is an uncomfortable murmur that passes around the table. 

“No, my Queen, I would not.” He holds his hands up placatingly. “I simply suggest there might be other ways to punish him that do not result in civil war.” Lord Thay combs his fingers through his thinning hair. “The Nilfgaardian army is not a light threat, your Highness. They protect our westernmost provinces, which, need I remind you, produce most of the kingdom’s wheat and grain! Duke Emhyr is no backwater lord with a horse a cart and an unwed daughter to his name, he is Regent of Nilfgaard! We cannot simply behead him in the square!”

Vesemir holds up a hand, and you watch your as your mother presses her lips into a displeased line. 

“I have heard from Lords Thay and Jakoby, Duke Rhone and mine own Queen. Lord Lightfoot, I would hear your thoughts as well.” Kassandra’s father was not a man of many words—he had barely said hello and goodbye at your own mother’s coronation—and he had thus far proved your impressions correct as he sat at the end of the table, utterly silent. And for another few moments, he remains so. 

“Duke Emhyr’s treason cannot be tolerated—but the North must be treated with care.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Her Majesty is right. Duke Emhyr’s treason cannot stand, regardless of his position. There will be strife, Majesty, it cannot be avoided.” He bows his head. “But perhaps it might be mitigated. You must use this hunt as an opportunity to remind the people of your strength. Of the futility of standing against you, my King.” Vesemir is silent, as if weighing the value of each word. 

“And should it come to war?”

Lord Lightwood grimaces. “The beetle is a fearsome foe to the ant, Highness. But it may still be crushed beneath a boot.” 

to be continued…

Masterlist

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[trudy-shams]

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You’re not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.

Keep reading

[trudy-shams]

Howlin’ For You Series - Masterlist

AU - Biker!Bucky x Fem/Reader

When Y/N gets an unreal deal on her first home, she wonders why her neighbor scared away all the other buyers. Despite being cautious, she wonders why the town has given Bucky Barnes a bad name.

Part One // Part Two // Part Three // Part Four // Part Five // Part Six // Part Seven // Part Eight // Part Nine // Part Ten // Epilogue

This series is finished.

[trudy-shams]

Just the Two of Us: Helping Hand

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you meet someone you never expect at the grocery store.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You sway back and forth holding your few staples. You wait patiently for checkout, happy enough to do so as you avoid the typical awkward interaction of the checkout lane. Some might dread it, but you prefer self-checkout. It spares you the face-scalding small talk with the cashiers and you’re certain they don’t hate you for it either. 

The man at the machine just ahead of you hisses and tips his head back. He takes a deep breath and sets his chin straight, scratching his blond hair as the machine beeps at him. He seems frustrated by the scanner as he waves a jar of peanut butter back and forth over it. 

“Come on...” he mutters then stops to look around. The attendant is at another machine, helping a woman key in her produce. “...should just leave it...” 

You watch him as he turns back to the screen and taps it in exasperation. There’s something familiar about him. In a city this big, odds are you could see the same face a dozen time in the same day and not know it. 

“Um, excuse me,” your bag of sourdough rustles as you tiptoe slowly close, “do you want some help?” 

He turns to you and you’re stricken as you recognise him at once. It’s Steve Rogers. Captain America. The homegrown hero of New York! 

“I’m so sorry. I know I’m taking forever here,” he pushes his hair back. It’s a mess from his anguished scratching and combing. “I’m trying, I swear.” 

“Here, er, do you mind,” you balance your armful as you near. He steps back and shakes his head, “you got a better chance of figuring this dang thing out.” 

“Alright, no promises, but I used to work retail, so, I think I can,” you carefully set down your groceries at the edge of the small metal shelf of the self-checkout. “Peanut butter, please.” 

He looks down at the jar then hands it over. Your fingertips brush as you take it and find the barcode. You angle it down and the machine scans it right away. He groans and puts his palm to his forehead. 

“Of course,” he sniffs. “I promise I’m not a total disaster. I thought this would be faster.” 

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” you smile. “Least I can do for the First Avenger.” 

He visibly cringes, “right.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shake your head. “I wasn’t... meaning to... do you need help with the rest?” 

He nods and looks down. Now you feel awful. You didn’t mean to embarrass him. You take his bunch of bananas and key in the number then weigh it. You put it aside and finish with his pulpy orange juice and a can of ovaltine... Ovaltine? 

“Right, I think that’s it,” you gather up your stuff. “You’re all set and there’s a machine free so I’ll get out of your hair.” 

He slips his fingers into his pocket and slides out his wallet, “thanks. Appreciate it.” 

You sidle away and claim the next machine. You scan through your bread, cans of salmon, six-pack of muffins, and the little odds and ends. You unfold your reusable bag and put each inside before you pay. 

“Ahem,” the deep noise draws you away from the pinpad. “Hey, uh, I’m sorry if I came of... rude. It’s not you. The dang machine just—got the best of me. It’s not you and I mean, you were just being nice. And helpful.” 

“Really, it’s no problem,” you smile as you keep your hand on the debit machine. 

“I know but I almost made it one.” 

“No, it’s nothing,” you turn back to finish before the machine times out. It thinks as he lingers close by. 

“You’re really nice. I don’t deserve that. Captain should know better,” he says. “But I do prefer Steve.” 

He holds out his hand as you swipe your card free and tuck it away. You shove it back in your purse and face him. You take his free hand and shake it as you offer your name. “Nice to meet you, Steve.” 

“You, too.” 

“Um,” you look behind him, “don’t wanna be in anyone’s way.” 

You quickly snatch up your bag and hurry out of the checkout area. He follows you with long but easy strides. As you pass through the door, he’s only a step behind. 

“Look, I’m sure you have somewhere to be,” he says as he catches up. “But, uh, could I carry your bag or something? I feel like I owe you.” 

“Oh, no, it’s not very empty,” you assure him. “But thanks!” 

“Hmm, well, how about...” he looks around, “coffee?” 

You follow his gaze across the street. You’re not really in a hurry but you didn’t plan to be sitting down at a cafe. Your leggings a loose sweatshirt aren’t exactly trendsetting. 

“I mean it, you know, it wasn’t anything at all.” You insist. 

“Yeah, but how many nice people do you meet around here, huh?” He asks. As if to make his point, he grabs your elbow and angles you away from the edge of the sidewalk as the man behind you nearly walks right over you. “Gotta admit, you’re the first friendly face I’ve met since I got out of the ice and that was a while ago.” 

“Uh, wow, that’s sweet. I suppose a coffee won’t hurt,” you say. “And I know what you mean, I’ve been here two months and I don’t know anyone. I thought a made a friend but she stole my shoes and never called me back.” 

“Really? Someone did that to you?” He flutters his lashes in disbelief. “That’s rotten.” 

“I suppose she really liked them. Besides, they weren’t very practical. Kind of uncomfortable so really, she did me a favour,” you laugh. “One thing I learned, the city moves fast and you gotta keep up with it. So, I just keep going. As best I can.” 

“Hm, well,” he turns with you as you reach the crosswalk. “I think we wear a different size so I promise, I won’t steal those.” 

You glance down at your knockoff Uggs in purple and snort, “oh, you think so?” You move your foot closer to his and compare the difference with his large leather shoes. “I think you could squeeze in.” 

He laughs, a rocky rumble that fills you with warmth. Or maybe you’re a bit starstruck. If you had any friends, you might just brag to them that you met the Captain. You guess you’ll just have to savour it to yourself. 

[trudy-shams]

Where You Are - Part 7

Pairing: AU Viking!Geralt x female reader

Series masterlist

Part summary: Jarl Erik’s warriors have returned to Liljasborg after their revenge campaign, but neither they nor Geralt and you are granted much of a chance to breathe. 

Word count: ca. 5k

Warnings: More viking things, mention of alcohol, mention of an injury, angst, fluff. 

Author’s note: Hi lovelies! I know it’s been a while. I didn’t have much time for writing in the past months, or for being here in general, but it seems like I’m not done with Viking!Geralt and Little Bird yet. Or they’re not done with me yet. Anyway, my insecure ass is going to stop delaying to click on post now and just hope you’ll enjoy 💕

The uneasy feeling has settled deep inside your stomach. And by the time dusk colors the sky a pretty mixture of faint blue, orange, and pink, it feels as if it has taken over your whole body, floating about in your every limb.

You see your fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as you stand in front of the large mirror in your chamber. Your heart drums against your ribcage. And you can feel its frantic beating against the tips of your fingers as you tug at the fabric of your dress to adjust the square-shaped neckline. 

The linen feels soft yet unfamiliar against your skin. It’s a loan, just like the artfully embroidered belt hugging your waist and the silver barrette in your hair. 

You eyed the clothes and gems with distrust at first, just like the woman who brought them to your chamber this afternoon.

It was the same woman who had sat next to Geralt at the feast last night. She introduced herself as Finna, and as she noticed your muted reaction, her gaze sought yours. 

“Their eyes will turn toward you tonight,” she said. “I thought you might want to dress up a little.” 

“I probably should, shouldn’t I?” you replied a little stiffly as you accepted the dress from her, still trying to decide whether her words or actions carried a thorn. 

“He never touched me, you know?” the other woman stated bluntly thereat. “And neither did he touch any of us.”

Of us whores. 

Again, you caught yourself looking for traces of condescension or pity in her eyes, but Finna seemed to return your inquiring look openly and free from spite. 

“He’s a good man,” you finally said with a faint smile, which Finna confirmed with a smile herself.  

“That he is.”

“I’m delighted,” Geralt declared dryly, making both of you turn around to him. 

He stood a few steps away, watching your exchange with crossed arms. And the mock bow he gave then did nothing to conceal his smirk. 

“Well, he is most of the time,” you qualified, and both of you joined Finna’s chuckling.

“Ready?” Geralt’s hoarse voice jolts you out of your musings, and then you see his broad form appear behind yours in the mirror. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, and you watch the fingers of his reflection skim along your upper arm.

It’s a fleeting touch, almost incidental and still so natural that your heart leaps wildly in your chest. You know he can hear it; you know he can sense your reaction to him. And a tender smile plays on his lips as he pulls you closer, and you turn around in his arms. 

For a moment, you are speechless. Speechless at the sight of his beautiful features lit by the dancing flames in the fireplace. And speechless at the way he looks at you. As if you are the most precious treasure in the world. 

“Are you ready?” you finally manage to ask. 

“Not yet,” he hums, slowly shaking his head. And then his lips find yours, and his palm cups the back of your head. 

His touch is careful enough not to mess up your hairdo yet firm enough to keep you in place as he kisses you deeply, possessively, like a maelstrom suddenly surging up in calm water. And you let the whirl carry you away, cradling his face in your hands, feeling his jaw, tendons, and muscles move under your fingers. 

It’s only the sound of the tiny sigh tumbling from your lips that brings both of you back to your senses. And still, it takes you the length of a few heartbeats - hungry mouths and eyes glued to each other - to face the fact that you need to make your way downstairs to join the nightly feast in the hall.

The hallway seems endless and as dark as the night. And after rounding a corner, a glimmer of light outside attracts your attention. Your steps involuntarily falter, and you step to the window to get a glimpse of the figures lit by the light beam of a torch down there in the castle garden. 

The man holding the torch seems to be a servant, just like the man next to him, who holds a basket in his hands. Their gazes are fastened on a woman tampering on the trunk of a birch with a knife, maybe to carve something into the bark. Her scarlet-red cloak is unmistakable, and you notice how Geralt freezes in place as he steps to your side, his expression vigilant, his brows knitted with concentration. 

Both of you watch Hallveig extend her hand to the side, her eyes still solely directed to the tree in front of her. And the servant with the basket scrambles to pick out a horn and pour something into her palm. Then, she rubs her hands against each other, finally putting them on the birch, in the same spot where she placed the carving. 

“A spell,” you whisper as she devoutly lowers her head, probably muttering conjuring words against the tree. And you wonder if Geralt can hear her voice. 

His curt, silent nod lets you conjecture that he can. Which means Hallveig can probably hear your voices as well if her senses are as sharp as Geralt’s. And so you remain wordless and silent until Geralt puts his hand on the small of your back to guide you down the stairs. Toward the hall and toward the increasing noise.

The atmosphere in the hall has shifted significantly compared to last night. And you can’t help but agree with Geralt, who had referred to last night’s events as almost tame. 

Tonight, the hall is crowded with warriors, and they turn the place into a shambles. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, and they do it with a degree of rampancy that is quite strange to you. 

The amount of food, carelessly thrown on the tables and the floor, the met and ale and wine they guzzle or spill, could have fed the townspeople for a whole day. The words they hurl at each other, the anecdotes and jokes no one really listens to, the sneers and provocations that sometimes end in a brawl, are a waste of their own. And so are the efforts of the musicians who play against the noise. 

The loudness is so ear-deafening that you can barely hear your own voice, and so Geralt and you sit next to each other in silence. The touch of his leg pressing against yours under the table feels oddly comforting. And still, you have to force yourself to eat the admittedly delicious food he piled on your plate. All the time, you’re tempted to pause, slack-jawed, with the spoon in your hand frozen in the air. And you keep staring at the crowd a few feet away from you, trying to unravel the chaos into single happenings. 

A man on the table at the right side of the hall is so drunk he falls off his chair. A woman sitting at a table far back in the hall laughs out loud. A glass breaks somewhere. A couple shares a passionate kiss, apparently unfazed by the crowd around them. And you see Finna and one of the warriors standing at the wall in a heated embrace, barely hidden from the others’ looks. You hastily avert your gaze as the man rips the neckline of her dress with a firm jerk to expose her milk-white breasts while she ruffles her skirt and pulls him closer between her legs. 

As your gaze drifts toward the high table, you suddenly find yourself eye-in-eye with Jarl Erik. He returns your look with a raised eyebrow, raising a sumptuous-adorned drinking horn at you. And as you give him a stiff nod that is barely more than a lowering of your eyes, an amused smirk creeps upon his face. 

Even though you’re aware that you feel and look out of place, you can’t help but think he looks somehow out of place, too. But contrary to Geralt and you, the captives, there’s no doubt that Erik is the ruler over the hall and the people in it. The one who could finish or intensify the chaos with a sole snipping of his fingers. There’s no doubt that he is always at the ready to rule, and nothing and no one seems to escape his vigilant gaze wandering through the hall. For a certainty, not the woman sitting next to him. 

As Hallveig entered the hall earlier, all eyes turned toward her. She walked to the high table with measured steps, almost solemnly, returning the admiring gazes and gasps with obvious satisfaction. Or with haughtiness, as you couldn’t help but think to yourself. 

Yet her appearance is akin to a queen without doubt, even more so without the red cloak a servant had accepted deferentially. The dress she wears underneath is red as well, the shade darker, vaguely reminding you of the shed blood on slaughtering day before jul in your village. Golden adornments draw through the fabric, flowing together at the chest, where they form a pattern resembling a warrior’s armor. A golden necklace enlaces her swanlike neck, and an amulet that must be the size of a child’s fist rests between her ample breasts. Her eyes stand out, light as snow against the pitch-black stripe of coal running across her face transitioning into the tattooed runes on her forehead. 

She looks relaxed as she sits there at the jarl’s side, leaning back in her throne-like chair. She seems to bathe in the multiple worshipping gazes resting on her. And how could she not, given the attention of the young man on her right is solely directed to her?

It’s the same man who led the warriors into town earlier today. Ingmar, the jarl’s son, as Kári told you. He is a younger version of Erik, tall and heavily muscled, with lighter hair and a hint of chubbiness in his features. His sky-blue eyes seem to lack his father’s cruelty at a first glance. But then, he’s also the one who killed Jarl Harald, his own uncle, during the battle that changed your whole life. And he’s also the one who led the revenge campaign in the borderland. 

However, at that moment, he doesn’t seem to care much about death and destruction. His eyes are glued to Hallveig’s lips, occasionally drifting lower to her generous cleavage, while he continues to inch closer to her, letting his fingers skim along the bare skin of her arm. And Hallveig seems to revel in his attention, in his gazes, and in the words he mutters into her ear. An alluring smile plays on her lips as she leans in, undoubtedly to give him a better view. 

