moons

20 ● she/her ● 🌙

[dreamed-dusk]

NAVIGATION

"𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝙸, 𝙸 𝚏𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢"

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moons | desi | she/her | 20

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welcome to my blog <3 I mainly write about akotsk.

inbox open and accepting requests

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♧ other works (coming soon!)

[dreamed-dusk]

cinderella!au with daeron who keeps dreaming about a masked woman, believing that she will kill him

[dreamed-dusk]

wildflowers | ser duncan the tall

little drabble inspired by arrangedmarriage!dunk ( @honeyoftheisle the idea has been haunting me ever since you tagged me it that post). wrote this at the gym so it's so stupidly unedited, sorry if it's a bit rambling.

pairing: ser duncan the tall x noble!reader

tags: canon inaccuracies, arranged marriage, fluff, yearning, intentional lowercase

your marriage had been arranged without your knowledge.

this fact did not surprise you, it was the norm of many such engagements, ladies placed into betrothals decided before they had even laid eyes upon the man they were destined to marry. and you certainly weren't one to oppose such a thing as despite being an avid reader of literature and secret enjoyer of romance novels, you had never been possessed by the urge to pursue love. you simply did not care for it because love was simply another fable. fiction, mere entertainment to distract the mind.

what need did you have for love and romance? you already knew your fate, why bother opposing it and leading yourself into inevitable disappointment?

amongst the stories of dragons and noble knights and infatuation, they all seemed to blur into one, revealing one glaring similarity. these concepts may have once reigned westeros, but they were extinct now. the greed of man had killed them.

so when your lord father had informed you your match had been made, the betrothal already having been agreed upon before you had even heard whispers of it, you simply nodded, returning to the book that had engaged your fancy.

only to still when your father revealed who your betrothed was.

ser duncan the tall.

the man did not even seem to have a surname, a family, nothing. nothing to tie him to this world.

you had heard of him, of course you had; whispers seemed to trail him wherever he went. the man who dragons seemed to follow. the man who the gods favoured, allowing a prince to die for him to live. perhaps that was what happened when a knight remembered his vows. you were reluctant to admit it, but he seemed to be a true knight.

but would that mean he would be a good man? you were unsure if the two were synonymous.

ser duncan did not shy away from his baseborn beginnings, with there even being rumours that he may have been born out of sin; a bastard. truthfully, you did not care for such rumours, the nature of his birth did not concern you, yet you could not help but wonder why he was allowing himself to be wed off.

he was a kingsguard, the sworn sword of prince aegon targaryen, employed by king maekar targaryen, restricted by the vows that prevented him to wed, to bare children, to own land while under oath, yet now he was willing to give that all up?

it confused you.

you could not see the logic behind such a decision — why sacrifice a lifetime of honour and glory, to do what exactly?

to wed a lady he had never met before? to continue his duty protecting the royals without the recognition?

you were unsure of what to think.

your confusion only intensified once he had come to visit your ancestral castle, the young prince accompanying him.

your family had known of his intentions to visit for quite some time, your mother dictating the household for everything to be perfect, ordering the maids and servants to scurry about, scrubbing each stone until they glistened. your father had orchestrated hunts so that fresh meat would be available when they would eventually arrive, the kitchens brimming with imported herbs and spices awaiting to be used. yet despite how prepared your family had attempted to be, the sight of prince aegon seemed to throw them into a deeper frenzy.

they had not expected the targaryen to accompany the knight — truthfully they did not expect anyone to accompany the knight apart from a squire. through their preoccupied state, they failed to remember a vital fact. the prince was ser duncan's squire.

the prince himself had been wedded to the lady betha blackwood the year prior, being encouraged by love and all other matters of the heart. the irony was not lost on you — the prince had married for love while his sworn sword was having an arranged marriage.

you were unsure of what to make of your future lord husband. from the moment he had entered your family's land to now, the tall knight refused to even look at you. each conversation held lasted approximately 3 sentences, the dialogue torturously short with prince aegon tending to comandeer the conversation when he noticed his sworn sword unable to continue.

was this to be your future?

to marry a man who was willing to charge into battle yet could not look you in the eyes?

were you truly so displeasing? did he find you unsightly?

you cursed your mind for travelling to such insecure thoughts, yet you could not help but wonder. he had spent the majority of his knighthood surrounded by princesses and ladies, travelling across the seven kingdoms. perhaps you simply could not compare to them in beauty, but you were certain that you were a proficient conversational partner, your mind strengthened by the literature you had consumed. so why could he not even talk to you either?

that simply infuriated you instead.

if he was determined to not provide you any respect, from now on neither were you. if he would not look at you, you would not look at him. if he would not speak to you, you would not speak to him.

you would treat him exactly the same way he treated you.

truthfully his reaction surprised you.

you had not expected it to take such a swift effect on the knight, especially since you were not even provided the opportunity to carry out your entire plan that you had curated the night prior.

you had planned to ignore him throughout the entire day, to interact with the people surrounding him yet not gracing him with your attention. you had planned for it to span late into the evening and to not even look at him despite sitting across from him while you would dine. you had expected that perhaps it would take a few days for him to even notice that you were deliberately avoiding him.

it only took him one morn.

you had not greeted him that morn, did not offer him a gentle smile or a subtle nod — nothing. you simply drifted past him, smiling at prince aegon as you continued towards the sept with your mother, intending to provide your morning prayers.

and by the time you had completed your prayers, whispering thanks to the father and the mother, requesting guidance from the maiden, and had begun to prepare to leave, you stilled. you were shocked to find the knight lingering by the entrance, a bundle of wildflowers clutched in his hands as he waited for you.

you did not expect this.

you had attempted to walk around him, to continue ignoring him, but how could you when he was standing there so sincerely, a bashful look gracing his features, his ears tinged pink as he stumbled over some sort of explanation.

"please." he had began, eyes wide as he noticed that you were searching for a way to avoid him. "please i just need to—"

he sighed deeply, passing a hand over his face as he gathered himself, trying to not stumble over his words.

" 'm not good with my words, milady, not good at..." his hands gestured aimlessly through the air as his gaze finally met your. blue, piercing blue. his eyes were pretty, you tried to ignore that thought. "...this. but i don't want you to think that this is unwilling."

your brows furrowed slightly, head tilting as confusion began to seize you. unwilling?

he noticed your puzzled expression.

"egg suggested — sorry, the prince suggested that you may have believed my behaviour was due to..."

"an unwillingness." you offered.

he nodded.

you mirrored the action slightly, your gaze dipping to the flowers clutched in his hands. you recognised them, they were from the field that was close to the castle. a smile threatened to break across your features. you wondered if prince aegon had offered this hypothesis recently, perhaps while you were still in the sept, allowing the knight to come to his own conclusions.

"and how are you certain that i may not have this unwillingness?" you questioned.

he visibly stalled, any hint of a smile immediately dissipating, his skin paling.

"i—" he swallowed harshly, his grip on the flowers tightening as his gaze flickered between you and them. his lips trembled slightly as he tried to think of a response, but gods, how could this now be happening to him when he had finally gathered the courage to speak to you? were you finally going to confirm his worst fear? the very thought that had plagued him throughout the entire visit. that this betrothal was truly unwilling on your side? "i should have — i apologise, milady, i should have spoken to you—"

you interrupted him. "i have no objection to this match. do you?"

he blinked.

once. twice.

and then it happened, all at once. his heart quickened, his poor pulse fluttering unsteadily against the thin skin like the wings of captive bird; his face warmed, a violent blush spreading across his features as he tried to suppress a giddy grin.

oh.

he did not expect this.

you were willing to marry him. you found no fault in him.

a lady of much higher standing, who's blood was noble and courteous, who he was certain could find much better matches than a knight of dubious beginnings. yet you were still willing to marry him.

"you are not aversed to this?" he repeated, doing a poor job of concealing his unrestrained glee.

"i am not." you confirmed, watching the rouge spread across his face and down his neck. those words seemed to worsen his condition.

you stepped back, slightly dazed by the reaction you had garnered from the once stoic knight.

he who had struggled to even speak to you, he who had struggled to even look at you, was now overwhelmed by such great emotion that he was grinning stupidly at you, trying to conceal the fact by pressing the bouquet to his face.

"and you?" you pressed, despite already having an inkling of what his response might be.

"i would rather die than not wed you." He responded with complete seriousness, finally offering you the flowers he had been gripping like a sword. the stems seemed slightly crumpled, but you did not mind.

you accepted them, along with the arm he offered you, listening as the man finally began to talk to you freely, rambling about the journeys he had taken with the prince.

perhaps love was not such a fable afterall.

