summary: When you confessed your love to the idiot on the hockey team and he rejected you like a coward… only to write you 22 letters later, ignore your silent treatment, and confess everything to you in the rain like he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie. Because of course, talking like a normal person is too hard, but declaring eternal love while soaking wet is totally reasonable.
warnings: Prepare yourself for some angst with a happy ending, fueled by heavy pining and absolute emotional constipation. This story features miscommunication (but make it dramatic) and, yes, literal kisses in the rain. Expect Logan being a simp in denial, lots of crying in aprons and on shoulders, and friends who consistently give much better advice than the main characters actually listen to. Fair warning: you will experience severe secondhand embarrassment, endure excessive dramatic monologues, and encounter plenty of swearing along the way.
a/n: hey guys, I’m back! I hope you like it. You have no idea how fucking much I love kisses in the rain. Sending you a kiss — I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. xoxo
part one.
'Cause all I know is we said, "Hello"
And your eyes look like comin' home
All I know is a simple name
And everything has changed
(Guys, you lost me.)
I don’t know what to do with this. With all this love I have for him. I don’t know where to put it now.
The world kept spinning like nothing had happened. And I hated it a little for that.
Every morning I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror of my room with that question stuck somewhere inside me, unanswered, with nowhere to go. Love doesn’t disappear just because you want it to. It doesn’t work like that. There’s no switch, no drawer where you can stash it and lock it away. It was just there, huge and useless, taking up space that no longer had anyone to belong to.
When was the last time I actually slept?
I couldn’t remember.
I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, but fuck, not talking to him had hit me hard.
I washed my face with ice-cold water until my cheeks burned to bring down the swelling, then I put on concealer under my eyes and a little blush so I wouldn’t look so dead. War paint, I told myself. As if calling it that turned it into something that required courage instead of just the small, sad act of trying to look like a functional person.
Today I finally decided to leave my cave—my incredible, comfortable bed—to dignify myself with going to work. One of the perks of your mom being the owner is that she really doesn’t care if you miss work. I think she’s even at peace when I’m not at the café. It must be exhausting to see me moving around like a ghost in an apron.
The walk was twelve minutes. Janis was still at the car wash, so I had no choice. I usually didn’t mind walking, but now I couldn’t stand those twelve minutes alone with my thoughts. Before, I’d spend them with music or my phone in my hand, answering Logan’s messages like a dumb teenager. Now I just wore the headphones without playing anything. Just the dead weight of them as an excuse for no one to talk to me. So I could be, for those twelve minutes, exactly as broken as I was before having to pretend I wasn’t.
I’d been replaying the same moments all weekend. The feeling of his lips against mine. His big, warm hands closing around my hips. The way he looked at me right before he kissed me, like he’d been holding back for years. The hoarse sound that escaped his throat when I kissed him back. Everything played on loop, sharp, cruel, perfect.
And then came the memory of the next morning. His voice in the kitchen.
“I fucked everything up.”
“I need you to leave.”
I shook my head and picked up my pace, as if I could leave the memories behind on the sidewalk.
“The only thing I learned that night,” I muttered, dropping my forehead onto the table with a dull thud, “was that I should’ve stayed home.”
We were sitting at one of the outdoor tables in the central courtyard at Briar, under a sun that felt way too cheerful for my mood. I had a coffee that had already gone cold between my hands. Sarah was nibbling on an apple with a bored face, and Alison was stirring her chocolate milkshake with a straw while listening to me repeat the weekend story for the thousandth time.
Sarah let out a snort and ran her hand down my arm in a caress that was supposed to be comforting but mostly looked like she was holding back laughter.
“What if he’s gay and just hasn’t realized it yet?” she whispered mischievously, leaning toward me.
Alison let out a short, dry laugh.
“Men,” she said ironically, clinking the ice in her drink. “Tell them you love them and you’ll never see them again. They disappear faster than my patience on a Monday morning.”
“God, my life sucks,” I lamented, letting out a pitiful groan against the cold wood of the table.
The silence lasted barely two seconds before Sarah leaned in closer.
“For God’s sake! You’re twenty-two years old, what do you know about life?” she exclaimed, though her voice had that protective tone she always used when she saw me like this. “You’re beautiful, smart, and never apologize for feeling things, for setting boundaries, or for having ambitions, babe. Got it?”
I lifted my head enough to look at her. Sarah had that kind of confidence I envied with all my soul: short hair, sharp gaze, and a tongue that could destroy male egos in less than ten words. Alison was the same, only more cruelly funny. Both of them were like a man’s ego put into the bodies of beautiful, fearless women. The exact opposite of me right now.
“Besides,” Alison continued, pointing at me with her straw, “if John ‘Eat Me’ Logan is dumb enough to let you go after you told him you loved him, then fuck him. There are more guys at Briar. Most of them are worse, but at least some know how to use their mouths for something more useful than babbling excuses.”
I tried to smile, but it only came out as a crooked grimace. I knew they were saying it to cheer me up. I knew their words came from a good place. But none of that took away the weight I felt in my chest.
“Who needs therapy when I have you guys? Hooray…” I said in a tired but sincere voice.
But then I saw him.
Logan was walking along the path that crossed the courtyard with that stride of his I knew by heart—not too fast, not too slow, that way of moving that had always felt somehow inevitable. Tucker was beside him talking about something, hands in his pockets, and Logan had his head slightly tilted toward him with no expression at all.
And then he looked up.
I don’t know if it was instinct or bad luck, but his eyes went straight to mine. Without searching. Without hesitation. Like he already knew exactly where I was before he looked.
His brown eyes locked onto mine.
And I saw everything on his face in the space of a second: the impact of finding me there, the tension that rose up his jaw, something that could have been relief or pain or probably both at the same time. He had dark circles. A tight line between his eyebrows that I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I had and just didn’t know what it meant at the time.
Now I did.
He stopped dead.
Tucker took two more steps before realizing and turning around. I saw the exact moment he processed the situation—his eyes going from Logan to me and back to Logan—and something in his face closed off with an expression that wasn’t exactly pity but was too close for my comfort. Logan watched me with a mix of pain, regret, and something else I didn’t dare name. He took an involuntary step toward our table, like his body reacted before his brain. Tucker, beside him, noticed immediately and grabbed his arm firmly, stopping him.
Logan didn’t even look at him.
His eyes moved quickly over mine, my mouth, the line of my jaw, scanning my expression with an urgency that almost hurt.
He didn’t even like me. Why was he torturing me like this?
His lips parted slightly and then closed. I could see him working inside, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers briefly clenched into a fist and then opened. His entire posture was a question. Almost a plea.
Give me something. Anything.
I felt my heart rise to my throat and stay there, huge and inconvenient, pulsing with a force that I’m sure showed on my face.
No. I’m not going to be the one who does it this time.
I can’t be the one again.
I looked away with effort, breaking the contact like I was tearing off a piece of my own skin. I lowered my head and tightened my fingers around my coffee cup until my knuckles turned white.
“I’m not taking the first step,” I whispered, more to myself than to them, though the words came out loud enough.
“Bravo girl, Bravo” Sarah said proudly, giving me a gentle pat on the back. “Let him crawl this time.”
----
J.L
I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands, feeling like my chest was going to explode. In my head, the same image played on loop without stopping: the way her eyes filled with pain. And then she looked away. Like looking at me burned her. Like I was something she could no longer stand.
Like I was something she could no longer stand.
The three of them looked at me in silence. It was weird seeing the guys so quiet. Disturbingly weird. Normally Dean would’ve already said some shit to lighten the mood, but even he didn’t dare. Garrett had his arms crossed and his jaw tight, staring at the floor. Tucker was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, looking at me… with a lot of pity.
How fucked up was I?
“…I ruined everything,” I muttered, my voice hoarse.
Dean let out a dramatic sigh and threw himself onto my bed like it was his.
“Yeah, we already know that. The question is: what the hell are you going to do about it?”
I stayed quiet for a long time. The knot in my throat was choking me. I ran my hands through my hair, pulling harder than necessary, as if the physical pain could organize the chaos inside me.
“I’m in love with her,” I admitted almost angrily. “I love her eyes… fuck, I love the way she looks at me like I’m someone decent. I love her hair, the way it falls in her face when she’s focused. I love her smile when she hears the stupidest thing that comes out of my mouth… like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to her.” My voice was shaking by the end. I stood up without really knowing why. I needed to move, I needed to do something with my body because if I stayed still I was going to explode. I stood in the middle of the room like an idiot. “She confessed everything to me… and I told her I couldn’t. What kind of son of a bitch does that? After what happened that night?”
Dean, for the first time in a long time, didn’t make a joke. He just looked at me seriously.
“Bro… you’re really fucked.”
Garrett moved.
He’d been silent the whole time, staring at some point on the floor, and that silence from Garrett was what had me the most nervous since they arrived.
He leaned forward. Looked straight at me.
“So what are you going to do now? Because avoiding her and looking at her like a lost puppy isn’t working.” He said it without cruelty, but without softening it either. “Listen to me, Logan. You’re a mess, I know. But you can’t go dump all of this on her at once.” He paused, choosing his words. “She’s hurt. Really hurt. If you go now and tell her everything you’re feeling, she’s going to think it’s pity or that you’re confused. You have to take it slow… but don’t drag your feet. Do it right. Approach her little by little. Start by asking for forgiveness. Be honest, but gentle. Give her room to breathe.”
Garrett continued:
“You know where she works. You should go. Not like an ambush, just you. Order a coffee, sit down… and talk to her. On her turf. No pressure.”
Tucker pushed off the wall. He nodded slowly.
“Fast, but careful. Show her with actions that it wasn’t a mistake.” His voice was calmer than Garrett’s, quieter, but just as firm. “That she wasn’t a mistake.”
-
-
-
I stood in front of the café door for almost ten minutes, hands in the pockets of my jeans, my heart pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out. The smell of fresh coffee and sweet bread reached me from inside, but it didn’t calm me. It did the opposite. It reminded me of her. Of her hands moving with that calm motion behind the counter, of how she bit her lower lip when she focused on making a latte.
Breathe, Logan. Don’t fuck this up again.
I pushed the door open and the little bell sounded way too loud in my ears. There weren’t many people. A couple of occupied tables and her behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. She was wearing the black apron she always wore, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with some strands falling in her face. God… she looked beautiful.
I approached the counter with heavy legs. She looked up for a second, her eyes passing over my face without stopping, like I was just another customer. No surprise. No pain. Nothing. Just cold indifference.
Ouch. I deserve that.
“A black coffee, please,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nodded without meeting my eyes and turned toward the machine. Her shoulders were tense. I knew that body language. She was holding herself back.
Say something, John. Now.
“…I need to talk to you,” I murmured, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “Alone. Please.”
She didn’t respond. The sound of the espresso machine filled the silence between us. She served the coffee with precise movements, placed the cup in front of me, and wrote something on the order slip like I hadn’t said a word.
“That’ll be four fifty,” she said, looking at a point over my shoulder.
“Hey… please,” I insisted, leaning a little over the counter. “Just five minutes. I know I don’t deserve even that, but…”
She took the bill I held out without brushing my fingers. She gave me the change with the same empty expression, like she was serving a stranger. Her eyes didn’t meet mine even once. It was worse than if she had screamed at me. That indifference was destroying me inside.
She’s hurt. Really hurt. Shit, Garrett was right.
“I understand that you don’t want to see me,” I continued, almost in a whisper. “But I can’t keep going like this. What I did… was shitty. I was shitty. I need to explain…”
“Here’s your change,” she cut me off in a neutral voice, placing the coins on the counter. Then she turned back to the machine and started cleaning again, giving me her back.
The knot in my throat tightened so much I thought I was going to choke. I stood there like an idiot, the coffee burning my hand and my chest on fire. I wanted to jump over the counter, grab her by the arms, and force her to look at me, to see everything that was eating me alive inside. But I couldn’t. Not after what I’d done to her.
I took the coffee and sat at one of the tables in the back, where I could see her. I wasn’t moving from there. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for as long as it took.
I’m not giving up on you. Even if you ignore me. Even if you look at me like I no longer exist. I’m going to prove to you that you weren’t a mistake. That you never were. That you’re the only thing I want in this fucking life.
-
-
-
“Hey, kid!”
A strong, decisive voice snapped me out of my sleep. I blinked, confused, my cheek stuck to the table and a trail of drool that didn’t even embarrass me. The café was empty. The chairs were already up on the tables and the main lights were off. Only the dim light from the counter remained.
In front of me was her mom. And fuck… she was just as pretty as her daughter. The same expressive eyes, the same way of tilting her head when she was half amused and half serious, the same hair falling softly over her shoulders. Seeing her was like seeing a more mature, confident version of her. It hurt my soul.
“What, you think this is a hotel?” she said in a half-mocking, half-annoyed tone. “You’ve been sleeping there for like three hours, drooling on my table. We closed a while ago.”
I sat up quickly, wiping my mouth with my sleeve, my face burning. I looked around desperately.
“Did she… already leave?” I asked, my voice thick.
She let out a soft, almost maternal laugh and shook her head while picking up a rag.
“My daughter left a while ago. She said she had things to do.” She looked at me for a second longer, with that warmth she’d always had toward me. “You okay? You look… tired.”
Ma’am, I’m trying to prove to your daughter that I’m not a complete son of a bitch.
“Yeah, I’m… I’m fine,” I lied, standing up. My neck hurt like hell. “I just wanted… to talk to her for a bit.”
She pointed at the door with the mop. “Come on, out. I have to open early tomorrow and I’m not leaving you here as decoration.”
I got up unsteadily, still half-asleep and with a sore neck. I tried to keep some dignity, but it was hard with the table mark on my cheek and my hair a mess.
She took the mop and gave me a gentle but firm push toward the door, like she was shooing out a big, clumsy dog that didn’t want to leave.
“Ma’am, I just—”
“Out, out,” she cut me off playfully, opening the door. “I open early tomorrow and I’m not tripping over you drooling on my tables. I don’t know what happened between you and my daughter, but I hope you can fix it soon. It kills me to see her walking around like a ghost. Good night.”
The cold of the night hit me as I stepped out. The door closed behind me with that cheerful little jingle that now sounded like mockery.
I stood there on the dark sidewalk, running my hands over my face.
How pathetic. Ugh.
---
“Hi…” The low, close voice startled me so much I let out a small scream and nearly dropped the cup from my hands. I spun around, heart hammering in my throat.
Tucker took a step back and clutched his chest with one hand, eyes a little wide.
“Fuck… you scared me,” he muttered, breathing deeply, clearly surprised by my reaction. “Got a minute?”
I didn’t answer. Instead I stood there, pressing the cup against my chest like a shield. My pulse thundered in my ears.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck, uncomfortable, and looked down for a second before speaking. “I’m sorry,” he said simply, with that calm but heavy voice. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
I looked at him in silence. Tucker had always been the quietest. Seeing him here apologizing squeezed something in my chest.
“It’s not your fault, Tucker,” I answered quietly, forcing a weak smile. “Really. You didn’t do anything. You don’t have to apologize for something that wasn’t your responsibility.”
He frowned slightly, like he didn’t fully agree, and still insisted, but before he could say anything I beat him to it:
“It’s okay,” I added, trying to sound firmer than I felt. “I’m fine. I don’t need anyone carrying this. Not you… not anyone.”
What a huge lie. I’m not fine. Nothing is fine. But what else can I say?
Tucker nodded slowly, still with that pitying look I hated so much. He stayed one more second, like he wanted to add something, but in the end he just murmured:
“How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”
Crack.
I couldn’t hold it anymore.
The knot that had been tightening in my throat for days, weeks, broke all at once. Tears flooded my eyes and I started crying uncontrollably, right there. Everything came out in a shaky, broken torrent.
“I really… I really didn’t want to like him,” I sobbed, covering my face with one hand. “I didn’t want to, Tucker. I tried not to… but it just happened. And now I miss him so much it hurts to breathe. I miss his stupid voice, the way he looks at me… I miss feeling safe with him. But he told me he couldn’t and… and I had to walk away. I needed to walk away. I don’t know how to keep pretending I’m okay when everything reminds me of him. He’s been coming nonstop, leaving these stupid letters I haven’t even bothered to open, and fuck, it complicates everything when I see him on campus… I’m drowning. I regret going to that stupid party. I regret confessing my feelings. If only… if only I’d held back a little.”
The tears kept falling, soaking my cheeks and my apron. I felt pathetic, exposed, but I couldn’t stop.
Tucker walked around the counter without saying anything. His steps were quiet, steady. Suddenly his arms wrapped around me carefully, pulling me against his chest in a warm, protective hug. I tensed for a second, but then I collapsed against him, crying harder into his sweatshirt.
“Shh… it’s okay,” he murmured against my hair, rubbing my back with slow, comforting strokes. “Cry as much as you need. You don’t have to be strong all the time.”
I felt pathetic. I admit I really tried not to cry, but I just couldn’t hold it back anymore.
When will this suffering end?
I had to rip it out by the roots.
Maybe not right now. When I’m ready.
“Eight days!?”
They said it at the same time. Both of them. With the same incredulous face that made the lady at table three look up from her newspaper and stare at me like I was the problem.
“Shh, lower your voices.” I leaned on the counter with my arms crossed and waited for the echo to fade. “Eight days in a row,” I confirmed, lowering my voice.
Alison and Sarah were sitting on the high stools in front of the counter, their half-finished milkshakes in front of them and that look on both their faces that meant they weren’t letting me out of this conversation easily. The café was quiet at that hour, only four tables occupied and my mom in the kitchen making muffled clattering noises from the back. It was the kind of afternoon I normally liked. Calm. Manageable.
Until they showed up.
“And what does he do?” Sarah asked, raising an eyebrow while pointing at Logan’s table with her straw.
“He writes.”
“He writes?” Alison repeated, like the word didn’t quite fit, looking at me with a “Seriously?” face.
“He sits down, takes out paper, and writes. At first I thought he was studying, taking notes, whatever. Something normal.” I grabbed the rag from the counter and unfolded it, wiping the drops of chocolate Sarah’s straw had left. “But then on the third day he slipped a folded letter into the tip jar when he left.”
Both of them looked at the jar. It was there in its usual spot next to the register, completely innocent.
“In the tip jar?” Sarah pointed out, still not believing it.
“In the tip jar.”
“Why there?”
“Because I was giving him the silent treatment and every time he tried to talk to me I found something super urgent to do in the kitchen.” I folded the rag. Unfolded it. “So he stopped trying and found another way.”
Alison turned her stool slightly toward Sarah. Then looked at me.
“And what do the letters say?” Sarah asked.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“What do you mean you don’t know?” Alison said slowly, her voice showing that something didn’t add up.
“That I haven’t opened them.”
“None of them?”
“None.”
Alison stared at me. Then at Sarah. Then back at me.
“How many letters total?” she asked, and something in her tone told me she was already bracing for the answer.
I wiped a part of the counter that was already perfectly clean.
“Twenty-two.”
The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
“Twenty-two,” Alison repeated, toneless.
“Sometimes he leaves me three in one day. He sits, writes, folds the paper, puts it in the jar, and starts again. Like he always has something more to say.”
“But why?” Sarah frowned, not in judgment but with the genuine confusion of someone trying to solve a puzzle. “I mean, what’s the point of him writing you letters if he’s the one who told you no?”
“Exactly what I keep asking myself.”
“And you have no idea what they might say?”