For a moment, you wonder what might hold her back, what might prevent her from allowing the young man to do what he craves so obviously. But then, you’re quick to notice it’s the jarl himself. 

Even as she teases and toys with his son, her eyes keep drifting back to Erik. And just as the young man takes her chin between his fingers, setting about to lower his mouth to hers, the jarl barks a brief command - enough to make her withdraw from the almost-kiss and turn to him. And now Hallveig is the one with fawning submission in her eyes. 

Her obedience is rewarded by a satisfied smirk. And as Erik leans in, capturing her chin between his fingers, it looks as if he wants to kiss her. But just a second later, he closes his fingers around her face like a bear trap.

The woman gasps with shock and pain, and there’s no doubt he could crush her delicate cheekbones like the skull of a baby bird if he wanted. Then, he mutters something into her agape mouth, pressing his lips to hers as she hastily tries to nod in reply. 

The kiss is brief and coarse, more of a punishment than a caress. Yet, Hallveig’s body reacts, and she seems to melt against him. Just as she reaches out to put her hand on his arm, he pushes her off with force, smirking as she staggers into his son’s arms with an entranced expression still lingering on her face.   

Ingmar’s expression, however, is far from entranced. He has watched his father’s actions with clear disapproval, and now, he puts his arm around Hallveig’s waist to steady her. Possessive. 

Erik’s barking laugh echoes through the hall despite all that noise, and the remark he utters next makes his son blush to the roots of his hair. The young man’s arm loosens its embrace. And as the jarl offers Hallveig his hand like a gallant, she steps toward him without so much as looking at Ingmar, accepting his father’s hand with a proud smile. 

As soon as they step down the platform where the high table is placed, the noise in the room begins to die down until the whole hall is silent. It’s a tense kind of silence, full of expectations, as Erik leads Hallveig to the middle of the hall. And their steps on the wooden floor seem to echo from the walls. 

“Warriors! We’ve come far in our fight to restore order and justice, and you deserve my thanks,” he declares with a powerful voice that carries his words to the farthest corner of the room. “Tonight, we will drink, and we will celebrate our victory over the traitor and those who held faith with him. And we will celebrate our brothers who have taken their seats next to our forefathers at Odin’s table in Valhalla. All hail to them!” he shouts, raising his fist in the air, and every man and every woman in the hall follows suit. 

“All hail to them!” echoes from the walls. 

Geralt and you, however, remain silent - two statues standing at the edge of the crowd. Just when your heart sinks at the thought of all the other souls no one pledges tonight, you feel Geralt’s hand on the small of your back and his warmth behind you. And you know that he, too, says a silent prayer for them to arrive safely. 

“But new days will come, my brothers,” Erik continues, making the crowd fall silent again. “And the gods will have new trials for us to stand.” 

Now, at the latest, it has become so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

“The jarls from the North seem to be scared of our power. They’re so scared they want to stop us from getting what is due to us. They’re so scared they teamed up like a band of little kids, and they’re on their way here.”   

Once more, voices surge up, but they sound lower this time, and the murmur going through the room carries a touch of disapproval. Or fear? 

“What?!” Erik bellows, and the murmur fades away in an instant. “Are you as scared as they are?” he adds with a wicked grin and challenge oozing from his every pore.  

“How many of them are coming?” His son raises his voice. He has stayed in the background, but now he takes a step toward his father, returning his gaze with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. 

Erik remains silent for a moment, lazily looking his offspring up and down. 

“All of them,” he says then. And whatever he wanted to say next is drowned out by the hubbub breaking out in the hall. 

“Silence!” he yells. “Shut up!” 

And the crowd as well as his son fall silent at the sight of their now-fuming leader. 

His weatherbeaten face has taken a dark shade of red, and his eyes look daggers at the men he just called his brothers. 

“Shut up before the gods hear your whining!” he growls, and then his voice rises until it’s already loud enough to lead his army onto the battlefield. “The gods are not the side of a bunch of wailing old women! They’re on the side of the brave! On the side of the dauntless! And they will be on our side when we greet the North the way they deserve to be greeted! We’re going to show them what they get from meddling in things that ought not to be meddled in! We’re going to show them with our axes! And with our swords, my brothers!” 

This time, shouts of approval are raised, and fists punch the air. 

“Above all, it is not for you to doubt the plans of the gods,” Hallveig rises to speak, slowly stepping to the jarl’s side. And even though her voice is quieter than Erik's, the crowd hangs on her every word.

“I consulted the gods, and they destined a great victory for us. However, it is up to all of us to fulfill their plans!”  

Geralt’s snort is barely audible. Yet, it is loud enough for Hallveig to hear and she wheels around almost at the exact moment.

The whirl of her dress creates a blast of air, louder and more violent than it should be possible, making you and everyone else gasp with shock as a gust of icy wind hits you in the face. That is, everyone but Geralt. 

Your White Wolf remains settled back in his chair, the familiar hint of a mocking smile playing on his lips, and even if he is surprised, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Do you have anything to say, Witcher?” Hallveig snarls at him, and her rage in the light of Geralt’s unimpressed demeanor elicits another snort from your husband. 

“It’s up to you, huh?” he raises his voice, letting his gaze wander through the hall, over the crowd of unfamiliar and stock-still faces. “And if you don’t win, it’s because you doubted too much? How convenient! Well, at least for those who get to keep their heads. Not for you poor fools, that’s for sure!” 

“You should rephrase that,” Erik interposes himself before anyone can react. “If we don’t win, we didn’t try hard enough. And we includes you, too. Witcher.” 

His relaxed pose resembles Geralt’s in an almost odd way, and his words make your face grow cold. Still Geralt, however, remains calm. 

“Is that so?” he simply asks. 

“Of course. Why else do you think you’re still alive?” Erik smiles. 

“And you think you can make me fight for you?” 

“Oh, you will fight for me,” the jarl declares with confidence. 

“If you’re not mistaken, that is,” Geralt smirks and the atmosphere between the two men would be cold enough to make fern frost bloom on glasses and drinking horns. 

“Don’t worry, Witcher. I’m never mistaken. Also, it’s not up to you to decide,” Erik shrugs, and as he sets about to turn away, signaling that this conversation is over, Geralt slowly gets up from his chair. 

“Do not!” Hallveig growls instantly, almost shielding Erik with her body. “Your poor signs have no power here. Not here, not anywhere, not anytime soon, unless you fulfill your duty.” 

Her voice is dark. Dark and gravelly. It seems to reverberate in the room, and it presages how powerful she really is. 

However, so is Geralt. 

For the length of two or three breaths, the witch and the witcher look daggers at each other.

Their postures are tense. Vigilant. Ready to fight. 

And then, things happen very fast. You see them move almost at the same time, and as Hallveig raises her hand ever-so-slightly, an invisible force comes hurtling in Geralt’s direction. 

However, it wasn’t aimed at him. 

It was aimed at you. 

Before you know it, it hits you like an avalanche. Overruns you. Digs into your eyes and into your skull. Creeps along your spine. Leaves nothing but searing, unprecedented pain that seems to tear you to shreds, burning you alive. 

Your mouth falls agape as if to let out an agonized cry, but not a sound leaves your lips. Your vision is blurred and you can’t move a single finger. You wonder how you can burn and freeze at the same time. And all you can hear is Geralt shouting your name. His strained growl. As if he tried to push something away. Something heavy. Too heavy. And yet, he tries and tries and tries. 

At some point, you feel the force raging inside you shift. Back and forth. Agonizingly slow. Until it loses its chokehold on you, suddenly slipping away, and the pain stops as if it was cut off with an ax. Finally! 

Your knees buckle, and you would have hit the floor if Geralt hadn’t wrapped his arms around you. Although he instantly spins you around, shielding you from Hallveig with his broad form, he briefly crushes you against his chest before. And you feel his heartbeat against your skin so fast it’s almost human. 

“Little Bird,” he whispers breathlessly, and you clutch the fabric of his shirt with both hands. 

“I’m okay,” you croak out, “I’m okay.” 

Blood still rushes in your ears and in your every limb, flowing through your body like a rapid stream in springtime when snow and ice melt. At first, you don’t trust your gut feeling, but with every breath you take, you realize more clearly that the pain is gone and that you are okay indeed. In contrast to the warrior on the ground a few steps away from you. 

He doesn’t seem to feel the same pain you felt, but apparently, something sent him flying, and he’s still on the ground. His head is bleeding, his eyes are wide with shock, and he clutches his wrist. However, no one in the knot of people around him makes a move to help him. 

As the man whimpers with pain, you set about to withdraw from your husband’s embrace. 

“No!” Geralt hisses, grabbing you tighter because, of course, he knows what you’re up to. 

“Please,” you just whisper, searching his gaze as you reassuringly squeeze his hand. And after a brief nod, he lets go of you. 

He has never stopped you from doing what you want, at least not as long as he’s there to protect you. And now, too, he doesn’t leave your side as you step toward the man and crouch down next to him with shaky legs like a newborn foal.

The warriors standing around the casualty back away, and you don’t even have to raise your gaze to know that it’s because Geralt looks like the wrath of the gods themselves. A berserk rage radiates from him, ready to crush anyone who dares to lay hands upon you - first and foremost Hallveig, who watches the scene with a dreamy smile. 

She takes a tiny step forward, making Geralt instantly bare his teeth as he readies himself. The smile on her face is now downright cheerful - a weird contrast to the warriors involuntarily backing off further. 

You force yourself to keep your attention on the floor where the warrior winces and clenches his teeth as you carefully examine his head and his wrist, trying to move it in different directions. 

However, you see from the corner of your eye how Hallveig shifts her weight. You hear Geralt’s growl. 

And then, Erik laughs - a somehow odd sound at that moment - turning to the crowd in the hall. 

“Brothers,” he declares with a booming voice. “We’re going to set off in two days. Be ready at dawn overmorrow. But enjoy the feast tonight! Enjoy the feast tomorrow! And be confident! For you have just witnessed the powers on our side. To our victory!” he roars, and the warriors follow suit. 

Ingmar signals the musicians to start playing again, and shortly afterward, people begin to scatter, returning to drinking and dancing as if nothing ever happened. 

As you raise your gaze, you only catch a glimpse of Hallveig’s back as Ingmar ushers her back to the high table. 

The jarl, however, remains standing next to you, watching you continue your examination of the warrior’s wrist.  

“It’s dislocated, but probably not broken,” you finally say to no one in particular after taking your time to be sure, just like your foster mother had taught you to. “But I have to bring the bones back into their proper position and bandage the wrist afterward. The procedure will be quite painful, and I need two, or better three men to hold him down. And I need water, soap, bandages, and a few branches, as straight as possible.” 

“The fuck you will!” the warrior on the ground growls at you, and the sharp smell of honey beer in his breath makes your stomach churn. “Go tinker with someone else!” 

“Fine,” you just shrug and get up. “You should start to practice how to wield your sword with your other hand. Because you won’t be able to use this one anymore.” And you couldn’t have cared less about the gasp falling from the man’s lips. 

“So, you’re a healer, huh?” Erik speaks up, blocking your way as you’re about to turn away. 

“Correct,” you confirm. 

His cold gaze holds yours for a moment. “Get him out of here,” he commands the two men who remained standing next to the casualty, apparently his friends. 

“You’re going to fix his wrist,” he continues, directed at you. “Just knock his brains out if he refuses. And tomorrow you’re going to pack your stuff. Both of you,” he smirks at Geralt and you. “You’re going to join us as our new healer. The old one managed to lose his head recently. Spare your backtalk, Witcher! It’s a done deal, anyway. And rest assured that I won’t hesitate to clap her in iron and tie her up on her horse if you raise trouble. I just guess you’re not keen on seeing your pretty little wife like that.” 

Geralt’s look speaks of blood and thunder. He remains silent, yet unyieldingly returns the jarl’s gaze, which demands an answer or some other kind of consent. 

As more moments tick away, Erik realizes that he’ll get neither out of your stubborn husband. 

“Well, it’s settled then,” he smirks - a last attempt to dare Geralt. 

And it’s only when Erik turns to you, locking his piercing gaze with yours in a silent threat, that Geralt stirs, protectively positioning himself closer to you. 

Erik’s smirk widens, and you can’t help but think that his eyes downright flash up, and the manic grin creeps back upon his face. 

“Healer,” he drawls with a mock bow. “Witcher.” And then, he turns away, strolling back to the high table. To carry on with the feast, without doubt. 

Geralt and you, however, have barely enough time to exchange a gaze before you follow the servant who guides you to the injured warrior. He was brought to a chamber by his comrades, who have meanwhile done their best to get him as drunk as possible. 

Telling by the grim look on his face, you suspect that Geralt wouldn't have minded knocking the man out. But the warrior is full to the gills, and Geralt’s service isn’t necessary while you reduce the bones in a long and exhausting procedure.

As you’re finally back in your chamber, your White Wolf begins to pace up and down the room. Restlessly. Like a wild animal looking for a way out of a pitfall. 

Both of you know it is a pitfall. One that might end deadly. And both of you know there is no way out. Not right now. And still…

“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow,” Geralt mutters at some point without interrupting his wandering. 

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “It will lead to nothing.” And you continue to carefully spread out your borrowed dress on the divan so the fabric won’t crease too much. 

“I know,” Geralt replies in a hoarse voice, and as you turn around, you see him watching you with pain writ large on his face. “I know, but I have to try. It’s too dangerous for you; you've experienced it firsthand tonight. I need you to be safe!”

“I can take care of myself and my safety,” you want to reassure him, but both of you hear the revolt resonating in your words. Revolt and determination. 

“I know,” he sighs, exhaling a long breath. “I know you can. It’s just…” And then, he falls silent, plunking down into an armchair covered in velvet - a piece of furniture that had probably belonged to a castle in a land far away and that had found its way here in one of Erik’s raids. 

He stares into the flames, and whatever he sees in his inner eye seems to feel like torture. And his teeth dig into the insides of his cheeks.

You stop fussing around with the dress to step to his side. As you stand in front of him, you extend your hand, carefully running it over his head. 

“You weren’t supposed to live in times like these,” he says slowly, pensively shaking his head. “You were supposed to live a calm and peaceful life. A beautiful hut. A garden with plants and flowers. A man who reads every wish from your eyes and who can give you children.” 

You can feel it, the pain in his words. The old pain. 

As you cradle his cheek in your hand, feeling stubble rub against your palm, his torpor melts away from him. 

He wraps his arms around you. And you feel the warmth of his breath through your chemise as he presses his face against your belly. 

“But I chose you,” you say quietly, stroking his silky white hair. “I love you, and I chose you. And I would love and choose you and this life again and again. Until Ragnarök and beyond, remember?” 

He raises his head, and his golden gaze finds yours. Interlocks with yours. Telling you things you can’t put into words. Things that don’t have to be put into words. And a gentle smile tugs at his lips.  

“Maybe this battle will be the end of it all. Who knows…,” you continue.” But maybe it won’t. I just know I want to be where you are. No matter what.”

“That you will, Little Bird,” he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek into your palm before he tightens his embrace around your smaller form. 

His forehead sinks against your belly while your fingers play gently with his longs strands. 

You stay like that for a whole long while. And despite all the uncertainty about what this path will bring you, you feel nothing but relief that you will walk it together.

[trudy-shams]

Fire We Make - Two

Where, oh where, is this muse coming from?

Previous

Warnings: 18+ ONLY - language, PTSD, manipulation, mentions of stalking/tracking, mentions of past drugging, brief mention of a pregnancy test but that's about it. I've dropped quite a few Easter eggs in here to lead up to the next chapter.

Word Count: 3.2K

Soft Dark Nomad! Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary | Separating from your husband is harder than you realize, despite warnings from your therapist that you need to give yourself closure and keep your distance.

The paper cup filled with coffee warms your hands, hovering near the assortment of cookies, finger sandwiches and chips. 