♤♡◇♧

[ghostlybfgf]

A THOUSAND WRONG VERSIONS OF YOU

summary: when your manager, clark, drags you into a strange place for research, you end up getting split up, and finding more than you bargained for all while in search of each other.

pairing: bobby franklin x reader

warning(s): typical backrooms fuckery, psychological themes, mention of drug use, mention of alcohol abuse, delusions, slight injury? (bobby punches a wall) reader and bobby lowkey traumatised, reunion, kind of happy ending?

word count: 2.3k

a/n: this was written on a whim, and in testing present tense, it’s actually kind of fun.. what do we think?? 💗

The split happens fast. The lights flicker overhead and the yellow halls seem to stretch like a Hitchcock film, and your head turns so fast you swear you’ve given yourself a headache. But then he's gone. Just gone. And it doesn’t make any sense.

He was right behind you. 

"Bobby?"

There’s no response. Your voice echoes down the hall and nothing more. Just four walls opening up into another four by four set of walls. And it's endless.

Anxiety rises in your stomach enough to pin you to the floor, and your legs are like jelly but you stumble forward. Only to realise, they’re both gone. You didn’t move a muscle, you had been stood right in between them, and now they’d just vanished into thin air. Or maybe you did? There was no telling, because this place was off ever since you’d first been pulled into it.

—

The first hour, Bobby is convinced he'll find you quickly. This place can only be so big right? And he hasn't moved that far, he’s sure of it. Apart from how the rooms started getting darker, and how he doesn't recognise anything, from the way he ran when you disappeared from his sight.

Smart thinking Bobby.. 

He shouts your name everywhere he goes, step after step around empty corners that leave a pit in his stomach and turning his head just to check behind him. There’s shadows, moving ones, like silhouettes, and every once in a while it almost looks like you. Clark didn't give much of an explanation to this place, or why he needed you both for research, but now he regretted it all.

Especially dragging you into this place with him, pulling you through that weird invisible space in the wall when you didn’t want to go.

The guilt eats at him more than the bile rising in his throat, and he’s certain he’s not that high, that even if he was it would have worn off by now. If you were together he could protect you, at least be near you and keep an eye, now you could be anywhere. With Clark, by yourself..

It wasn't like the outside, or like some underground office space it pretended to be, because that's what it was, pretend. Like it didn't know what it was, as if it was still figuring that out, like it was alive.

His fingers press into the buttons of his camera, the viewfinder lighting up his face in a flash of colour. And he rewinds the recordings he'd made sure to film every hour you were in the place, marking everything that was pointed out. He looks for some kind of blue, maybe even to ground himself he’s not sure, but he needs to see something.

The first recording was when you first went through, the clicking of the camera turning on jsut as the video comes into view. Half of his arm reaches through the wall until it disappears, and he laughs behind it, in disbelief. You’d seen it like out the other end, standing in the dim light of Clark’s store with your heart pounding in your chest.

Bobby had only looked at it in a nervous wonder, turning his arm over and back again, shoving it back to him just to reach it back out to you. His voice was shaking as the camera zoomed into his arm.

"Babe.. hey check this out—"

"Bobby where are you?'

"Go through the door.. it's safe.." Clark’s voice calls out behind him, the camera turning to face him slinging his backpack on, just enough before he faces back to the wall.

“I don’t know about this.”

“Just grab my hand.. I’m here.”

His voice again, and he calms, urging you on eagerly. Stupidly. And you do it, you listen, the film picked it up too. Your hand in his, his fingers curling around yours as he leads you to where he and Clark stand. Yellow rooms, off white carpets, and the faint smell of mould.

The next lot of them he flicks through, every passing corridor, every dumb joke he made to lighten the mood, every snag of the camera when something caught his eye. Shoes half inside of the floor. A t-shirt he remembered someone wearing once. Gull feathers scattered along the floor and black, tacky footprints. A lot of them.

All things that made no sense to be in there, to the way they were place.

The most recent tape was when you were all split up. The static buzzed louder on this one, the film jumps when the lights flicker, like when a radio loses signal, like the three of you had gone too far. The camera lands on you first, your face a contrast from the damp walls and darkness around you, something almost light around you in comparison. Bobby had a habit of doing that, capturing you on film and framing you just right so you'd be centre, the glowing, beautiful standout amid the drab background.

But this was different. He couldn't see you. He could see what was you. The same clothes you put on that morning in your apartment, shrugged on when clark had pounded on the door. The way your hair fell in your face, the small smile you gave him even though he still saw the nervousness in your eyes. But it was wrong, off, like something just highlighted your point on a map. And he keeps rewinding it just to see if his eyes are playing some sort of trick. 

There’s a glitch across your face. One that distorts your smile and leaves it crooked, and then there’s a high pitched sound, a screech so loud it nearly makes him drop the camera in a clatter on the floor. 

It fumbles in his hands before he catches it, closing the viewfinder with the clutch of his fingers. His breathing grows heavier and he dares to take another look. Because that was only hours ago, an untouched tape, and somehow it’s been messed with.

—

The worst part about this place is how it learns.

It remembers every detail. The voices started off distorted and wrong, using his voice in ways you didn't recognise. Everything was too over pronounced, the teasing and the way he dropped his accent was gone. You could ignore it then. Now it knew him, as much as it seemed to know how to get under your skin.

The laughter came next, and now it follows you in an echo down the hall, it even waits when you turn a corner before it stops again. You figure you can outrun it, pace yourself a few corridors down before it grows distant, but it comes again, louder and clearer. Right behind the wall where you’ve hid yourself hoping to regain some of your breath back.

It’s not nervous, it's real. And it’s Bobby’s laugh. The kind of laugh he does when clark made him reshoot commercials over and over, or the one he has only with you when you're both high and lounging in bed. It sounds so much like him it hurts, you can almost see the toothy grin come across his face.

So you test it again. This time you don’t run, you chase.You get up and follow it through three hallways, then four, then five. But it keeps moving away, always just ahead and never close enough to reach. Like it’s now mimicking you.

It keeps repeating like a recording stuck on loop, you haven't heard between the laughs. It’s not human, and it’s not him. Whatever it is, is something to taunt you, and you can feel the eyes of it on you, everywhere.

—

"Bobby.. bobby where are you I can't see you?" He jumps at the sound of your voice quicker than he can place himself, rising to his feet 

"It's okay baby I'm here—" You sound so tired and upset. And then it's worse. He can hear you crying. But he can't he can't see you. He's checking rooms, frantically, and he's shouting. Unpicking every lock from every door, hollowing out the crawlspace between the smaller rooms until they open up, near stumbling over himself just to follow the trail of it.

"Where the fuck.." He's expecting you to appear around the corner, where the sobs are louder, so shrill they ring in his ears. You’ve stopped calling out to him, instead there’s just sound, almost like groaning, broken and muffled by cries, animalistic in the way it distorts.

He knows you well enough to know that’s not you. He’s held you time after time when you’re upset, the times when you’ve been mad at him, curling into his chest after an argument even if you push him away first, or collapsing into his arms after a long day at work. This sound is hollow, fake and cruel. And it makes his blood boil, his fist connecting sideways with the wall with a sharp crack, because it used your voice, you.

And he doesn’t know what that means, he doesn’t know what’s happening, where you are or what that is.

But there’s one thing he does notice, pulling his hand away from the wall with a wince and the other rubbing at his temple. There are footprints, fresh ones. The same imprint he remembers. Yours. He could cry from relief, or some fucked up kind of it, because who knows if they’re yours, but they’re yours. There’s caution in his step as he follows them, mile after mile for what it seems like. Until they just stop.. There’s no other sign, just sticky tar that connects to nothing.

Only a wall.

Nowhere else, no door, no turn, just wall.

His hands press into it, maybe it’s a way out, maybe you did find your way out, and it’s like the “door” you came in, some other weird glitch you can just walk through. Bobby goes to press himself through it, but it doesn’t work, so he moves an inch, and other, tries it again. But nothing. It doesn’t budge.

He shoved his whole body into it, closing his eyes just for the hope, but he’s only met with damp.

—

The days, if they are even days, only make it harder to make out what's real and what's not. You haven't slept, the footsteps and breathing that wanders the halls are too loud every time you try to close your eyes. And that's the cruelest part, because the rooms haven’t just started to know you, now they understand.

The figure that waits at the end of the hall looks like Bobby, only for a second, but it's enough. The same height and same silhouette, the same crop top that peeks his stomach and jean shorts that ride low on his waist.

Some part of it is inviting.

You almost go to reach for him, but the pit in your stomach tells you not to, and instead you take off running. Slow at first, just to look over your shoulder and hope it doesn’t follow. It doesn’t. So you turn on your heel and run faster, further, until you can't see it anymore, until the image of him disappears completely.

And you don't want to forget, but it's not him. It runs over in a chant in your head. Not. Not. Not. Even if he beckons you back, pleading, calling your name like a prayer, in the sweetest voice he can, in that teasing hungry way that makes desire bubble up hungrily in your stomach. You claw it away, covering your hand over your mouth to silence your breathing, and the tears pricking your eyes.