“None.” I shrugged, though the gesture came out a little forced. “Maybe it’s an apology. Or he wants us to stay friends and doesn’t know how to tell me in person. Or he just feels guilty and this is how he’s dealing with it. I don’t know.”
“Or maybe,” Alison said finally, measuring her words, “they say something that has nothing to do with any of those things?”
“Alison.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Well, don’t say it.” I grabbed the rag again. “He made it pretty clear where things stood. The letters will be what they are, probably something I don’t need to read, and when I get the courage I’ll open them and that’s it.”
Sarah rested her chin on her hand and looked at me with that calm of hers that always felt slightly destabilizing.
“Do you have them on you?” she asked.
Of course I had them on me. I’d been carrying the wad folded in my apron pocket since Monday, but I had no explanation that made me look good. I took them out and placed them on the counter between the two milkshakes.
Alison and Sarah looked at them.
“Can we take a look?” Alison asked.
I glanced sideways at the table in the back. Logan was sitting with Dean Di Laurentis, a ridiculously hot blond who had always seemed almost unfairly attractive. They both had muffins they’d ordered a while ago in front of them. Logan was saying something with his elbows on the table and Dean was listening, leaning back in his chair with that half-smile of his, like he found the world generally entertaining. Neither was looking at me.
I shrugged.
“Whatever you want,” I said, and turned to clean the coffee machine. “They’re probably just apologies or something. I don’t think they’re a big deal.”
I heard the rustle of paper unfolding.
Silence. More silence.
The kind of silence you notice because there should be some comment and worryingly there isn’t. There should’ve been an “aw how sweet” or “look at his handwriting” or anything, but there was nothing, and that nothing started to itch somewhere I tried to ignore.
I turned around.
Alison had the letter in her hands and an expression I’d never seen on her. It wasn’t exactly surprise. It was something quieter, deeper, something that had settled on her face while she read and hadn’t moved when she stopped. Her eyes were still fixed on the paper.
“Oh,” she said.
Just that.
Oh.
Oh?
She passed the letter to Sarah without looking at her, pointing to a specific spot with her finger. Sarah read. I saw the exact moment she reached that part because her shoulders dropped a centimeter, she let out a very slow breath through her nose, and then she looked at me with an expression that was half tenderness and half something pretty close to “oh, sweetie.”
“This…” she started.
“What?” I said.
“This is pretty…”
I leaned over the counter without realizing it.
“Pretty what?”
The two of them looked at each other like accomplices and let out a small laugh.
“Give it to me,” I said.
Alison picked up the letter from Sarah’s hands.
“No.”
“Alison.”
“Nope.”
“Come on, it’s probably just a long apology—”
“It’s not an apology.” She said it without thinking and then closed her mouth like she’d said too much. Sarah pinched her.
I stayed still for a moment.
“What do you mean it’s not an apology?”
“Nothing, forget it.”
“Alison, if it’s not an apology then what—”
“When you’re ready you’ll read it and that’s it.” She leaned on the counter with a firmness that left no room for negotiation. “And don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. This is something you have to read alone and at the right moment, not here in the middle of your shift because we pressured you.”
“But I didn’t even want to know—”
“And now you do, right?”
I shut up. She was right. Damn it, she was right, because ten minutes ago I was perfectly convinced those letters were probably some elaborate apology or a request to stay friends and I didn’t need to read them to know they’d hurt anyway. And now I was leaning over the counter with my heart doing weird things because Alison had said “it’s not an apology” in that voice and—
A shadow fell over the counter.
The three of us looked up at the same time.
Dean Di Laurentis was standing on the other side of the counter. He didn’t say anything. He simply reached out, took the letter from Alison with a calmness that left no room for argument, grabbed another from the stack still on the counter, and placed them in front of me with startling ease.
I looked at him.
He held my gaze for a second, nodded slightly like he’d just done the most reasonable thing, then turned his head toward Alison.
And winked at her. Slowly. With total and absolute premeditation.
And he walked back to his table with his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just dropped a grenade, leaving calmly.
The silence he left lasted exactly three seconds.
Sarah and I looked at each other.
Alison’s cheeks were flushed. Alison, who had once told a guy trying to hit on her at a party that his technique was conceptually deficient. Alison, who in the three years I’d known her had never lost a millimeter of composure in front of any male human being.
She had flushed cheeks.
She picked up her milkshake. Took a long, absolutely deliberate sip while looking out the window.
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered.
Sarah opened her mouth.
“Don’t. You. Dare,” Alison repeated without looking at her, with a calmness that didn’t match someone with cheeks that color.
Sarah closed it. But no one could wipe the smile off her face.
I looked down at the two letters in front of me on the counter. White paper, folded in three, nothing written on the outside. Just the paper. And underneath all of that, that phrase spinning nonstop: it’s not an apology.
If it wasn’t an apology, then what was it?
I didn’t want to know. Lies. Yes, I did.
It was past midnight. I was sitting on the floor of my room in my pajamas, with the twenty-two letters spread out on the rug around me in roughly chronological order of when Logan had left them in the tip jar. They formed a semicircle that completely surrounded me. From the outside it probably looked pretty bleak, but there was no one watching so it didn’t count.
I’d taken them out of the drawer where I’d been saving them one by one, with that weird mix of care and denial that didn’t make much sense if you analyzed it. I’d organized them. I’d been staring at them for a while, convincing myself that as soon as I opened them I’d find something manageable. An apology. Maybe several apologies, one per letter, with different wording because Logan had always been that meticulous when he wanted to be. Something that would hurt a little but that I could fold back up, put in the drawer, and move on with my life.
It’s not an apology.
Damn Alison.
I picked up the first letter.
I held it for a moment without opening it, fingers on the fold of the paper, staring at it like I could read through it. Logan had spent eight days sitting in the café writing things I didn’t understand why he needed to write.
He had told me no. He had chosen to reject me. Those were concrete, verifiable facts and there was no reason for any of this to mean something different from what I had already assigned it.
No reason.
I unfolded it.
Logan’s handwriting was exactly as I remembered, a little careless at the edges with some words crossed out and rewritten.
I read the first line.
I froze completely. This can’t be real.
“Oh, shit,” I said out loud.
Hockey.
I wasn’t really into hockey until I met Logan. Before, it was just that sport they showed on TV that my dad sometimes watched and that I completely ignored. Noise, ice, guys crashing into each other at speeds that made no sense. I didn’t get the appeal.
Now I know exactly how many points the team needs to advance to the next round. I recognize the plays. I can tell for sure when a referee is calling too many penalties and when a defenseman is being deliberately dirty. Which says a lot—and nothing good—about what John Fucking Logan does to a person’s critical judgment.
I sighed and sank deeper into my seat.
The stadium smelled of popcorn and that weird mix of sweat and excitement that exists in sports venues. The stands were full, Briar colors everywhere, and the noise was that constant, dull kind that after a while just becomes pressure. Sarah was gripping her soda cup with both hands like it was the only thing anchoring her so she wouldn’t lose her mind, while Alison had been taking pictures of a certain player wearing number sixty-six for twenty minutes.
Meanwhile, I just couldn’t stop looking at player number twenty-two.
You’re an idiot.
My conscience scolded me. We’ve hurt each other and I’m still sighing and staring at him like an idiot. Why can’t feelings have an off button? What’s the point of loving him if he doesn’t feel the same about me?
“You okay?” Alison leaned toward me with genuine concern that, in the three years I’ve known her, had never once fooled me.
“Perfect.”
“Sure,” Sarah said from my other side, without taking her eyes off the ice. “That’s why you have that face.”
I didn’t answer because I didn’t have a response that didn’t incriminate me. Technically, it was the idiot with number twenty-two skating on the ice who had unfinished business with me. Though “unfinished business” was a very generous way to describe a situation that basically boiled down to: I had made the huge mistake of feeling things I shouldn’t, he had told me he simply couldn’t (or didn’t want to) be with me, and since then I’d been trying to disappear from my own life as discreetly as possible.
I shouldn’t have come.
I knew it since this morning. I knew it the exact moment I opened the reminders app to see what I had pending and found “Briar Game — 8pm” marked in red. I’d written it down weeks ago, in another life almost, when Logan and I were still whatever we were before I ruined everything by being honest. And then, without meaning to, without looking for it, with that masochistic tendency I have and should probably work on with a professional, I went to the messages.
Just to see. Just to remind myself why what happened was the right thing.
And there it was, among three unanswered messages I had left on read with absolute cowardice. One that simply said: Hope to see you tonight.
The message that made me want to check my reminders list and the reason I was here tonight.
I should have ignored it. I should have stayed home with a movie, a pack of cookies, and some dignity intact.
Instead here I was, in the stands at Briar’s stadium, flanked by Alison and Sarah who were pretending—not very effectively—not to monitor me every thirty seconds, with my stomach in knots and my eyes fixed on one spot on the ice so I wouldn’t keep unconsciously searching for number twenty-two.
Because I was searching for him. That was the worst part. That despite everything, despite the days avoiding him and the speeches I’d given myself and the times I’d repeated that I was fine, my eyes found him on their own. Like they had their own memory. Like no one had told them the memo.
Logan skated well. That was the fundamental problem—that he was really good and knew it without being arrogant about it, and when he moved on the ice there was something about him that settled, that relaxed.
I looked away.
The scoreboard was two to one in favor of Briar and the atmosphere had that electricity of the final minutes of a close game. Alison had put her phone down and was standing without realizing it. Sarah was muttering something under her breath.
And then it happened.
Logan intercepted the puck in the offensive zone. He dodged the first defenseman with a turn that seemed physically impossible, the second with an acceleration that made the whole crowd collectively hold its breath, and shot.
Score.
The stadium exploded.
I stood up with everyone else. I clapped without thinking. Alison grabbed my arm screaming something I couldn’t hear over the shouts. Sarah whistled with her fingers in her mouth.
Then Logan raised his hockey stick.
He turned toward the stands with a smile—that smile I knew by heart and that right now was doing damage to me that had no name—and I saw it before I could prepare myself.
He pointed at me. What the fuck is that supposed to mean.
Straight. Unmistakable. With his arm extended and his eyes locked exactly where I was standing, like there weren’t three hundred other people in the stadium, like there was no chance he was pointing at anyone else, like he wanted to make sure there was absolutely no doubt.
The stands made that collective sound. That “oooh” people make when they smell drama from afar. And the commentator, the damn commentator, didn’t miss the moment:
“Looks like one of our favorite guys had his heart stolen tonight, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t cry all at once, girls—there are still more players on the ice—”
Heat shot up my neck to my ears in about half a second.
Alison let go of my arm.
Sarah turned her head toward me very slowly, still looking stunned at what had just happened.
They both looked at me. They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to. And thank God they didn’t.
“No,” I said.
I grabbed my jacket from the seat. I put it on wrong, one arm inside out, and fixed it with more violence than necessary. My stomach was in a tight knot, my cheeks were burning, and my ears were ringing. I needed to get out of there.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I lied.
“Sure,” Alison said, glancing sideways at Sarah, who returned a worried look.
Neither of them made a move to follow me.
I went down the stands almost tripping twice, dodged three groups of people still celebrating, pushed the exit door with both hands, and the cold air hit me in the face the second I stepped out. Honestly, it was a relief. I needed that hit. I needed something to remind me that it was real, that I was real, that what had just happened inside that sweaty, noisy stadium had also been real.
He had pointed at me. In front of everyone. What the fuck.
I’m overthinking this.
I shouldn’t let it affect me. I shouldn’t let it break my decision to stay away from him.
I closed my eyes for a second and the commentator’s voice came back like a horrible echo: “Looks like one of our favorite guys got shot by Cupid tonight, don’t cry ladies—”
I wanted to die. For real. Not metaphorically. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole and not even spit out the bones.
I started walking fast. Then faster. The parking lot was dark and the streetlights made those blurry orange spots that multiplied on the wet asphalt, and I was only thinking about getting to the car, getting inside, and crying with dignity where no one could see me. I had parked Janis in the fifth circle of hell because I arrived late and there were no spots nearby, so when I finally found her I was going to be completely soaked.
Good. Perfect. Great. And it was raining.
Not just raining. Pouring. Like the entire universe had decided that tonight wasn’t humiliating enough and needed a little more drama. The water soaked my hair in seconds, ran down my neck, my shoulders, got into my shoes. Good. Perfect. Great.
I kept walking.
I had spent entire days convincing myself that what we had was just a friendship I had misinterpreted, that I had seen things where there was nothing, that when he told me no—when he simply told me he couldn’t give me what I wanted—it was the most honest truth anyone had told me in a long time. I had forced myself to accept it. I had forced myself to keep functioning.
And then he scored and pointed at me. Son of a bitch.
“Wait!”
I stopped.
I didn’t want to have stopped. It was a reflex, a betrayal by my own body recognizing that voice before my brain could tell it no, to keep walking, to pretend to be deaf, to die a little.
I turned slowly.
Logan was running toward me. With his hair completely stuck to his face and still in his team uniform darkened by the water, and his eyes—God, his eyes—searching for me with an urgency I didn’t understand, didn’t want to understand. Didn’t want to understand.
Wait.
Did he just leave his game? Just to talk?
“Stop,” he said when he reached me, breathing hard. “Please, stop.”
I looked at him. I tried to make my face say nothing. I tried to be a wall. I swear.
“Logan.” My voice sounded calmer than I felt. That was the only miracle of the night. “Seriously, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to apologize or explain anything, okay? It was me. I misread things, I was stupid, and—” I swallowed. “And when you told me about Hannah and I felt this bad, that was my problem. Not yours. So really, seriously, you can go back inside and—”
“For God’s sake, shut up.”
I blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Shut up.” He didn’t say it cruelly. He said it with something like desperation, jaw tight, eyes bright, rain running down his face like it didn’t exist. “Don’t regret anything. Please. Don’t.”
“Logan, I just—”
“I realized too late that she wasn’t you.” His skin was wet from the rain too (obviously), and one drop hung from the tip of his nose, about to fall. His brown eyes traced my face, moving over my eyes, my cheeks, and my mouth, before he said in a hoarse voice:
“I ruined everything.” He ran a hand through his soaked hair, a nervous, desperate gesture, like he didn’t know what to do with his own body. “I didn’t want Hannah. I never did. I just wanted someone to love, someone to spend the rest of my days with, and I was such an incredibly idiot, so completely blind, that I didn’t realize the person I actually loved was standing right in front of me.”
“Logan, stop—”
“It’s you.”
Oh God. My heart stopped. Literally. I swear it stopped.
“Stop—”
“And if your feelings are still the same, if you still love me, then right now—” his voice cracked a little there, just a little, but I heard it, I heard it clearly over the rain—“right now I’m telling you I want to spend the eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours, the five hundred and twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes of every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days with you.”
The rain was starting to get heavier. The parking lot lights became orange and white spots behind him and I didn’t know if what was running down my cheeks was water or tears and honestly it didn’t matter anymore because no one was going to notice anyway.
“Don’t pity me,” I said, and my voice was no longer calm. “Don’t. You don’t have to—” I bit my lip. I was nervous, mostly because I really wanted to tell him how I felt and what I wanted. I took a deep breath and he cut me off instantly.
“Every single one,” he continued, like he hadn’t heard me, or like he had heard me perfectly and decided to ignore it. “No exceptions. No conditions. If I stay quiet, if I let another day go by without telling you that you’re the only thing that has made constant sense, I’m going to spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself.”
“Stop, Logan, seriously, stop—”
“And I’m not going to let you give this story that ending.”
He took one step closer. Just one. But I felt it in my chest like he had closed miles.
“Nor will I allow myself to give our story an ending.” His voice had something broken and something completely certain at the same time and I didn’t understand how those two things could coexist. “A story that hasn’t even begun and that I’m already anxious to know the next chapter of. I’d rather die tomorrow knowing I loved you than live a hundred years wondering what it would’ve been like to be with you.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“Even it would be an honor if you broke my heart. Over and over, as many times as it took. Because even broken, even in pieces—” he paused and looked at me, and in his eyes there was something I had never seen before, something I recognized because it was exactly what I had felt all these months—“my heart would come back to you. Thirsty. Without conditions. Without holding anything back.”
My hands were shaking.
“I’ve always been a better person when I’m near you.” He said that lower, almost to himself, and it was what hurt me the most because I believed him. I believed him without wanting to. “And that’s something I haven’t told anyone until now. Because my heart is yours. Not from today. From way before I had the courage to admit it.”
He closed the last few feet between us.
“Forgive me. I’m asking you please.”
I shook my head. I tried to articulate something coherent.
“Don’t… don’t do this to me.” It came out broken, fuck. “Don’t do this to me now that I had already… that I had already…”
“What do you want me to do?” he cut in, and there was something urgent in his voice, something bordering on a plea. “Do you want me to pull the fucking moon down for you? I’ll become an astronaut for you. Tell me. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”
The rain pounded my shoulders.
“But I love you,” he said. “And that’s not going to change.”
I don’t know how long I stood there without saying anything. It could have been ten seconds or ten years and neither would have surprised me. I only heard the rain and my own breathing and the beating of something I had been trying to kill for weeks by ignoring it.
It was still there.
Stubborn. Damn stubborn heart. Damn body that doesn’t listen. Damn it.
I threw myself at him, wrapped both arms around his neck, and pressed my lips to his. The smell of his cologne mixed with the rain and completely intoxicated me. John froze for a second, motionless while my mouth was pressed against his. I thought, too late, that maybe he didn’t.
Shut up. He literally just bared his heart to you.
But then, as if lightning had struck him, John took a breath and cupped my face with his hands. He was kissing me back. I was kissing John Logan and he was kissing me. I went from being scared and breathless to a fire burning inside me in an instant.
John tilted his head and kissed me the way John was supposed to kiss—wild, and sweet, and entirely too confident in himself, all at the same time. He knew exactly what he was doing when his big hands slid into my hair, but it was the shudder in his breath and the slight tremble in his hands that drove me crazy. The fact that he had lost control as much as I had.
John pulled me even closer until we were pressed together, chest to chest. For the first time in my life, I understood why people said they could forget where they were, and he gave me a little bite on my lower lip, and then I touched his face, felt the rigid solidity of his jaw, and he kissed me like it was his job and he wanted a raise. He made a sound when I sank my fingers into his hair, like he liked it, and I wished it would keep raining like this forever, and never stop. Until he said my name, until he whispered it against my lips three times, I didn’t come back to reality.
“Huh?”
I opened my eyes, but my vision was unfocused.
Logan laughed. Softly, with his forehead almost resting against mine, his thumbs still on my cheeks, he laughed in that way of his that crinkled his eyes and that I had secretly collected for months like they were worth something.
They were. God, how much they were worth.
“Your name,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I was calling you by your name.”
“Yeah.” I blinked. “I know. It’s just…”
“What?”
I looked at him. With his hair completely soaked and stuck to his forehead and that expression on his face I had never seen and now couldn’t stop looking at. The rain kept falling on both of us with that absolute indifference water has, that doesn’t distinguish between the most important moment of your life and any other Tuesday.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“Look,” I said, “I’m not… I mean, I’m not good at this. At saying things. The important things, I mean, the ones that really…” I made a vague gesture with my hand that meant nothing concrete. “You just told me a bunch of really big things and I’ve spent weeks convinced that this was all in my head and that you didn’t… that there was nothing and…” I breathed. “And right now my brain is completely fried and the words aren’t coming out in the right order.”