Your rain boots squeak lightly under the linoleum, watching others come in and embrace, some heading straight for the table as they load up their plates with food. You know that for some, this is the most food they’ll have today – maybe even this week – and you feel a twinge of guilt for even helping yourself to a cup of coffee.

“Hey.”

Sam Wilson stands behind you, cautiously looking at your face. It’s an embrace that you’ve needed, fighting back the tears as he holds you close. You’d had your line drawn in the sand once Steve had retired, no more Christmas cards mailed by Tony Stark or Rhodey. An invisible upheld law that you swore your allegiance to Steve, even if you had wanted to bring them back together to talk, to smooth over the past.

They’d done that for you.

Sam has been your only lifeline to that world that you barely saw, shielded from it much from Steve, who didn’t want to talk about work, especially when he would repeatedly tell you that you were the only place he would call home.

Home, he would tell you, meant that he didn’t want to scar you with the things he had seen and done. Shutting you out intentionally from that world meant that you had to talk with Sam to understand how to bridge that gap.

At your sigh of relief at his handsome face, he opens his arms to you, hugging you tight as he knew that was exactly what you needed.

“I know,” he affirms, so simple and yet poignant that it makes you squeeze your eyes shut to keep from crying.

When he pulls away, he looks around at the people milling behind you.

“This was a drive for you, right?”

He’s right.

Usually his VA meetings are in the city but you’ve been able to track down when he goes to the more rural areas, places where veterans are forgotten and assistance has faded away over time. Sam doesn’t speak about the Sokovia Accords, nor does he grant any interviews now that he’s firmly told reporters that he wants to be left alone. Rumors of Steve giving him the shield were true, one hanging up in his home that he sometime looked on with pride when you and Steve would visit.

For now, he seems at peace.

“A little bit of a drive,” you admit. “I guess I just… needed to see a friendly face.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not for a week.”

Sam gives a low whistle, nodding his head. He had been the first person to approach Steve about his issues. For a time, Steve had been attending the meetings – sometime with you and sometimes without you – or so he told you.

“He stopped coming,” Sam informs you. “I guess I thought you’d been able to get him some more professional help.”

“He didn’t like the doctors,” you answer quickly, your brow furrowing at his first comment. “When did he stop coming?”

“About a month ago. He stuck around after a meeting, told me he felt like you and him were in a better place and that he felt that he could move on. I just assumed that you were both figuring things out.”

“I moved out.”

“I know. He told me. Last time I saw him, he mentioned that he was going to remodel the house. Something about keeping himself busy.”

You frown at the news.

“He didn’t mention that to me.”

Sam shoots you a careful look, eyebrow raising as he asks his next question.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.

“That’s a loaded question.”

“It may need a loaded answer. Steve isn’t okay. I know that,” Sam confides in you quietly. “He hasn’t been himself since all of this went down. I know he takes his hits and he moves on but this isn’t like anything I’ve seen. It’s obsessive behavior. That’s not healthy. Do you have people who are looking out for you?”

“My family. Friends.”

“You know you’re always welcome here. I mean that,” Sam emphasizes. “But I want you to be careful, okay?”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“He’s always been obsessed with you. He loves you. More than anything else in this world. But obsession is never a good thing.”

“That’s why we took a break,” you admit, looking down at your cup. “I… I can’t help him in the way he needs.”

“It’s like those airplane safety videos. Put your own mask on before you help others. I know you love him but right now, you need to love him at a safe distance. I’m not trying to scare you, I just know that you two have been together for a while and Steve can be a charming bastard. But I didn’t like what I saw that last month and I didn’t like the idea of him remodeling a house for both of you to live in. He didn’t even mention it to you.”

A chill takes over slightly, making you sip your coffee before you nod.

“I promise. I’ll take care of myself first.”

-

Mona turns up the volume on the TV, the news reporter standing in a wooded area.

“The man has zero recollection of how he found himself in the forest, let alone the last two days. Authorities are still investigating but it is believed the man had been drugged but he is expected to make a full recovery. More to come on this breaking story.”

Mona turns the TV off, making a face as she hands you a glass of wine.

“This world is shitty. I hope he’s turns out okay. Can’t even go have a drink anymore,” Mona sighs. “No more news for me, that shit was depressing. How about we order take out for dinner? What are you in the mood for?”

“I don’t know. My brain is all over the place.

“I can look. But I’m glad you’re here.”

Mona places her glass of wine down, her expression changing for a moment when she clears her throat.

“Look, I need to ask this and I know it’s going to sound crazy but I need you to hear me out, okay?” she warns gently. “It’s been bothering me for a while.”

“What?”

You’re confused, unsure of why this conversation has shifted so suddenly.

“The other night I tried to call you and it kept going to voicemail. I know you told me you were tired but you haven’t been sleeping lately.”

“When?”

“A week or so ago. You told me Steve had been trying to see you and then you didn’t answer your phone and I got worried. I know I saw your text that you were going to bed but…” Mona sighs, shaking her head. “I know it seems weird but the text didn’t even seem like you. You usually call me when you’re awake to let me know you’re alright.”

“I was just tired.”

You repeat the words mentally in your head, trying to remember the night that Steve had shown up at your apartment. You remember eating, Steve talking to you about trying to get back together. You don’t remember texting her, Mona’s hand reaching out to touch yours as your memories get fuzzy from that night.

“Was he with you that night?” Mona asks, a lump forming in your throat.

“For a little,” you confirm, Mona’s mouth tightening at your words.

“Do you remember anything from that night? Texting me back to say you were tired? You didn’t sound like yourself”

“I was tired, Mona, I -”

Mona grips your hand tight.

“I know your texting style. That wasn’t you. And the fact you can’t remember anything else about that night?”

“I told you, I was really tired.”

Mona doesn’t let go of your hand when you try to reach for your phone, to try to get some confirmation that you aren’t blacking out at your memory.

“I need you to listen to me. I think he drugged you.”

-

Your boss doesn’t bat an eye when she grants you a two-week personal leave. She’s been engrossed in the news, a recipient of a Stark grant and she’s been waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop. The personal leave, she had told you with a sympathetic nod, is the first step in getting a divorce once you have a clear head.

You don’t have the strength to talk to Mona, to tell her that the test she had pressed you to take is negative.

You’ve cancelled your session with Doctor Maren, rescheduling for next week so that you don’t get a phone call. As it turns out, it isn’t just your friends who are worried about you. Court appointed therapy is a precaution, as you were told when you’d filed. Monitored to make sure you complied.

Dialing Sam’s number, you wait for him to pick up, which he does on the second ring.

“Hey, everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” you respond, tears filling your eyes almost too quickly at his question. “I think… I don’t know… I -”

“Are you home? I can come to you or we can meet somewhere.”

“I’m not home,” you rush out. “I’m… I’m a hotel. I just… I can’t be there.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“I can meet you at the VA.”

“Sounds good, I’ll make sure you’re on the list.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

-

Steve pulls down his baseball cap, ignoring the woman standing next to him in the aisle, her overt bending making him look in the other direction. His cart is nearly full, stopping to look at the various colors of paint. The new room he is working on needs a lighter color of paint than he first thought, picking up two swatches as the woman clears her throat.

“That’s a pretty color.”

“It is,” Steve agrees, looking between both of them.

Your favorite colors have always been green or blue, various shades in between. The woman looks over, giving him a smile.

“I like the green,” she announces. “Very earthy.”

He notices her eyes settle on his wedding ring, her smile fading for a moment.

“Lucky woman,” she says with a nod in his direction. “Does she have a favorite color?”

“She does. It’s blue.”

“I’d go with blue then.”

He stops for a moment, grabbing the bucket of paint and placing it into his cart. The woman watches him carefully, as if trying to figure out where she’s seen him from before.

For a moment, he entertains the thought of her possibly being at the club that you had visited, wondering if she could place his face. Steve knows this is out of the question. He’d been the only one there to take him out.

He’s seen the news. It’s a pity that the man survived but Steve knows it was by pure luck.

Still, the idea makes him wonder what she’s thinking. He thought he would have gotten tired of the beard but it affords him the anonymity that he didn’t know he needed. It had taken some getting used to, especially the way you had first looked at him when you’d seen him when he’d landed from Wakanda. Clean shaven was now a thing of the past, gone with the hopes and dreams that he would be back to the man he used to be.

“Well, you have a nice day,” she calls out, admittedly defeated that he isn’t going to be baited.

“You too.”

He notices how short her skirt is, watching her turn toward another aisle. A woman on the prowl, looking for her next paramour. He knows you would never be like, stalking down the aisles of home improvement stores, batting your eyelashes at random men. Your loyalty is one of the reasons he was drawn to you, how trusting you were and devoted.

He looks down at the supplies in his cart, eyeing the various rolls of masking tape, zip ties and other things inside, including the thick pieces of lumber that he still has to pick up. 

By the time he gets to the registers, he’s already mapped out his plans for the next few days. He’s been back on a cleaner routine, working out in the early hours of the morning and late at a night when he isn’t working tediously on the house.

He smiles to the cashier, paying in cash as she returns it.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Captain America?” she asks, handing him his receipt.

“You’re the first one. You have a good day.”

-

“What happened to Bucky?”

“Deprogramming in Wakanda. Steve took him there himself and when he came back… he was a different person. Made sense. You thought your best friend was dead for decades and he’s brainwashed. That would mess anyone up.”

“And Tony?”

“I wasn’t there,” Sam sighs, straightening up in his chair. “I just know the fight was brutal. I saw videos.”

“I know,” you respond quietly. “I saw them. He doesn’t know that.”

In Sam’s office, it’s a safe space, his degrees and certificates hanging on the walls, pictures in glass frames of his travels around the world.

Him, Bucky and Steve at your wedding.

“Do you ever reach out to Tony?”

“No,” you deny quickly. “Pepper sent me a letter once. Handwritten. She said she missed him. Missed us.”

“Did you ever answer?”

“No,” you swallow. “Steve found it. He wasn’t ready to respond.”

“But it was addressed to you,” Sam points out. “Did he tell you he didn’t want you to answer?”

“I called her. She didn’t answer and then texted me that Tony was around.”

Sam swears under his breath, a look of disgust on his face.

“You’re collateral damage.”

You try to shrug, the loneliness creeping up again. Chewing on a slice of pizza, your thoughts go to Mona and how you had promised that you would tell someone. You still haven’t told Sam why you’re there, the need to admit why you’re occupying a seat in his office rising like bile in your throat.

“When I saw Steve last week, I let him inside my apartment to talk.”

Sam’s head tilts at your admission.

“Go on.”

“He was still trying to get me to change my mind on the separation but.” Pausing, you aren’t sure if you can form the words. It doesn’t feel right, like you’re about to drown.

“What happened?”

“We were eating and I woke up the next morning. I don’t… I don’t remember what happened after we talked.”

Sam goes still, knowing he’s trying to process what you’ve just told him.

“He drugged you.”

“I don’t know,” you reply, Sam shaking his head. “Sam, I -”

“Did you report it?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I can’t report him, are you kidding, he -”

“Drugged you. Did you get checked out?”

“Sam, nothing happened. I took a pregnancy test, it was negative. I was in the clothes I had gone to work in, no sign of a condom, no sign of anything. I just… slept.”

“As far as you know.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“Wouldn’t what? Not get consent while you’re asleep? You’re right, that doesn’t sound like Steve. But the drugging doesn’t sound like him either and here we are, talking about it.”

Silence falls, Sam muttering to himself before he stands.

“Obsessive behavior,” he says to you. “Is that why you didn’t want to stay in your apartment? Does he come there often?”

“I haven’t seen him since I told you. Sam, I just need guidance. He’s hurt and he won’t listen to me. If he did… drug me… I can’t be alone with him.”

“He needs to be taken in.”

You shake your head sadly.

“He wouldn’t spend but a few hours there. And he doesn’t need to be thrown into a jail cell, he needs help.”

“That help can’t come from you.”

“I know.”

“Let me talk to him,” Sam offers. “I can get him into treatment, we can plan this out.”

“He won’t listen.”

“It’s that or jail,” Sam reminds you. “Do you understand the severity of what you just told me?”

“It was to help me sleep.”

“You can’t keep making excuses for his behavior. So, let’s say he was trying to help you out. Did you ask to be drugged? To be placed into bed?”

At your silence, Sam shakes his head.

“I’ll make sure you have an escort back to your hotel. But you have to promise me, and I mean promise me, that you won’t contact him or entertain the thought of contacting him until he gets help.”

You nod in response.

“I promise.”

-

It’s late when you get back, Sam’s right hand, Joaquin walking you to your hotel room, waiting for you to get inside.

Overly tired, you head into the bathroom to take a shower, stripping off your clothes and stepping inside, the hot water beating against your skin.

Stepping out and wrapping towel around your body and one around your hair, examining your face in the mirror gives you pause, noticing your sad expression. You force yourself to smile, touching the apples of your cheeks before you sigh, brushing your teeth in defeat. For that minuscule moment, you almost felt like yourself, finishing up your bedtime routine and slipping into a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt.

Stopping in your tracks, a bouquet catches your attention on the table. It’s red roses, beautifully tied together with a blue bow.

You hadn’t heard anyone come in, let alone the open and close of the door. Inching closer, you pick up the card, reading what it says in a typed font.

I miss you.

Swallowing hard, you’re unsure of what to say or do, taking a step back to look around the room. It’s comfortably quiet, even as you open the closets and look under the bed.

Calling the front desk, you hope that it was a mistake, getting ready to give them a piece of your mind about a flower delivery that was not authorized. For a moment, you relax. It’s probably for the wrong room and a mistake can still be fixed. You’ll double bolt your door tonight and check out and get another hotel.

“Hello?” you greet the front desk when a friendly voice comes on the line. “I’m in Room 476. I was in the shower when flowers were delivered and I had the do not disturb sign on.”

“Oh no,” the voice says, dismayed. “I am so sorry, let me look it up. I apologize, that is unacceptable.”

You can hear the sound of keys on the keyboard being punched, the line going quiet.

“I’m so sorry but it doesn’t appear that there were any flower deliveries in our system today. I’m going to send up our manager and security to address this with you if that is alright.”

“Yes. Please.”

When you hang up, you go back to the flowers, noticing the blue ribbon.

It’s in your favorite color.

[trudy-shams]

be mindful of why you're on tumblr to read fanfics readers, u see how i don't post hateful comments on other writers' works, cause that's very inconsiderate and not cutesy. instead, if i don't like the fic i simply stop reading it and move on to read another fic that i'll like, very demure, very respectful, very approachable. let's be mindful 🙄

[trudy-shams]

Metanoia ;

Aemond Targaryen x Transmigrated!Strong!Reader

>> Chapter III : The Pandemonium.

Summary: Aemond conjures up a plan to get his revenge on you but he faces an obstacle; his own self.

WARNINGS: Violent thoughts, plans for revenge, Aemond in unhinged, a little graphic but not too much + not proof read.

A/N: divider credits to @cafekitsune

<- prev // masterlist // next ->

How could he be so foolish? How could he forget what has happened? Was he willing to put his differences aside all because you woke up? No. He couldn't. He can't.

He despised you for what you had done, sure he may have liked you when he was young, sure you were the only one that was ever kind to him but it did not change the fact that you were the reason why he is blind in one of his eyes.

You chose to protect your brothers over him, of course you did, what did he expect? You were a bastard too just like them.

He remembers the way his mother was humiliated in front of everyone, all because of you.

It was your fault.

You.

You.

You.

He scoffed, was all he could think about is you? Now that he noticed it, you had never really left his mind, you had always been in his thoughts one way or another, infiltrating his body like a parasite, taking control over his mind.

He did not understand himself, why does he hold such sympathy for you when you had done nothing but hurt him more than anyone could ever imagine.

Had it been luke that took his eye out, he would've fed him to his dragon, so why does he excuse you? Should he feed you to his dragon? Vhagar could definitely use a meal.