Because it listens for that. Just so it can gather more of you.

And just as you are, paces behind wall and pipe, Bobby is unraveling.

He's exhausted and hungry, and lost, and he keeps seeing you, hearing you. Not the fake versions that pop around corners, he's already avoided and blocked those his mind however many days ago. These are memories. Glimpses of your actual life, and its torment. It’s probably delirium, his eyes already sting from the fluorescent lights and lack of sleep, and the pure adrenaline he’s running on.

But he sees it anyway.

You sitting in the break room and laughing as your legs swing over the counter, the pair of you hiding away from Clark’s strict instructions to stay out on the floor for customers. The way you roll your eyes at his jokes, and thread your hands through his hair. It’s the tiny moments, the things he misses, and he’s not sure where they’re coming from. But they’re the traces of you that make him ache.

And while his brain feels close to shutting down, the air thickening making his mind fog, the objects start appearing.

The jean jacket you stole from him when you first started dating and he let you have on the floor. Your handwriting on a clipboard with his recordings on, thrown onto a coffee table. A coffee cup with yours and his name on it because both of you used it anyway. Little impossible reminders that you're out there somewhere. Maybe alive, maybe not. He can’t bring himself to think of the latter, so he collects them, slinging the camera over his shoulder to shove what he can into his pockets or into his hands.

He shrugs the jacket on last. And it feels foreign because he hasn’t worn it in so long, because he said it was yours, but he stills in it, closing his eyes as the denim settles over his body like a blanket. He just hopes he can find you, and soon. Because whatever this place is, it’s trying to replicate too much.

There's scraps of you both in every hall, just enough to keep you searching.

And you both do, over and over. You suppose it makes sense how people can go missing, getting lured out into dangerous places with slivers of hope that they might return to home, or somewhere like it, to the things they took for granted. But how can they? When where they’re going is already catching up to them..

He starts leaving notes after a while, scraped from the sharp end of his belt buckle, and eventually from a marker he found lying about on the floor. And by some grace, it works. The notes are carved on every wall he could possibly manage to use, as a last ditch effort. It was arrows at first, his own markers of where he’d been just to keep direction. But then they were for you. Then they became notes.

KEEP GOING — B

That one is in the corner, scratched up right over an archway where a door should be, the ink of the marker still dripping down onto the carpet.

I’VE BEEN HERE — B

The next he took his time with, writing out the words carefully as he could in the very centre of an empty room. So wide and big you could see it easily.

GIVE ME A SIGN — B

The last one before it had ran out was desperate, so he used it wisely, tracing over every letter again and again until the words got bigger, probably enough to stain the walls from the inside out. But he needed it from you, not his imagination or

He stayed next to each one as long as he could, ducking back around corners as if you’d be standing right there. But you weren’t. So he kept going, tossing the dried out marker to the floor and continuing forward with one last smudged arrow on the tip of his finger. And now under that same daunting buzz he feels as if he really is losing it.

All he hears, is his name.

Bobby, Bobby, Bobby.

And it’s so clear now, it’s all you. Sometimes it’s happy and calm, other times it’s upset, sometimes it’s even mad. He doesn’t call back anymore, he just keeps his head in his hands, waiting for you to actually show, covering his ears as he tucks his head between his knees because he just can’t take it.

And only questions run in his mind.

How does he make it stop? How the fuck does he get out? And how does he get to you?

—

The scratching on the walls gets louder the farther you go, like the walls themselves are caving in, or something is pushing on it from either side, but you keep going. You have to.

You think about Clark, where he is, if he even survived what the hell happened, or if this is all a trick. Maybe you’re all doped up on some acid and this will be something to laugh at your trauma in a years time.

But it becomes real again, because the things you’ve been seeing are new, they’re fresh. They’re not created like you’ve noticed before, like a dollhouse with things rearranged. Furniture and distorted versions of places you recognise, they’re entirely their own..

The writing.. It makes your heart pulse, because it’s his. It’s Bobby’s. You almost missed it, your shoulders hunched and feet dragging along the floor, but you looked up, a striking flash of colour in a dull room. In bright blue marker pen scraped on the inside with something sharp, like he’d realised halfway through he had something more useful.

KEEP GOING — B

You step to it carefully, and your finger traces the mark, drawing over the line where his hand must have been. The letters are edged and wobbly like his hand had been shaking, and blue marker drips down the folded wallpaper where it had been pressed too hard.

You can hardly take yourself away from it, but you have to, the writing’s big it took up your attention, but you know him better than that. All those times he’d doodle in your notebooks, taking up room on the page in sly, testing ways. Your eyes follow to the small arrow underneath the writing, and it points one way.

So you follow it without question.

The maze continues but you can only guess, sliding your hands across every wall just to peer and hope you’ll find another. It’s hours before you find another one again, but you do.

I’VE BEEN—

You only begin to read it when you pause.

Because it’s not the writing that you find first, it’s it. Long legs stalk the hallways with a thump, taking up every second before it moves again, and it groans, shaking the floor around you. You catch yourself around the corner, crouching backward into a shadowed area of the wall. The steps stop, slowing just as the floorboards beneath you manage to creak.

Your heart hammers, and your teeth clench so hard you think they might break, and you don’t care if they do so long as it keeps you quiet. Because the footsteps pick up, uncoordinated and unstable, but fast, like a toddler would. You hear it stumble across the floor, chasing to pick up more sound, but you don’t give it. Your breath quickens into your palm, you just hop its quiet enough.

But something else isn’t.

A loud crash, followed by a “Shit” echoes down the hall, and your eyes blow wide. Because that’s the most familiar sound you’ve heard. It rings in your head, and you play it over. You’ve heard that before. It’s startled and unsteady.

It’s Bobby.

You close your eyes to tight you can feel the pulse in your eyeballs, wanting to reach out, to crawl from the space and yell for him. But you can’t, there’s already a scuffle of shoes and the heavy thump of leg saunters slowly back down the corridor and further away.

—

Minutes have passed since that noise. It’s silent, deadly silent, and even though you’ve heard and seen it all, that’s worse. Because what if he’s hurt, or whatever that is has caught up to him, or if he didn’t even see you.

Your hand pulls shakily away from your mouth with an absent mind, crawling forward into your hands and knees from where you’d dropped yourself onto the floor. The carpet shuffles under your legs, and you slow when you make it to the corner, exhaling shortly before rising back to your feat. Your fingers grip at the wall, tighter than you need to steady yourself.

But ten feet away isn’t what you expected. Ten feet away in that endless yellow hall, neither of you can trust what you're seeing. But you’re there, and he’s there and breathing, sweat beads his brow and tears prick at your eyes.

It’s real and the eerie silence falls away, it’s gentler and hushed.

His leg stumbles as he goes to reach for you, dropping everything he has, and you barely make it fully into his line of sight before he trusts his gut more than he can take and collides with you.

“Holy shit.. holy shit.” He holds you like you could break, but not something fragile, something that could fall if he only let you go. And he won’t. His fingers clutch at your sides, your hair, your face, pulling you close just to pull back and look at you again.

“You hurt?”

He checks for bruises, cuts, any signs of anything that wouldn’t be right, frantic eyes taking all over you. There’s a few of them he notes, some minor scrapes you caught along the way whilst ducking around corners, and some you didn’t care to remember. But they’re minimal, just like his own.

And then he’s on you. Lips, teeth, everything.. because he doesn’t know what to do. His lips capture yours tender and sharp all at once, grazing your lip just to get closer where his hand cradles the back of your head.

He only retracts when you’re both gasping for air, faces barely inches away as your foreheads are left touching. “I’m here baby..” Your hands hold his arms until they wrap around his waist, steadying yourselves against each other. You try to come up with the words but after so long of running, the back of your throat is dry and coarse.

His palms slide over your cheek, thumbs stroking at your temples and wiping away dry and damp tears. “I.. found you.” It’s all you can manage, and it’s enough to make him pull you into him again. This time it’s tighter, your face pressed right into his chest and all you can see is fabric, not the outside, not the blinking of LED’s or the patterned ceiling, just him. He even still has remnants of his cologne, the cheap one he swears by, and you breathe it in.

Bobby tucks his chin onto your head, his own body fighting not to betray itself and collapse completely.

“You did.. I’ve got you now.”

You feel as if you could, that you could will this all away now that he’s here. But this place has to break it, and it knew how to throw the biggest curveball.

“Guys come on..”

A voice calls behind you, so familiar it has to be another trick. You don’t look up, you tuck yourself further into Bobby’s chest and keep your feet clamped tight to the ground. If you ignore it, it’ll go away.

“Clark..? Is that you man..? ” Bobby’s voice follows, seeing something that you don’t. You shove him, whisper between you not to, that it’s not Clark, that you both need to leave.