Logan didn’t say anything. He just looked at me.
“But I love you,” I blurted out, all at once, without elegance, without the firm voice I would have wanted. “I mean, I love you a lot. Too much, probably. For longer than I think is smart to admit out loud. And I tried to let it go, I really did, but it turns out I’m pretty bad at letting go of things that matter to me and you matter to me an amount that frankly seems excessive for my own well-being and—”
“Hey,” Logan said.
“What?
“Shut up.”
And he kissed me again. And for the first time I was glad I had parked Janis so far away.
Summary: You’re an introverted medic in Task Force 141, comfortable talking to everyone except Ghost — who somehow makes you so nervous you can’t look him in the eyes. Ghost secretly finds it adorable.
Simon “Ghost” Riley x Introverted!Reader — “Eyes Up Here”
Part 1 , Part 2
- ———
You were never shy—at least, that’s what you told everyone.
You just preferred quiet. Preferred not being the center of attention. Preferred slipping into the background where people didn’t look too closely.
It worked with almost everyone in 141.
Soap? Easy. He talked enough for three people. Gaz? Chill, easy-going, made conversations feel like breathing. Price? Respectful, calm, fatherly.
Ghost?
…Ghost was the problem.
Not because he ever did anything wrong.
But because every time he stood near you—silent, broad-shouldered, cold eyes watching—you forgot basic human functions.
You could chat comfortably with the squad, but the second Simon Riley stepped into the room your eyes would immediately find anything else: the wall, your boots, the table. Never his face.
And Ghost noticed.
He always noticed.
Today was no different. Everyone was gathered around the briefing table, exhaustion thick after a long mission. You stood beside him only because Soap shoved you there when Price called for everyone to squeeze in closer.
You risked a glance up—only for your gaze to stop somewhere at his jawline.
Ghost raised a brow behind the mask.
“My eyes are up here, y’know.”
Your heart stopped. Your voice completely abandoned you.
You swallowed, cheeks burning, and looked away without saying a word.
Ghost’s stare lingered for a long moment—long enough that Soap nudged him.
When the meeting ended and you escaped the room like your life depended on it, Ghost watched you leave.
“Cute,” he muttered under his breath.
Soap turned. “What was that?”
Ghost immediately cleared his throat. “Nothin’. Focus on the brief, Sergeant.”
Soap smirked. He knew exactly what he heard.
Later in the base…
Your room was your sanctuary.
After patching up 141 all day, you showered, changed into soft pyjamas—tank top, loose shorts—and finally let yourself breathe.
Music played softly through your speaker.
Venus – Bananarama.
You loved this song.
Knew every beat, every little hip movement. So you danced. Freely, confidently, alone—spinning, shaking your shoulders, mouthing the lyrics with a grin.
For once you weren’t medic of 141.
You were just… you.
You didn’t know the door had cracked open.
You didn’t hear the quiet chuckle.
Ghost leaned on the frame, arms crossed, mask slightly lifted in amusement you never got to see.
He watched you—watched you—absolutely owning your little private performance.
He hadn’t expected this from you. The shy one. The one who could barely look him in the eye.
But damn… you were adorable.
When you twirled with a little dramatic pose, he bit back a real laugh.
Then he stepped away, shaking his head with a soft grin.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t know she had that in her.”
Summary: Everyone else gets to let go, why can't you?
Pairing: Jeremy Gilbert x fem!reader
Warnings: Alcohol use, supportive/fluffy Jer <3
Word count: 1.9K
Masterlist | Jeremy's Playlist
The Mystic Grille is quieter now, the once-loud chatter reduced to a low murmur. The smell of spilled beer and fried food lingers in the air, mixing with the faint scent of liquor on your skin. You should have left hours ago. Your friends had already gone home, one by one, telling you to text them when you got back.
But you weren’t ready to leave yet.
Not yet.
You weren’t drunk when they left, just pleasantly buzzed. But then you ordered another drink. And another. Because tonight—for once—you weren’t the responsible one. You weren’t the one making sure everyone got home safely, the one holding back someone’s hair as they puked outside, the one keeping it all together.
Tonight, you were free.
Well… sort of.
You swayed slightly in your seat, staring at your knee with deep concentration. Had knees always looked like that? Like, kind of… knobby and awkward? That was a lot of responsibility for a knee.
A snort of amusement came from across the bar. “You good, or do I need to cut you off?”
You looked up—well, attempted to look up—and found Matt Donovan standing behind the bar, arms crossed, giving you the kind of look that screamed ‘I’ve seen this before, and it never ends well.’
You pouted dramatically. “Matty, do you think knees are weird?”
Matt sighed, shaking his head. “Alright. You’re done.”
You huffed but didn’t protest when he slid your glass away, replacing it with a cup of water. He didn’t have to babysit you—he had enough on his plate—but Matt had always been the kind of guy to look out for others, even when it wasn’t his responsibility.
Which, ironically, made you think of someone else.
Without really thinking, you pulled out your phone, your fingers fumbling clumsily over the keyboard. Jeremy’s name was already open in your messages. Your safe person. The one who always had your back.
You: U evr think abt how weird knees are???? Like??? They just bend?? But backward wuld be so cursed lol
Matt was wiping down the counter when your phone buzzed. You squinted at the screen.
Jer: Where are you?”
Before you could respond, Matt leaned over the bar top and caught a glimpse. “Tell me you didn’t just text Jeremy about knees.”
You held up a finger. “Correction. I texted Jeremy about the mysteries of knees.”
Matt muttered something under his breath and quickly plucked the phone from your hand. He shoeved it into his back pocket and grabbed his own phone. “Yeah, okay. I’m calling you a ride.”
You gasped. “Matt Donovan, how dare you betray me?”
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” he said dryly.
You stuck out your tongue but didn’t argue. Instead, you focused intently on Matt as he moved behind the bar, and how his knees bent every time he moved. You couldn’t help the giggle that escaped your lips.
Matt only rolled his eyes at you before glancing down at his phone again. Still nothing.
He had messaged the group chat with all of your friends—Stefan, Elena, Caroline, Bonnie, Tyler, Jeremy. Someone had to answer. But the minutes had stretched on, and his phone remained frustratingly silent.
By the time Jeremy pushed open the door to the Mystic Grille, the place had mostly cleared out. The low hum of conversation had dwindled to a few lingering patrons, and the faint scent of restaurant grade cleaner and fried food clung to the air. Matt was wiping down tables, his movements slow and methodical, but he straightened the moment he spotted Jeremy.
His expression was unreadable at first—just tired, maybe a little exasperated—but as Jeremy stepped closer, the flicker of relief was obvious.
“She’s been like this for the past hour,” Matt said, jerking his head toward you. “I cut her off, but I wasn’t exactly able to leave and take her home in the middle of my shift.” Matt glanced over at you then.
Jeremy followed his gaze and immediately sighed. There you were, sitting at the bar, lazily tracing patterns on the wood, giggling to yourself.
Matt let out a breath, shaking his head. “I texted everyone. Not a damn response. Guess you’re the only one who gives a crap,” Matt remarked, tossing the rag over his shoulder.
Jeremy pressed his lips together, something unreadable flickering across his face. He gave Matt a grateful nod, and he just shrugged and went back to work bussing empty tables.
Jeremy walked over, leaning against the bar beside you. “Hey there. Need some help?”
You blinked up at him, your expression shifting from confusion to sudden, dramatic seriousness.
“Jeremy. You don’t understand.” You motioned toward your knee. “Knees are just… so weird.”
Matt snorted from as he moved behind the bar. Jeremy just sighed. “Uh-huh. And how many drinks did you have before you made this discovery?”
You frowned in concentration, attempting to count on your fingers. Then you sighed dramatically. “Too many. I think I’m… intoximated.”
Jeremy huffed a quiet laugh, but his amusement quickly faded as he got a better look at you—your flushed cheeks, the daze in your eyes, the way you swayed even while sitting.
You were more than just tipsy.
Jeremy exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, that’s enough, trouble,” he said, reaching for your arm. “Let’s get you home before you start questioning elbows too.”
Matt gave him a knowing look but didn’t intervene as you pulled back stubbornly, shaking your head. “Nooo, I’m fine. I can totally—totally walk home. My legs still work, see? Watch this.”
Matt muttered, “Here we go,” just as you pushed yourself off the barstool.
For a brief second, it seemed like you had it under control. You even managed one whole step—maybe two. But then your knees buckled—stupid, useless knees—and the floor suddenly felt a lot closer than it should have been.
Before you could face-plant in front of the few remaining people in the Mystic Grille, strong hands caught you around the waist, steady and sure. Your fingers instinctively fisted into Jeremy’s jacket, gripping the worn fabric like a lifeline as the world tilted around you.
You blinked up at him, your wide-eyed surprise quickly melting into something else—something warm, something hilarious. A giggle bubbled out of you, then another, until you were full-on laughing against his chest. “Okay, maybe… maybe I can’t walk.”
Jeremy sighed, adjusting his hold on you, but there was the tiniest twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, no kidding.”
From behind him, Matt let out an unimpressed snort, shaking his head. “Yeah, she’s your problem now.” He crossed his arms but didn’t bother hiding the smirk on his face.
Jeremy glanced down at you, still giggling against him, and exhaled. “Yeah,” he muttered, shifting his grip to keep you steady. “I got her.”
Matt stared for a moment, his face caught somewhere between sympathy and amusement. “Good luck, man.”
The warm night air hit you the second you stepped outside, making the alcohol in your stomach turn. Jeremy kept a hand resting on your back, steering you toward his car, but with every step, he could feel your mood shifting.
Your laughter had faded.
Your steps slowed.
Something weighed on you, something heavy, and Jeremy felt it in the way you suddenly pulled away from his grip.
You turned to face him, your expression raw, your hands balling into fists at your sides. You swayed slightly.
“Why?” The laughter was gone from your voice. It wavered, breaking just slightly. “Why can’t I just have fun for once? Why does it always have to be me taking care of everyone else?”
Your breath came quicker now, uneven, your emotions unraveling too fast for you to catch them. You swiped at your face, as if angry with yourself for feeling this way, but the words kept coming, spilling out like you had no control over them anymore.
“I’m always the one holding everything together, Jeremy. Always.” Your voice cracked, frustration thick in every syllable. “When Elena can’t handle her grief, I sit with her. When Stefan falls off the wagon, I’m the one making sure he doesn’t completely lose himself. When Caroline has some new drama, or needs help with some stupid event, I show up!”
Jeremy’s stomach twisted as he watched you unravel.
You let out a bitter, breathless laugh, shaking your head. “And it’s not that I don’t love them. I do. But—” You inhaled sharply, your hand sweeping out toward the empty space outside the Mystic Grille, where no one was waiting, no one was there. “But where the hell are they now?”
Jeremy had no answer.
Because he had been wondering the same damn thing since Matt’s message to the group chat popped up on his phone, and no one else responded.
Your eyes flickered to him, glassy and desperate, like you weren’t even sure you should be saying this out loud. “Why is it only you?” The words were quiet, almost a whisper. “Why is it only ever you?”
Jeremy swallowed hard, his chest tightening at the weight of your words.
You had spent so long being strong for everyone else that no one thought to be strong for you.
And it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.
Jeremy exhaled, stepping closer, his voice softer now. “I don’t know why they’re not here.” He was careful, measured, like he knew one wrong move would break you completely. “But I am.”
You blinked up at him, breath hitching.
Jeremy hesitated for only a second before reaching out slowly, his hand open, waiting. “You’ve been taking care of everyone else for so long. Let me take care of you for once, okay?”
You stared at him, unsteady, the last of your walls threatening to crack. And then, finally, you exhaled shakily, placing your hand in his.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Jeremy kept glancing at you as he drove, his grip tight on the wheel.
You were quiet now, your head resting against the window, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.
But every so often, you mumbled something, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to have fun… just once… not be the responsible one…”
Jeremy exhaled, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “You deserve to have fun too, you know?”
You made a soft sound in response; barely coherent. Then, a few moments later, your fingers brushed against his arm.
Jeremy glanced at you, startled by the touch.
“You’re always there for me…” Your voice was drowsy, your words slurred. “Always… safe.”
Jeremy’s breath hitched.
His heart stumbled over itself, caught off guard by the weight of those words. He looked at you quickly, but your eyes were slipping shut, lost somewhere between wakefulness and sleep.
He let out a soft chuckle, trying to push past the warmth spreading in his chest. “That’s what I’m here for, right? To save you from getting lost in your own thoughts… or your knees.”
You giggled weakly, your hand still resting against his arm.
And then, in a barely audible whisper, you sighed, “You’re… my favorite person… I wish I could tell you that more.”
Jeremy’s throat tightened.
He wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to tell you that you didn’t have to say it, that he already knew. But by the time he pulled into your driveway, you were already half-asleep, your head resting against the window, the soft rise and fall of your breath the only sign that you were still alive.
Jeremy took a moment to watch you, his heart tightening at the sight. Without a word, he unbuckled your seatbelt and gently lifted you out of the car. You stirred a little, your eyes fluttering open as he cradled you against his chest. Instinctively, you clung to him, your arms wrapping around his neck as your head nestled into his shoulder, still too tired to do anything but hold on.
He carried you toward the door, your warm weight against him grounding him in a way nothing else ever had. Your soft, unsteady breathing against his skin made his chest flutter, but he didn’t mind. He knew he’d do anything to take care of you.
Anything.
Masterlist | TVD Masterlist
a/n: Loosely based on a night that I may or may not have experienced a few nights ago. Anyways, here's to my Jeremy; my night in shining armor <3
Likes, reblogs, and follows are never expected but greatly appreciated! These let me know I should keep on doing what I’m doing! (:
Taglist: @imanewsoul @s0urw00lf
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Summary : You had been alive for over a century, yet you still remembered the moment you first saw him—Damon Salvatore. The reckless smirk, the way his eyes lingered a second too long, like he could see through every lie you told. He had loved and lost a thousand times before, but something about you brought out the man he buried deep under blood and vengeance. You were his possession, his obsession and his redemption.
Warning : Smut +18 (MDNI), Mentioned of blood (duh of course), Feeding at each other (i guess??), Tits playing, Fingering, P in V, Unprotected sexs, Rough sexs, Edging, Dom!Damon, Size kink(?).
Damon Salvatore Masterlist.
Vampire Diaries Masterlist.
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
The man’s blood still pulsed faintly on your lips as Damon stepped back, chest rising and falling with a hunger that hadn’t been satisfied by the feeding alone.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
His eyes—black with desire, with the last traces of bloodlust—locked onto yours, and in the next breath, his arms were around you. One beneath your knees, the other at your back, and you were lifted effortlessly off the forest floor.
Your breath caught, but you didn’t protest. You only clung to his neck as he moved fast—faster than human eyes could track—through the trees, deeper into the woods. The world blurred around you, shadows and leaves streaking past like smoke.
And then, the cottage appeared.
Secluded. Hidden beneath a canopy of moss-draped branches, its stone walls aged and strong, windows flickering with faint candlelight like the place itself was holding its breath. You didn’t have time to admire it—not when Damon kicked the door open with his boot and stepped inside like a man possessed.
He didn’t stop to light anything.
Didn’t speak.
He pinned you against the nearest wall with a force that made you gasp, your back hitting the cool stone, his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that stole what little breath you had left.
It was savage—hot, frantic, soaked in the taste of shared blood and repressed need.
You groaned, fingers tangling in his hair as your lips opened wider for him, welcoming the desperate slide of his tongue. He tasted like fire and iron, and something only Damon could taste like—ancient, reckless, intoxicating.
Your hips arched into him, shameless, and he growled into your mouth, his hands sliding down your sides with purpose. When he gripped your ass, hard, you whimpered, biting at his bottom lip.
“Damon—” you whispered, already breathless, already gone.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, chest heaving, his hands still gripping you tight.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” he rasped. “One look, and I forget everything else.”
“You built this place,” you murmured, trailing your fingertips down his chest. “For us.”
His jaw clenched, and something flickered in his eyes—something deeper than lust.
“You needed somewhere no one could find you. Somewhere I could have you without pretending we’re anything but what we are.”
You cupped his face with blood-warm hands, brushing your thumbs over his cheekbones, your gaze softening for a heartbeat.
“And what are we, Damon?”
He leaned in again, but this time, the kiss was slower—just as hungry, just as deep, but full of something aching. He kissed you like the world had ended and you were the only thing left.
“Danger,” he said against your lips.
You didn’t answer with words. You answered with your body, pulling him closer, grinding your hips against him, making him hiss and slam his palm against the wall beside your head. Your lips moved along his jaw, down his neck, tasting the blood still on his skin.
“I want to ruin you,” you breathed. “The way you ruin me.”
His hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make your lips part with a moan.
“You already do.”
And then he lifted you again, carrying you across the room, your legs wrapping around his waist. He kicked open the door to the bedroom—a space lit only by candlelight, shadows dancing across the walls.
The bed was low, wide, sheets dark and soft. When he laid you down, it wasn’t gentle. It was reverent. Urgent.
He hovered above you, his fingers trailing up your thigh, your side, your ribs.
“You looked like a goddess out there,” he whispered. “Blood on your lips. Fire in your eyes. Mine.”
“Yours,” you echoed, fingers tugging at his shirt, baring his chest to your eyes and mouth. “And you’re mine.”
He leaned down, brushing his lips to your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast with aching care—contrasting the wildness of his hunger with the slow, worshipful way he touched you now.
“I’ll take my time,” he said, voice dark silk. “I want to feel you come apart. Slowly. Over and over.”
And under the flickering candlelight, surrounded by silence, stone, and shadow, Damon made good on that promise.
The fire crackled somewhere in the background, but your world narrowed to the feel of Damon’s hands on your body—hot, demanding, possessive.
He pulled you into his lap without effort, like your body belonged there, like the weight of you grounding him was something he needed as much as he needed blood. Your legs straddled his thighs, your dress hitched up around your hips, and his eyes were so dark now they looked black—endless and ravenous.
He didn’t speak. He just looked at you for a long breathless second, as if memorizing the way you flushed, the way your lips trembled with anticipation.
Then he struck.
His fangs sank into your neck with a sharp, possessive bite—deep enough to make your back arch and a gasp rip from your throat. The pain was electric, but it melted into pleasure too fast, too overwhelming, and the moan that escaped your lips was pure surrender.
Your fingers clawed into his shoulders before tangling in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him growl against your skin. He sucked harder, his hands moving to your ass, gripping it roughly as he ground you down against him—forcing you to feel the hard, unrelenting evidence of how badly he wanted you.
You whimpered, the friction burning through your core, making your body jerk and tremble in his grasp.
“Damon,” you gasped, your voice shaking. “You’re—”
“Say it,” he growled into your throat, blood trickling down your skin. “Say what I’m doing to you.”
“You’re driving me insane,” you moaned, rocking your hips against him, desperate to keep up with the rhythm he set with his hands. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
Damon finally pulled back, his fangs retracting as he licked the blood from your neck, slow and deliberate. When he looked at you again, your blood was on his lips, his mouth red and glistening.
“You taste like sin,” he said, voice low and thick with heat. “Like something made to ruin me.”
He kissed you again—and you could taste yourself on him, metallic and warm, mixing with his own flavor. The kiss was deeper now, rougher, his tongue claiming yours like he couldn’t bear any space between you.