Yet the thought of losing you terrifies him, he would never admit it, but he cannot imagine a life without you, it was as though your existence was granted just for him by the gods, if that were true, why were they so cruel? Making you be the one that did such a harm to him?

He gritted his teeth.

He felt uneasy.

He felt nauseous.

What is happening to him?

The night began to fall slowly, the sun retreating down, out of vision, he paced the room anxiously, all of his thoughts were driving him insane for the past few hours, the same question bothering him over and over again, he itched to do something.

Was it truly your fault? You were the one that encouraged him to go pursue vhagar, yet you were the very same person that he had to lose an eye to for the sake of gaining a dragon.

How ironic.

He hated it.

Perhaps you were worried that he would've actually hit jace with that stone, he wasn't going to, it was just to scare them off, yet you weren't able to tell, nobody was able to tell, he wasn't as cruel as everyone paints him out to be.

You should've known this, you knew the most, so why didn't you understand him?

The cut of betrayal and heartbreak was more painful to him than that of his eye back then, his stomach churned while the master stitched him up, while you stood there in horror as you watched his eye be taken out.

He remembers your expression clearly of guilt and horror.

You deserved to feel that way.

For what you had done to him.

He kicks the table in front of him in annoyance, making all the contents on it crash onto the floor with a loud thud, he breathes heavily, not wanting to recall any of the incident anymore.

His hands trembled, he stared outside the balcony, watching the sky turn dark blue.

The blue almost mocking him as the colour stood for justice and he got none.

He wanted justice.

He turns around, facing the room once again and sees his dagger laying on the bed.

He mouths quirks up into a smirk.

He knew what he was going to do.

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

You paced around your room, wondering what the earlier incident with Aemond was, questioning why he had suddenly changed his behaviour, almost wanting to poke your eye out.

Besides, you realise how your own body gets extremely anxious when he is around, it's as if your body is extremely afraid and threatened by his existence.

The dinner was tonight, the infamous dinner where Aemond implies that your brothers are bastards in front of everyone, that essentially ends up with a fight.

You wonder if it would be different since he is betrothed to you now, maybe out of respect he wouldn't do that toast?

The maids get you ready for the dinner, dressing up in more comfortable clothes for the evening and you stay put, hoping that everything will go smoothly.

You were dead wrong.

You realised as you watched Aemond push Jace.

Why would he do this?

Alicent murmurs something to him, grabbing him but he yanks his hand away from her, “I was merely expressing how proud I am of my family mother, hmm.”

“Though..” He pauses and turns to look at you.

“It seems my niece and nephews aren't as proud as theirs.” He taunts openly.

“What the fuck.” You voice out loud and Aemond is shocked at your words, “I appreciate you looking out for my family uncle, even though you are missing an eye.” Those words of frustration leave your mouth.

And the entire room falls silent.

Alicent turns and glares at you, and Rhaenyra hushes you.

What?

“Oh shit, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it.” You quickly realise what you said, you lost control of your body once again, Aemond takes a deep breath before storming off.

Fuck, you messed up.

How could you make fun of him for such a sensitive issue?

You immediately rush after him, chasing as he strides through the hallways quickly, “Aemond! I didn't mean it!” You yell out, the passing by servants staring at you confused as you run quickly.

You grabbed his forearm, halting him.

He yanks his arm harshly away from you.

“Don't. Touch. Me.” He grits his teeth, you blink, taken aback, feeling guilty of bringing up such a sensitive topic. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it.” You apologise once again, looking down.

He stays quiet before letting out a scoff.

“You-” The servant passes by, bowing to you both before leaving. He realises that this place is too public and pulls you to the side. “You're ironic, considering what you've done yet bring it up so insensitively.” He whispers, voice laced with anger.

“What?” You're confused.

He grabs your cheeks harshly, pushing them together. You stare at him wide eyed. Your eyes are beautiful.

He notes.

His mouth quirks up into a smirk, reminding himself of his plan later.

Your body begins to shiver out of your control, the feeling of anxiety gnawing in your stomach.

Surprisingly, Aemond pushes his lips against yours, capturing yours with his, you were confused, he was mad at you a moment ago, why was he kissing you now?

It's not like you minded it, but it was out of character, but you’d rather take this than to have him kill you cause you offended him.

His hand left your cheek and wrapped around your throat pulling you further into the kiss. He was being rough, teeth clanking against yours as he devoured you.

You kissed him back, trying to match his rhythm so the painful grazing of his teeth against your lips can be less impactful. The hallways fill with the echoes of your smooching, the wetness popping everytime Aemond pulls back to breathe.

Aemond wasn’t kissing you because he likes you or anything, or it wasn’t like your lips were distracting, he is doing this so he doesn’t end up hurting you now, yes definitely, that must be the reason; or at least that's what Aemond convinced himself to believe.

“Y/N- Oh my goodness!” You immediately pull away upon hearing the voice and turn to look at the direction the voice came from, feeling embarrassed when you see Rhaenyra standing at the end of the path alongside Alicent. They both probably rushed out of the dining room to check in on their respective children. Well only to find them practically devouring each other's faces.

Aemond looks annoyed, feeling upset that they were interuppted.

Wait, why was he feeling upset?

He coughs, leaving immediately, forcing you to face both of them alone.

“Uhm i-” You stumble over your words and Rhaenyra furrows her brows, “Good night mother, and your grace” You bow to both Alicent and Rhaenyra and leave hurriedly as well, none of them make an effort to stop you. Instead looking at each other in awkward silence before bidding goodnight to each other as well.

You rush to your chambers hastily, face feeling like it's on fire after the moment you just shared with Aemond, the anxiety still existed in your gut but you felt weirdly comforted by the kiss. You open the door, rushing in and face planting onto your bed before squealing into the sheets, gripping them tightly.

You kissed Aemond Targaryen.

You just kissed Aemond Targaryen.

You began to giggle like a woman gone insane, punching the sheets to get the excited feeling out of you while rolling on the bed.

You tried really hard to fit into the world, not wanting to make a big deal out of anything, keeping yourself fan behaviour within, contained and locked so you don't seem weird, but you couldn't contain the excitement now. This single handedly made you forget what happened moments prior and focus on the moment itself, you touched your lips feeling how warm they were and you couldn't hold back the smile that bloomed on your face at the thought.

For as long as you can remember you loved Aemond as a character, being his biggest fan. You got to experience something that nobody ever will. Should you be thankful? You didn't know, but whatever it was, the encounter left you feeling all giddy.

Your eyes begin to close automatically, unable to keep open, you shift into a more comfortable position and let the sleep succumb you.

In his room— Aemond grabbed the dagger, shoving it in its sheath before sliding a mural to the side, revealing the hidden passages in the red keep and descending down the stairs and to your room.

He pulled the wall of your chamber and it opened instantly, he looked around the room, checking for another person, making sure he was alone before stepping out of his hiding and into the room itself.

He walked like a predator towards its prey, staring at your unconscious body that was sleeping soundly, he stood by your bed studying your frame as he loomed over you.

Your hair fell messily onto your face, a strand getting stuck to the corner of your lips, his hand came up to your cheek and tucked the strand away and onto your ear. He caressed your face fondly for a moment before snapping himself out of it.

What was he doing?

He quickly pulls his hand away as if he touched fire and grabs the dagger instead, taking it out and pointing it at your eye from above. Your eyes were closed shut, eyelashes brushing your cheekbones as you took gentle breaths. You were fast asleep, stranger to the threat lurking in your room.

He lowered the dagger slowly, planning on whether to shut, stab it from above or slice it upwards your face; leaving a scar just like his. He tilted his dagger deciding he was gonna do the latter and pressed the metal to your skin.

He didn't put pressure yet.

His heart pounded heavily, his breath going out of control as he couldn't breathe, his head began to spin. He didn't want to do this.

What?

Why did he not want to do this?

He clenched his eye shut, scrunching his face in anger wondering as to why both his mental and physical state of his being betraying him. Why did he not want to hurt you? Was that not what he was after?

He planned meticulously for this moment, he might not ever get a chance to do this, so he should seize this moment immediately. Yet his heart ached as visions of your shared youth flashed in his memory. He exhaled, body visibly shaking, resisting from digging the blade deeper into your skin.

He yanks away the dagger from his hand, throwing it sideways across the room, it lands in the corner. He stares at his own hand wondering why his body acted out of his accordance.

Or maybe he was the one acting out of accordance to himself. He grabs his chest, his heart aching at the mere thought of wanting to hurt you himself, what is happening to him? He steps back from his place, staring at your still sleeping body.

He feared this.

He had always feared this would happen ever since the incident.

Hating you was easy when you weren't in front of him, but he could not anymore because you were in front of him now.

You were something precious to him, no, you are something precious to him, he couldn't bring himself to hate you or hurt you, it felt conflicting, he felt weak, he felt like a hypocrite, he felt disgusted at himself, how can he forgive you? How can he ever forgive you? What you did to him was irreversible damage so why is it that he feels guilty about hurting you?

Perhaps he already knew the answer.

That is correct.

He doesn't need to forgive you.

He had already long forgiven you.

Just the mere seconds after you slashing his eye out, as he fell to the ground clutching it in pain, blood seeping through his fingers, regardless of the excruciating pain he felt;

He forgave you that instant.

He didn't want to admit that to himself, for it would make him look like a moron.

He was a moron. A moron in love.

A moron still in love.

He turned on his foot, immediately leaving the room, closing the wall loudly behind him in anger as he rushed back to his own chambers.

After a few moments, you woke up sweating, immediately sitting up as you processed the dream you just had, unaware of the fact that Aemond was ever in your chamber, but rather waking up because of the dream.

No, it rather felt like a memory.

Is this a memory of this body?

Your eyes widened, now realising why Aemond had lashed out at you, why Alicent glared at you, and why Rhaenyra hushed you.

It wasn't Luke who took his eye in this universe.

It was you.

You felt so stupid.

TAGLIST !!

@intheheartoftheking @dracaryxzs @ladyoffandoms @spear-bearing-bi-witch @myheartfollower @jom3leo @zoleea-exultant @saturnssrings @uniquecutie-puffs @aleemendoza2425-blog @marvelita85 @feelingfaye @anaya-rhys @visenyareads @sylvievil @cypherpt5fttaehyung @ttysmfwna @void21 @technicallystrangereview @feyresqueen @evergreen9083 @mirandasidefics @org12 @blorbo-brainrot @thisishwrworld @shadowqueen09 @watermel0nsugarhigh @cottoncandyclouds-stuff @madislayyy @the-hufflebird-girl @hiatuswhore

[trudy-shams]

An Act of Service

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: Your father has loyally served the Iron Throne and royal family for many years. No one would ever assume the Grand Maester wanted more for his family's name until he has the opportunity to send his daughter to help treat the pain that's plagued Prince Aemond since the childhood injury that cost him his eye.

Warnings/info: canon deviations (maesters are vowed to celibacy and not allowed to have families bc of the exact political reasons this fic follows, but i really wanted to write this, so we're going to pretend that they can have kids), thinly veiled implications of reader's father wanting to "sell" his daughter out to a prince to aid his family's position

A/n I hate to be the part 2 girl but the ending set up a part 2 so well i may have to

----

It's systemic, the proportioning of herbs so familiar you barely need to glance away from the bronze mortar.

Your arm reaches forward, your eyes briefly darting away from the metal bowl and towards the neatly organized botanicals at your father's work station. You reach for dried petals, the remnants of a rose's remains crumbling slightly beneath your touch.

"Very well," the words are earnest, a rarity when it comes to your father's praise. "But do not get so comfortable you forget your measurements. These remedies may be creations that we feel, but they are also exact."

You nod once, allowing the petals to fall into the mortar before setting your hand against the work table. Your father's unofficial lessons are precarious, often based on his mood and defined by his meticulous nature. He did not achieve his position within the Red Keep through careless work.

Today, he seems content, his peace evident in the lightheartedness of his corrections. Days like this keep your world on its axis, the time with your father making you ever grateful for his position as well as your own. It is rare for a Maester's child to be allowed to stay near their father, let alone work within the same home as him. His place within the Red Keep allowed him the privilege of bringing you and your younger sister to work as royal maids after your mother's passing.

"Of course."

He plucks another petal from the jar, dropping it into the bowl with no sense of malice. You're glad for his patience, but in all honesty, you're grateful for his attention and lessons no matter his disposition.

As a woman, you may never be able to become a Maester or dedicate your life to the work that fascinates you, but his lessons still hold great value. You help your father heal others between your domestic labors within the Red Keep, and at times, you aid sick or injured members of the royal staff.

He nods approvingly, giving you the confidence to reach for the pestle. You begin to grind the combined herbs sitting inside the mortar.

Hurried footsteps echo from somewhere beyond your father's door. You hesitate, eyes darting towards the entrance. You are not barred from assisting your father with his labors, but many frown on the idea of a woman so close to such an important Maester's work.

The door is pushed open with a protesting groan from its tired hinges. The individual turns, revealing a too familiar uniform. A guard.

You blink, immediately turning your attention towards the unfinished herbal remedy in front of you.

"Grand Maester," the man's greeting is curt, uncertain as he glances in your direction. You busy yourself with blending your herbs. "It is the prince, once again pained by his missing eye."

That alone tells you all you need to know about the guard's hesitation to speak in front of you. You've never once spoken to Prince Aemond, but everyone knows of the childhood injury that cost him his eye. Some maids even claim that a great deal of current political turmoil stems from the mistake that occurred during youth driven roughhousing.

The recurring pain that has afflicted the prince since is a lesser known ailment. Over the years, your father has often been called to the prince's apartments at odd hours to clean and treat the prince's permanent injury, late at night or during the early hours of the morning, when the halls of the Red Keep are most empty.

Your father moves away from the work table and towards the shelf of prepared medications. "Did the prince describe the pain? An ache, soreness..."

"It is a burning pain," the guard begins, "The prince did not go into detail, but he did say his skin felt warm."

Your father stills. "That is not his usual ailment." He turns to face the guard. "I will need to cleanse the eye before the pain can be treated."

The guard is silent for such a long moment you find it in you to look away from the safety of the work table. "His highness...The prince has mandated that no Maesters be brought to him. He only wishes for me to bring him the salve you offered him last."

The Grand Maester begins to pace forward. "May I send his highness the girl?"

Your hand stalls too suddenly, the pestle striking the mortar's side. Surely, your father is referencing some--some other girl. A prince's maid that he is familiar with, or--

"My daughter has witnessed and aided me in my practices her entire life. She is well versed in the process of cleaning injuries and applying remedies in a way that avoids contamination." The guard is silent as his attention shifts onto you.

The guard finishes regarding you with no real flourish. He looks over at your father. "The prince's desires were clear, he does not want more people aware of the situation than necessary."

"You would have a prince of the realm apply a salve himself to an already agitated wound without first having it properly cleansed?" He begins to walk forward, approaching the guard with a confidence you've seen him wear before. "I am more than willing to serve him at a later hour, but his ailments do concern me, and time is a significant factor."

The guard says nothing as your father continues to take measured steps towards him. "She offers the prince the discretion of a maid and the skill of a Maester."

Warmth begins to burn its way up your neck. You had never been put into the position to work closely with the royal family, only ever seeing them from a distance. That does not mean you have not heard stories.

You're not a particularly shy or nervous maid, you understand your place and the importance of keeping silent. But the princes...gossip about them often permeates the maids' quarters. Prince Aegon and his entitlement, Prince Aemond and his anger. Why is your father attempting to throw you to the dragon's? Is he--is he that concerned about the prince's current state?

The guard's eyes briefly find yours. "She can't tell anyone."

Your lips part, unsure if the statement is meant for you or your father. Before you can think of anything to say, your father agrees on your behalf, "She is loyal to the crown and instruction. Rumors will not spread from my daughter's lips." There's a beat of silence, and then the guard's careful nod. "Very well. I will gather the necessary materials."

"I must return to my post, a maid will be sent to take her to the prince's apartments." With those final words, the guard begins to approach the door, glad to be done with his involvement on a change that may upset the prince.