He doesn’t argue with you, but he doesn’t move you either, he just lets you straighten, stepping just to the side of him as his arm sweeps out protectively in front. He takes a half-step forward, both of you glancing up to where the lights start to jitter wildly and that’s when you catch sight of him.

He’s stood half at a corner, only one side of his body. His shirt looks the same, tucked and proper, and he looks almost calm, peacefully so.

“I’m glad I found you guys, I’ve got to show you something..”

“Clark what is this place..” Your head shakes for you, a clear no, and you speak up, reaching for Bobby’s arm just to stop him from inching too close.

“Everything that ever was..” He reveals himself then. And it’s nothing out of the ordinary, that’s the terrifying part. Because after everything you’ve been put through, split up and chewed up by a place designed to drive you insane, he is at one with it. The gap behind him is narrow, blocked with stacks of mangled chairs, and you didn’t notice before, but the wall behind you is coloured.

It’s different from the other walls. It has drawings and writing, like a mural. Most of them are small and unreadable, little notes and diary entries scattered in a frenzy, but one catches your eye. The biggest one. A tall, silhouetted figure claims the space, rising above everything else, and holding an even smaller figure in its grasp. There’s other colour. Blue and yellow and red.. Is that meant to be blood?

Clark keeps moving, slow and calculated, cornering you both as you circle each other. You kick Bobby’s foot as slyly as you can. He hasn’t noticed it yet, but he does now, eyes flicking to you confused into to follow where you point.

He tries his best to make it out, it’s all some messed up graffiti work, but it makes it’s point. Whatever it is, it’s showing something sinister, and what that is? It’s in here.

Bobby grabs at your arm, stepping you both to the wall as Clark steps past, moving toward you with his hands up. The narrow hall in the far corner groans, or rather whatever is at the other end of it does, and that’s when you hear it. The same thump. The same clatter and shuffling. It comes in patters, every drag of a boot inching closer until the noise steps louder.

All three of you pause without a word, Bobby’s fingers curling tighter around yours, eyes darting between the hallway and Clark.

“What was that..?”

Clark’s eyes don’t tear away from the space, he just shushes you, placing his finger to his lip, and for some reason you listen, because that much is clear. It will hear you.

“It’s only me.. you know me.”

You and Bobby look at each other, and you feel colour drain from your face. It doesn’t add up what it means. Of course you know him, you’ve known him all of what, a year or so? But it’s like some sick riddle, that neither you are in half the mind to piece.

“Uh yeah, I think we’ve had enough of this shit..” Bobby calls out, ignoring the screech that pierces from the other side of the wall, he just holds you tighter.

“No wait.” Clark’s hand goes to reach for your wrist.

But Bobby is faster, taking you in arm and propelling you both down the corridor. You hit into walls, your hands bracing them as your feet scrape at the carpet and try to keep up, but you keep going, and you can’t look back. You already know he’s following, chasing, calling out to you both that it’s not safe, that he knows a way out, that it’s okay to stay a while..

It makes your throat go dryer than it already is. He doesn’t seem like himself, not that he ever seemed a ‘self’ at all. Clark was always fantastical, ambitious, wanting to be everywhere at once and hating the world for holding him down. If that was even the problem. But he was kind to you, to you both, taking you into that store when no other jobs were taking applications.

And then customers grew less, and business hung by a thread, and things went awry. He started sleeping in the store, he was brash in telling you not to lock up and not to come in too early, and then he wouldn’t open it at all for weeks. He became a shell. One that you tried to break, and help, but he’d refused it, and he’d been content that way.

That was until he came to you both with his idea, with his “research”. Research that ended you both up here. A place where things felt surreal, somewhere where time didn’t bother to check itself, and right now where you weren’t sure where you were going to end up.

And it adds up, because you’ve lost count how long you’ve been running, just that the grip on your arm is sore, doors have been slammed behind you and Clark is no longer there. Bobby hides you both around a corner, guiding the way, running up staircases and down sloping floors that should be.

You finally stop in a smaller space, there are less doors and openings, less invitation from the things outside to come in. He releases you only for a second to shut what looks like a closet door with a click, crossing the space in a few single strides just to get to you.

“You okay..?” His back falls against the wall opposite, resting his head where he tries to catch his breath.

Your hand places over your heart, thumping and hammering beneath your rib cage, “No.. you?” He only shakes his head, looking up at you with an expression that puzzles you. Because he looks terrified, and tired, and hopeful all at once.

And he is.

He’s hopeful because he’s found you, that he can cross the room just to hold you in his arms again like he does. He’s tired because it’s been hours, days however the hell long you’ve spent in there with no food, no water and being followed. And terrified.. because things feel too familiar.

And that’s when you realised it, the room you’d found yourselves in. Not just any one, or one you’d seen like wandering the endless corridors, this one is different, this one you know.

The apartment is warm, oddly warm, as if heat and comfort could ever reach a place like this. But it’s not the temperature that makes it that way, it’s the way it feels. Everything is in place just like you remember it, like home, your home, the apartment on the lot in the suburbs that you and Bobby lease. That no matter how many times you complain about it, you wish you were there in it now. The unwatered plant pot still sits on the windowsill, your toothbrushes still sit in a plastic cup, his pot is shoved in the kitchen drawer.

Even some of your clothes hang in the closet, your bed still messy the way you laid it out and didn’t make it in time that one morning. Some of the chair legs stick too far into the floor, and the lettering on the cereal boxes that are empty are all wrong, but it’s almost there. It’s still remembering.

Remembering your space, remembering you.

It takes a while for you to even remember that the jacket Bobby’s wearing is one of your own, or it became it. It makes you smile, even if the scratching in your stomach grows impatient. Because this place is dulling your senses, and Bobby can’t bring himself to move an inch away from you to make sure that you’re real.

You’re going to get out of this place, you have to.

For now you just have to look past the open windows and shutters. The plain, yellow walls and what creeps past them are enough to make your brain go fuzzy. Bobby doesn’t stop moving, he paces the hallway of your parallel home with a disturbed determination, shoving his hand through his messy, golden hair.

“We need to get out of here..”

loving taglist: @starxs-s 💗

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this is so good omg, it's so anxiety inducing?? why was I actually stressed for them during this 😭😭

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500 followers?? Thank you so much for reading my silly little fics <3 I've currently got four fics that i'm writing, and I really hope you enjoy them!! I kind of want to do something to celebrate this milestone, so if you have any ideas, please send them 💓💓

[dreamed-dusk]

[dreamed-dusk]

Hey! Have you heard Choosin Texas bardcore version https://youtu.be/3aHhRDIxwig?si=nI-8AXExgI-6Ftck ? It made me think of your fics <3

Wait why do I actually like this 😭😭 the lyric changes are so good, I lowkey love the vibes

[dreamed-dusk]

moon song | Masterlist

Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.

Context: Modern!AU

Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, age gap

Main Story Posts

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V (coming soon!)

Miscellaneous Posts

Media Post I

[dreamed-dusk]

absolutely obsessed with moon song so far!! the story line is so unique

so sorry it took me forever to respond to this, but tysm <3 the newest chapter of moon song was just posted!!!

[dreamed-dusk]

moon song [iv] | Modern!AU

Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.

Word Count: 5k+

Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, age gap

Note: so sorry it took forever for me to update, but I should be posting on schedule from now on <3 my exams are officially over!!! more chapters to come shortly!!

Series Masterlist

<- Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ->

The words came out slurred, almost incoherent.

But the sheer violence of them wasn't muffled.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Aerion didn't have the strength to sit up, to move, to do anything, but he still tried. Hands grabbing blindly at the sheets that pooled at his waist, the foreign line that was forced into his veins, injecting Seven knows what sort of poison into him; his movements were desperate, clumsy.

You stopped him before he could rip the IV out, holding his wrists down.

"Stop it." You hissed out, trying to prevent him struggling but he was relentless, body writhing despite the pain that flared at each attempt. "You're going to rip your stitches open."

He let out a noise — half whimper, half groan, all weakness. He looked ashamed that he allowed the noise to escape, cheeks tinging pink as he continued to glare at you. You were unsure if his rouged cheeks were sourced from embarrassment or the suspected fever. He repeated the question, this time the words coming out clearer.

"Fucking shit—" He groaned out, the swears spitting out of his mouth as another wave of pain rippled through his body. "Who are you?"

He had stopped moving now, his fingers curling into the garnet silk as he tried suppressing another wince. He wasn't successful, his face screwing up. Everything just hurted so much — his chest, his ribs, his lungs, everything. Especially his abdomen, the skin prickled there, the pain was deeper, crueler.

You muttered a reply. His mind went blank when he heard it, trying to decipher the meaning behind it until he finally recognised it for what it was. A name. Your name. It was pretty, suited you well, but it meant nothing to him.