Your fingers fisted tighter in his hair, pulling again—making him groan into your mouth, his hips bucking up against you in raw, aching need. You could feel how hard he was beneath you, and he wanted you to feel it. He made sure of it with every roll of his hips, every commanding squeeze of your body against his.
“Look at me,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to stare into your eyes. “I want you to remember who owns you when you can’t think straight.”
Your breath hitched.
The way he looked at you—like you were something sacred and wicked all at once—made heat bloom low in your belly. There was no room for fear. Not with Damon. Not when he made you feel like the chaos inside you was beautiful.
“I’m yours,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.
He cupped your jaw, brushing his thumb across your bottom lip, his breath warm on your face.
“Damn right you are.”
And then his mouth was on yours again, kissing you until your thoughts drowned, until all that existed was the burning heat of his body under you, the power in his hands, the ache in your spine from how tightly you clung to him.
He didn’t rush.
He made you feel every second.
Every motion was deliberate, every grind of his hips a promise, every kiss an oath wrapped in fire and blood. You could feel how badly he wanted to lose control—but he didn’t. Not yet. Damon wanted you right on the edge, trembling with want, breathless and begging.
And he would keep you there, hovering on that knife’s edge of surrender—until he decided it was time to fall.
Your fangs pierced his neck with precision—clean, sharp, deliberate. The moment Damon felt you sink into him, his whole body shuddered beneath yours. A guttural groan rumbled from his chest, low and primal, as though the act of being fed on by you unraveled something deep inside him he usually kept locked away.
His hands gripped your waist hard, fingers digging into your skin.
But he didn’t stop you.
He wanted it. Needed it.
Your mouth moved greedily against his skin, drawing his blood in slow, heavy pulls as if you were drinking in something far more vital than just his life force. You could feel the way his breath slowed with every draw, how his fingers twitched with restrained urgency.
Then—rip.
Your dress was torn apart in one swift, brutal motion. Damon didn’t care about fabric. He didn’t care about patience. He just needed to feel you, to see you—bare, exposed, and his.
He growled, deep and husky, before his hand shot into your hair, gripping it tight at the nape as he yanked your mouth from his neck. Your lips were slick with his blood when he crashed his mouth into yours again—hungry, bruising, all-consuming.
You gasped into the kiss, dazed and burning, but you kissed him back just as fiercely, tasting your shared hunger on his tongue.
Then in a blur, he flipped you.
Your back hit the mattress hard, and Damon followed, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand. His weight, his presence—him—was everywhere, overwhelming in the best kind of way.
You could only watch him through hooded eyes as he looked down at your now bare chest, his gaze darkening even more.
“Perfect,” he murmured. “So fucking perfect.”
He didn’t waste time. His mouth descended on your breast, hot and demanding, and when he wrapped his lips around your nipple, your whole body arched off the bed with a strangled moan.
Your hands writhed in his grip, but he held you firm, anchoring you in place as his tongue dragged over the sensitive peak again and again, every movement making heat curl low in your belly.
“Damon—” your voice cracked, needy, breathless.
He groaned in response, the sound vibrating through your skin. He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention—slow sucks, sharp flicks of his tongue—until your body trembled beneath him, flushed and desperate.
“You like it when I take my time?” he asked, voice like smoke against your skin.
“Yes,” you gasped, pressing your hips up into his, needing more, needing him.
“You want more?” he teased, dragging his mouth along the curve of your breast, his fangs just grazing your skin. “Tell me.”
Your lips parted, words caught between pleading and surrender. “Please. I want you. All of you.”
Damon released your wrists, only to trail his hand down your body with reverent, aching slowness. Every touch was fire. Every second, a reminder that he wasn’t just here to take—he was here to own every breathless part of you.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispered, his lips brushing your collarbone, his breath hot and sweet with blood. “And you’re going to love every second of it.”
And in the quiet, candlelit dark, surrounded by woods and silence, Damon did just that—bit by bit, kiss by kiss—until your body and soul were tangled in his like roots beneath the earth.
The room was thick with heat, with the scent of blood, breath, and something darker—something that curled in your gut like smoke and sin.
Damon’s body hovered above yours, a low, satisfied smirk playing on his lips. Your skin still burned where his mouth had been, and your chest rose and fell with every trembling breath. But just as you tried to catch one—
You gasped.
His fingers were suddenly there, slipping between your thighs—deft and deliberate, two of them gliding through your folds before plunging into you without warning.
Your body arched immediately off the bed, a startled, desperate moan tearing from your throat.
“God, Damon—”
His groan followed yours like a harmony of hunger. His eyes were locked on the way your body responded—watching your lips part in pleasure, your back bow in need, your thighs tremble under his firm hold.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice rough and reverent. “Already dripping for me.”
He didn’t start slow. He didn’t tease.
He set a pace—one that was punishing, relentless, the wet sounds of his fingers moving in and out of you filling the dark cottage like a siren’s song.
Your hand flew to his arm, gripping tightly, needing something to anchor you as he curled his fingers just right—just right—making your moans crack into near-whimpers.
“Fuck,” you gasped, your body shaking beneath him, your core fluttering around his fingers. “You’re—Damon—”
“I know.” His voice was low, smug, full of dark satisfaction.
He was watching you unravel, and he loved it. He dipped his head lower, trailing kisses down your chest, never once slowing the motion of his fingers as he curved them again, deeper this time—harder.
The angle made you cry out, your hips jerking off the bed, thighs spreading wider to chase the feeling. He took it as an invitation—one he’d been waiting for.
“That’s it,” he growled, his lips brushing your skin. “Open up for me. Let me see just how much you can take.”
You clenched around his fingers, hard, and the growl that ripped from his throat was nothing short of animal.
“Shit,” he hissed. “You feel that? You’re squeezing me, baby.”
Your name fell from his lips between gritted teeth as he pumped faster now, the wet, obscene rhythm a brutal contrast to the tender way his mouth moved across your skin. His mouth and hands—one devouring, the other dominating—worked in perfect sync, building the tension so tight it felt like your body might shatter.
You could feel it coming. That high. That edge. The unraveling.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” Damon said, his voice a velvet threat against your neck. “Not until I say.”
Your breath caught.
That commanding tone—his control, the way he knew you, knew your body better than you did—sent another rush of heat through you. You whimpered, desperate, trembling on the verge.
“Please,” you begged, your voice barely a whisper. “I—I can’t—”
“Oh, you will,” he growled, kissing your jaw, his breath hot. “And when I let you, you’re going to scream my name so loud the damn trees will echo it.”
His fingers curled again.
Deeper. Rougher.
You saw stars. And Damon? He never once looked away—his eyes locked on your every reaction like you were the only thing in the world that mattered and in that moment—you were.
Your cries echoed through the cabin like music made of fire and velvet, each sound pulled from the depths of you—raw, helpless, completely undone by the rhythm of Damon’s fingers as they continued plunging deep inside you.
He never slowed. Never softened.
The pace was punishing.
You were trembling under his touch, hips bucking into his hand without shame, without thought—just raw need driving every movement. The coil inside you had tightened to the point of pain, every nerve alight and screaming for release.
But Damon… Damon was calm. Focused. Watching you unravel with a predator’s gaze, every flick of his wrist deliberate.
His other hand gripped your thigh, spreading you wider, holding you still while he watched your body clench and writhe.
His jeans were still on, but the hard press of his cock straining beneath the denim hadn’t gone unnoticed—by him or you. Still, he didn’t take his own relief. He was entirely focused on yours—and on denying it.
“Don’t come yet,” he growled, voice dark and thick with lust.
You sobbed, arching again, back lifting off the bed as his fingers curled deep inside you, dragging against that spot that made your vision white out for a second.
“I—I can’t,” you gasped, eyes wide, tears clinging to your lashes. “Damon—please, I can’t hold it—”
“You will,” he snapped, his voice a whip of dominance. “You’ll hold it for me.”
You whimpered at the sheer command in his tone, your body shaking with the effort. You were so close—too close. It felt cruel. It felt divine. It felt like him.
He leaned down, his breath hot against your cheek, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“I love watching you fall apart for me,” he murmured, his fingers never slowing. “But I own your pleasure, sweetheart. You don’t come unless I say so.”
You cried out again, your body clenching around his fingers in protest, aching and swollen and soaked.
“Please,” you begged, breath hitching, your voice a broken whisper. “Please, Damon, I need it—I need to come—please.”
And then he smiled.
That wicked, beautiful smile that meant danger—and surrender. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
And with one final, brutal curl of his fingers, he growled, “Come for me.”
The permission hit you like lightning.
Your body snapped tight, then shattered. Waves of pleasure crashed over you so hard you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak—only cry his name as your climax ripped through you, a firestorm of heat and ecstasy.
Damon held you through it, fingers still deep inside, working you through every spasm, every aftershock. His other hand stroked your trembling thigh now, the gesture almost tender beneath the wreckage he’d caused.
“Good girl,” he whispered against your ear. “So fucking good for me.”
Your body melted into the mattress, limbs heavy, chest heaving. The world felt hazy, the high still pulsing in your veins like a second heartbeat.
Damon pulled his fingers from you slowly, watching the way your body fluttered around nothing now, still desperate for him even after he’d wrung every drop of pleasure from you.
He brought his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a groan that was half reverence, half promise. And even though you were boneless, spent, and shaking, you knew this night was far from over.
The air between you crackled—thick with heat, history, and the kind of love that only vampires could sustain for nearly a decade without ever burning out.
You were still panting from your release, the aftershocks making your limbs tremble, your body sensitized and open. Damon hovered above you, shirt long discarded, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath, eyes stormy and locked onto your face.
And then—you saw it.
The moment he slid his jeans down and freed himself.
You gasped, just like always.
No matter how many times you’d been here—beneath him, around him—you still felt your breath catch at the sheer sight of him. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, a nervous tremor running up your spine.
Damon’s hand was wrapped lazily around the thick length of his cock, and he gave himself a slow, deliberate stroke, groaning as he watched you take him in.
“Still gets you every time,” he muttered, a crooked smile pulling at his lips, that signature Damon smugness softening into something more reverent as he saw the way your eyes widened.
You licked your lips unconsciously. “It’s just…” You let out a small, shaky laugh. “I forget how… big you are until you take your jeans off.”
He chuckled, voice rough and deep. “Ten years and you still look at me like I’m going to break you.”
You swallowed, gaze flicking between his face and his cock again. “You do. Every time.”
That made something primal flash in his eyes.
He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, before dragging his lips slowly to your ear.
“Yeah?” he whispered. “And yet you always beg for it.”
Your skin burned, and your body—despite how wrecked it already felt—ached again.
He nudged your legs apart with his knees, settling between them, his weight pressing you into the mattress. His cock rested against your inner thigh, heavy and hot, and the way it twitched against your skin made your breath hitch.
Damon stared down at you now, no smirk on his face, just intensity.
“I’d never hurt you,” he murmured. “Even when I make you cry from pleasure. Even when I’m deep enough you forget your own name. You trust me, don’t you?”
You nodded instantly. “More than anything.”
That got you a kiss—slow, deep, a claiming.
“Good,” he murmured into your mouth. “Because I need to feel you around me. I need to hear you fall apart again. I need to remind you that no matter how many years pass, your body still belongs to me.”
His hand guided himself to your entrance, rubbing the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds, teasing—not out of cruelty, but because he wanted to savor it. To make you feel every second.
You shivered beneath him, already gripping his arms, your breath catching again as the anticipation built.
And Damon, ever the one in control, simply smiled.
“Deep breath, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice low and dark. “Because I’m not stopping once I’m inside you.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Damon was there—inside you.
He sank into you with one long, slow, devastating thrust that filled you completely, your body arching up into his, a gasp tearing from your throat.
“Fuck,” Damon groaned, his voice gravel and thunder, fingers digging into your waist like he needed to anchor himself or he’d fall apart. “You’re still so goddamn tight.”
You whimpered, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming stretch, the way he split you open like the very first time. He was always too much—too thick, too deep, too perfect—and yet you craved it more than blood.
“Ten years,” he growled low in your ear, hips still pressed against yours, unmoving for a moment as he let you adjust. “Ten years of ruining you—and you still fit around me like this.”
He kissed you hard then, like he needed to take your breath just to breathe himself. Your lips opened for him, instinctual, needy, and the moan you let out was swallowed by his mouth.
And then, without warning, he pulled back—and slammed into you.
You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, body jerking with the force of it. He didn’t give you a second to recover. Another thrust. And another. His pace was brutal, purposeful, setting a rhythm that had your mind spinning and your body shivering beneath him.
He grinned wickedly, loving the way you came undone so easily for him, even after all these years.
“Take it,” he rasped, voice strained from holding back. “You know you were made for me.”
You tried to answer, but the only sound you could make was a broken moan.
That’s when his fingers came—two of them, slipping between your lips. “Open,” he commanded.
You obeyed without question.
He slid them into your mouth, deep onto your tongue, groaning at the sight of your lips wrapped around them. “Suck,” he ordered, voice low and dark. “Pretend it’s my cock.”
You whined around his fingers, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed, your whole body moving with every hard snap of his hips. His rhythm didn’t falter—deep, punishing, claiming.
“Look at you,” he muttered, staring down at you with reverence and heat. “Still my perfect girl. My good slut.”
Your heart stuttered at the words, and your mouth sucked harder on his fingers, your body responding to every thrust, every growl, every touch like it was coded in your blood to obey him.
And maybe it was.
Because no matter how many nights passed, how many times he pulled these sounds from your throat—you were always his. And you always wanted more.
Your vision blurred as Damon drove into you, again and again, never faltering, never slowing. Every thrust was brutal and precise—intentional—his cock hitting that devastating spot inside you with merciless accuracy. You cried out, loud and desperate, the sound echoing off the walls of the cottage as your body convulsed around him.
Your hands clutched at his shoulders like lifelines, but your grip kept slipping, your mind too hazy to hold on to anything but the way he felt. You were unraveling beneath him—bones trembling, breath caught, brain unable to focus on anything but the rhythm of his hips crashing into yours.
“Damon—” you whimpered, but it came out broken, drowned in the thick, overwhelming pleasure that had taken over everything.
He didn’t stop. Didn’t ease up.
Instead, he growled—low and rough, a sound so predatory it vibrated through your chest—and looked down at you with eyes blown wide and wild.
“That’s it,” he hissed, watching your every reaction like he was drinking it in. “Look at you. Falling apart on me.”
Your eyes fluttered back, mouth slack around his fingers still resting between your lips. Your tongue reflexively swirled around them, still sucking, obedient and wrecked.
“Fuck,” he groaned, a shudder ripping through him as he saw your eyes roll back, pupils blown wide with pleasure. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”
He thrust harder—deeper—and your back arched sharply, your moan muffled by his fingers. Your thighs quaked around his waist, your body so tight around him it drove him half-mad with need.
You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. You were completely consumed—by him, by the fire he lit in your veins, by the love that pulsed through every rough thrust, every growled word.
“You love this,” he murmured, voice thick with dominance and something dangerously close to awe. “Being under me. Taking me. Letting me ruin you.”
You nodded weakly, mouth still full, and he smirked at the sight.
“My perfect slut,” he muttered, pulling his fingers from your lips only to replace them with his mouth—kissing you hard and hungry, tasting the heat he’d built in you like it fed him.
You moaned into his mouth as he drove forward again, harder, unrelenting.
“You’re gonna fall apart,” he growled against your lips, a promise and a warning. “And when you do, you’ll say my name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.”
And the terrifying, beautiful thing was. He was right.
Damon didn’t let up—not even for a second. His rhythm stayed merciless, a brutal, pounding cadence that made your body tremble beneath him, your breath catching on every harsh, perfect thrust. But then—he shifted. A growl rumbled deep in his throat, and before you could register what was happening, he hooked his arms beneath your thighs and lifted—bringing your legs up to rest on his shoulders.
The new angle made you scream.
Your eyes flew wide as his cock drove deeper, impossibly so, hitting a spot inside you that made your entire body seize in pleasure.
“Fuck yes,” Damon hissed through clenched teeth, staring down at you with dark, stormy eyes. “Look at you.”
You barely could. Your hands clutched at the sheets, your back arched high off the mattress, mouth open in a silent moan as your brain struggled to process just how deep he was now.
Then his eyes flicked lower, to your belly, and his expression darkened with something that looked dangerously close to reverence.
“Look at that,” he whispered, and you followed his gaze.
There—pressed firm against the skin of your lower stomach—was the clear outline of him.
The sight made Damon groan, a raw, almost unholy sound. He slid one hand down, spread his fingers wide, and pressed lightly on the bulge. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he murmured, voice rough with wonder and possession. “That’s me. Deep inside where no one else will ever be.”
You whimpered, eyes glossing over from how full you felt, how overwhelming the pressure was—how much you loved it.
He didn’t wait.
He leaned forward, your legs still trapped against his shoulders, and slammed into you. You cried out, body arching hard, tears welling at the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.
“Damon!” you gasped, breathless and breaking.
“I know, baby,” he gritted, jaw clenched, the muscles in his arms flexing as he hugged your legs tighter against him. “I know. But you can take it. You always take it.”
His pace turned feral—deep, rough, relentless. Every thrust sent shockwaves through your body, lighting you up from the inside out. You clung to him in any way you could, needing something to ground you as your thoughts scattered and your vision blurred.
“You were made for this,” he growled, staring down at where your bodies joined. “Made for me.”
You couldn’t form words anymore, only broken gasps and his name over and over—like a prayer. And Damon? He kept going, kept slamming into you like he was trying to bury himself in your very soul.
Damon’s breath caught in his throat the moment he felt you start to tighten around him—so impossibly tight, pulsing, clenching, dragging him deeper with every desperate flutter of your walls.
“Shit,” he hissed, his voice raw and shaking with restraint. “You’re—” he groaned through his teeth, hugging your legs tighter around his shoulders, as if grounding himself through your body, “—milking me, sweetheart.”
You could barely hear him through the ringing in your ears, your body burning from the inside out as the pleasure built with terrifying force. His hand slid down again, fingers splayed wide over your lower belly, pressing just enough to feel every inch of him moving inside you.
“Right here,” he whispered darkly, staring down at the place where your bodies met. “You feel me? Deep inside. That’s mine.”
Your eyes rolled back as he gave a slow, hard thrust—just one—and it sent a shock through you like a lightning strike. But then he changed.
Without warning, Damon picked up the pace—savage, brutal, breathtaking. Your scream ripped from your throat, a sound that wasn’t just pleasure, but surrender. Your hands clawed helplessly at the sheets, at him, at anything that could keep you anchored.
“Damon—!” you sobbed, breath broken, chest heaving. “I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he growled, leaning forward until your bodies were pressed flush, your legs crushed between your chests as he kept thrusting, kept chasing that place where you shatter. “You always take me. Every time.”
You gasped, overwhelmed, your release crashing into you like a tidal wave you never saw coming. It was blinding, searing—so intense it almost hurt.
Your body convulsed, trembling violently beneath him, every nerve ending exploding as the pleasure wrecked you. You cried out again, voice hoarse and cracked, barely breathing as Damon held your body still with a feral kind of strength.
“God, look at you,” he muttered, voice trembling. “Falling apart under me—so beautiful, so perfect when you come for me.”
His hand didn’t leave your belly—still pressing, still feeling how deep he was even as you convulsed around him. And all he could do was curse again, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something deeper than lust—something close to awe.