Once the door shuts, and you are finally offered the privacy of your father's company alone, the dread you had been warding off burrows itself in your chest. "Father, why--why would you ask to send--"

"I have treated the prince for many years, more than other Maesters within the Red Keep because of his desire for privacy, discretion." Your father's attention returns to the already prepared remedies. He steals a small jar from its place, setting it on the work table. "You are well trained, and no one will assume you are there to treat the prince."

He opens a drawer of bandages. "You also have a kind disposition, and a patience with the injured that even the most experienced Maester would envy. The prince's exterior may be hardened, but I remember him as a sensitive child."

The reminder of his childhood wedges itself into your chest, distracting you from your own fears long enough for you to feel something akin to compassion. Forever suffering due to an injury inflicted by the brashness of childhood anger.

Your father sets the bandages next to the salve. He then reaches for a cleaning ointment you are familiar with, placing it on the work table as well. Now satisfied with his collected materials, his attention finally finds you.

He approaches you slowly, a fondness not often seen pooling in his eyes. If this is a way of bringing your father pride, perhaps this task will not be as dreadful as it seems. "You have matured before my very eyes, growing into your mother's heart and beauty."

Your father extends an arm, his palm coming to brush against your cheek. The gesture is easing, a display of affection he has rarely offered you since your mother's passing. His fingers settle against your hairline, his nails carefully combing a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

"If you are to walk through the halls of the Red Keep, your hair should not flow as freely as a child's." The comment digs at you in a way you do not comprehend. When no worthy reaction comes to mind, you nod.

He steps back, attention returning to the supplies laid out on the work table. "Be careful, take your time checking the prince for infection and other sources of irritation. See to his needs, you are a good, kind girl. I am sure you will find a way to offer the prince comfort."

You swallow, unease settling in your stomach once again. With that, your father turns away from you.

----

The residential halls of the red keep are vast, with never ending turns and stairwells that come together to form a sort of labyrinth. Despite your lack of familiarity with the prince's maid that came to find you, you are grateful for her guidance.

She eyed you and the laundry basket disguising your medical supplies skeptically, but made no attempts to question you as she led you through the castle. Maids that are tasked with the direct care of the royal family tend to be familiar with the other staff members that work closely with the nobles. This woman has already recognized you as an oddity, a stray in routine.

If she had seemed less hesitant to be around you, you would have liked to ask her for her name, and to perhaps find a sense of normalcy through common ground. Her rejection and pointed distance has forced you to try to find a sense of peace through your surroundings.

You've rarely found reasons to wander through this part of the castle, the beauty of it serving as a way of distracting your racing thoughts.

Your guide stalls in front of a large set of doors. "These are the prince's apartments." She pushes open the doors, allowing you to enter before her. "The prince is resting in the room behind the seating area."

Your eyes land on the wooden door behind the small couch. One misstep in that room and things could very well be over for you and your family.

"Will you be able to find your way back?" The question is small, almost hesitant. You're sure she was tasked with getting you to and from the prince's apartments, but there's something about her stance that feels flighty. She does not want to enter the room the prince is resting in.

You have no way of knowing how Aemond reacts to treatments or his own pain, but if he fears the court gossiping about ailments enough to refuse a visit from a Maester, you doubt he takes well to maids witnessing his vulnerability.

"Yes," an act of mercy for you both, "Thank you for bringing me here, but I am certain I can make it back on my own."

She lets out a breath, nodding once. "Then I will return to my usual duties."

Considering that her usual duties revolve around Aemond, there's a good chance she's simply accepting the opportunity to excuse herself. You don't mind, glad for the excuse to not draw attention to what you're here for. She leaves you without another word.

You approach the door pointed out to you, firmly rapping your knuckles against the wooden surface once. A flat, "enter" provides you the strength to push open the door.

The details of the room are more intriguing than you can afford them to be, the intricate patterns on his walls and the ornate carvings etched into his bed frame so enticing a part of you nearly forgets of the prince.

You blink, forcing yourself to focus in an attempt to project the maturity your father had seen in you when he recommended you for this task.

You step further into the room, your eyes landing on the bed. There he is, head resting against the pillow, majority of his body covered by plush bedding.

Your father has only ever felt honored to care for members of the royal family, no matter Prince Aemond's sentiments, you're sure you'll feel something similar. "My prince?"

His head turns, the movement sluggish. "You...Who are you?" The words are more labored than they are defensive. That is not enough to ease the dread in your chest.

You exhale carefully, "The Maester--the Grand Maester sent me." You remain near the doorway, your hold on the laundry basket tightening. "I have a salve for your ailments."

He lifts his head further, his forearm pressing into the mattress. This new angle allows you to see the entirety of his features, the sharp slope of his jaw, the set of his lips...the jagged scar that cuts across porcelain skin. He regards you with an openness that leaves you without words.

The scar that marks him does not dull the beauty of his well sculpted features. Seeing him like this, studying him and what the loss of his eye has taken from him leaves your face warm, as if you've been caught searching for something not meant for you. You've never heard of a maid that's seen him without his sapphire eye.

"Alright." The response feels significantly less hostile than he was a moment before. "Leave it at my bedside table."

You walk forward carefully, mind begging you to think of a way to bring up why your father sent you here. "My pri--"

"You did not answer my question." The authority in his statement doesn't feel like an accusation. When you remain silent, he continues. "You are not my usual maid, the one who is sent to retrieve items from the Maester."

"No," you agree, "The Maester suggested that I bring you your remedy because he found the description of your pain slightly worrisome. He wanted to abide by your wishes to not be visited by a Maester while also assuring that your injury was properly cleansed before being treated." After a beat of no response, unease burrows itself further into your chest. "I can leave you, if you'd pref--"

He turns his head to better look at you, strands of silver hair falling past his shoulder. "What could possibly qualify you to cleanse a wound?"

The question, though delivered sharply, is a fair one. "The Grand Maester, my father..." If the revelation intrigues him in any way, he gives no indication of it. "Has had me assist him with his duties nearly my entire life. I have been trained in basic care and am confident in my ability to properly cleanse a wound."

Prince Aemond is silent for a moment, watching you with an all consuming focus. You've heard stories of his intensity, of his seriousness. The prince pushes himself to sit up fully. "Very well. The maid before you left clean water and rags at my bedside."

Your attention shifts to his nightstand, a small bucket and wash cloth waiting on the hardwood surface. You nod, digging through the clean sheets of your basket until you find the remedies and bandages your father had picked out for you. You lay out your supplies before looking over at the prince.

He has always seemed tall to you, but with him sitting in his bed, you cannot think of a proper way to lean over him to reach his eye while standing. You turn your head, eyes landing on a small desk and chair tucked into a corner. "My lord, would you mind if I..." You gesture towards the chair.

"Do as you need."

You nod in acknowledgement of his permission before moving the chair to his bedside. You dip the soft rag into the water before sitting. The proximity of your new position is oddly disorientating. Small Folk may not be held to the same pious standards as noble born women, but your father has raised you with certain expectations and regulations. With the exception of family, you doubt you've ever been this close to a man.

You lift the rag, but you cannot bring yourself to press it against his skin. "May I?"

He straightens. "Yes."

Even with that, you cannot will yourself to begin the cleaning process. Your father has always been careful when it comes to treating others, following every rule no matter how minor the injury. "My father has taught me to feel the area bordering the wound before cleaning it to make sure the extent of the injury is understood. However, I know this is an older wound, so if you'd prefer for me to only clea--"

"You may do as your father instructed. I am accustomed to the prodding." Sympathy briefly jabs at you. This is something he's experienced for over half his life.

You nod before lifting your free hand, fingertips gently brushing against his cheek. His skin is warm, perhaps a little warmer than a person should be. Your fingers shift forward gingerly, following the path of his scar. The closer you get to his eye, the warmer his skin feels.

"You don't look like him."

The comment pulls you out of your analysis. "Pardon me?"

"Your father," he tries again, "You don't look like him."

If his tone had been any less soft, you might have interpreted the observation as an accusation. "Oh, no." Your touch continues its path across his features. "Actually, I've often been told I take after my mother."

The skin around his eyebrow feels different than the rest of his injury, puffier, as if beginning to swell. Odd. "Does she work in the Red Keep as well?"

His curiosity is jarring, but not unwelcome. Having an excuse to speak makes focusing on such a personal task seem less invasive. "She did..." You blink in an attempt to reduce the impact of thoughts of what happened to your mother. You're doing well, you cannot allow an old grief to ruin everything. "Before she passed."

Prince Aemond hums once, the sound giving no indication of anything. Pleased with your preliminary analysis, you let your hand fall away from him. You turn to once again dampen the cloth held between your fingers.

"What happened?" The question is void of both empathy and brutal curiosity.

You bring the cloth to the side of the Prince's face. "She died..." Your only defense against his gaze is to focus on the irritated skin near his eyelid. Such swelling on such an old wound cannot be typical. "Bringing my sister into the world."

He falls silent again, allowing you to concentrate on dabbing the washcloth against his cheek. "I'm sorry."

Heat begins to burn its way up your chest, the way it always does when your mind dwells on the loss of your mother for too long. "I appreciate your sympathies, my prince."

Water beads against his skin, a single droplet beginning to drip downwards. Your hand stretches forward on instinct, thumb dragging against the hollow of his cheek to wipe away the water.

You do not realize your error until it is much too late. While wiping away the excess water dripping down the skin of an equal is expected, to do so to a prince without so much as asking first implies a familiarness that you are not entitled to.

"My lord, I apologize--there was water--" You stumble through your explanation while pulling your hand back.

Aemond extends his arm, long fingers latching themselves onto your wrist. His touch, though sudden, is far from harsh. You cannot manage to take in a full breath. "There is no need for apologies." He does not release you until you nod.

You return to cleaning his wound, this time making sure to be aware of your instinctual movements. The flesh above what once was his eyelid is jarringly hot. What would your father do? He'd--he'd examine the irritated area.

You shift towards him, so close you can make out individual strands of his silver hair. Your mind works at keeping your breaths even. There is a small area of his skin that's more swollen than the rest. At the center of the swelling, there's a thin line that seems to extend beneath his brow bone and into the space once occupied by his eye. As gently as you can manage, you lift the cloth to the space above his eyelid. He winces.

"I'm sorry." You're immediately pulling back, your spine pressing against your seat. "Are you hurt?"

Aemond's eye flits away from the wall in front of him and onto you. His lips are pressed together, his expression incredibly stoic. "No." The lie is a fragile thing that cannot matter. You saw him flinch. "If anything, you have been more thoughtful than most."

There's a tentative softness laced through the syllables, a hesitance that does not suit him. His careful assurance feels heavy, the pressure of it grounding you. In certain contexts, you can see how the strength of his personality could be perceived as violence, but there's something else to this quality...an intensity that can also apply to good things.

"I'm glad you feel that way." The nail of your thumb digs into the wash cloth. "I--I think I know why your eye has been troubling you, my prince."

His eyebrows draw together, expression coming dangerously close to displaying curiosity. "Why?"

"The skin just above your eye is slightly swollen and more irritated than the rest of your injury. When I examined the swelling more closely, I noticed a scratch." You pause, thinking through your wording. "It's small, but seems to be irritating the scarring around your original injury. You should have an ointment applied with your usual salve to ward off infection for the next few days."

You can't interpret the silence that follows. His expression morphs into something heavy. "A scratch?"

"It is nothing to be concerned about, my prince." The source of his pain is small, if he is careful, there should be no risk of infection or long term consequence. "Truly, the scrape is no wider than..." You glance around the room, looking for something to estimate the size of his injury. Your eyes fall to the hand on your lap. You lift your arm, holding your palm out between the two of you. "The width of my smallest finger."

Aemond lifts his own hand, his fingers bending around around yours. You let him move your arm forward. He studies your pinky before dragging his thumb against your knuckles. The gesture is so comfortable you have to work at not pulling away. He lets out a quiet breath.

"My prince?"

Aemond's hold on you tightens. "Such a dismissible ailment, and I am left defenseless."

Oh--had he taken your attempts at easing him as an insult? His current wound may be small, but skin so marred is easily agitated, easily made sick. "I did not mean it that way." The earnestness of your own voice should startle you. "Your pain is no dismissible thing, the extent of your original injury is brutal enough, I cannot imagine how it feels for it to be agitated."

The words tumble past your lips so quickly, you are not given a chance to think through them. It is never a good idea to express opinions in front of the nobles. "I apologize for over stepping, my lord."

"I told you," his thumb moves against your knuckles once more, "There is no need to apologize."

You nod, still not feeling completely certain. "You should feel much better after the remedies take. The swelling will likely begin to go down before day's end."

His focus remains on your hand. Aemond releases you slowly, his fingers dragging against your skin as he lets go. A part of you is glad for the excuse to return to the familiarity of your tasks.

You open the ointment, fingers gathering a generous amount before returning to Aemond's wound. "Where do you usually work?"

"Often with my father, preparing remedies and organizing herbs and other supplies." You spread the product onto his skin carefully, your touch as light as you can manage. "When I'm not doing that, I assist the other maids, usually with the laundry and in the kitchen."

He nods absentmindedly. You straighten as you finish applying the salve. You wipe your hands onto the discarded washcloth before unscrewing the jar containing the salve.

Aemond is still as you apply the salve onto irritated skin. This time, as your fingers trail against his skin, you can feel Aemond's gaze focusing on you. You work quickly, focusing your distribution of the product onto the cut beneath his brow bone.

Finishing is more bittersweet than you expected it to be. You're glad to know that you've done what's been asked of you, to know that you've done nothing to offend the prince. However, some small part of you is reluctant to leave.

You reach for the cloth, dampening the fabric before wiping your hands clean once more. "The medications should begin to alleviate your pain soon." You twist the rag between your fingers. "Is there anything else you need, my prince?"

He watches you for a moment. "Only your name."

Unease lunges at your chest, nearly making your heart skin a beat. It is quite rare for a noble to ask for a servant's name, especially if the servant does not regularly see to their needs. When Aemond continues to watch you expectantly, you offer him your name.

He tries your name on his own lips, repeating it slowly. Unsure of what the proper response would be, you briefly dip your chin downwards in a subtle nod.

His lips part. You straighten, preparing for the appropriate dismissal. "Sit with me a little longer." The phrasing is gentle, but it feels far from a question. "Conversation would be a decent distraction."

You wring the washcloth further. Cautionary tales of low borns who found themselves overly comfortable spending time with the royal family have been recited to you as often as traditional bedtime stories. However, there is nothing inherently wrong with making polite conversation if it is asked of you. Either way, the dangers do not matter. It'd be a fool's error to directly deny the prince.

"Of course, my prince."

The immediate silence that follows tangles your stomach. Aemond has asked you for conversation as a way to distract himself from his pain and you have nothing worth saying to a prince. You lift your head, glancing around the room. Your observations are in vain, what common ground could you both possibly have?

Your eyes land on his desk. There are a few books stacked neatly on the wooden surface, one with a familiar title written on its spine. "Are you reading The History of the Conquerors?" The question feels too abrupt without a clarification, "I finished the final volume less than a fortnight ago, my lord."

Aemond studies you so openly you almost convince yourself you've misspoken. "You read?"

Despite the politeness of his tone, his true question is easy to assume. A majority of maids and other royal attendants can only read certain words, being taught just enough to get through their day to day lives. Your father had gone out of his way to teach you to read fully. He originally taught you to read to make it easier for you to understand texts detailing remedies and health conditions, but you quickly developed a passion for any text he could bring you.

"Yes, my father taught me." You smooth the washcloth over your lap. "Originally, he wanted me to be able to read about treatments and diseases, and now he is forever cursed to find me new reading material." As soon as the words are out, you're immediately mentally cursing yourself for your casualness. "I apologize, my prince, that was a...joke."

He shifts, his hands coming to rest on his lap. "I told you not to apologize." The correction leaves an uncomfortable heat clawing its way up your chest. Your nails dig into the rag. Aemond lets out a breath. "And you do not have to trouble yourself with proper addresses."