"That's not what I asked." He mumbled, the consonants slurring, softening. He continued to glare at you, or at least tried to. You were moving too fast, making him dizzy as you rounded the side of the bed going to something he was unable to see from his laying position.

"Someone your family kidnapped." You responded, not bothering to sugarcoat the truth as you grabbed the stethoscope once more, lifting the neckline of his shirt as you let the chest piece settle where his heart was, counting the beats. It was thrumming steadily, quickening for a moment when the cold metal kissed his hot skin, his body involuntarily shuddering at the sudden contact, but his heart beat settled once more. It was still faster than what it should have been.

He was quiet, unsure if you were lying to him or just making a weird joke, but the deadpan stare you gave him confirmed that you weren't.

You moved it lower, aiming for his lungs this time.

"Slow, deep breaths." You instructed, focusing on the sounds — it sounded mainly normal, except for the slight wheezing sound you could hear each time he inhaled.

You removed the stethoscope, moving to scribble your result onto a new page, ensuring to include a note about the patient being awake.

"You Blackfyre?" He finally asked, voice strained, his mouth feeling strangely dry.

You hummed softly at his question. You had heard that name far too many times in the past day, being mumbled like a curse. And even now when Aerion had said it, it was dripping in vitriol. You vaguely recognised it; you had seen it many times during your late night research, the name seeming to follow House Targaryen like a shadow, lingering on the sidelines. Far enough that you did not truly know much about the Blackfyres, but close enough that you knew there was history there. Hatred, to be exact.

It was deeper than simple animosity, harsher than just business ventures going wrong; there was shared blood, a certain permanence forged through relation. And that hatred seemed to never waver.

Maekar cursed it with anger, Aerion announced it with disgust — it was clear that this was an ancestral loathing that was being passed down generation to generation, and would certainly be inherited by the next.

"You're more stupid than I expected." You answered, keeping your gaze focused on the neat, equally spaced lines of your notebook, the ink swirling in the space between as you continued to write your observations. Clammy skin, looks pale. "Why would I be allowed to care for you if I was?"

You noticed his breathing becoming shallow, as if the very task of breathing was becoming difficult for him. You frowned slightly, shit. Was he getting worse?

He was quiet for a moment, and you could almost see the thoughts rattle in his skull, desperately trying to find a reason as to why you were at fault for being abducted. You suppose you were, in some sick twisted way. You should have never helped.

"Peake, then?" Aerion tried again, brows furrowing as he felt pain ripple through his chest with each breath he took.

"No."

"Then why the fuck would they take you?"

"No idea." You muttered exasperated, grabbing for the oral thermometer in the hopes that it would shut him up. Just for a few minutes at least. "Open your mouth."

He screwed his lips shut, forcing them into a tight line as he watched you with weariness, as if you were holding a dagger rather than a thermometer.

You were going to scream.

You closed your eyes, breathing in deeply, exhaling — repeating the motions once, twice. But still your head ached, and still you felt your anger flare once more. You just had to take care of him, ensure he wouldn't drop dead, and then you could leave. And now this loser wasn't even letting you do what you were abducted for? What you were being forced into doing?

He was pissing you off.

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately to not swear at him (and to not hit him either, which was becoming an extremely tempting thought).

"You were shot." You stated, your finger curling around the cool plastic of the thermometer as you forced your voice to remain stable. You pulled his shirt up, exposing pale skin and his bandaged abdomen as you poked at the very spot where the injury was. He flinched. "And I dug the bullet out. I cut your middle open to check if your organs had been blasted through. And I then stitched you up. If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done it then. Open your mouth."

He just watched you, eyes squinting as he tried to judge the weight of your words, to discover whether they held any truth. But thinking just made the room spin more violently, and he already felt sick.

Slowly his lips pried open, his gaze darting away from you as he allowed you to put the thermometer into his mouth, as if by denying you his attention he was not truly accepting defeat. The metal nudged against his tongue as you gently pushed it underneath the pink muscle. You held it there for ten seconds, the time seeming to drag as all you could hear was his shallow breathing.

You already knew the result before you had even seen the small digital screen, the square flashing numbers just confirming what you feared. 39°C. His temperature had jumped since the last time you had checked, and before you could control yourself, the back of your hand was resting gently against his forehead, gauging the temperature as if the thermometer had lied to you.

He moved his head at the contact, trying and failing to escape your hand (but he couldn't move much, and soon gave up).

"What's wrong?" He questioned, voice coming out hoarse.

You didn't answer him, instead turning to Dunk who had been lingering at the entrance the entire time, quietly observing you.

"I need paracetamol." You stated, ripping out a page in your notebook as you began to write the name of the antibiotics you needed, hesitating for a moment as you tried to recall the exact names and dosages. You offered the piece of paper to the tall man. "And, um, these antibiotics."

You had ensured your handwriting was legible, that each inked letter was clear and unable to be misread, but even then Dunk just stared at you blankly, his gaze darting from the piece of paper in his hand, to you, and then back to the paper.

"Ceftriaxone and metronidazole." You recited, your brows furrowing as you watched him repeat it back.

"Paracetamol, ceftriaxone, metronidazole." Dunk muttered to himself over and over, trying not to stumble over the syllables, turning to leave as he folded the piece of paper once, twice, placing it neatly in his blazer pocket. It had been written, so why was he determined to commit it to memory? It made no sense.

You turned to Aerion.

He had already been staring at you.

Observing you with a wary quietness, not truly trusting you. He didn't have to, the sentiment was shared.

"Am I dying?" He mumbled pathetically, and you rolled your eyes at him.

You wanted to reply sarcastically, to be cruel and mock him, but it was hard to be a bitch when he was watching you with genuine fear, his skin all pale and sweaty as he waited for your response with baited breath. It must've felt like he was dying, pain coursing through his body each time he tried to do something as little as breathing.

So you showed him some mercy, unable to find it in you to be mean.

"No. You have a fever."

You didn't explain what a fever could mean, that it hinted at another issue. That you prayed that you hadn't missed something during the surgery. You hadn't, right? You were certain that everything went well, but you could barely remember.

It seemed to have comforted him at least.

"Just a fever?" He repeated, letting you help him sit up, his back hitting the ornate headboard. Despite your gentleness, he still hissed in pain, a stabbing ache throbbing through his full abdomen, the air escaping his lungs. "Don't need meds then. Dragons don't take meds."

You stared.

One second passed, and then another. And you just sighed, choosing to ignore his words. It was the fever talking, it had to be.

(But with three separate dragon heads facing your direction, and numerous other examples of dragon paraphernalia dotted around the room, you weren't entirely sure. Was this dude a furry? You'd rather not know.)

'Mother Above, give me patience.' The silent prayer repeating in your mind as you began to lift his shirt, fingers ghosting his skin as you helped him out of it. The prayer had no value to you, and you felt slightly silly for resorting to muttering words you had not even recited since your father had died. But you were desperate and they helped distract your mind, even if it were only for a moment.

He grunted lowly as he allowed you to pull the cotton over his head, dropping the t-shirt on the end of his bed, the branded label flashing at you slightly as the fabric pooled by his feet. You would have to get him a new shirt, this one having the scent of iron and sweat clinging to the fibres.

You unwound his bandages, gathering the loose material as you disposed of it, your attention returning to Aerion's abdomen.

"Like the view, Angel?"

You frowned at his words, gaze flickering up to meet his only to find him smirking at you, his eyes sharpened with amusement.

"Oh definitely." You replied sarcastically, not even hiding the harsh eye roll you offered him. "The sight of deathly pale skin and blood really gets me going."

His smirk twitched slightly at your response, eyes narrowing. He didn't appreciate your sarcasm. But you didn't care, you weren't going to offer him sincerity, not when you hadn't slept in more than 24 hours, not when you didn't even want to be here. You preferred him when he was unconscious, when his brain was blurred with pain. When he was unable to speak.

He remained quiet as you cleaned his wound once more, your hands gentle as the skin twitched beneath your touch, watching as he tried to restrain his flinches. You noticed his sharp inhales, the way his fingers curled into themselves. You said nothing, but ensured your touch was lighter.

You wrapped his abdomen again, fresh bandages spanning around his waist, flush against the lean muscle, your arms wrapping around him in an awkward half hug each time the bandages circled his person. You were close, too close — he was able to smell the scents of your soap, something floral, something sweet, he was unable to pinpoint the exact notes.

He could only swallow harshly when you were at this distance, half sat upon the edge of his bed as you secured his bandages, ensuring they were tight enough. His gaze traced the contours of your face, the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheek. Brows pinched in concentration, a small wrinkle forming in the middle of them. The plush of your lips set in a tight line. His gaze lingered there the longest.