Because even after a decade of having you—ruining you, worshiping you, loving you—he still broke with you every single time.
And in that moment, as he watched your body twist in pleasure under him, he knew. No matter how many times he took you apart— He’d always be there to put you back together.
Damon didn’t stop. Not when your body trembled beneath him. Not when you gasped his name, already undone. And certainly not when your lashes fluttered, dazed and barely focused, your lips parted and glistening with the echo of your last cry.
He was chasing his own release now—driven, relentless, his movements wild and brutal as if something primal had snapped loose inside him.
“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice heavy with grit and smoke.
You couldn’t speak. Only nod, barely. A breathless, soundless moan escaped you as his hips snapped into yours again—deep, fast, and devastating.
He glanced down at you, his lips curving into a dark, possessive smirk.
“Look at that face…” Damon chuckled low, his voice like gravel and silk. “So cockdrunk and sweet—like you were made just to take me.”
You whined when he shifted his hips just slightly—and then slammed into that spot again, that devastating place inside you that shattered every thought you had left.
Your scream echoed through the cabin, high and helpless. “Damon!”
That name—your voice—broke him.
He grunted, hard, and his hands tightened their grip on your hips like he needed to anchor himself or risk flying apart. “That’s it,” he groaned, slamming into you again, and again, every thrust faster, rougher, more erratic. “Scream for me.”
You couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even think anymore. The pressure, the rhythm, the heat—it was too much. Your body shook beneath his, too sensitive after your last release, your cries dissolving into choked sobs of pleasure.
Damon leaned closer, forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slicked skin trembling.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled, almost like a threat, almost like a promise. “You want that, don’t you? Want to feel me deep—ruining you.”
You nodded frantically, lips brushing his. “Please…”
And that was all it took.
With a groan torn from the depths of his chest, Damon buried himself to the hilt—thrust once, twice—and then stilled, his entire body trembling as he spilled into you, deep and hot. His head fell against your shoulder, fangs grazing your skin as he exhaled your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world.
You both lay there, trembling, tangled, ruined.
And as his fingers traced your cheek—gentle now, reverent—he whispered into your skin: “You’re mine. Always.”
Tag List : @danytar @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry @callsignwidow @hayleythecannibal @ceoofglytchell @ashblooddragons @laedeviour @venusbyline
Warnings: bad writing </3 sorry; sexual tension, jokes, banter, etc., (mentions of ejaculate…; hard ons.); cuddling; kissing, not too much though; brother’s best friend trope; fluff; being tickled. Pre established relationship but they’re pretty down.
Description: continuation of Red & Green Sprinkles. Basically light fooling around (and snuggling) with Sirius on the couch.
WC: 1,320
“What’re you doing here?”
Sirius is already looking over at you before you speak, padding softly along the house’s stairs.
“What’re you doing here?” he counters, playfulness lacing his tone.
“Couldn’t sleep.” You glance at the bright Christmas tree to your left. “Also wanted to admire the lights.”
Plopping down beside you, his closest arm drapes across the back of the couch behind you.
“How come you couldn’t sleep?” he asks, staring into the nearly finished fire you told your mother you’d put out before you went to bed.
Shrugging, you sink a little deeper into the sofa. “I dunno.”
Without thought, you play with the soft fabric of the matching pajama pants your parents got for you, your brother, and your brother’s best friend who also happens to be sharing your home.
“Well…” he begins, “Merry Christmas.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Sirius.” You look over at him, resting your cheek against the couch back; scalp incidentally grazing his arm.
“Still technically morning.”
“And I will tell you merry Christmas when the sun is up,” you state. He smiles softly at the corner of his mouth, resting his head near yours.
The embers in the hearth flicker, the room chilled but not freezing; dim but not without light.
You’d been too awake to rest earlier, but in this space, you feel your eyes naturally droop a bit as you curl into the couch.
“You tired?”
You hear the amusement in his murmur, not bothering to open your freshly shut eyes as you burrow beside him.
“What does it look like?”
Your words are a mere dry mumble.
“Like you’re tired.”
“Nice observation, Rowena.”
Sirius lets out a quiet chuckle, watching you doze off. You’re not quite close enough to be fully touching, but any more and you’d be wrapped together like the presents under the tree.
“Should I take you to bed?” he questions, experimentally shifting a few strands of your hair that are out of place.
You peek one eye open, pushing back the small smile that comes easy when you’re with him.
“Pervert.”
“How am I a pervert? It was a genuine offer,” he argues. “‘Sides, you’re my best mate’s sister, I can’t come on to you.”
“‘Something, something, coming on me…’”
“You’re depraved,” he laughs. You do too.
You two quiet down, getting more comfortable and enjoying the peaceful atmosphere.
For several years you’ve known each other. Both of you actually rather liked one another, or at least took interest in a sort of… prospect of dating, for a long while.
But, it was never a big enough . . . opportunity to ‘start something’. That, and your brother.
He practically claimed the boy beside you the moment they met. It was true—where one was, the other often wasn’t far.
That didn’t mean you and Sirius didn’t have your own bond; you did. He was one of your closest friends.
Regardless of how neither of you would really mind having the others’ tongue down your throats.
A knee bumps yours, and you look over at the raven-haired male.
“Falling asleep on me?”
“Mm…” You shift, unintentionally angling yourself further into him. “What can I say. You’re not a bad cuddle.”
His hand pulls your previously curled legs up on his lap, palm against your clothed calf.
“Typically, it’s not a good sign when you’re with a girl and she falls asleep,” he remarks.
“Says you,” you breathe against his neck. “You’re warm and relaxing. That’s a nice thing.”
A short pause.
“Girls tend to sleep sleep around guys they trust. Take it as a compliment.”
Sirius doesn’t respond, but when you look up at him, he’s focused on you.
“What…”
“Nothing,” he murmurs.
“Liar.”
He smiles slightly, knuckles coming up to brush your jaw, lingering more than he maybe should let them.
“I hate that you’re Prong’s sister,” he says after a moment.
You pull away enough that your head is off his shoulder, looking at him inquisitively.
“Why should it stop us just because I am?” you demand, supported more by the couch now than by his body.
“You know the reason (Y/n).”
“And they’re stupid.”
He sighs, and you can tell he’s trying not to instinctively roll his eyes.
Continuing, you add, “He’s dating my friend, now, anyway; why should I care what he thinks?”
Sirius doesn’t reply right away, but then he says, “You have a point…” and a small, barely uttered, “fuck.”
Taking a short moment to evaluate the situation, you shift to sit on your knees, in front of him.
“Are you gonna let my brother dictate everything?” you ask, noting how his eyes rove across your features. “Or you could kiss me.”
“Offer stands now, but not for very lo—“
You’re cut off by the mouth on yours, surprisingly soft for the force he came on with.
Wrapping your arms around his neck, you let his body cocoon yours against the couch, both your lips brushing together as you sigh, dropping the words you were previously attempting.
It doesn’t last super long, but when he pulls off your lips have a thin layer of sheen.
“‘S that what you wanted?”
He’s practically grinning, and ever his smug self. Though his eyes are darker now, pupils expanded from the chemical release.
“Me?? You’re the one who’s been ogling me since he moved in here!”
You don’t even have time to expect it as he quickly kisses you again—just a brief press.
Oh, he’s enjoying being able to shut you up like this way too much.
“Not my fault you walk around very differently than at school—less robes an’ all.”
“It’s my house, arsehole, I’ll walk around how I want…”
You’re tugged into his side again, his nearest arm wrapping over your shoulders.
“Don’t mistake my statement for complaint,” he tells you, laughing softly.
“See?” You look at him. “You are a pervert.”
“You don’t mind,” he shrugs, “and you’re as bad if not worse.”
“Shush.”
Shifting, you press further into him, arms going around his torso to hug him.
You feel the subtle thump of his heart beneath your ear, and the gentle touch of his hands on your lower back and closest thigh.
The room seems to still, supplying the two of you with a moment of tranquility.
Then-
“Can my Christmas present be telling Jamie we did that?”
Sirius huffs, more exasperation than anything else.
“You’re kind of a mean individual sometimes, you know that?”
A quiet laugh leaves you, and you burrow deeper into his warmth. “Yeah. I know.”
“You can tell him…” he agrees. “Not tomorrow, though.”
“Fine,” you conform. “By the way—uhm.”
His thumb pokes your legs—for whatever reason.
“Are you… hard?”
For a minute, you don’t get an answer.
“…It’s not always sexual.”
“Oh, okay, so you just think I’m ugly then-“
His sigh is rather forceful.
“Not what I meant.” His voice is slightly strained, and you try not to laugh while remaining tucked into his chest/collarbone area.
“Sometimes it just—does it.”
You tilt your head enough to catch a glimpse of his face.
“It was actually when you hugged me . . . also.”
“Aww, that’s kind of cute.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I mean, weird; but flattering, I suppose,” you speak, chuckling at his unamused expression.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You have a crush on me,” you tease, laughing when he knocks you down on the couch, hovering over you and trying to tickle your sides.
Flailing, you pull away from his hands in lighthearted attempts, yelling—probably louder than you should with your family sleeping—at him in the process.
When he stops, you two relax again into the couch, now laying, and he presses soft kisses to your jaw and face.
You guys eventually fall asleep like that, and in the morning, your parents and sibling have the pleasure of questioning why you’re both intertwined on the sofa, dozing away.
Hii, all.
Sorry this is late, and not the best 😭😭 And to my anon who requested this—I really hope you enjoy!!! Sorry again about the while it took 🥲
Also originally I wrote ‘Einstein’ but thought I was just soooo funny putting ‘Rowena’ since they’re both pureblood 😭 sorry I’m an idiot
Do not steal, copy, re-upload/repost any of my work. My work is my own; it is not made with AI. Do not feed my work to AI.
Likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated!
Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!You || The Darkling x HeartrenderOC!Reader
Summary: A great healer, a terrifying heartrender, you are both the disease and the cure. With such a reputation, living on the run quickly becomes necessary for survival. When General Kirigan, ruler of the Shadow Fold, sets his eyes on you, he doesn't see just a weapon, but the key to his dark ambitions. And, most importantly, the echo to his shadows.
Words: 2.5k
TW: Mention of prostitution, child SA and murder, reader is physically described.
Part I - Keep Moving, Little Girl
Masterlist || Next
The Little Palace was veiled in an eerie calm, which wasn’t very usual for a place that crowded by both young promising Grishas and renowned, experienced ones. The luxurious wall, bathed in the golden light of dying embers, gave an almost supernatural aesthetic to the place.
General Aleksander Kirigan sat at his desk, his fingers steepled and his black eyes fixed on the fragile flicker of a single candle before him. The little flame danced, its body undulating as it struggled to keep the surrounding darkness away from the little bubble of warm light it created. The room was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth a bit further, and yet, despite this silence, the general’s mind was far from quiet.
He had heard the rumors countless times over the past few months – it had started with nothing more than vague accounts of a few people found dead in a mysterious and gruesome way, but the narrative slowly turned into a monstrous witch, her hair as white as frost, leaving death and blood in her wake.
At first, he dismissed them. Ravka was rife with tales of rogue Grisha, exaggerated to feed the fears of peasants and nobles alike. A chimera created by children to tell scary stories, or skillfully crafted clichés to create a deep-ingrained fear of Grisha by politics. But the more he ignored them, the more the whispers persisted: they spread like wildfire and grew darker with each retelling. The most recent account had given him a pause though: a Heartrender, they claimed, whose power was unlike anything ever seen. From what has been reported, the creature could control men as if they were marionettes, forcing them to turn on each other in a grotesque display of violence. One so-called survivor claimed that, with only a few movements of her hands, he saw his colleague forced to turn the barrel of his gun to his temples and shoot himself a bullet right through his brain. Aleksander had raised a brow at the statement:
Such abilities should not exist. Not without the cursed used of Jurda Parem.
Aleksander’s jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair. If the rumors were true, this woman was no ordinary Grisha. She was a weapon – an unrefined, dangerous force that needed to be claimed before it destroyed itself or got destroyed. And if she truly possessed the kind of power described, that little white-haired heartrender could be either a great asset to his cause or an uncontrollable threat that needed to be neutralized. Or rather, a problem that needed to be resolved.
The shadows around him stirred, as if sensing his thoughts, their tendrils coiling in anticipation. He, who was often too absorbed by his own plans, surprised himself when he realized that his mind raced through the topic of that wild sorceress, weighing risks and rewards, battling between curiosity and schemes. However, one thing had become certain: he could no longer ignore the whispers. He had to find her.
Kirigan rose from his seat, the folds of his pitch black kefta sweeping behind him as he crossed the room with hastened steps. He opened the door to find Ivan, who was waiting just outside, his stoic expression as adamant as ever.
“I need you to gather a small team,” The general said without preamble nor explanation. His voice was long and commanding, but Ivan could sense that he also seemed lost in his thoughts, “We’re leaving at first light.”
The tall Corporalki tilted his head, his brows furrowing slightly – the only other expression he had in his palette. “May I ask for what purpose, General?”
“There’s a woman,” Kirigan replied, his tone laced with intrigue but also something darker Ivan couldn’t really pinpoint. “A Heartrender whose power surpasses anything we’ve encountered… At least if the stories told are true.” He paused, his lips curling into a faint and slightly calculating smile, “I must say that these latest accounts intrigued me. If she is what they say she is, she could change everything.”
“And if she’s not?” Ivan asked, his skepticism carefully measured. As much as he trusted General Kirigan, the tall Ravkan man with a stern face couldn’t help doubting. He was a man of facts – not of silly rumors.
Aleksander’s eyes darkened, the flicker of the candlelight reflecting in their dizzying depths. Eyes so black that no one could distinguish the pupil from the iris, “Then we’ll ensure the stories end with us.” He turned back toward his desk without additional explanations, his mind already plotting the route, the approach, and the questions he would ask her. Hair white as the purest snow, eyes as frozen as the deadliest ice desert…There was a part of him that wondered if she even existed, if this was nothing more than another ghost tale spun by frightened villagers. But another part – the darker, sicker and more desperate part – felt the faint pull of something undeniable. He wanted her to be real.
He needed her to be real.
In the back of his mind, General Aleksander Kirigan thought he could almost hear her, like a faint hum carried on the wind. The monster they spoke of wasn’t just some distant threat. She was out there waiting, somewhere in the Ravkan snow, all alone and vulnerable – and she didn’t even know she already belonged to him.
Your shrill scream resounded in the bedroom, bathed in the soft and muted light of Ravkan mornings. Confused, your chest heaved as though you had run for miles even though you had just woken up. Your body was damp, covered in a thin layer of sweat, some locks of hair sticking to your temples.
If there was one thing that plagued your dreams, turning them into terrific nightmares, it was that smell.
The Menagerie smelled of desperation, as Tante Heleen liked to call it. Or rather the awful combination of fun fair treats, sweat, and a dash of discreet, but still noticeable, fragrances of blood. It clung to the air just like the cheap perfume the girls were forced to wear, a sickly-sweet mask that tried hard to hide the rot that lay beneath. One full year had passed since you had escaped from this hellish place and yet, the impression this foul smell was still clinging to your skin and hair, no matter how roughly you washed or how scorching-hot the showers you took were, remained. You had known it your entire life, ever since you were left at its gate as a child. As much as you tried, you couldn’t forget the way your tiny and cold hands tightened their grip around Tante Heleen’s skirt as the woman had dragged you inside, her soft voice cooing false kindness. Like a butcher leading a cattle through the death-smelling corridors of a slaughterhouse.
“You’ll grow into something beautiful,” Heleen had said, glancing at your long white hair while your own eyes surveyed the golden bars at the windows, though you were too young to understand why they were there as well as the malice behind the brothel Madam’s words, “A perfect White Tiger, ma petite chérie.” But the cruel truth was that beauty didn’t save anyone in the Menagerie. It only made you more of a prize to be shown off, sold to the highest bidder and then both used and abused. Beauty was nothing but a poison, a weapon Heleen turned against its bearer in this place made of gilded cages and broken spirits.
By your pre-teens, you had made quite a reputation: despite growing up in this foul nightmare, Tante Heleen never managed to break you entirely. Mastering the art of silence and deadly stares, your unyielding demeanor made you a source of fascination. The bruises on your porcelain skin faded away as quickly as the tears you refused to shed, never succumbing to the horrors clients would make you go through. The same clients who were willing to pay obscene sums not just to touch you but to try and tame you. The men who came for you were often the ones who wanted to conquer that defiance. The ones who wanted to make you scream. Still, you never gave them satisfaction. Worse, they often left more bruised than you because you did fight like a tigress. Even if they ended up overcoming you, your ice-cold eyes would bore into them, frozen and sharp, making even the most depraved feel as though they were the ones who were soiled. No, it wasn’t your beauty alone that drew attention; it was the air around you, heavy with something dangerous.
If being honest with yourself, you had to admit that most of the other girls at the Menagerie didn’t like you. Sometimes, you would catch them whispering about you, sometimes in awe, sometimes in jealousy, but most of the time it was in fear. Why? Because you were eerie. Unsettling, the least. Because you were something else with your pale skin – paler than the Fjerda wolf girl – and long white hair. With the slim hourglass figure and small height, which contrasted far too much with the hatred that burned in your void-like pupils. Besides, you never did much to befriend them: you didn’t weep after being summoned, didn’t cling to anyone for comfort and almost never gave yours to soothe the other poor animals’ pain. The only one you tolerated was the Suli Lynx.
The unsease the others would feel around you only worsened when they discovered that you were a Heartrender. Frightening abilities that manifested themselves one night in an uncontrollable outburst, leading to someone’s brutal death.
The nightmare you had lingered, its remnants jagged and raw. The menagerie’s cages, the laughters, the sensation of hands that burned like brands – they had all dissolved into the room’s silence. “Memories. They are nothing but memories” you told yourself, yet the weight of your not-so-far-away past pressed against your chest like iron shackles.
“Miss, you shall leave the room by eight o’clock.” A voice spoke behind the thick wooden door of the bedroom you rented – a small barren room you had found shelter in for the night. It was no more than a shabby inn, with walls cracked and floorboards uneven. You took off the thin, tattered blanket from you and swung your legs over the side of the bed to sit on the mattress for a moment, your head in your hands. Your fingers trembled slightly, not from the cold but from the residues of the dream.
“Yeah, sure.” You mumbled, staring blankly at your boots sat by the door through your slim fingers, and the satchel rested on the old rocking chair, packed and ready to leave. Never unpacking, that was one of the rules you followed since you fled from the Menagerie.
Through the frosted window the snow was falling steadily. Frosty flakes swirled like restless ghosts in the early morning gloom, covering the world outside with a white coat that muffled every little sound. All of them except the relentless thumping of your heart, which threatened to burst your ribcage open.
The floor groaned under your weight as you stood and moved towards the small basin by the windows. Almost mechanically, you splashed your face with icy water, hoping for the cold to chase away the remnants of sleep. When you raised your head to take a look at the cracked mirror, the reflection that stared back at you seemed to belong to a stranger — diaphanous, long straight hair as pale as the snow, and eyes frighteningly empty. A doll’s face, your clients said. But no doll could house the kind of emptiness that simmered in your cursed blood, right?
You turned away, hating what you saw.
Minutes later, you were dressed, your boots were laced, and your long dark cloak pulled tightly around you. When you reached for the door, you caught yourself hesitating only briefly… Maybe you could stick around for a while this time… No.