That's--You know for a fact that no maids in the Red Keep have ever spoken of a noble dismissing the need for formal addresses. If it happens, it's something kept secret. Not even your father, who has known and treated the prince since he was child, addresses him casually.

You squeeze the wash cloth, the fabric dampening your palm. "Alright." The word sits there, floating aimlessly without his title to guide it.

Aemond nods before allowing his attention to shift towards the books on his desk. "Did you enjoy the book?"

"Yes." At least this is a topic you feel capable of speaking on. "The descriptions of the seven kingdoms before they were united together were interesting, I haven't found many historical accounts that go that far back."

He takes a moment to digest your response. "It is a detailed account, but at times the writing seems to overly rely on the author's perspective."

"To me, that felt intentional." The excuse to debate narration is more welcomed than it should be. "The author is only taking the time to recount these events because of his personal investments in the conflict. The constant references to his own position felt like an attempt to get ahead of any accusations of bias."

Aemond sits up a little straighter, one of his hands coming to rest on the side of his bed. "That's a fair interpretation, though if that's the assumption we're reading under, it is a poor attempt at denoting political bias when compared to The Recounting of the Dornish Wars."

The Recounting of the Dornish Wars is a relatively popular account, your father had no trouble finding you the first and third volume. The second volume seems to be more of a rarity, something no one in your world has been able to track down yet.

"That's a good point, but the author of that account was in a completely different situation." You fold the towel in half. "It's one of my favorite accounts, even without the context of the second volume, the depiction of the conflict is so thorough one can still understand all the dynamics that came into play."

Aemond taps his fingers against the comforter, the rhythm slow but steady. "Without the second volume?"

"I've yet to track it down, but I've read the first and final installments." The admission feels small, almost uncertain. You move past it quickly, hands fidgeting with the wash cloth on your lap as you continue, "What did you think of the final act? I liked the sharpness of the ending, but I can also see how the suddenness could come off as inconclusive."

His hands move back to his lap. "I enjoyed it. I found the ending's sharpness an accurate depiction of a dragon's strength."

Right. To him, the historical accounts and enthralling tales are more than just stories. They're a part of him, familial legacies he is expected to continue.

A part of working within the Red Keep is dismissing any curiosities you may have regarding what is left of Old Valyria. The Small Folk may think of the dragons, may even discuss them in private, but they do not ask their riders about them.

This is the danger of losing certain formalities, lines begin to blur. You squeeze your hands together before asking, "Really?"

The corner of his mouth pulls itself upwards. Aemond presses the heel of his palm into the mattress as he shifts. "Even the smallest dragons are more fearsome than you can imagine." He angles himself towards you, morphing the remaining distance between the two of you into something inconsequential. "Each of them capable of a destruction that could devastate entire armies."

You're more drawn in than you should be. There's very little you can offer in return. To the Small Folk, the dragons are closer to an ideology than something to be known. Your curiosity combines uneasily with the acute awareness of his proximity. You rest your chin against your elbow. "Your dragon is...Vhagar? The same one from the History of the Conquerors?"

His chin dips forward, making the gentle curve of his mouth impossible to ignore. The prince's sole eye remains on you as it is dragged downwards, the pace of his analysis so unhurried you can feel each moment of it. Bearing the weight of Aemond's full focus is no small feat.

"Vhagar was once ridden by Queen Visenya, who used her size and strength to help unite Westeros." His voice is low, giving the reminder of what is connected to him through blood the reverence it deserves. He shifts even closer, the warmth of his breath now a tangible force against your skin. "And now she is mine."

Heat claws at your skin. You feel your lips part, but there is no waiting response. Before you can string together a coherent set of words, the familiar echoing of footsteps brings you back to the world outside of Prince Aemond.

Your spine straightens on its own accord, the entirety of your back pressing against the seat. Your fingers find the wash cloth again, nails digging into the fabric as if attempting to make up for the time the fabric spent abandoned on your lap.

There's a soft knock agaisnt his door, one Aemond only halfheartedly acknowledges with a blank "enter". He does not move until the door begins to creak open, and even then his new positioning is subtle, more of a turn of his head than an actual attempt to create distance between the two of you.

A maid, the same woman who first led you through the twisting halls of the Red Keep, is standing in the doorway. Her gaze briefly finds you before settling onto the prince. "My Prince, the Queen wishes to meet with you in the great hall before supper."

Aemond is quiet for a moment. You cannot will yourself to look away from the doorway to read his expression in an attempt to understand the silence. "Alright, tell my mother I will be there in a moment."

The maid nods. "Of course, my prince." Her eyes fall to you once more, the corners of her mouth tugging downwards before she shuts the door.

You maintain your posture as silence falls over the two of you. He studies you with the same openness that's characterized most of this interaction. An odd pang of some somber feeling you can't quite place strikes at somewhere deep inside your bones. "Do you need anything else before you meet with the queen?"

He presses his lips together before responding, "There is a book at the end of my desk that I've been meaning to return to the library."

You nod, a part of you relieved to be given such an understandable task. You stand, arms reaching for the abandoned laundry basket before you've fully straightened. "Of course." You adjust the basket onto your hip before letting your attention fall to the supplies still on his nightstand. "I'll leave the supplies here so that you can reapply the ointment and salve before bed."

You step back, eyes falling to the desk chair. One arm falls away from the basket, fingers coming to grasp the seat's wooden spine. "You may leave it."

The instruction is strange, but you don't think much about releasing the chair. "Of course." You move a few paces back before looking over at him again. Much to your dismay, the newfound distance does not rid your mind of the warmth of his breath against your skin. "If you'd like, I can tell my father that you'd like him to visit you tonight to check on your eye."

"No," his tone is decisive, "I trust your work." An unexpected pride swells in your chest at his certainty. Aemond sits fully, his legs moving out from under his bedding and onto the floor. "In fact, I'd like you to return tonight to check on my recovery."

Tonight. Your mind leaves you with no response. It is one thing to be sent to treat the prince when you are the only option for him to maintain the privacy he desires, but to come to his apartments at the hours you've heard of your father being called during, when the world is quiet and all the well behaved are already in bed.

You force those thoughts to stall. Aemond is a prince, and this is only an act of service. This is not a source of impropriety. "Of course, I'll be here when you call."

His acceptance of your compliance serves as a dismissal. You turn towards his desk, your eyes scanning the neatly organized items before finding the sole book waiting at the surface's edge. A copy of the second volume of The Recounting of the Dornish Wars.

This cannot be more than mere coincidence. You blink, throat a little drier than it was a moment ago. You're careful as you pick the novel, your hand supporting the book's spine. "This--"

"The library is not expecting it back for some time, but I believe it is best to keep things orderly." His voice remains neutral, but the set of his mouth, the upturn of his lips is much too knowing to not imply more.

He has directed you to a copy of the book you've been searching for that no one will think to look for for some time. The gesture settles against you, squeezing your chest in a way that makes it difficult to keep breathing. You allow yourself to grin openly as your gaze shifts between the prince and the book in your hand. "I agree, my prince."

The title falls from your lips before you can prevent it. You had been doing so well at disregarding titles...Perhaps it had been an act of fate, or some desperate attempt of your subconscious to remind you that any imaginary kinship your mind has created while treating him needs to be forever abandoned at his apartment's threshold.

His expression morphs into something unreadable. Instead of reminding you of what he had told you about titles, he says, "Aemond." The suddenness of his name throws you. "When we are alone, I'd prefer it if you called me Aemond."

Warmth burrows itself in your chest. If you thought any of the casualness the prince had shown you throughout your time here was dismissible, this is the opposite of that. A nail in a coffin you do not understand.

Still, you nod, fingers tightening around the book as you respond, "Then...I agree, Aemond."

A sharp nervousness digs into your chest, taking control of your limbs as you turn away. You leave his room without another word, a maid's basket on your hip and the prince's book in your hand.

----

a/n if you want to see the reader come back to aemond's room later pls lmk bc i think a part 2 would be fun :)

[trudy-shams]

King of the ashes.

summary | Moons had passed since your last quarrel with your estranged husband, the events of Rook’s Rest bringing you together one more time.

pairing | Aemond Targaryen x oc!reader, Jacaerys Velaryon x oc!reader (platonic).

tags | 18+, MINORS DNI! Unprotected sex, PinV, arguing, oral sex (f receiving), mentions of death, Targ!cest, ANGST/little comfort, ooc Aemond (probably). SPOILERS

wordcount | 8.5K - i am so sorry

note | All the valyrian i use comes from a very shady translator so there probably are a lot of mistakes, if you have any input or helpful information pls tell me. I got really excited writing this but I feel the last part is a bit rushed, sorry about that! Any comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated! <3

Find part 1 here

[ gif by @gameofthronesdaily ]

124 AC

The afternoon sun spilled its light upon the tearful eyes of prince Aemond Targaryen, almost if mocking his heartache through its refulgent heat. The young boy sheltered himself in a seemingly abandoned corridor of the Red Keep, seeking solace from the cruel hoax imposed on him during his lessons. He could still hear them, their words — “The Pink Dread”. Such title roared in his ears, humiliation engulfing the silver prince as he forced his cries back into his throat. His mother had failed in her feeble attempts to comfort him, her attention focused solely on punishing his nephews for their so called savagery — even if it was clear this had Aegon’s name written all over it.

The worst part was that she had witnessed it. She hadn’t laughed or joined them in their persecution, but he could not bear the thought of his weakness being exposed before her. Hers was the judgment he feared most after all, she was the only one he could truly call friend.

Aemond hadn’t taken notice of a blue covered figure that watched him until she sat at his side, her weight shifting the cushions of the settee beneath them. His eyes refused to meet hers, hoping to conceal his shame as he hugged his knees against his chest. The girl stared at him in silence, her back resting on the wall whilst her feet dangled over the edge of her seat.

“Aem…” Aelora finally spoke, the softness in her tone melodic as a ballad.

“What do you want?” He asked, his voice lacking its usual warmth.

She had been made aware of Aemond’s displeasure concerning the dearth of a dragon to call his own through countless protests, his state being one of constant anger towards what he deemed his fault. It was also known by her that he would grow to be the most estimable dragonrider of them all, for none were devoted to learning and practicing as he was — it was only a matter of patience. Thus, when Aelora’s eyes caught sight of the swine inside the dragonpit, her brothers knew their mother’s chastening would be nothing compared to hers.

“My brothers are fools, I wish to apologize on their behalf.” She brought her hand to hold his, a gesture of innocent assurance.

“You did not deserve it.”

The boy slowly drifted his eyes from the window to lay his gaze upon her, his heartbeat quavering at her touch. Nevertheless, her kind words couldn’t erase his shortcomings — he couldn’t accept charity for his ridicule, he wouldn’t.

“I… I have no need for your pity.” As much as he tried, he failed to stop woe from consuming his voice, as well as his demeanor.

“I don’t pity you.” Grasping his hand tighter, she looked at him through furrowed brows.

“You shall have a dragon. One even bigger than Sunfyre, I know it! In the meantime you can help me with Lyrrax, even fly with me once she’s big enough!”

It was evident her enthusiasm was a childish one, an effort to install hope over the sorrow that buried his thoughts — but she had no care for it. She noticed as a smile pulled at the corners of his lips, even as he tried to suppress it. She wasn’t the one who owed him an apology, and yet there she was, offering her own dragon for an olive branch. His gaze flickered down at their hands, her smaller one over his, and he intertwined their fingers. The tension in his shoulders visibly eased, for Aelora’s presence was reassuring and tender.

“You truly believe I'll claim one?” He asked, unable to hide the fleeting shadow of optimism that burned in his eyes.

“I am certain of it. We are Targaryens, the blood of the dragon. You just haven’t found the right one for you.” A smile crept its way onto her face, her cheeks rosy and plump with eagerness.

Aemond scanned the girl before him, his expression almost vulnerable. The feeling of indignity was one familiar to the young boy and he had enough of it. He contemplated her words for a moment, and for once allowed himself to consider she might be right.

“Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I lack patience.” He let out a deep breath, as if letting go of the bitterness that had taken hold of him.

“You would do well to remember I’m always right.” The smug grin on her face earned herself only a rolling of eyes in response.

“Come on. I know something that will lift your spirits.”

Her words had barely escaped her lips before she burst through the corridor, tugging the prince’s hand as they ran. Hurried footsteps clashed against cold stone as Aelora strided through the maze of indistinguishable aisles, her gaze occasionally flickering towards the boy behind her. The smile that stubbornly weld itself onto Aemond’s face had transformed into a beaming grin, the sound of her angelic giggles clipping away the sullenness from his features.

A deafening thump alerted the prince of their whereabouts, the wide entry of her bedchamber welcoming him inside. He stepped in and curiously observed as she struggled to close the wooden doors, trapping the pair of them in concealment. The calling gesture of the princess hand woke him from his trance as the marched towards the illustrated wall beside her bed.

“Wait, what are you doing?” His head tilted in confusion whilst he fixated his lilac eyes on her hands. Her palm grazed the intricate designs on the stone, finally encountering the familiar crease in the surface — she pushed it, a dimly lit passageway staring back at him.

“Its Maegor’s secret tunnels!”

Aemond's bewilderment had quickly given way to wonder and awe. The maesters had taught him legends of Maegor's construction schemes, rumored to be an intricate labyrinth hidden beneath the Red Keep, but he never dreamed he would get to see them for himself.

“What?! How in the Seven Hells did you find them?”He asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“A fortunate accident.” She shrugged.

“I was hoping to find the way to your apartments and surprise you but I reckon it cannot be done anymore.”

“You’re mad!” His gaze quickly flickered back to Aelora.

His eyes, violet in the soft daylight that cascaded through the nearby window, studied her almost warily, as if to gauge a reaction from her. He received no such thing. The princess brought her hand to his once again, carefully establishing themselves inside the narrow corridor as the heavy stone shut behind the two. Aemond allowed himself to be pulled along, not even protesting in favour of the tunnel. He observed the strange architecture through their route, the dim light that filtered through small gaps, and the strange cobwebs that had taken form. The limb that remained in hers seemed to squeeze it almost possessively — out of fear, or out of eagerness, Aelora could likely tell.

The hairs atop the young royals’ heads twirled at the light breeze that embraced them, the scent of saltwater filling their nostrils. A moss covered archway revealed a small, damp cavern. As they entered, rugged walls formed by weathered rock surrounded them and an opening that lead directly onto the beach offered a panoramic view of the shoreline and the rolling waves beyond. Beams of sunlight streamed in through gaps, illuminating the cave's interior with a soft, ambient glow. Their feet grazed the sandy floor underneath them, scattered with small shells and pebbles, remnants of the sea's presence. Inside the serene and veiled space, a true connection between land and ocean can be felt — a fitting discovery for a princess of House Velaryon.

Aelora’s brown orbs searched for the boy’s lilac ones, a wide grin spread on her face as she squeezed his hand tenderly.

“So… What do you make of it?”

Aemond was quietly impressed, his head tilting back to look up at the ceiling of the cave, eyes roaming across the stalactites that hanged over them, a small gasp escaping his pink lips. He slowly peeled his hand from the princess, walking over to the opening to look out at the sea.

“How — how did you find this place?” The young prince questioned softly, his head turning back to look at her with an almost admiring gaze.

“It is unimportant. We can confine ourselves here whenever we like! The others do not know about it — I’m halfway certain no one does.”

A small, pleased smile tugged on his features just at the thought of using the cave as a hideaway; a private place, just for himself and Aelora. He hums quietly under his breath, in slight agreement.

“Our secret?” He extend his pinky towards her, indicating for her to do the same.

“Ours.” She smiled as she locked their fingers together in a silent promise.

A silent minute exchanged itself between the pair, the linger of a childish oath tickling their skin. The future memory would cling to their hearts for years to come, a longing fondness drowning them each and every time — except they had no knowledge of it as of the moment, being too focused on the possible amusement that would certainly come from the cavern’s discovery.