But you pulled back all too soon, mind distant as you advanced towards the large mahogany armoire, rifling through it until you had found exactly what you were looking for. It was a strangely difficult task, to find an old shirt that would be baggy on his frame, it seemed like the silver-haired Targaryen dared not repeat his outfits, all clothing items appearing as if they had only even been worn a maximum of three times. You had only wanted to find something that wouldn't cling to him, that would have minimal opportunity to disturb his bandages, yet it felt as though you had searched through his entire closet just to find one that had been bunched up into the corner — the soft cotton now a faded grey, suggesting that it had once been dyed black but age had bleached its fibres.

It was slightly wrinkled, evidence of being neglected and forgotten (yet its very presence suggested the opposite — why would this remain when it simply did not fit the evident pattern of his wardrobe? Why was this not discarded also?) The typography was simple, white peeling vinyl simply stating VSC below the minimalistic image of an anvil.

Aerion did not bother speaking to you after that, his mind going blank as he allowed you to manipulate his limbs, dragging the old shirt over his upper body, your touch ghosting along his skin, causing goosebumps to rise. He was unsure of what to even say, all he knew was that he wanted to speak more yet his mind was not allowing him to do so. And soon he yielded to the temptations of sleep once more, falling into the clutches of slumber, the thought of you drifting across his mind as he began to have hazy dreams of gunpowder and arsenic.

You watched as he slept once more, kicking off the slippers that Dunk had brought you last night, busying yourself with cleaning any scratches that marred your skin, evidence of your failed escape. You wouldn't be able to leave through impulsivity, that was what you had quickly deduced. And you could not appear irrational to the Targaryens either, yet that was easier said than done.

You could argue that you were the most rational individual within the premises, yet they still outnumbered you.

Fucking Targaryens.

You were not entirely sure how you were meant to handle this situation. Your mind wandered, what would Rowan do?

Well, firstly your best friend would never be in such a situation. She would have had the sense to ignore strange noises in the middle of the night. Yet if she were to ever give you advice for this situation (which unfortunately you could not ask, nor would you ever seek for you knew that it would be truly stupid to involve her), she would laugh and remind you that you were surrounded by men.

Men were simple, as she would often say. She would have been able to manipulate them all, with a flutter of her lashes and a pleasing smile, she would have softened Maekar's brutish nature and convinced the otherwise unwavering Baelor to allow her to leave.

But you were not Rowan, and it seemed as though these men did not care for your anger or your tears. Yet you could still try.

It was easier than you believed — it was not in your nature to soften yourself. Yet when you offered Dunk a hesitant smile accompanied with a gentle 'thanks' as he handed you the very antibiotics you had requested (the doses correct, the names matching the very ones you had provided), you watched with gleeful triumph as his eyes widened slightly, cheeks tinged pink as he stumbled over a reply. Yet despite the slight pride that ignited within you, you found yourself not even focusing on the man before you.

Would you be able to have such an effect on Baelor? A small voice in your head whispered that you wouldn't. That even if you fluttered your lashes at him and appeared meek, the brunet Targaryen would most likely quickly deduce your intentions. Your heart fell at the thought; he certainly would not be rendered weak by your attempts.

Dunk lingered near you after that small interaction, watching silently as you began to administer the antibiotics into his IV, his gaze fluttering over you when he believed you would not notice. You did notice, it was hard not to when the half-giant was hovering beside you, his lips parting slightly as he tried to will himself to speak to you, before dissuading himself.

You decided to rescue him from his indecision, forcing him to reply to you as you began talking half-mindedly, your gaze returning to his momentarily as you allowed idle conversation to fill the air while you settled once more into the seat by Aerion's bed.

He would avoid your gaze as he muttered hesitant responses, only allowing himself to look at you when he believed that your attention returned to Aerion, who was blissfully unaware of his surroundings.

"Egg did that?" You giggled, lips stretching into a smile that felt too real (it seemed as if you were manipulating yourself more than him, and you just tried to excuse it with your own exhaustion — surely you would be more clearheaded once you slept), watching as Dunk offered a soft smile as he recounted the story of how he met the young Targaryen.

"The boy's far more clever than me, and I hadn't even realised what had happened." Dunk complained, yet the way his eyes crinkled exposed his fond pride as he recounted how Egg had conned him into believing that he was just another Smallfolk boy. "Just that he needed help, and I gave it."

You hummed softly, tone teasing as you leaned towards him. "Yet you benefited from his scheming in the end."

"I suppose…" He mumbled as you referenced how he got his job as a Kingsguard, blush violently remaining on his face as cracked his knuckles, the room beginning to lull into an even silence once more. He wanted the conversation to continue, yet he was unsure of how to do so. He was never good with his words. He was simply glad that your anger seemed to have dulled.

Your gaze flickered down to his hands, tracing the scars and callouses that were peppered across his skin, accompanied by the very grazes you had scratched into his skin the night before. The skin still appeared raw, angry red lines that had scabbed over slightly, the skin slightly torn. Silence stretched as your gaze remained unwavering from his hands.

"I think…" You began slowly, forcing your gaze to drag from his hands, returning to his blue irises. "I think I need to speak to Baelor again, especially now that…" Your voice trailed off, watching as Dunk began to shake his head, your brows furrowing as he motioned a wordless refusal.

You interrupted your own trail of thought, slightly confused.

"No?" You questioned.

He had the decency to appear sheepish as he confirmed that no, you could not speak to Baelor. "He's returned to King's Landing, along with Maekar."

You nodded gently, steeling your expression as you tried to not react to the word return. They returned to King's Landing, meaning that where you were, where they had taken you, was certainly not still in King's Landing. Where in the Seven Hells were you then?

"Oh, okay." You replied, voice hesitant as thoughts began to whizz through your mind, only furthering the headache that plagued you. "Dunk, could you do me a favour?"

He visibly stilled at those words, his eyes widening slightly as his brain began to malfunction, stumblings of a reply exiting his lips.

"Um—" He stalled, his gaze fluttering away from you as you watches as his focus darted around the room. "Maybe— depends? Why?"

You forced the smile to remain on your lips, hoping that it appeared more fond than strained. "I just need to make a call."

"I don't—"

"Come on." You urged, your gaze chasing his as you leaned towards him. "You do owe me, Dunk. I'll forget about the full thing if you just let me."

You watched his expression with avid curiosity, observing through your lashes as his lips tightened, his gaze unsteady, fluttering to you, then towards a sleeping Aerion, and then towards the flying dragons carved into the bedframe. You watched as indecision wavered on his features, brows tightening as he prepared himself to refuse you once more. You interrupted him before he could utter those dreaded words.

"I'm not stupid, Dunk." You quickly interjected, trying to hide the nervousness that began to seep into your features, keeping your tone teasing as you stood up, grabbing his hand gently. He flinched slightly at your sudden touch, yet still allowed you to grasp his hand, "I'm not going to tell them about what's happened, I just need to make sure my family won't worry about me."

He bit his lip slightly, a small frown dawning on his features. "You're not going to mention any of this?"

"Of course not." You responded, immediately latching onto the semblance of an offer, intertwining your pinky with his. "I promise."

His gaze dipped to where your fingers were linked, and immediately you knew you had won.

This would quickly be evidenced by the fact that within the next second he was fishing his phone out of his pocket, offering it to you with slight hesitancy as your pinkies remained connected by your side as you snatched the phone out of his hands. You weren't able to discern whether Dunk regretted his decision, your attention mainly focused on remembering Rowan's phone number, each digit quickly filling the top half of the screen as you pressed the green call button, the device vibrating slightly as you waited. There was one buzz, and then another, before the familiar melodic tones of Rowan's voice disturbed the silence.

"Hello?"

Your heart soared at the sound of her voice, a part of you almost wishing to just begin sobbing, airing each and every complaint that had festered within you. But you couldn't.

Her voice called out again, the vowels dragging as her questioning tone filled the air once more.

"Helloooo?" She repeated, and you could hear the murmurings of a male voice in the background urging her to hang up. "I don't know, I don't think—"

"Rowan." You interrupted, your voice coming out more breathless than you had anticipated. "Hi, sorry, I just needed to call you."

She uttered your name in that same questioning tone, and you could hear her fumbling with her phone, no doubt checking the number that had called her.

"Babes, what— what's going on? Whose phone are you calling me on?" Her voice was laced with confusion, words stumbling over themselves only for your voice to interrupt her once more.

"Just using a friend's, but that doesn't matter. Just needed to—" You exhaled a sigh, taking a moment to recollect yourself as you tried to not stutter over your words. "Just having a family emergency, you know? Could you take care of the practice for a while? Message Alys to cover my shifts please?"

Your voice came out in a myriad of questions, trying to force your tone to remain even, to not expose any evidence of the nerves that were haunting you.

"Friend? Emergency?" She repeated the words back incredulously and you suppressed the urge to wince. She could tell you weren't telling the entire truth. "Babes, I don't understand, what's going on?"