Keep moving.
The cold hit you immediately as you stepped outside. The wind bit you through your cloak with such virulence that you couldn’t help clenching your jaw. And yet, you welcomed it, let it numb you.
Snow crunched beneath the sole of your boots as you walked on a little road, endless and uncertain. With one quick movement, you pulled your hood up and buried your face against the wind, going forward with determined steps. You didn’t know where you headed but you knew one thing for sure: you couldn’t stop moving for you had to put as much distance as you could between the Menagerie and you, and it wasn’t enough yet.
Alone in the forest you walk. Or were you really alone?
Even in this desolation, you couldn’t shake the unpleasant feeling that you were being watched. It was subtle – a whisper of unease that prickled at the back of your neck, making your hairs rise. As stupid as it sounded, you quickly glanced over your shoulder at the empty snowy forest behind you. Nothing stirred, no sound broke the quiet save for the howl of the wind… And still, the feeling lingered, like a cold thread winding through your thoughts. In a reflex you couldn’t quite control, your hand tightened around your cloak’s collar and shrunk into it, not knowing if it was to hide from the cold or from these unseen pair of eyes.
Keep moving.
Above the faraway howl of the wind, a faint whisper seemed to hum at the edges of your senses.
Then you felt it.
It resonated, too soft to be real, but to real to be a hallucination. You frowned as you walked faster, all your senses in alert. It wasn’t words, only a presence, dark and vast, like shadows stretching beyond the horizon.
Keep moving!
You clenched your fists and tried your best to shove the thought away. It was certainly some kind of paranoia that had gotten into you, fed by lack of sleep, proper food and long-term shelter. A part of you rationalized, telling itself that no one had ever found you yet, and no one would ever, despite the little… troubles you left in your trail.
Your crystal eyes fixed on the road ahead, your steps quickening as if you could outrun the unease that was gnawing at your mind.
But far away, very far away in the distance, a man dressed in black was studying a map. His gloved finger, covered in the finest leather, hovered over a region he had marked in red himself. His lips curled into the faintest smile, as if he wasn’t used to.
“She’s close”, he murmured to the shadows with a voice soft and filled with a quiet satisfaction.
“Are you sure?” They whispered back
“I can feel her,” He replied, black eyes riveted onto the horizon.
Pairing: The Darkling x Heartrender!OCreader || Alina Starkov x Heartrender!OCreader || Malyen Oretsevx HeartRender!OCreader
Summary:
In Ravka's frosty heart, the legend of the White Death spreads. a woman with snow-white hair, frozen-fire eyes, and powers that rival those of Heartrenders under Jurda Parem. Once a slave in the Menagerie, the one who calls herself Heaven is now a myth, either leaving towns in ruins or former disease-ridden people crying with gratitude. A Sankta in the making.
General Kirigan's interest soon turns dark, and his desire becomes obsessive. Never had he been so captivated and haunted by someone. To him, she is more than power, more than an obsession, more than a temporary distraction. She is his other half — the soul he’s searched for through lifetimes of shadow. He just knows it.
But between his consuming love and Alina Starkov’s fragile promise of freedom, Heaven must choose what she will become: Savior, monster… or destruction wrapped in a pretty bow?
And in case you hadn’t realized yet: Heaven is you.
TW: Explicit sexual content, slow burn, borderline consent, heavy pinning, toxic relationship [manipulation, obsession, extreme jealousy, controlling behavior], graphic sexual description, graphic depiction of murder and torture, blood!kink, size!kink, radioactive couple, codependency, reference to past SA and child SA, dark romance & mad romance trope, ambiguous relationship with Alina. This story is brutal, bloody and rated +18.
ACT I: A BURNING LIMERENCE
1. Keep Moving, Little Girl
2. Their Frozen Shackles
3. The Court of Shadows
4. The Fear Within
5. Beneath his Watchful Eyes 🔞
6. Until Nothing is Left
7. Dangerous
8. Blood and Honey
9. Gazed Into the Abyss, It Gazed Back Into Me 🔞
10. Raw
11. Every Last Piece of Me
12. Intoxicate Me Now 🔞
13. Burn Your Village 🔞
14. E.V.O.L.
15. Darkness Suits You Well
16. Light of My Life
17. My Night and Stars. 🔞
-> Prologue Act I: What’s the Night Without his Moon?
ACT II. RAPTURE OF THE DEEP
Queen of Spades
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Light
Like a Feeling of Déjà Vue
Blinding Light
I was Made for Loving You, Baby 🔞
It's in Our Veins
Your Darkness Flayed 🔞
After the Storm, the Sun
Safe in the Dark 🔞
Paint Me Black 🔞
Golden Cage for a Pretty Bird
Your Heart, My Chains
Good Ending? You Haven't Been Paying Attention
ACT III. THE CALL OF THE VOID
The Assasymphony
Never You
Barbwire Kiss🔞
It Has Always Been You 🔞
I'm Not Ruined. I'm Ruination.
Here Comes the Wolves
Your Love is an Open Wound 🔞
The Starless Saint of Broken Hearts
The Mask of the Red Death
Candy-Coated Suicide
Symphony of Our Ruins
Epilogue: Eternal Eclipse
ONE SHOTS
Much Ado About Jam Toasts- fun & fluff
A Dangerous White Tigress - action, Hurt/Comfort
Away From the Deep Shadow
Damaged
MODERN AU*
Mental Health Is Sexy Masterlist
*Amos is Aleksander's modern identity.
GAME OF THRONES AU
Damaged Masterlist
*Amos is Aleksander.
VISUALS
Light in the Dark
"Call me Aleksander" - trailer by the beloved @elizabethblood9
My Night and Stars
Heaven Lavey
Life and Death
VIDEO EDITS
Call Me Aleksander - by @elizabethblood9
E.V.O.L - by @peakyswritings
Lilith, You Siren - by @copinghex
Notes:
☾ I haven't read the 3 books yet so this work mainly based on the TV show even though I know it's fairly different from the original Grisha verse. If you're an adorable lore psycho, you might not want to read that! :(
summary: in which you, a chaotic orange cat animagus known as snickers, unleash midnight zoomies on the gryffindor dorm, dragging padfoot into absolute mayhem and wrecking everything in sight.
a/n: this tiktok is literally snickers and padfoot wth?? masterlist
Remus was particularly accustomed to the chaos that punctuated his life at Hogwarts—the unruly Marauders, the unpredictable phases of the moon, and the relentless demands of both magic and mortality.
Yet, nothing in his experience – no amount of weariness or forewarning – had prepared him for the spectacle that awaited behind the worn door of the Gryffindor dormitory after a long, grueling night of study.
The moment the door1 creaked open, an uproarious cacophony assaulted his senses.
Books and parchment littered the floor like casualties of a minor explosion. A startled owl screeched and flapped against the far wall, desperate to escape the pandemonium.
Amid the wreckage, two figures blazed with frenetic energy: Snickers, the fiery orange blur of a cat animagus possessed by the most intense zoomies anyone had ever witnessed, and Padfoot, a dark shadow of equal parts menace and mirth, darting and bounding with predatory zeal.
James sat perched atop the dresser, arms folded, laughter bubbling from his lips as if he were witnessing the most entertaining spectacle in years.
“Remus! You missed the highlight reel—Snickers just launched herself off the bed and knocked over the whole lampstand. Padfoot’s been chasing her tail for the past five minutes.”
Snickers skidded across the floor, knocking a stack of books into the air. One fluttered down to land on James’s head, eliciting a dramatic groan.
Without pause, you streaked between Remus’s legs and shot upward like a comet, claws scrabbling at the ceiling tapestry.
Padfoot was instantly on your tail, teeth bared in a playful snarl.
“James, why aren’t you breaking this up?” Remus demanded, trying to keep his voice steady over the uproar.
James shrugged, grinning unabashedly. “And ruin the fun? No way.”
A low growl sounded from the corner, and you responded with a triumphant yowl as you vaulted toward a precarious stack of quills.
Padfoot intercepted you mid-air, sending both of you crashing into a pile of scattered robes. The ensuing tumble sent Remus staggering backward, narrowly avoiding a flying textbook.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, breath hitching. “I just—after today’s exam, I was hoping for some peace.
“Peace died the moment Snickers remembered she’s a cat with a rocket strapped to her back,” James said with a wink. “Seriously, moony, I think she’s been holding all this energy in since the last full moon.”
Snickers (you) exploded into another frenzy, darting from wall to wall, a streak of orange lightning barely visible in the dim light.
Padfoot yipped and leapt after you, knocking into the dresser and sending a cascade of socks raining down like confetti.
Remus didn’t even make it fully to the chair.
He’d aimed for it—honestly, he had—but between the pile of exploded parchment, the mangled remains of what he hoped was just a textbook, and the streak of orange that rocketed under his feet, he never stood a chance.
One foot slipped, the other tangled in a sock, and suddenly he was flat on his back, blinking up at the canopy.
You zipped past his head, your claws skidding dramatically against the wood floor, tail puffed up like a bottlebrush, pupils blown wide with ecstasy.
“I will hex both of you!” Remus snapped, pointing furiously at you as you vaulted off James’s trunk, ricocheted onto Padfoot’s back mid-run, and used him like a trampoline, vanishing under the bed in a blaze of orange rage.
Padfoot howled and spun in three tight circles, eyes wild.
“Don’t you dare—” Remus warned, finger still raised.
Too late. Padfoot launched after you with the reckless momentuml, disappearing under the bed with a guttural growl and a flurry of socks.
“Padfoot, get out from under there! And you—” he pointed to the bed frame, where the tip of your tail flicked defiantly out from beneath.
“Come out before I charm your paws to the floor!”
Another crash answered him from beneath the bed.
“WHAT are you doing?” Remus shouted from the floor, voice cracked and betrayed.
James was doubled over on his bed, face purple with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You just got demolished, Moony—by a ten-pound feline!”
Padfoot reemerged with your tail in his mouth. You were yowling furiously, limbs flailing like a spaghetti demon, fur puffed in seven directions.
“Let her go, you maniac—!” Remus scrambled up, just in time for Padfoot to tear through the room in a victory lap, dragging you along the floor like some kind of orange war banner.
James was now on the floor, laughing so hard he wheezed, slapping the stone tiles.
Remus sighed, ducking as a pillow launched itself from the bed and exploded into a storm of feathers.
You broke free with an acrobatic twist, rebounded off the wall, and scaled James’s curtains.
From the top of the bedpost, you looked down with imperial menace, panting, fur standing on end.
Padfoot barked again and lunged up after you, but missed and headbutted the wardrobe.
There was a long silence.
Then a crash.
Then the wardrobe tipped sideways and slammed into the floor.
Padfoot didn’t pause to assess the wreckage. The wardrobe had barely finished slamming to the floor when he snarled—low and guttural—and launched himself at you.
You barely had time to adjust your footing on the bedpost before he collided with the frame below, sending the whole canopy rattling.
He jumped again, this time with intent, claws scrabbling, teeth flashing.
His weight rocked the structure, and before you could leap away, he caught your leg in his mouth.
“PADFOOT—!” Remus’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp with panic. He was already on his feet, wand half-raised, eyes wide. “Let go! What are you doing?!”
You twisted in his grip, yowling in protest, your ears flattened, body writhing like liquid fury. He didn’t release and so you raked your claws across his snout with a hiss.
Padfoot reeled back with a yelp, fur bristling, blood blooming where your claws had connected.
And then—shift—he was Sirius again, all limbs and wild black hair.
“You psychopath!” he barked, staggering backward and rubbing at the scratch on his nose. “You clawed me across the face!”
“You tackled her!” Remus shot back, storming forward now, eyes flicking between the two of you, trying to determine if he needed to physically intervene. “She’s half your size, Sirius—what the hell was that?!”
“She bit me first!” Sirius shouted. “And look at her!”
You were still vibrating at the top of the bedpost, fur puffed, eyes blazing, tail whipping side to side like a live fuse.
“She’s got demon energy! That’s not a cat!.”
And then you moved.
You leapt off the post in a blinding flash of orange and took off across the room like your tail was on fire, skidding across a pile of quills, then rebounding off a chair.
“Oh, hell no—” Sirius dove after you, crawling under the bed, swearing violently. “Come back here, you absolute gremlin—”
Remus reached out a hand to stop him but missed. James was back to wheezing on the floor.
“This is better than the Gryffindor vs Slytherin match,” he gasped.
You darted out from beneath the bed just as Sirius lunged again, sending both of you toppling into the curtains. The fabric ripped, Sirius cursed as yoy tore out of the mess and leapt onto his back.
“OW—bloody hell—she’s on me again—Remus! Help!”
But Remus didn’t move.
Yiu shifted mid-pounce, landing on Sirius’s back in human form, knocking the wind out of him as he crashed forward with a grunt.
“What the—?!” He tried to turn over, arms flailing, but you hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down again.
“Not so fast, mutt,” you growled, grinning into his ear.
“Oh, now you’ve done it—” Sirius flipped under you, wrestling playfully, his hands grabbing at your waist as he tried to flip you back. “You think you can scratch me and tackle me?”
“Yes, I can!” you shot back, elbowing his ribs.
“Gods, you’re feral,” he wheezed.
“You attacked me!”
“You attacked me first!”
“You bit my tail!”
Remus groaned, rubbing both hands over his face. “Can we please go one night without bloodshed?”
You rolled off him, flopping back on the floor, hair a mess, breath heaving. Sirius followed, lying beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
Then, suddenly, Sirius scrambled to his feet with dramatic flair and sprinted across the room.
“Moony!” he wailed, arms outstretched like a tragic widow. “Your girlfriend is so mean to me!”
Remus barely had time to react before Sirius flung himself forward and latched onto him like a lifeline. “She scratched me! She bit me!”
“You dragged me across the floor by my tail!” you barked from the other side of the room, indignant, hair wild, one sock still stuck to your elbow.
“What was I supposed to do? Purr?!”
Remus, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He stood there with Sirius clinging to him like a particularly dramatic scarf and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
You gaped. “I’m rabid?! You’re the one who went full wolf-on-steroids—Remus, tell him he’s wrong! Tell him I’m not rabid.”
Remus looked between the two of you, the absolute carnage of the dorm, his slashed-up bag in the corner, and said, “I think I’d like to transfer schools.”
James snorted into the pillow he was using to hide his laughter.
Sirius groaned dramatically. “Just hold me while she reloads.”
“Oh my god—” You stomped across the room, snatched Sirius by the collar, and yanked him off Remus with zero effort. “That’s my boyfriend, thank you.”
Remuss finally let the corner of his mouth lift, soft and a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe the storm had finally passed. “Do I get a say in any of this, or…?”
“No!” you and Sirius said in unison.
Then you laughed. Loud and unfiltered and stupidly happy. And Sirius was laughing too, leaning against your shoulder now, his bruised ribs forgotten.
And somehow, even surrounded by feathers, overturned furniture, and two emotionally unstable friends arguing over rights, everything felt exactly right.
summary ༄ sirius x fem!reader ... sirius wakes up to you making breakfast. insane amount of fluff, newly dating, sirius is DOWN BAD.
word count ༄ 878 words
nora’s notes ༄ first drabble i've written!! hope u enjoy
The first thing Sirius does when he wakes up is check for you. It’s not the first time he’s stayed over at your place, but it’s still early enough that he doesn’t have a drawer of his things here. He’s never thought of himself as a domestic type, but that thought of having his clothes in your drawers tickles his heart. God, he wants to write grocery lists with you, wants to do the dishes to the sound of your voice, wants to do your laundry in a single basket, just to see your lives intertwined together. He likes you. Maybe too much.
His palm splays across the bed. Empty.
He rolls back over with a low groan. Where are you? The sun slips through your blinds, spotlighting the skin of his bare chest. He pulls one of your pillows over his head to block it out while listening for where you are in the house.
Clang. Definitely the kitchen. It sounds like you’re cooking something. A lazy smile tugs at his mouth. He’s excited to see you, as much as he would for a friend he hadn’t seen in a few months. There’s something about you that calls to his hands; he wants to be touching you, admiring you, always.
He stumbles out of bed less reluctantly now, pulls on a pair of boxers and wanders downstairs.
You’re in the kitchen, wearing his kidnapped shirt (it looks better on you anyways) and mixing up blueberries into a pancake batter. You look like love itself.
An overwhelming fondness for you—for that streak of white flour in your hair, for your hip cocked against your kitchen counter, for your lovely, lovely smile as you notice him in the doorway—spills into him. He walks into your kitchen, arms twisting around you, and drops a kiss onto your shoulder. Your soft sound of surprise makes his heart ache with affection. He likes you so much already that he’s worried he might burst with more time alone with you.
“Thought you ditched me in bed,” he whispers into your ear.
You turn, poking your nose into his cheek, giving him a quick peck. “Were you heartbroken?”
“Very.” He nods solemnly. “But I suppose pancakes could make up for it.”
“Mmm, that’s too bad, because these are all for me,” you respond, slipping out of his embrace to turn on your stove.
“You’re going to eat all of those pancakes? There’s enough batter for, like, ten,” he says skeptically.
“Sirius Black!” You swat his shoulder lightly, pretending to act scandalized. “You never comment on what a woman eats, you dog.”
“I’d apologize, but I can’t deny the truth.” He encircles you again, lets his teeth graze at the side of your neck.
“Stop biting me,” you murmur, pouring pancake batter onto the pan.
“I can’t help it,” he responds. “You taste good.”
You roll your eyes, turning to chuck a stray blueberry at his face. “Shut it.”
He backs up just a step to catch the blueberry with ease, popping it into his mouth with a smirk. “Delicious. But still not as sweet as you.”
“Quit the flirting, Black, I might just begin to think you like me,” you tease, flipping your pancake.
“I sure hope you know I like you. Why else am I sacrificing my beauty sleep, awake so early on a Sunday morning, just for you?” He flops onto your counter, peeking up at your face, framed by the late morning sun. Your eyelashes are glowing in the light, bathed in some kind of angel’s halo. “You kept me up last night.”
“You should go back to sleep.” You raise an eyebrow, a cheeky smile kissing your lips. So pretty. “Lord knows you need that extra beauty sleep.”
“Are you calling me ugly?” He pouts, rising to squish your face between his hands. You smell like sunshine and blueberries and everything good that Sirius has ever known. “I can’t believe it.”
“My deepest apologies, my lord,” you say. “Whatever will I do to make up for it?”
“A kiss and a proper apology would suffice,” he decides, lips pulling down into a fake frown.
You lean in and he can’t fight his smile, closing his eyes. Just when your lips are about to touch, you grab a fistful of flour and toss it into his face. He sputters, coughing, wiping his eyes to wash away the powder.
“Oh, it is so, so on,” he says, blindly reaching for anything on your counter. He finds the spatula and flings the batter on it at you, splatting it onto your face and half-side tackling you, arms coming around to grab your waist.
You turn around and your noses bump, breath mingling until all you’re breathing is each other. You kiss him like it’s all you want to do, pull back just to look at him again, to rove over his face.
“Hi, pretty boy,” you say, wet kiss on the side of his mouth.
You giggle and Sirius thinks it’s the most intoxicating thing in the world. He wants to get high on you, wants you running through his veins. He’s lucky, then, that there’s no such thing as an overdose from you. He doesn’t think he could ever get enough.
Summary: Aemond and you are tired of being pawns. Instead of chess, you decide to play draughts.