“I can best you to the shore!” Aemond wasted no time as he sprinted to approach the broken waves at the end of the beach.

“Wait!” She shouted, avidly picking up her pace to match the boy’s, his long limbs giving him a considerable advantage over the girl behind him.

It had been an entire afternoon of nothing but running, chasing, and exploring together. The young prince had forgotten his troubles and worries completely, instead focusing on the thrill of catching a slippery, wiggling sand crab. The cold feeling of the seawater against his skin didn’t bother him either, nor did the wind whipping at his silver hair as they sat building sandcastles. By the time dusk began to settle, the two children had become completely filthy with sand, mud, and water. Their garments were most likely ruined from the seaweed’s smell, fact that would assuredly earn them serious reprimands from their mothers. Yet, he could not remember a time when he felt so alive.

As they returned to the cave, the sunset’s glow reflected in the wet stones inside, a sense of comfort enveloping the rock-strewn cavity. Aelora’s gaze fell upon the young prince before her, his valyrian grace never yielding to his disheveled appearance. She observed as he bent down, a sharp ore emerging in his hand.

“What are you doing?” She questioned through a mess of rumpled braids.

Aemond glanced up to look at her, smiling softly. With careful movements, the boy carefully carved into the rock, his free hand resting against the stone wall for balance. After a moment, the four letters of their initials were carved into the stone. The scribbles “A.T.” and “A.V.” were jagged and a bit uneven, but still clearly visible.

”Leaving a marking… to remember.”

---

129 AC

Bleeding. Bruised. Brokenhearted. Those were the exact words to describe the state in which princess Aelora Velaryon arrived at Dragonstone. The crimson liquid that gushed out of her right side was courtesy of a Kingsguard during his desperate attempts to put a stop to her fleeing — the remnants of his white cloak hanging from Lyrrax’s teeth were evidence of the retribution he earned. The loyal she-dragon landed crudely, sharp claws sinking in the placid sand as her screeches blended with her rider’s whimpers. The princess could sense the pain inside the beast’s mind, their unbreakable connection making their emotions into one.

Pellets of rain grazed her face as she crawled up the endless stairs towards the peak of the islet, the translucent droplets mixing with tears or her own. The young woman’s sobs were filled with tales of disloyalty. She had betrayed her family, her duty, and worst of all, she had been betrayed by him. The one who stood before the gods of Old Vayria and pledged his unyielding love for her. The one who she had deemed worthy of the deserting of her kin. The one who promised her a future beyond the carnage of war. And yet he was the first to commence bloodshed. Her devotion had not been enough to subdue Aemond’s thirst for revenge — but how she wished that it had.

The mud on the soles of her shoes stuck to the stone floor, leaving behind a trail of shame as she entered the intimidating fortress. Her name and titles thundered inside her ears as the voice of a guard announced her arrival, though she hadn’t actually heard him. Her tormented psyche fevered with dread, fearful of the reactions she would receive due the forsaking of her own blood. All the eyes of her mother’s Small Counsel widened at the sight of the princess, distress and grief scattered across their faces. Her gaze flickered to the silvery locks on Raenyra’s head, the woman’s back turned to the room.

Aelora’s steps were slow and somber, as if her soul had faded and the lifeless carcass of who she was moved against her wishes. She skipped past Daemon at her mother’s side, lacking the nerve to meet his stare. Finally, she reached the bereaved woman before her, brown meeting lilac in a lachrymose gaze. Their pale hands intertwined in haste, and the once composed tears transformed into loud sobs as the young princess collapsed to her knees, begging for Rhaenyra’s forgiveness. Blood and teardrops met in the Black Queen’s dress, staining it as she knelt in front of her daughter. She brought up her palm to caress the side of the young woman’s face, the maternal touch conveying a juvenile yearning in Aelora’s heart.

“Oh my sweet girl.” Her mother whispered as anguish imbued her words.

---

The moons that followed Luke’s death were arduous for the princess, constantly having to prove herself before the family that once accepted her. Rhaena and Rhaenyra had silently recognized Aelora’s circumstances, acknowledging she grieved for a husband as well as a brother. Baela had hesitated in the endorsing of her cousin but surrendered to her pleads nonetheless. Daemon barely addressed his wife’s daughter, his hatred for his nephew fused inside the resentful stares he gave her. Despite her best efforts to cope with her standing, it was Jacaerys’ unyielding disregard for his sister that slayed the woman’s hope of mending their bond. The storm behind the prince’s eyes was well hidden inside his stoic expressions, seemingly unaffected by Aelora’s prayers for his recognition. It was only in the afternoon before their grandmother’s departure for Rook’s Rest that the siblings found each other.

The soft rustle of parchment echoed through the otherwise silent library, a salty breeze infiltrating itself through the window. The princess sat by the unlit fireplace as her gaze swept across the leather-bound books scattered inside the numerous shelves, each and all replete with the history of House Targaryen. The smell of dusty, old tomes was a bitter comfort in the midst of her morose silence. She had accustomed herself to this moments of solitude, seeking solace inside her soul. At heart, her deepest fantasies scampered free, picturing a simpler life as a commoner — untethered by the Targaryen name and relieved from the torment of the constant shadow of war.

Aelora was chased back into reality as Jacaerys’ presence made itself known. The young man invaded the room like a blizzard, his cold glare locking upon her figure as she rested over the armrest of the settee. Her eyes glistened with heartache once she felt how profoundly hostile her brother had become, turning on his heel to abandon her presence. The woman’s voice trembled as she spoke, her words pleading and vulnerable.

"Jacaerys, wait...please."

He halted, his shoulders tense as he looked back at her. The expression on his face was hard to read, a mixture of ire and pain etched into his features.

"What do you want, Aelora?" His voice was cold, the distance between them palpable.

"Have I stooped so low in your graces that my presence offends you? We are family, Jacaerys. Can we not even speak?" Her voice was laced with a hint of desperation as she asked.

"You ask for words as if they could undo what has already been done." His expression hardened, his jaw tightening at her words.

Aelora got to her feet, her legs trembling under her weight. He spoke as if it had been her to murder Luke, not Aemond. Her eyes met his as she stood, her voice wavering with a mix of sorrow and anger.

“Do you truly believe I have not been made aware of that?!”

“Every day of my miserable existence is plagued by guilt. I close my eyes at night yet sleep eludes me, for the ghost of Luke haunts my every thought!” She grew restless at every word, tears forming in her brown orbs as she gestured frantically through phrases.

“I know I failed him, as I failed you and our family… But don't forget I too lost a brother that day.”

Jacaerys stood frozen in place, his grief still bubbling within him and yet his heart ached at the sight of his sister's tears. Her words cut through him like a dagger, his own teardrops threatening to fall.

"Luke is gone, Aelora, and your presence here only serves as a reminder of that fact." He took a step backwards, his jaw clenching as he struggled to control his emotions.

“You cannot blame me for what was not my doing. I was Aemond’s wife, not his conscience — albeit my best efforts.”

"But you married our enemies, sister! Do you truly believe your actions have no consequences?"

"You stood by while they plotted against us and our family. How can I not blame you, when you chose to bind your fate to theirs?" A hint of anger flashed in Jacaerys' mournful eyes as he continued.

“i admit i have made my bed and I must lie in it, but you speak of matters you do not understand.” She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she could shield herself from his hatred.

“He swore to me…“ Her voice cracked, heartbreak swallowing her words.

“He swore to avoid this — to stop this insane feud. He is an oathbreaker as well as a kinslayer and he made me a fool!”

The room was still tense but as Aelora's sobbing grew heavier, something shifted within Jacaerys. He stepped closer to his sister, and without a word, pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace. His body was warm against her chilly frame as he held her close, almost protectively. Their grievances seemed to dissolve in that moment, replaced only by a shared sorrow as her tears dampened his shoulder.

“Do you hold love for him, still?” He whispered.

“Only for the memory of who he used to be.”

The prince held Aelora a little tighter at her admission, his chin resting on the top of her head as they remained locked in their embrace. He could feel the weight of her broken heart and the ache it left her with. His wrath had dimmed, replaced by a sense of care and familial loyalty.

"Memories are not enough… Promise to break him should you get the chance"

“I will.”

Neither of them knew, but she lied.

Rhaenys, The Queen Who Never Was, met her fate by the hands of the newly appointed Prince Regent, Aemond Targaryen.

Meleys, The Red Queen, had her head paraded through the streets of King’s Landing.

And Aelora, Aemond’s beloved nightmare, sent him a raven.

“We must speak. Find me at ghost’s hour where salt meets memory.

A.V.”

---

The stars twinkled outside the formidable walls of Dragonstone, nightfall enveloping the island in its deep shadows. The approach of ghost’s hour disrupted the princess’ heartbeat inside her chest, her previous conviction giving way to fright as she slithered into the network of caves where the dragons nested. Aelora called out to Lyrrax, her voice wavering with a mixture of stress and uncertainty. As the great beast appeared before her, its wings unfurling, she couldn't help but wonder why she had sent the meeting request at all.

The dragon’s own tension could be felt through her scales as the princess climbed onto its back, the weight of her decision settling on them like a heavy cloak. As they soared through the night sky, Aelora's thoughts were consumed by memories of Aemond and his treachery. The image of him flying over her grandmother’s corpse haunted her mind — the cold, merciless expression he conveyed twisting her guts. She questioned her own judgement in seeking him out, even as her heart yearned for the man who once pledged his undying love and protection. She looked back at Dragonstone, its familiar walls and towers illuminated by the silvery moonlight; she was abandoning her blood for him once again. The princess could only surmise she was either possessed by madness or a true lovelorn fool.

The frigid roar of wind traveled across her face as Lyrrax’s wings scraped over the tide’s surface, saltwater droplets cutting into her skin as well as her pride. She knew her grandmother would never forgive her for this, it was likely none would; she was an idiotic excuse for a Targaryen if she thought seeking the slayer of so many of her kin was justifiable. The burden of loss hung heavily on Aelora's soul as she took in the landscape before her. The faces of Rhaenys and Luke, forever etched in her mind, fueled a mix of anger and trepidation inside the young woman. Her thoughts swirled with a maelstrom of emotions as she soared towards him, recollections of the past playing out like a tragic play as her brown orbs focused upon the once affectionate site of King’s landing.

With practiced grace, Aelora guided the dragon into a smooth descent, its blue wings beating against the air as its claws set down on the shore of Blackwater Bay. The sound of their landing was muffled by the night, its velvety darkness swallowing the pair by the quiet that enveloped the world like a thick, black blanket. The crash of the waves greeted the princess’ ears as she dismounted, struggling to catch her breath and steady her emotions. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, the young woman caught sight of the familiar cave that laid ahead, its entrance like a dark maw in the cliffside. The jagged edges were illuminated by the silvery glow of the moon, sending shadows dancing across the rocky surface.

Bittersweetness engulfed Aelora’s frame as the memories memories of her secret rendezvouses with Aemond brimmed in her mind. Every step she took towards the cave was like a blow to her legs, feeling shaky and unsteady. Doubt gnawed at her spirit as if a persistent rat, her stomach flipping with every crunch of the sand beneath her feet. Yet, she pushed forward, determination fueling the princess even as her disheveled heartbeat hammered against her ribcage.

The sight of Aemond standing amongst the shadows caught Aelora off guard, the dim light emanating through the cave's entrance barely illuminating his form — she had thought to be the first to arrive. Before she could stop it, a slight gasp escaped her lips and her eyes widened in disbelief. He looked different, somehow. He seemed further villainous and wearied, the once familiar spark in his eye now replaced by a bold robustness. His sharp and handsome features were now harder, almost rugged, as if her absence had left its mark on him. Swallowing hard, she acknowledged the stark contrast between the nostalgic sentiment that nearly overcame her a moment ago and the tense silence that now enveloped them. They stood opposite each other mutely, both frozen and locked in each other’s gaze.

“Wife.” He greeted, his voice grazing her earlobes like the finest of silks.

“That title does not fit me any longer.” She replied coldly.

His lilac eye examined Aelora’s frame from head to toe, her cloak hiding black leather garments — most likely dragonriding attire. She looked skinnier than he recalled, the shadows only enhancing the redness of her eyes. Aemond could not help but wonder whether she had been weeping during her journey there, grief tackling her psyche as well as her build. The princess demeanor turned stiff, arms crossing as she stood clearly on edge.

“You remain mine, before gods and men.” His gaze flickered with something akin to resentment.

“Kinslaying is a rather suitable ground for an annulment, i should think.” She said, removing the cloak from her head, allowing her braid to cascade over her shoulder.

He froze, the muscles on his neck and jaw tensed. His first reaction is one of anger, clenching his fist as he prepared hateful words inside his throat. But as he looked her in the eye, his wrath melted away into something much more dangerous and devastating — something fragile. All he could see was the girl he grew up with, the girl who stood by him at his boyhood. The woman who whispered sweet nothings amongst the vows of their wedding. The woman who played silly songs on the harp and sang with the loveliest voice he'd ever heard. The wife who's hands he dreamed of at night.

“So eager to rid yourself of the shame affixed to my reputation… And yet, you request my presence with equal vigor.” He stood with his hands behind his back, swallowing any desires that threatened to get the better of him.

“It is my understanding you have become Prince Regent.” She tried to ignore his jabs, the truthfulness they held hitting a sore point inside Aelora.

“The betrayal of your brother becomes you. Yet another broken oath in your conquest for the throne.” She returned his insults, the knowledge of his ambition stirring something within the prince.

“You speak of broken oaths. And what ought I call the oaths you have broken? The promises we made when we married in front of Heleana and the Gods?” His one eye darkened, taking a step forward as he kept his tone controlled.

“Your hypocrisy is staggering.” He shook his head, jaw clenched as he spoke.

“My hypocrisy?!” She could feel the anger boiling her blood, as if fire consuming wood.

“Your sanctimonious preaches fail to erase your true nature, Aemond. Naming yourself Targaryen whilst the sigil of our house is paraded through the streets as if some vainglorious prize of war!” Her voice turned to screeches as it echoed through the stone walls of the cave.

“You may call me a bastard if you wish to, but my blood honors Old Valyria far more than yours.”

Aemond’s hand shot to her wrist, gripping it tight enough to leave marks on the skin underneath. His single eye was wild and livid, the scar around it turning his gaze even more menacing. He moved a step closer, the scent of him overwhelming her — mint and leather mixed with a hint of smoke, the familiar essence blurred her senses in a wave of longing. The princess hid her weakening behind a wrath curtain, the disdain she held for the twisted version of him that now stood before her casting their love aside.

“Watch your tongue, Aelora.”

“Or else? Will your murder me as you did my brother? My grandmother? I can see the conqueror’s dagger in it’s seath, evidence of yet another attempt at fratricide!” She accused him further.

“Have you not done enough? Must you ravage our family and yourself in your thirst for power?”

The hand that gripped her wrist traveled up to the back of her head, grabbing the braided hair. Yanking it softly, he pulled Aelora even closer, his lilac orb flickering over her expression.

“I am Prince Regent as the Gods intended.” He hissed into her ear, a dangerous edge to his voice.

“My reign, unlike that of Aegon, will be glorious — my rule absolute. And you, wife, will be by my side when I sit on the Iron Throne.”

Aelora’s eyes betrayed her as water began to brim in their edges, a horrified gleam passing through her forming tears. A hand cupped his left cheek as she scanned him, a desperate search for the man he once was. The man she longed for each night. The man who was the source of greater heartache than she had ever felt in her life. The man who was also the root of her most joyous moments.

“Your ambition shall be your demise, husband. I was yours before all of this, before your perverseness overcame your affection for me.”

“The crown may sit upon your brow, but i have sufficiently torn my heart to shreads in my attempts to remove you — even if you are my weakness, I will never belong by your side once more.”

”No wrath or cruelty is capable of subduing my craving of you, issa vēzos (my sun).” He leaned into her touch, letting his eye flutter at the feeling of the soft skin of her palm against his cold cheek.