"Ro, I am so sorry, but I can't talk right now." You avoided her question, instead choosing to feign urgency. "I'll explain the next time I see you, yeah? Love you."

You hung up before she could reciprocate any farewells, the phone emitting a definitive click as you abruptly pressed the red button, watching as the screen returned to Dunk's homescreen, a picture of a sunhat-wearing Egg sat upon his shoulders.

You let go of his hand, letting his pinky fall out of your grasp.

"Thanks." You muttered weakly, offering him his phone and a tight-lipped smile.

"Go to the kitchen." He blurted out, his voice surprising you slightly. "I just mean, you should go eat something, I can watch him."

"I'm not hungry."

"You should still have a break." He insisted. You hesitated for a moment, your gaze drifting over Aerion. Dunk noticed. "I'll call for you if anything happens."

"Maybe just for a bit?"

"Just for a bit." He encouraged, offering you a soft smile as he moved out of your way.

You quickly regretted accepting his offer of a break, immediately feeling disoriented the moment you left the room, feeling almost blinded by the stark marble that shone at you from every direction. You felt dizzy seeing something other than bloody crimson and ornate dragon heads.

The rest of the manor appeared foreign to you in the daylight, unable to discern which direction you were truly heading in. You were almost certain you had not travelled these same corridors the night prior, however, by some miracle, you somehow managed to stumble upon the kitchen.

Which had been filled by the rest of Maekar's brood.

They all stared at you as you entered, watching you wide-eyed as you tried to blend into the walls, pretending as if you had not noticed their obvious attention. You instead directed your focus towards the actual room (how enthralling, you were now being entertained by furniture), unable to ignore how it appeared awfully clinical.

Stainless steel and glimmering marble; it was truly a gorgeous kitchen, yet it appeared so sterile you were certain you could have performed Aerion's surgery here without having concerns of cleanliness or a lack there of. It appeared more industrial rather than familial, like the kitchen of an upscale Reach restaurant rather than a family home.

And like everything within the manor, it appeared unused.

Daeron broke the silence as he watched you inspect the double doored enormous fridge (yet despite the appliance being so large, it's contents were so bare, with only a few random items on each shelf).

"Made you toast." He offered, pushing the plate in your direction as he leaned against the ivory marble island. "Would ask if you want something else, but unfortunately this is where my culinary prowess ends."

You turned slightly, observing the two sad pieces of sourdough bread he offered. Slightly charred at the edges, yet the middle appeared strangely untoasted. Gods, why did you feel kinship with the toast. Just another thing the Targaryens managed to fuck up.

You grabbed the jar of raspberry jam, letting the fridge doors swing shut as you mumbled a soft 'thank you'.

You weren't exactly well-versed on abductee etiquette, instead choosing to abandon any attempt at small talk as you allowed awkward silence to fill the air, the only sound being your stainless steel table knife dragging against your toast, smearing the vivid tart jam across its surface.

And clearly the Anvil's children's were unsure of how to handle such a situation either. But seeing as they were the abductors, or rather related to the abductors, it only made sense for them to take the role of interrogators.

"Are you really a doctor?"

"You're so pretty—"

"—Can you look at Meraxes now—"

"—Are you going to be our new Mummy?"

You choked at the last question, the toast feeling as if it had impaled itself into your pharynx as you struggled to breath, unable to look at the little girl.

Daeron did not help, immediately falling into a fit of giggles at Rhae's question. But the young Targaryen did not see the humour within her question, and instead repeated it with increased urgency.

"Well? Are you?"

"No." You wheezed out, your face feeling as if it were burning. Seven Hells, fuck your fucking life.

"Why not? You're taking care of Aerion, even though he's mean. And you're really nice, and pretty. Do you not like my Daddy?" Rhae interrogated, head tilting as she peered up at you through her pale lashes.

Darling girl, I don't think anyone in their right mind would like your Daddy.

Yet you found yourself wholly and truly dumbfounded, unable to respond. Speechless as you could only just stare at her.

"Think she's a bit young for Dad, Sun-Rhae." Daella interrupted, immediately noting how shocked you appeared as she watched unimpressed, flipping though her magazine (the front page boasted the title 'The Maidenvault' and you quickly recognised the image of Kiera of Tyrosh pictured).

"So? Auntie Dany is younger than Uncle Maron?"

"I just—" You cleared your throat, immediately noticing how strained your voice sounded. "I don't know your dad, and…"

And you couldn't believe that you were even bothering to explain why you would never marry the man who aided in your kidnapping???

"—And she's just here to help Aerion." Daeron finally explained once he stopped laughing, yet that stupid smirk remained on his face. At least someone was enjoying this interaction. You certainly weren't.

And you were so tired that you couldn't find it in you to correct him. Sure, you suppose you were here to help Aerion, despite it being unwilling.

"Okay…" Rhae mumbled, her voice trailing off as she continued to watch you, her soft lilac gaze observing you as she looked unconvinced by the explanations offered.

"Okay." You parroted, voice weak as you tried to focus on finishing the toast before you, yet it felt as if your appetite had suddenly abandoned you. You were going crazy, surely that was what was occurring. Sleep deprivation did that to a person.

"Pleaaasssseeeee, can you look at Meraxes now, pleasepleaseplease—" Egg's voice caused you to jump slightly as you finally noticed that the bald Targaryen had managed to sneak up behind you. You gasped sharply, spinning to face him as his hands grasped at the hem of your shirt, tugging at it slightly.

"Sure! Why not!" You exclaimed, finally relenting to Egg's pleas, more so excited to finally escape the kitchen. You were certain that if you remained there any longer you would truly become insane. "Just bring her to—"

And before you could even finish your sentence, Egg ran off, darting out of the kitchen with such speed that you found your head spinning.

You just took another bite of toast.

Maybe you had already become insane.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist

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[dreamed-dusk]

[halidki]

dyanna dayne and her son aerion targaryen

[honeyoftheisle]

@dreamed-dusk

[dreamed-dusk]

no wonder maekar never remarried

[dreamed-dusk]

I feel like I haven't posted in forever, exams have been a bitch, but they're finally over!!! I promise the next part of moon song (and other work) will be posted soon and I'm going to finally try to reply to comments, sorry it's taken me forever <3

[dreamed-dusk]

Hey! This is Windintheivy, my account got deleted 😭. So I had to make a new one.

daphne!!! so sorry for replying to this late, just saw this now </3

[dreamed-dusk]

[dreamed-dusk]

omg ilysm ESPECIALLY ur daeron pieces are INSANEEEE. Also love to c a desi writer 😝 as a desi myself. Ur portrayal of all the charactersu write is SO BEAUTIFUL. Ugh i love ❤️

anon ily more!!! lol this has made me so giddy, tysm genuinely so happy you've liked my work <3 (and also love the fact that I've got desi readers?? kinship fr). I really want to write more for Daeron so hopefully there'll be more fics of him soon 💓💓

[dreamed-dusk]

when reveries consume | Daeron Targaryen

Synopsis: Daeron did not act upon the fear triggered by his dreams, deciding to fall into his cups in the hopes of warding them off. Yet when dreams of your fate begin to terrorise him, the Prince decides to take matters into his own hands.

Pairing: Dark!Daeron x Reader

Word Count: 2k+

Tags: Noble!Reader, Fem!Reader, captor-captive dynamics, slight Stockholm Syndrome?, brief description of injury, kind of manipulative reader (but is she really tho?), slight references to depression

Note: It's 1 am and I can't sleep, so this is what I'm doing instead. I'm gonna be so real with you, idek what this is lol. Loosely inspired by the stages of grief, if you squint?

You could not pinpoint when he had noticed you.

Perhaps that was your first mistake. Ignorance, he called it in that tutting pitying tone, yet the glimmer in his eyes exposed his unspoken truths. A certain desperation.

He would chastise you, claim that this had been for your own good. You were too trusting, too naive, he would claim, his hands busying themselves to ensure that the chain had been secured once more, the iron raw against your ankle, scraping against the redenned skin.

The constraints weighed you down, anchoring you to this cursed room as he was free to wander the rest of the Red Keep.

You had tried to escape many times during the early days, when you were still able to decipher how long he had stolen you for.

To test the strength of the chain links, slamming them against the stone floor as if that would cause them to break. And he would only sigh when he would return at night, a slight frown marring his features as he had heard steel against stone before he had even crossed the threshold. He would not say a word, simply gathering you in his arms, regardless of how you thrashed, regardless of how repulsed you seemed by his touch, gently laying you on the bed, the chain hanging off the edge, weighing your foot down.

But Daeron had been smart — the room was sparse, simply a bed and a slim window and nothing else. No ornaments you could turn against him, no chairs you could break for splintered wood to be pierced into his chest. Nothing.