Requested: Yes! Because nothing is more PDA than murdering the man who dares touch your wife.
A/N: Isn’t like, a rite of passage writing Baratheon reader?
Warnings: Mature language, attempted SA (Bedding ceremony, ripping clothes), implied smut. Enemies to lovers to the cursed play.
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.”
Being a second born son isn't easy. Getting all the responsibilities and none of the recognition stings, yes. But nothing does more than knowing you are the spare, and that the throne is right at your fingertips. It is like throwing a steak in front of a dog and ordering him not to slobber.
Aemond is not a dog. He is a dragon. And that makes it much more worse. He can’t help but crave, but want. Sink his teeth on it and snarl, tear apart until nothing is left. As he rides towards the Stormlands, with the very real possibility of running into one of his nephews in his future, he thanks the Seven for his self control.
As he left, his mother had reminded him of the importance of behaving with the utmost decorum. To secure the alliance, Aemond must perform his duty and forget all thoughts of vengeance.
Were it to turn into an all out war, they are greatly disadvantaged. The number of dragons they have is not enough to form a real opposition to Rhaenyra. If they have enough soldiers, though, perhaps it will make the whore think twice about starting it.
But even without her, Aegon needs this. He will forever need to prove his legitimacy as a King to the rest of the realm. After all, their father had nearly twenty years to make him heir and had only done so as an afterthought. Everyone would wonder what did that say about his character. His brother needed to prove himself a capable ruler, one that would unite the Seven Kingdoms and protect them under his banner.
This is a war that will be fought through connections and resources, not violence. Aemond’s hatred cannot jeopardize that. Duty must come above everything else.
He only hopes duty doesn’t come with the face of an ugly cow. Securing the alliance with the Baratheons is vital, and his grandsire had made it apparent Aemond should use any means necessary to get what they required.
“Play your cards right, Aemond.” He had said, staring at a map of Westeros. If looks could make an entire nation bend the knee, it was for sure that after that glare, all the Kingdoms would be for Hightower. “Offer them trade, lowered taxes… Borros is an easy man to fool. Never was one for the letters, that one. But if he won’t budge… He has five daughters.”
Aemond had only nodded. Despite not being spoken out loud, the message was clear. Try not to, but if necessary, marry one of the little fools. For that was what they were, with a father as Borros Baratheon. Everyone in the Stormlands knew their lord could not read. And the so-called Four Storms were praised for their beauty, grace, and manners. Not for being particularly learned.
Five daughters. Surely, his grandsire had been wrong. Everyone he asked agreed there were Four Storms. It had struck Aemond as odd, that he would make such a simple mistake. Otto Hightower was a figure larger than life, a great thinker that commanded every room he was in, and blessed with an excellent memory. But it was not as odd when considering the amount of stress the poor man was under.
Everything felt urgent and not quite real. Aegon’s transition had been an easy one in the logistical side of things. His grandsire and mother had been already running the realm. But despite being prepared for Rhaenyra’s resistance, they hadn’t expected her to actually gain supporters. They had prepared, but Aemond still felt as if none of this could actually be happening.
His lack of a bride, purposeful in case an alliance was needed, was soon to come to an end. He felt much like he imagined maidens must feel like. Aemond was about to be sold to the highest bidder, and in this case, that was Borros Baratheon. And whichever of his little fools was the least annoying.
Well, he was in no need of a clever wife. If it were necessary, Aemond would pick the more pleasing one and be done with it. He could place her in another wing of the Red Keep and not have anything to do with her.
When he enters Storm’s End, Aemond is taken aback. He had done his research about the Baratheons. Four Storms. A couple of sons. Borros and his old Lady Wife. But the gossip he had been privy to had been outdated. Because next to Borros Baratheon sits a girl in a smaller throne. You. His new bride.
Borros doesn’t stand up to greet him. Neither do you. Aemond fights to remain calm, despite the display of disrespect. He focuses his attention, instead, on the contrasts between the two of you.
Borros is sprawled without a care, legs spread and belly sticking out. You sit primly, legs crossed at the ankles. You are a beauty, next to the man you are married to. A maiden in the bloom of youth, around Aemond’s age. What could have possessed your family to marry you to such a beast?
It had not been an indiscretion. You do not show any sign of being with child or being nursing. You also sit very proper and proud. If you are a little deviant, it doesn’t show in the way you hold yourself.
The lady of Storm's End, mother to the Storms, has to have passed recently. Otherwise, it would make no sense why Aemond had not heard of it. And while he understands the urges men tend to have, when faced with a second chance at marriage, this is a bit much.
Aemond was in no place to judge, considering his birth had been the consequence of a similar match. Yet Borros Baratheon was no king in need of heirs, and you were young enough to be his daughter. Seven Hells, if Aemond’s guess about your age was right, you were around the eldest Storms's ages. Disgusting. Your beauty was wasted in such an unmannered, daft beast.
“Prince Aemond.” Borros says, lazily scratching his belly.
“Lord Baratheon.” Aemond hates himself for it, but forces himself to bow his head. Then, he turns towards you. “Lady Baratheon.”
“To what do we owe the honor?” The answer is dripping in sarcasm. Borros, of course, must already know why Aemond is here. He has either already made his choice about what side he is on, or he intends to make Aemond grovel. Neither sit right with him. The thought of humiliating himself for a Lord’s pleasure is one that makes his back stiffen and anger burn hotly in his stomach.
He is a Prince of House Targaryen. Not some beggar that has come to plead for aid. But Aemond grits his teeth and starts sprouting the script he had written in his head as he rode here.
“It’s with great sadness that I inform you of my father’s passing. Of course in these trying times, we must remain united, and no house has stood with Targaryens…” The speech has as much emotional conviction as if he were speaking about the reproduction of cattle, which is to say, none. He knows this is not what will convince Borros. He is a simple man. Borros likes good food, good wine and women. The language he speaks it's not flowery, heartfelt speech, but rather gold and land.
“So you seek an alliance.” Borros extends his hand, impatiently. Aemond nearly bristles at the interruption. He only manages to keep his temper in check through years of taking Aegon’s insults. “Pass me the letter your grandsire has written.”
“Here.” Despite knowing the man doesn’t know how to read, Aemond hands it to him. Men’s egos are fragile things, and he knows too well how the sting of embarrassment can fuel hatred. He is not going to risk his chance and insult him.
Borros opens it. He scans it over, noticing the royal seal. Then, he shifts towards you.
“Girl, come here.”
Aemond's brows raise. Did Borros keep you by his side not only for his personal satisfaction? The existence of your little throne makes more sense that way. Surely, not even that fool would be so crass as to have you on display just to show off his younger bride.
You go to him, barely acknowledging Aemond. You skirt around him as if he were part of the furniture. He gets a whiff of your perfume, something expensive and decadent. It’s that what makes Aemond take a second look at you.
You wear a black velvet dress in one of the latest fashions of the capital. You are dressed better than most ladies at court, hands, and neck dripping in jewels. Your hair is held back by a golden hairpiece that emulates the antlers that the Baratheons are so famous for.
Perhaps you are a way for Borros to flaunt his riches. A power play meant to intimidate visitors. Not only has he managed to get a younger bride, but he showers her in jewels. It might be a way to show off his manliness, to show his vassals and other lords that he is still powerful and virile. It has to be the stupidest thing Aemond has ever seen.
You take the parchment from Borros's hands. All tiny steps and swaying hips, you get even closer, to whisper in his ear. Your muttering is fast and frantic, and despite how acute Aemond's hearing has gotten since the loss of his eye, he can't make out the words.
The expression on the Lord's face shifts, from annoyance to amusement.
“Taxes? Lowered taxes?” Borros asks, nearly laughing. “That’s all you are willing to offer?”
It had been, in fact, all that his grandsire had been offering at first. The best thing to do when starting a negotiation was to start lower than what you actually intended to offer. Then, when you gave in and offered more, the other person would feel like they were winning.
“No, my lord. Merely the starting point. If you read the last few paragraphs, you will see trade…” Aemond tries to redirect the conversation back to the important part, but he is surprised to find that he can’t. Because you cut him, smoothly, and with a smile so sharp it might make Vhagar nervous.
“We will see you offer us a trade deal that’s worse than what we already have. Are lowered taxes and worsening of our trade deals what we should expect from our new King? I shudder to think how King Aegon treats his enemies, if this is how he treats…”
Aemond's eyebrows raise. So you speak. And quite eloquently. Strange for a trophy wife. Even stranger, that your husband allows it. Men who marry little girls young enough to be their daughters are not known for their consideration towards women.
“My Lady, with all due respect…” Aemond needs to stop you because if what you say it's true, then his grandsire has made a grave miscalculation. Or a shrewd attempt to fool Borros Baratheon. Knowing him, the second one is more likely. He has a tendency to underestimate other’s intelligence. It was a flaw often found in bright men. Aemond suffered from it himself.
You do stop speaking, staring at him with hatred in your eyes. You either hate men, him, or being interrupted. Perhaps all three. Your eyes narrow, and you look on the verge of doing something very unladylike.
Gods. If you were Helaena, or his wife, he would already have reprimanded you. Aemond turns towards Borros, hoping to get some show of camaraderie from the man. Women, so easily offended. Surely, he would put you back in your place.
But instead of scolding you, the man gave Aemond an angry scowl.
“I will not tolerate any disrespect towards my daughter, Aemond Targaryen. Let her finish.”
The omission of his title would have stung in ordinary circumstances, but not this time. He was too busy gawking over the fact that you were not Borros' wife, but his daughter. You two were nothing alike.
Daughter. Of course. That’s why the man defers to you, why he has you seated to his right. At least that count his grandsire had gotten right. Five daughters, indeed.
“As I was saying. I do not understand why we should take your side. We have yet to receive an offer from the other contenders. Your terms are not generous enough to declare yet.” Your answer is clipped. You are clearly annoyed with him, but you do raise good points. Aemond sees no trouble in listening to you. If Borros wants to indulge you, a little girl playing politics, he won't be the one to stop you.
“So you think, my lady, that you should play both sides?” Aemond arches an eyebrow, leveling you with a glare. No matter how many good points you make, he is not above intimidation to get what he wants. He knows he cuts an intimidating figure, with the dark clothing and the eye patch. Many of the women at court avoid him for that very reason.
But unlike the women at court, you do not wither under his gaze. You bloom. Your back straightens, and you give him a calm look. Your eyes are sweet, almost as if Aemond were flirting with you and not looming menacingly.
“It’s hardly that. I’m simply waiting to make an informed choice. You barge in here, unannounced and in a hurry, hoping to pressure us into an alliance you clearly need.” Your speech is well pronounced and to the point. As soon as you voice it, you seem to lose all interest in him, brushing past to get to your tiny throne.
Aemond turns and stares, unashamedly. The nerve on you. While you might have seen through him, it didn't allow you to just disregard him like that. Who did you think you were? You were just a lady? He was a Prince, the blood of the dragon!
“And we Baratheons are no pushovers.” Borros adds, approvingly. He seems to take your opinion, turning towards you for approval. The man clearly loves you. “We are stags.” Your eyes narrow. Your father clears his throat and rushes to add. “And does. We do the pushing.”
It’s not a good line, but it gives Aemond an opening. If the man cares for you such, it's not wealth that will sway him, nor the promises of land. There is only one thing a man with five daughters could want, especially regarding his favorite one.
“I do have something else to offer.” Aemond says, eyes firmly on Borros. He is purposely excluding you from the conversation, knowing it will sting. Good. You have been horrible to him so far, you deserve it.
“Do tell.” You insert yourself regardless, and he turns to you with his more welcoming smile. You have just dug your own grave, and you don't even know it. It will make his victory much sweeter.
“I would marry you. You are beautiful, and clearly intelligent.” Aemond's expression turns malicious. Your face pales, turning an awful gray shade. You know as well as him that you can't deny him.
“And what use do I have for a second son?” Your hands go to your hips, and you jump out of your tiny throne. You stalk forward, all bared teeth and bravado. Gone is the pretense of sweetness. When cornered, you bite and bite hard.
The insult stings, and Aemond has to fight the urge to slap you. You got quite the mouth and a talent for knowing where to strike. It’s a dangerous combination. He wants nothing more than to exert vengeance, but confronting you now would be unwise. Instead, Aemond fantasizes about what he will do to you if he ever gets you as a wife.
Pinch you. Tug on that pretty hair. Maybe smack you in the arse until you were begging for forgiveness. His mouth twists into an ugly smile. The mental images give him the strength necessary to turn towards your father and try to sway him.
“My Lord, you cannot keep her here forever. You surely know what will happen when you are no more. She will depend on the mercy of his brother. The Lady needs someone to take care of her.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the way you are baring your teeth. Whoever said you were a doe was wrong. You look more like a boar, pretty features twisted in rage.
Lord Baratheon laughs. This time, it's not mocking, but full of humor. Aemond decides it to take it as a good sign.
“And so you now ask I give you my doe. You are a bold man, Prince Aemond.” Definitely a good sign, then. Now he is suddenly a Prince again. Aemond turns towards you and gives you a smug grin. Your hands wrap so hard around the fabric of your pretty gown, he hears a ripping sound. Your father remains oblivious.
“I would be her fiercest protector. Staunchest supporter.” Aemond hurries to reassure him. Borros just needs a little push to give in. He can practically savor it. What does a father fear the most when handing a daughter away? “I would never force her to obey me beyond the reasonable respect a wife should have for her husband.”
It is, of course, a load of crap. He fully intends to take you down a few pegs. But what Borros doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
“Father…” You cut in, urgently. Your father is too busy looking at Aemond like he is his hero to notice. The expression on his face is close to orgasmic bliss, as disgusting as the thought is. Any more, and the man will burst from happiness.
“She would want for nothing. I would treat her as it befits a woman of her station. There would be no greater joy for me than getting her hand in marriage.” Aemond pleads. That is true. At least halfway. You would live comfortably, he would make sure of it. And he would be glad to marry you, if only to be able to get his revenge. Would you want for nothing? Doubtful. You would probably want your family, a loving husband, being away from the Red Keep… But financially, you would be set.
Borros stands and gives Aemond a pat on the back. His expression lights up, looking ten years younger. In contrast, your face falls. You look between the two of them, shaking hands, and look ready to bawl.
“It will be an honor to join our houses, Prince Aemond.” The man boasts, joyfully. Aemond smirks. As petty as it is, he feels as if he has conquered a Kingdom. There is nothing sweeter than the look of pure defeat you wear.
But hearing your father so happy about the match seems to be the last straw for you. You step between the two of them.
“Why not Floris? She is the prettiest among us all. Or Maris? She is very learned!” The offer is desperate, and by the look on your face, you know it. Your face scrunches up in disgust, as if you cannot believe your words. Betraying your sisters for your own safety seems low. Aemond can tell you don’t mean it, but knowing that you are trapped so well you are lashing out pleases him.
Your father's hand goes to your wrist, and he pulls you forward. You go easily, and Aemond makes a mental note of it. He finds interesting how easy you are to subdue if handled properly. Your father seems to have a knack for it.
“You will have to forgive my doe.” Borros says, ruffling your hair affectionately. You stare, looking like a disgruntled kitten. It's clear you are not impressed. “She has the Baratheon temper, but can be quite sweet too. Hence, the name.”
“Of course.” Aemond says, magnanimous. He will need to play the devoted fiancée until he has you out of here, less your father regrets the agreement. But after… Oh, he is going to have fun taking you down a few notches. “Only looking out for her sisters. After all, it's odd the eldest is not married and this one will be.”
You smile at him. Your smile promises pain. Aemond wonders, for the first time, if you have similar plans for him. If you do, he welcomes the challenge. It will be even sweeter when he prevails.
“She is very sensible.” Your father plays with a stray curl behind your ear, tucking the hairpiece more firmly. He remains ignorant of the heated glares Aemond and you are exchanging. “Always has wanted to be swept off her feet, though.”
“Father, perhaps he should take a look at my sisters first. The famous Four Storms.” The words come out between gritted teeth, eyes still burning a hole through Aemond.
“I don't need to, my lady. Are any of them as politically inclined?” He does not dare reach for you, with your father on the way. He would like to touch you. Aemond is not sure about why he feels that urge, but he thinks it is due to your infuriating nature.
“They are not. Cassandra, the eldest, is the friendliest. There is also Floris, the most beautiful, and Maris, the most learned. Ellyn, I'm afraid, is too young.” You rattle, counting with your fingers.
Borros coughs. He eyes Aemond warily, as if expecting him to suddenly announce he doesn't want you anymore. The man loves you, but he is not blind to your faults. Something about his attitude makes Aemond think that this is not the first time you try to spook a suitor.
“I see.” Aemond answers, coolly. “I do not want a Storm. I want a Doe.”
You glare even more. You go sit on your little throne. By the Sevens, you truly are disagreeable. Spoiled, pampered, and with a temper unlike he had ever seen. A match made in the Seven Hells.
Your father gave Aemond a curt tilt of the head. Aemond sighed, and went to kneel by your side.
“I want to court you, if you will let me.” He grabbed your hand. Your skin was very soft, but your palm felt clammy and cold. Curiously, he dared slip his hand lower, checking your pulse. The beat of your heart was not steady, but rushed, and it filled him with a sense of achievement. You were terrified. Smiling against your skin, Aemond pressed a kiss to your knuckles. “I did not lie when I said I found beauty in your mind and words.”
It was no lie. You were beautiful in the way young maidens were, sweet and untainted. But you had a mind as sharp as any man. It was a combination Aemond would have admired greatly, were it not for the fact you were a terrible, spoiled brat.
“A war is about to break out. I don't see where you would find the time.”
“If your father allows it, I would take you with me.” Aemond stepped slightly closer. Perhaps, he could entice you. “Would you enjoy riding a dragon?”
“Ah, so you can abandon me in some forgotten wing of the Red Keep and have me away from my family?” It comes out bratty, and scared. A little girl who fears being alone.
Borros tenses at the tone. Almost as if acting on pure instinct, he reaches towards you. His hand goes to grab at your arm, making sure you are still there. Aemond will have to tread carefully, else he missteps and loses all the progress he has made with the man.
“You would have a seat at Aegon's council.” Aemond takes your hands in his. He is on his wits end on what he could offer you. Never before has he met a woman so unimpressed by anything he has to give. In your tiny, sheltered world, everything is perfect already.
“Gods know he needs it.” Borros muttered, under his breath. Aemond ignores him, choosing to squeeze your hands instead.
“I would listen to you.” He pleads, but you, terror of a girl, are ignoring him. Your eyes are focused elsewhere, no longer in his. A guard is hurrying forward, and Aemond can tell the wheels on your head start to turn.
“Prince Lucerys Velaryon!”
Aemond, kneeling next to you, straightens. You curl your hand around his.
“Don't!”
“My Lady…” Aemond fights your grip, trying to detangle himself from you. Your hand goes to his nape. You squeeze, as if directing a dog.
“You said you would listen to me.” Your grip is firm. “Prove it.”
Aemond is seething with rage, with the urge to chase and tear Lucerys apart. But you do not budge. Your hand turns into a chain around his nape, a collar for a dog. You force him to remain kneeling at your feet as your father dispatches Lucerys.
Humiliation bubbles up at his throat, choking him. Not even the Pink Dread incident had come close to this feeling. Utter, profound, embarrassment. He can feel his nephew's eyes lingering on you, in the display of affection that seems so casual. A suitor kneeling for his lady, resting his head on her lap. It could be affectionate, were it not for the fact that it’s you.