In that moment of contact, he seemed so vulnerable, and much younger than his years. He was weak. A pathetic, love-sick man, and he could not bring himself to care. Aemond leaned his head against hers, their foreheads connecting as his gaze softened.

“I am plagued by thoughts of you and I, each reminiscence a torment to my soul.”

“Come back to me, be my Queen and rule by my side. Our love will be known forever through the Seven Kingdoms, your belly swollen with our child ensuring our line shall never be forgotten.”

There was a moment of silence as Aelora absorbed his words. He was offering her a chance at a life she had dreamed of, one full of passion and legacy as their offspring lived on after them. But it would be an existence consumed by greed, she knew it. There could be no going back after what he had done; Lucerys would never be uncle to her progeny and Rhaenys wouldn’t be there to counsel her through hardships. Their family was torn from the beginning, the tapestry of their lives further lacerated by his actions. And she couldn’t betray her blood again.

“I would do anything for you.” He begged.

“Would your bend the knee to my mother?” Her voice was shaky as the lachrymose gaze she held shattered, its translucent shards falling through her cheeks.

"I will give you anything. Anything within my power to give." His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"But not my crown."

“Then there shall be naught left to ask, issa hūra (my moon).” She sent him a smile, albeit a woeful one.

Aemond opened his mouth to protest, but knew it would be in vain. He was so close to her that he could feel her breath on his lips, the feeling slowly driving him mad. He had imagined Aelora’s face, her curves and her voice each night he had been forced to spend alone — and here she was, right before him, but he couldn’t have her. The thought of how this could be the last time he held her without being shoved away made him pull her to him, his arms wrapping around her like vines.

The princess found herself unable to resist as she pressed her head against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comforting presence in the silent cavern. She clung to him tightly, her fingers gripping his clothing like a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea. For a moment, they stood there, holding each other without a word. The moons of distance melted away, replaced by a shared sense of desperate longing to be close again. Despite the comfort and familiarity of his embrace, she knew deep down that he would never surrender — his path set on the course of war and the bloodshed it entailed. The pain and loss they had faced would forever stand between them, but it did not matter tonight. Concealed by shadows inside the stone walls surrounding them, their grievances and broken oaths would dim at the radiance of their burning passion. For a brief moment, the pair would be one once more.

Aelora’s head parted from the warmth of his frame as her gaze followed the line of Aemond's jaw, her brown orbs traveling upward until they reached his mouth. A sharp breath hitched within her throat as she remembered the soft touch of his lips against hers, butterflies rattling in her stomach. In that moment, she was transported back to the blissful months of their marriage, when their intimacies were full of love and promise. The need to feel the familiar touch of his skin against hers consuming every inch of her being.

The prince’s mind and body were on fire. He could feel her gaze raking over him, like a caress to his spirit. The mere sight of his estranged wife in his arms making his heart pound wildly in his chest. His good eye watched her mouth as she swallowed, his one trackmindedness fixated on everything about her. He could see the memories, the same ones he saw every night, flashing through her gaze. His fingers reached up to brush a strand of her brown hair aside, her once perfect braid now half done as the long locks threaten to escape. His hand trembled with how badly he wanted to feel her body, to trace his hands over her curves and kiss her neck, as he had done countless times before.

Aelora's restraint snapped with a sharp tug as she pulled him down towards her, their lips finally meeting in a desperate, ardent kiss. A muffled gasp left her lips at the familiar touch, her body responding instinctively as she pressed herself against him, hungrily devouring his taste. The prince’s sense of control collapsed like a house of cards, his tongue slipping into her mouth as he held her close. He was a man starved, his palms roaming over her frame, as if trying to commit every curve to memory.

Aemond's hands began to roam under her cloak, his fingers tracing over the round hips hidden underneath. He could feel the heat of her desire through the thick fabric, his own body aching to devour her whole. The fingers on his left hand fiddled over the clasp of her mantle, yearning overcoming his senses as he tossed the fabric onto the delicate sand.

Before he was able to protest, Aelora broke their kiss. Her eyes glistened with arousal as she watched his lips, reddened and bruised from the hastiness of their embrace. Her nimble hands found the buckle of her leather doublet, shivering as the absence of the rougher material revealed her chemise underneath. The sheer linen did little to protect the princess’ frame from the cold breeze that made its way through the cave’s entrance, her nipples stiffening at the feeling. The young woman felt no grief for her modesty as Aemond’s eye watched her carefully, a glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. She continued to undress, slender fingers slowly untying the laces on her breeches. Her boots met the rest of her dragonriding garments on the jagged rocks by the cavern’s wall, leaving the princess in only her smallclothes.

The silver prince was left breathless by her actions, completely entranced by the sight of her exposed chest, every contour of her body on display through the translucent fabric. His eye drank in the sight and he could feel his blood rushing to a southernmost point. He wanted to worship her, to kiss and nibble her skin — to make her cry out his name until the only thing she could remember was the feel of him against herself. At this moment, he was no longer Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm; he was a dog at her heel, eager for her calling. His gaze never left hers, staring at her vulnerable state as he mirrored her actions. First he removed his baldric, steel clinking as his dagger and sword fell to the ground. Then, he slowly undid the various buckles on his black jerkin, his breeches following suit. He did not waver as her brown eyes found his stiffened manhood; for he hadn’t cared to remain in concealment as she did.

Aelora’s gaze followed her husband as he approached her again, his hands reaching out and his fingers gently sliding up her bare thigh. She felt him press further into her, his cock pushing itself snugly against her core. He leaned in until his mouth was just beside her ear, his breath warm against her neck as he bit the skin softly. There was no denying she was his, her soul forever branded by his sinful devotion; the princess would never trust a kinslayer twice over, but she couldn’t help but love him.

“Vestragon ao’re ñuhon. (Say you’re mine.)” His voice was barely a whisper but it was as much a command as a plead.

“Vestragon ao’re nykeēdrosa ñuhon, gīda sepār syt kiza bantis. (Say you’re still mine, even just for tonight)”.

“Nyke aōhon. Ēva tubis ōños. (I am yours. Until daylight)”. She answered, lips trembling as the words escaped her.

A primal possessiveness engulfed the one eyed prince, the part that had always longed for her roaring in victory. At that very moment, he felt that there was nothing in this world that he would not do for her. He took her mouth in another kiss, their tongues clashing in a more feral and desperate manner. Aemond lifted her, his calloused hands digging into her plump arse as she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her fingers gripped at his silver locks, his sudden responde sending waves of languor across her limbs. He moved her onto the cloak that was on the ground, the velvety sand welcoming her weight over the fabric as he covered her body with his.

Aemond continued his path of kisses down her body, his hands wandering over her breasts and waist and his mouth leaving more marks in its path. He could feel Aelora shudder in anticipation, her hips arching against his as he moved closer to her core, the air heavy with the scent of her nectar. He halted, taking in the sight of her before him. It had been so long — too long — since he had laid eyes upon her like this, and he relished in the way she already looked completely wrecked by his touch alone. The prince finally reached his ultimate goal, his lips finding her mound as he licked a stripe across the sensitive flesh. He let out a low moan at the taste of her sweet ambrosia on his tongue, a loud whimper emanating from her lungs in response.

The young woman’s hair laid carelessly on the ground, grains of sand intertwining into the brown mess as she arched her back in pleasure. She cried out as he grabbed her thighs, spreading her further apart and burying his face between her legs, his tongue exploring her in ways she had missed for many moons. He could not get enough of her, his lips and tongue trailing silent prayers over her most sensitive spot as his name left her lips. She felt her walls clench as he barged inside her cunt with a long finger, adjusting to the once familiar feeling. Shivers ran down her spine in satisfaction as Aemond synchronized his movements, the overwhelming pleasure bringing stars to her eyes.

A lilac eye never left her face, watching every expression that played across her features. Her mouth parted in pleasure, each gasp and moan fueling the fire of the prince’s own arousal. He had longed to see her like this, writhing underneath him, his name on her lips and his touch on her skin. The memories of her had haunted him in his nights alone, but now, in this moment, he was finally able to worship her like the god given treasure that she was.

Aelora's cries grew more intense, her hips bucking against Aemond's skilled mouth as pleasure mounted within her. Her thighs trembled slightly, its muscles tensing in anticipation of the release that was quickly approaching. Each touch and movement only served to bring her closer to the precipice of pleasure.

A loud cry echoed through the cavern as she climaxed, her body shuddering and her fingers digging into the ground in a desperate attempt to anchor herself. As the waves of ecstasy washed over her, she felt as though she had been transported to another realm. The connection between them was somehow stronger than it had ever been before, their souls dancing to a passionate melody.

When Aelora finally gasped for air, the prince slowly moved up from her core, his body hovering over hers. He watched as she recovered from the rapture he had given her with a dark and vainglorious smirk. With his elbow holding himself over her, he pulled her leg to rest on his hip as his eye scanned her features. Her hand moved to cup his cheek, the tip of her finger caressing his reddened scar as she furrowed her brows.

“Nyke gaomagon regret ziry. Skoros nyke vestretan se mōrī jēda. (I do regret it. What I said the last time.)” She apologized, regret brimming in her brown orbs.

Aemond leaned into her touch, his good eye closing at the gentle touch of her hand against his skin, it felt nearly as soothing as a balm to his weary heart. The mention of the title she had bestowed upon him sent a chill through his spine, his monstrous behavior had earned the words even if they had maimed him. His face turned to press a soft kiss into her palm, before opening his eye to look at her again.

“It is of no importance.” His voice was rough and low as he spoke.

Aelora softly tugged at the straps of his eyepatch, earning a trembling exhale from him in response. The touch of her delicate fingers on his malady sent a wave of fear through his spirit. She removed piece of leather, revealing the puckered, scarred skin where his eye had once been. He found himself unable to look at her for a moment, the feeling of vulnerability consuming him in the dim light of the cave. The princess looked deeply into the sapphire gem in his socket, tenderness engulfing the kiss she placed upon it.

Aemond's touch was gentle as he took her lips in his, not waiting for her response as he gripped her hip and turned her on her stomach. His eye roamed over the expanse of her back, tracing his fingers over the smooth surface of her skin, leaving a trail of gentle caresses in its path. It was a stark contrast to the frenzied way he had touched her previously, this touch was far more tender, almost reverent in nature. His body pressed against hers as the length of his manhood rested on the small of her back, buring into her skin. He leaned down, his mouth finding her ear as he moved closer.

“Azantys ñuha sindigho, issa vēzos. (I have missed you desperately, my sun)”. His breath was warm against her skin as he whispered.

Aelora arched her back as she felt the tip of his cock breeching her dampened slit, her knees propping her hip upwards in search of contact. His arm reached under her, squeezing one of her peaks as he fully entered her. The pair let out breathless moans as Aemond moved against her, leaving no time for her adjustment. The sting of pain she felt had been nothing compared to the ecstasy of his length inside her, finding herself unable to focus on anything but the feeling of being around him.

The prince’s thrusts grew harder, his body moving against hers in a rhythm that was both frenzied and yet somehow controlled. Her moans and sighs filled the air, his own breaths coming quick and sharply as he took her with a wild abandon. He buried his face in her neck, biting down on the soft flesh as his hands buried into her hips.

“Avy jorrāelan. (I love you)” Aelora murmured between ragged moans, her hand reaching to grasp his hair.

His eye widened slightly at her words, a thrill rushing through him at having heard them coming from her lips once again. His lips found the base of her jawline, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin. His cock kept reaching further into her cunt as their flesh moved together with a rhythmic thrust, like the rise and fall of waves on the shore.

“Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan.” Aemond mumbled repeatedly in between thrusts, his words a fierce declaration of their love. He continued moving inside her, his heart racing in his ribcage as his pleasure overcame physical bounds.

Every thing about this moment was singled out from any other they had shared. The grief, pain and betrayal that coursed through their marriage dissipated amongst the dragon fire that burned within the pair. It all faded away, and all that was left was this, the feel of her skin against his, the sound of his muffled whimpers in her ear, the desperate way he repeated her name over and over. This moment felt like the calm in the middle of a storm, a rustle of the ashes of their love.

Aemond could feel his peak building, his movements becoming more urgent and frantic as he chased the pleasure he sought. His breaths came out in ragged pants, mingling with the sounds of her gasps in the air as his length clashed inside her. Aelora sensed the twitching of his manhood, threatening to spill his release inside her walls. The mere thought tightened the knot that had formed in her belly, reaching the edge of her desire.

Aemond sent a few more thrusts into the brown haired woman underneath him before both found their release simultaneously, their movements slowing as they both rode out of the ecstatic trance that washed over them. The prince’s face was buried in Aelora’s neck, a guttural moan escaping him at the force of his own pleasure. Her body shivered at the feeling of his seed drowning her cunt, pearly tears streaming down her leg as she whimpered.

The lovers stayed silent in an adoring embrace after he disconnected their bodies, a wave of comfort washing over them. For a while they simply laid there, basking in the afterglow of their passion, their frames entwined in a tangle of limbs. It was a strange sort of peace, one that they both knew wouldn't last once the sun rose — but for the moment, they were content. The night stretched on, each hour passing in a blur of whispered words and slow hands. Aemond and Aelora clang to one another, as if they could melt into one if they only held tightly enough. The threat of daylight and the inevitable parting loomed over them like a dark cloud on the horizon, anguish settling inside their hearts.

As the hour of the nightingale approached over their secret sanctuary, the prince and princess began to break away from the blissful haven that enveloped them. There were no words to be spoken as they both dressed silently, the sound of rustling fabric and soft breaths filling the air between them. The weight of war and the knowledge that this moment was fleeting hung heavily in the air. Aemond felt a pang in his chest as he looked towards her, a mute wish in his heart that they could stay like this. To be locked in this moment forever, away from the world that demanded so much from them. But he knew that was not possible. Soon, they would have to return to their duties and obligations — this feeling would become nothing more than a memory.

As they stood before each other fully clothed, their eyes met in a bereaved gaze — sorrow for the love they shared engulfing them. Aelora stepped closer to him, holding his hand softly, almost in a cowardly manner. She had no words for the man who was her everything, the man who had her in every way possible, and she was ashamed of it. His free hand moved hesitantly to hold her cheek, his eye flickering over her face, taking in every feature. He wanted to burn the image of her into his mind, to remember every detail about her, down to the smallest freckle on her nose. His thumb traced her soft skin as he leaned in to press a soft, lingering kiss to her lips, as if to say “I will be with you forever”. Tears began to form at the corners of her brown orbs as she abandoned his touch. The sound of the rustling sand underneath her feet echoed through the cave as she reached its entrance, her form never escaping his stare.

She halted at the stone archway, her silhouette framed by the soft silver light of the moon. The night air was cool on her skin as she turned to look back at Aemond, the feel of their passion still lingering in the air. For a moment, they simply stood there, eyes meeting in the darkness. She ached to say something, to find the words to convey the maelstrom of emotions that raged within her. In the end, she simply smiled, bittersweet and knowing.

“Should we meet on the battlefield, I can’t hesitate.” Her voice came out a whisper.

“I won’t hesitate to kill you.” She repeated, to herself or to him — Aemond didn’t know.

The prince’s breath had grown a little shallow at her words, a frown forming on his face. The idea of their next encounter being on the battlefield, facing off against each other like enemies was a thought that pained him, even though he knew it was a possibility. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t hesitate either, that he would fight her with everything he had if they ever met in battle, but the words stuck in his throat. He simply nodded in acknowledgement.

Once again, she left him. Aemond would a King without a Queen, half of his soul forsaken in his search for power. It had to be worth it.

They wouldn’t meet again, not in the context of war or any other.

She would meet her demise alongside her brother in the Battle of The Gullet. Fighting hard like a Strong, dying with her dragon like a Targaryen and laying to rest at sea like a Velaryon.

He would grow mad at her perishing, ire overcoming his every sense. He would be slayed by her stepfather at The Battle Above God’s Eye.

Their love was epic, but it was never written about inside the history books. The only legacy they would leave behind had been scribbled onto a stone wall years before.

A.T. & A.V.

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