Even the window seemed to have been another layer of captivity, the slim glasspane just allowing light to spill through in a narrow line, the shadows drifting across the room being your only indication of time passing. At night, you could not even see the moon, the fickle celestial body seeming to be just out of reach, the stars being the only thing to peer back at you.

And so you all you could do was wait, seated upon the bed, the iron of the chains chaffing against your ankle, the bone seeming to have yielded to the shape of the cuff. And he would come every night, wine-flushed cheeks and haunted lilac, seeking the comfort of your arms.

You refused at first, it was only natural to resent your captor. To fear him.

He was right, you supposed, you were ignorant. Ignorant of his intentions, ignorant to why he kept you here, ignorant to why no one seemed to have noticed. You were a noble lady, highborn and righteous — there must have been people searching for you. Your Lord Father would have been desperate, searching for you all over Westeros and even further south, oblivious to the fact that you laid a few corridors deeper within the very same castle he resided in.

You could not stop weeping when Daeron visited you the first night, fat tears beading down your flushing cheeks as you tried to hide your fear. You had not done so very well, flinching as he pulled you into your arms, hand splayed against the crown of your head as he forced you to rest your cheek against his chest, tears staining his doublet.

You had fought, struggled against his grip, pushing weakly against his chest, the iron chain scrapping against the stone as you tried to kick away from him, only for his arms to tighten around you, his lips pressing soft kisses against your hair. He whispered soothing promises into the silk of your hair, making a mockery of comfort.

"You will be safe." He continually whispered, as if your fear was sourced by some unknown entity and not him. The mantra a promise he was determined to keep, regardless of the cost. He would lay you on the bed once you tired yourself out, no longer able to find the strength to fight him. He did not join you the first night, silently retreating once he heard your breathing steady, your eyes fluttering shut, unable to fend off the seduction of sleep.

He claimed that it was for your sake, but you had learned to ignore his words. The Prince would ramble many things into the silence of the night, breath scented with saccharine Arbor gold, speaking of dragons, and fire, and unforgiving death. He always spoke of death.

His eyes would well up, the soft lilac clearer as tears beaded along his waterline. They would always spill. And he would always promise that he would stop your fate.

You would tell him that you would prefer it to what he had condemned you in.

And he would flinch and cry some more.

You did not care for his tears, did not care for his nightmares. You had prayed every night that he would drink himself to death, but you quickly retracted those prayers. He was the only one who knew where you were. If he were to die, you were to. Some cruel alignment of fate, he had tied you to him indefinitely.

So you had become cruel, spitting vitriol at him every time he came to visit you. You would deny him your touch, fleeing him before his hands could reach you (however you had to be fast for as soon as he would get you, you would find yourself trapped within his iron-grip). He would wallow in your words, crying again as your words sliced through his heart, blubbering apologies, begging for your forgiveness.

You would inform him that he would only ever receive it if he released you. He would always deny you of this.

He would claim, through unrelenting tears and choked sobs, that he would willingly endure your fury as long as it ensured your safety.

You would then ignore him.

You would learn that this was one of the best weapons you wielded. You possessed no blades, no maces, nothing to bludgeon him with, yet your silence inflicted more harm than any of those weapons could.

He would trail after you in those small chambers, following you corner to corner, your name a constant plea falling from his lips, pawing at you as you laid upon the cold mattress, his head burrowing into your hair, your neck, your bosom. You allowed him your touch, but that held no value to him if you denied him your attention, if you did not even turn your gaze to him.

He had managed to survive three days of this, before finally begging for you to look at him, to speak to him once more — to be cruel, to be vicious, he did not care, he simply wished to hear your voice. His knees pressed against the cold stone, hands grasping yours.

You allowed your gaze to travel to his pathetic figure, your mind numb to the stupidity of the situation. You were the captive, yet he was the one begging? It was nonsensical. His eyes widened once he realised your gaze met his, breath stuttering as he awaited for your response.

"Remove the chain." Your words a clear command, leaving no room for defiance.

He hesitated.

So you began to draw back, slipping your hands out of his grip, your gaze already fluttering away from him, instead travelling to the slim window, peering into the crevice of void that always stared back.

And so he stumbled to his feet, murmuring requests for patience as he dashed out of the room. He would return moments later, a small key hanging off a dainty silver chain. He knelt once more, trembling hands inserting the key into the small lock of the cuff, gently twisting until a soft click echoed through the room, the pressure around your ankle suddenly alleviating.

You gasped at the feeling, eyes closing as you settled into the relief it had brought. You felt weightless, your foot no longer being dragged to the floor as an unforgiving reminder. Yet this relief did not prevent the sharp stinging that circled the appendage. The skin had been rubbed raw, small lacerations littered where the iron had nicked your skin too harshly.

But you welcomed this pain. It was the most you had felt in days.

When days seemed to blur together, you welcomed any deviation, even if such deviations caused you ache and your blood to bead along the fine cuts.

Daeron frowned when he noticed the small injuries, grasping your ankle with a gentle reverence as he pressed apologetic kisses to each cut, lips becoming stained by the crimson.

You allowed him, head tilting slightly as you observed the Prince.

A Prince on his knees for you.

What a strange sight.

You had offered him fear, you had offered him anger and he had denied both with unwavering conviction. Yet your indifference is what swayed him. What would your love do?

Your mind couldn't help but wander as your hand slowly reached forward, finger brushing against his ashen blond hair, feeling the silken tresses, watching as his eyes fluttered shut, a wea sound escaping him. An almost mewl, almost whimper, as if he was unsure if this was another of his cruel nightmares, unsure if you were truly touching him.

If you offered him affection, what would he do with it? Accept it greedily and deny you once more? You decided you could not allow that to be the case. His head pushed firmly into your hand, chasing your touch as he remained by your feet, his fingers ghosting your calves.

No, you decided, he would not be allowed to simply take and take and take. You would have to control it — to dangle offerings before him, tempt him with sweet promises and lure him with darling reveries he would not fear, and then take it away from him. Offer them again, and remove them again; a cycle to create new habits. And the Prince already revealed that he was a habitual creature, always wandering back to this abandoned corner of the Red Keep even in his drunken stupors.

You pulled your hand back an inch, only for his head to follow.

You would teach him to crave your affection, to force him into being unable to live without it, and then, only then will you pull away indefinitely until he would return what he had stolen.

But for now you had to introduce the Prince to a new sort of addiction, offering him soft smiles and gentle words as you guided him to join you, his head resting against your bosom as you murmured mindless conversation to him, fingers still carded though his hair, nails scratching against his scalp as you lulled him to sleep.

He would awake in a sudden fright, rambling about dark wings and blazing heat, but you would soothe him once more and he would soon find that he was unable to rest without your presence. That he was unable to think without you around him, wandering back to your chambers more than what was logical (someone had to have noticed, you would ponder, that the Anvil's son disappears multiple times during the day, prowling to some forgotten corner of the Red Keep. You desperately prayed that someone would notice.)

And you would allow him to believe you had turned docile, that you had finally seen the wisdom of his fears, allowing him to do whatever he leased with you. To feed you with his own hands, dress you, even bathe you, allow him to believe that you had become as infatuated with him as he had you (and you feared that there may have been some truth to his beliefs, for why was your mind constantly thinking of him, why were you eager to know what he had done during the day, who he had seen, anything.)

There were times when you would allow yourself to manipulate the truth of your reality, that this was simply your home, and he was simply your beloved. And there were times it almost felt too natural, finding yourself seeking his warmth, his touch, his lips, letting him whisper to you of babes with your hair and lilac eyes, finding yourself blushing at the concept (he would always correct you, not a concept but rather destiny). But then you would catch a glimpse of the chain in the corner, awaiting for it to be placed on your ankle once the horizon began to bleed into softer hues.

And you would pull away each time these reminders would strike you, feeling as if you had been doused with ice water. Those were the days when you would refuse to eat, to drink, to do anything. Despite all his pleading, you would simply lay there, unmoving. Perhaps if you were on the brink of death, he would finally yield, you would foolishly think. And despite your strength dwindling, your drifting in between states of consciousness, he did not yield.

But he did break an unestablished rule. He allowed another into the chambers. A Maester he had bribed, a man who promised silence for a few glinting dragon coins. And death would not be able to take you from him, after all Daeron did promise you that you would be safe, even if that had meant from yourself.

When your strength returned, so had your determination. Someone knew that you were there, and hope flickered within you once more. Perhaps the Maester would keep to his word, the coin enough to allow him to turn a blind eye to this injustice. Yet it did not matter, this was simply proof that Daeron could be pushed to break his own rules.

Desperation was what had motivated him to succumb to his fears, and perhaps desperation would tempt him once more. He wanted a babe, did he not?

You simply had to be patient.

♤♡◇♧

[ghostlybfgf]

this was absolutely fantastic, the way you write omfg 🙏🫠

[dreamed-dusk]

ahh!! tyty, so glad you liked it <3