Aemond is not hiding his face in your lap to feel you pet him, no matter if you behave like he is. Instead, you are forcefully keeping him in place, and he rather look the lovesick fool than the weakling who can’t fight a woman’s grip.
You pet his hair. You smile. He is powerless to stop it. It is then Aemond realizes that you are more dangerous than he had thought. You were so used to bending men to your will, he had not noticed that you had done the same to him.
Not any longer. He would make you pay. He vowed it.
“When shall we three meet again
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?”
You liked your life. Your sisters were sweet, if a bit distant. Your father was caring, to the point of actually listening to your opinion. The library was full of books, and you had warm furs and pretty dresses. Life was good. Why would you choose to leave this behind? Storm’s End was your safe haven, the place where you could be yourself. You wouldn’t trade it to go live at the Red Keep with a bunch of incestuous deviants whose reign was under question. You refused.
The thought of going away and having to play the dutiful wife to Prince Aemond made your stomach turn. You were not stupid. You knew the amount of freedom you had here was unusual. There, your voice would be silenced. Nothing you said would be of consequence as it was here. Even if they listened to women, they wouldn’t listen to a stranger. If you were King Aegon, you would rather have your mother’s council over the one from a strange goodsister.
Making sure the door to your rooms was locked, you threw yourself on the bed and screamed from rage, muffling the sound in your pillow. You were frustrated beyond belief. Anything you had tried, Prince Aemond had countered. And your father! Oh, your father had given you away so easily, as if you were no more than cattle. Did he truly believe that you would be treated as promised?
How could your father be so blind? He had not felt Prince Aemond tremble from rage, when he heard the voice of his nephew. The one who had taken his eye. He had not seen his expression sour as you interrupted him and proved yourself to be smarter than he was.
You stood up and looked around. You kicked your bed, and quickly regretted it. Your shoes offered no protection against the impact, and you swore.
“Seven Hells!” And you looked around, embarrassed from your outburst. But there was no one around to witness it, and that fact enraged you even more. You wanted to make your annoyance known.
Your rooms were empty, not a single maid in sight. They were probably tending to your sisters. There was to be a feast in honor of the Prince, but you had no plans to attend. Hence, you had called for no attendants.
You started to pace. Aemond Targaryen would regret taking you from your home. You vowed it. Despite knowing you were falling victim to childish pettiness and letting it cloud your senses, you couldn’t help it. You were angry. Angry. Angry. You wanted to claw his remaining eye out, pull on his hair, elbow him as hard as you could.
Women had everything to lose when it came to marriage. It was their destiny. They lost their connection to their house and were sent to another. They changed hands like property. And the men, the owners, had everything to win. Trading a daughter off like one would do to a rook before starting a game of Cyvasse, they gained an alliance. And receiving a woman, they gained a dowry and vessel for their children.
You knew the day would come where you would be plucked from your home, but you had foolishly hoped that being one of the many Baratheon daughters spared you from that fate. There were so many of you, your father could not hope to marry you all. You wanted to be more than just a way for a man to gain heirs.
But instead, you were going to be carried off towards a place far from your home, where you would not get to be a person fully. You doubted Prince Aemond would give you the same leniency your father gave you, or that he would listen to your opinions. No matter what he said, he was still a man. And not any man, but one you had humiliated.
Men did not often like realizing you were smarter or bolder than them. Those characteristics had served you well to keep marriage away during the years, but it seemed like this time they had failed you. Not only they had made Prince Aemond interested in you, they had also angered him. After seeing the look on his face when his nephew had entered the hall, you could tell he was not one to forgive and forget.
You could have handled it better. By the Seven, you were smarter than him. Why had you been so hostile? If only you had thought to manipulate him back then. How could you have been so stupid? You grabbed a vase and threw it to the floor with all your strength. It shattered into tiny pieces with a loud noise. It didn’t make you feel any better.
You sobbed. A look at the broken pieces and you thought of your maids, having to pick it up. The thought made more tears come to your eyes. There was a warm, wet feeling clogging up your throat. You were not such a bad person as to make them clean a mess you had made purposefully, so you kneeled and started picking up the pieces.
The commotion clearly attracted someone’s attention because there was a knock on your door. You ignored it, and continued obsessively picking up the pieces. You placed them all on top of a cloth, arranging them neatly. The ceramic was sharp, and the borders made your hands sting, but none drew blood.
The knocking became louder.
“No!” You shouted, denying whoever it was. Probably one of your sisters, checking up on you. Or a maid. Or guard. Who knew. You just wanted to be left alone to wallow in your misery.
“My lady, the Prince is requesting….” Of course, they weren’t checking on you. You did no longer matter. Now, you were little more than cattle, mattering only in regard to your owner. This what not the life you had envisioned, not at all.
“And I said no.” Why should what Prince Aemond wanted matter more than what you wanted? You wanted to be left alone. Be able to come to terms with what was going to happen and think of a plan. What was your next move? You had no time to think of it. Already he was imposing his presence.
The servant did not answer. You thought you were finally going to be left alone, but the respite was brief.
“Sister.” Floris’s voice echoed in your rooms. She had a loud, commanding tone, similar to your own. She had gone ahead and opened your door. “You should not behave like this.”
“I do not care.” You sat down on your bed, arms crossed over your chest. Despite knowing you were in the wrong, you didn’t need her to rub your mistakes in your face.
“You should.” Floris took a dress out of one of your trunks. It was one of your yellow gowns, made with intricate gold stitching. She laid it down on your bed, smoothing the skirts down, and gave a pleased sigh. “It is like a fairy tale. You get to be a princess.”
“I do not want to be a Princess.” You looked at the dress and scooted towards the edge of your mattress, trying to avoid it. Floris spanked your thigh, hard enough to make you yelp. “It is the truth! I don’t…”
“Then think of it this way.” She interrupted, annoyed. She, too, had the Baratheon temper. “That man that you are rejecting and humiliating is the man you will spend your life with. Who will have power over you. You are smart. You know this.”
“Father could…”
“Father is not going to change his mind.” Floris frowned. She smoothed your hair down. The hairpiece was making your head hurt, but just like your father, she only tucked it in more firmly. Your head felt heavy. Floris wiped your tears away, examining you with a critical eye. “You are a lucky girl. You have our father’s favor. Win the Prince’s.”
“I told him it should have been you.” The confession slipped from your lips, unprompted. It brought a smile to her face.
“Then you are a fool.” Floris smirked. You could tell she meant every word. Your sister had always had ambitions above her station, much like yours. But hers were more in line with what was expected of your sex. “Had it been me he had chosen, I would have not thought it twice. Fix your face. Before he decides to fix it with his fists.” She gave you one last look, before leaving you to your rapidly darkening thoughts.
You did not need the reminder of what Prince Aemond could do to you, once the two of you were married. You knew. But she had put it so coldly….
Floris was hungry. She had always been. Ever since you were children, she had always craved more. In a household full of girls, she had gotten used to fighting for her due. And not only that. Floris always managed to thrive. Were it her in your shoes, you had no doubts she would have Prince Aemond wrapped around her finger and a plot to get him either power or riches so she could keep a lush lifestyle. Her advice was blunt, but well-intentioned. This was an opportunity, and you should treat it as such.
You got up. You washed your face. By then, it was very late. The storm continued hitting the castle with the same vigor. There were hardly any servants in the halls. You went to sit at one of the windows, watching the rain fall.
Despite the late hour, something told you he would come to you. Sitting on the windowsill, you could taste the tang of metal against your tongue each time you breathed in. The night felt electric. You knew it was just what storms were like, but something about this one felt foreboding.
Watching the water made you feel calmer, and more focused. As the droplets tumbled down the sides of the castle, you reflected. But no rationalization helped you vanish the thought that this night was significant. Destiny was changing right under your eyes, and you could do little but watch it unfold.
“Here you are.” He spoke, after an eternity. You turned your body towards him, but made no move to get up. Somehow, watching him loom over you felt wrong. Like he shouldn’t be.
“Here I am.” You replied, before softening your voice. “I was waiting for you.”
Instead of softening himself, Prince Aemond scowled.
“You are the most impudent woman I have ever met. Haven’t you learned that you should address your betters properly?”
His comment grates on your nerves. You want nothing more than to scream at him. But then, you remind yourself of what this is. An opportunity.
“I apologize, betrothed.” You say, very gracefully. “Do you wish to sit with me?” And you add a good bat of your lashes for good measure. It usually works on your father, so why not on him?
The Prince frowns. He seems to take your much more subdued behavior as sarcastic.
“You are absolutely impudent. When we marry…”
You interrupt him before he can say more.
“You will hit me?” You raise your eyebrows. “Is that what you mean to say?”
He reaches for you. You flinch back, before remembering you are right at the windowsill. The window is high enough that the fall would kill you. You scream, panic taking hold. You reach for him, for the sides of the castle, for anything that could save you from certain death. Aemond grapples at you, desperately grabbing your shoulders and hair in a death grip.
“I have a right to discipline you. And I will, if you do not mind your tongue.” He snaps, pulling you against him. He is careful to move both of you away from the window. Your heart beats harshly in your chest. If he had lost his footing, if he had been a second slower… You could be dead. You could be dead.
“Discipline. Discipline.” You repeat to yourself, in a daze. “As if I were a child.”
“You behave like one. I will treat you like one.” His expression is very telling. Your face heats up. You swallow. Dead. He could have killed you. You are not too sure how you feel about your confrontation with mortality.
“And if I apologize?”
“I am not sure if I will believe a change of heart.”
And oh, how it stings. He wants to humiliate you. It makes your anger flare up again. You clench your fists and stare at the rain. You count to ten in your head, watching the droplets fall outside.
“Of course, my Prince.”
"Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,"
The storm passed, and so did your tantrum. You had become very quiet and subservient. The perfect wife. It unnerved Aemond.
Had the near-death experience rattled you as much as it had him? Aemond kept thinking it had been his fault. He shouldn’t have reached for you in such a manner, yet at the same time, the fear in your eyes had filled him with vindication. Your heart had beaten as fast as the one of a frightened bird. He had been able to feel it through your pulse points, jumping under his hands.
He had had your life in his hands. And it had felt great. That was what power was all about, Aemond thought. And oh, how low you had been brought by it. Gone was your uppity attitude, gone your terrible manners. You had clung to him like a frightened child, pale and anxious. Something roared inside him, Aemond had finally felt like the conqueror his ancestors were. A true dragon.
You had not made mention of the incident to anyone else. Of that, he was sure. His soon-to-be goodfather would have not allowed the wedding to go through. And your sisters would be much more afraid of him. Instead, Aemond had Borros singing his praises and little girls chasing after him, begging to play or older ones trying to curry favor.
Despite having been humbled quite throughoutly by fate, you were not one to sit idle. You were a spitfire, and so, Aemond could not help but believe he was being lulled into a sense of safety before you would strike. But what were you planning?
Your blank looks and serene smiles gave nothing away. No matter how cutting his remarks, or insulting his words, you did nothing but stare. At most, you would fake a laugh. Suddenly, it was as if you had become as empty-headed as your sisters. It drove him up the walls. He would have given anything to know exactly what you were thinking.
Your composure finally broke on the day the two of you were set to depart. You were to travel with Aemond to the capital, which meant flying on Vhagar. A look at his dragon, and your face crumbled. Perhaps, you remembered the last time the two of you had been alone and in the heights. Perhaps, you feared the oldest dragon alive.
“Girl, here.” Lord Borros ordered, passing your belongings to a servant. You stared sullenly. Your father gave you a look, becoming you over.
“I do not want to go.” You stomped your foot. Your antler headpiece shook with the motion. It made your face scrunch up even more. Were you…? Oh, you were. It was priceless. No matter his constant harassing, not even once had you looked close to tears. Not even when he had crudely remarked how he was going to bend you in half and spank your pretty little arse for your defiance before taking you during the wedding night. Not that he was actually going to do that. Aemond just liked frightening you.
“Lord Baratheon…” Aemond warned. He was unsure of what or why he was doing it. He should be loving this. You were finally breaking under the pressure. But instead, he felt oddly empty. It was much better, much more stimulating, when you fought back. Now, it felt oddly like a kidnapping. As if he were taking some poor, delicate girl from her home against her will.
It was stupid. Marrying was the duty of every noblewoman, and you were not a girl. You were his age, for the Seven’s sake! But you looked so hurt, so defenseless… It was not at all like he had envisioned.
What was different from that meeting in the tower than from today? Was it, perhaps, that in certain lights you looked disturbingly like his mother? You had the dark Baratheon hair, and when he watched you from behind, you looked just as powerless.
A Prince was not supposed to hurt women. It was what made him superior to Aegon. The maids in the corridors did not run from his mere sight, nor did the noblewomen avoid sitting by him at feasts. He was thought of as dutiful, not a deviant.
But frightening you had felt delicious. There had been something so primal in your fear, something that had made him feel sure of himself for the first time in years. Aemond had been in control then. He knew his mother and grandsire would be disappointed in him, but he couldn’t help it. He was as twisted as any other Targaryen. Must be the Valyrian blood.
Aemond had been raised under the faith of the Seven, and so, still had some empathy and principles. If he had not been as pious as he was, he would have been as lost as his brother after his first taste of real power. Aemond wasn’t, and so, still felt capable of being sorry for the woman he had so admired at the beginning. Despite all your disagreeable qualities, you were sharper than anyone else he had ever met.
“Girl, you are going.” Borros looked like he was starting to get angered by you. Privately, Aemond felt a bit annoyed at his hypocrisy. He said he was not escorting you to the capital because he had business to oversee as the Lord of Storm’s End. Aemond could tell that wasn’t the real reason. He would rather not give you away because it would mean saying goodbye to you forever. You would no longer be his, but Aemond’s.
His ire, the only way Borros had of showcasing his feelings, had not spared anyone lately. Your Lady Mother had been called a dumb whore more times that Aemond could count, for not preparing you better. Your poor sister, Casandra, had been belittled by him after daring to ask about the fate of the dresses you wouldn’t take with you.
“If a daughter of mine is becoming a Princess, you can bet she will take all the dresses she needs, and I will not have you behaving like a vulture.” He had screamed, red with rage.
Floris had wisely hidden herself in her rooms. You, instead, had screamed right back that he was fuzzing too much and that he was overbearing. Which Borros was. The man fuzzed over you, making sure you had the best of everything to take with you, to the point of overwhelming. The row had been spectacular, and it had ended with you giving him the silent treatment, as he muttered fondly about his proud little doe.
It made Aemond think of his father. After his death, he had only felt panic and a sense of urgency. Never grief. But this man, so rough, so ignorant compared to his own father, would be wept thoroughly. He could already tell.
Right now, of course, similar as you were, neither of you got it. Instead, you gave your father a look of absolute betrayal and ran off, trying to hide your sadness at his scolding tone.
“Ah, that one. She is not used to harshness.” Borros shook his head, as if whatever you were going through was a product of female hysterics and not the fact that you were grieving the loss of your home and family.
“Or being told no.” Because you wouldn’t be like this if Borros hadn’t raised you like this. Most noblewomen resigned to their fate early on, they were not raised with delusions. Borros had a point, your mother should have prepared you better. He should have, too.
“I am afraid I might have done her more harm than good. I have always had a soft spot for her. Out of her sisters, she is the most like me.” Borros voiced exactly what Aemond was thinking. His reasoning, though, made him have to try hard not to cringe. While not exactly the prettiest woman on Westeros, you were tempting enough. You had nice manners, when you cared to use them, and a sharp intelligence that spoke of a deep cultivation of the proper arts for a lady.
“She has my temper, I mean.” Borros chuckled, once again guessing his thoughts. In looks, you took after whatever ancestors were blessed without a warrior’s physique. “And she is much more gifted with her letters.”
“Oh.” Aemond said, quite dumbly. He had underestimated Lord Baratheon, just as he had underestimated you. The great beast of a man wasn’t just a beast, but rather gifted with talents of his own. While he may not have been able to read great treatises of philosophy and history, he could read intentions and thoughts just from a man’s face.
“A good thing, in a man. But in a woman? She is not used to not being heard, she is loud and takes a lot of space. The world is not kind, not kind at all, to women like that.” Lord Baratheon spoke, again showcasing a deep insight Aemond would not have thought him capable of.
His mind wandered. Rhaenyra. Loud, brash, bold. Charming when she wanted to. Yes, the world wasn’t ind to women like the two of you. After all, weren’t him and Aegon trying to usurp the throne right from under her? Just because they didn’t agree with how she had chosen to live?
It had been the wrong choice, sure. But it had been the path Rhaenyra had picked for herself, just as you had planned to do before Aemond swept in. Lost to perversion and sin, perhaps producing your own bastards. No. Your course needed to be corrected, and thank the gods Aemond was here for it. You needed to learn your place. He would listen to you, but you would always follow his lead. That was the only way to keep you on the right path.
“No, it is not.” He agreed, still thinking of how he could help you. Stubborn little doe that you were, Aemond knew it wasn’t going to be easy. And worst thing? You were brave. Many women would have cowered at the sight of him, or at the threats he had thrown your way. Not you. Not even once, beyond that time in the tower, you had looked afraid.
“You have to promise to not try to break her.” Borros warned, clapping a hand against Aemond’s shoulder. The man threw all his weight behind the gesture. It was considerable, and Aemond was once again remembered of why they wanted the Baratheon alliance so badly. Borros Baratheon was a brute, yes, but a great warrior. Deadly with the Warhammer.
His hand squeezed Aemond’s shoulder so hard, he thought he might bruise. A threat, thinly veiled. Aemond prided himself on the fact that he did not flinch under it.
“Many men would. It is the easiest approach.” Because it was. What could you do with a woman who was not afraid, and who was used to doing as she pleased? The same thing his Uncle had done to Rhaenyra. You broke her. In whatever way it was necessary. Either through pleasure or through pain.
It was known that women were more carnal creatures. They lacked the impulse control men had. They were more prone to sinning, and they were more often controlled through their basal needs. That was why they had no business on the battlefield or in the throne. And why the thought of having a home and nurturing children spoke to them. They were just all instinct and emotion, with an overall lack of rationality.
“But you are not just any man, are you? You are a Targaryen. Your house needs strong women.” Borros argued. Aemond cringed at the word. He was right, despite the unfortunate wording. You were not just any woman. You had shown yourself capable of more rationality. Perhaps Aemond had to nurture that in you and get rid of your most instinctual behaviors. Teach you by example, until you understood the role you had to play.
“Then what? She will not come willingly, that much is clear.” But how? How? That he now knew what he had to do did not mean he knew how to get there. It could take years, and right now, you had to leave before sundown.
“Her anger will pass. And a bit of advice. She works better when it is the carrot and not the stick.” And it made sense, it showed rational behavior. You didn’t balk at the first sign of pain, but you were greatly tempted when faced with rewards. Much like him, you endured.
You had been raised a brat, yes. But an intelligent one.
“Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.
Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
Th’ effect and it."
The view from atop Vhagar is spectacular, but you can’t seem to enjoy it. It is a unique opportunity. Aside from those with valyrian blood, no one gets to just ride a dragon. Much less, the most ancient one. But Vhagar is too terrifying for you to sit at ease on her, and you keep thinking of that night in the tower.
You don’t want to die. A fall from here would mean plummeting to your death. You are overly conscious of your every move. You don’t want to die this far from your home. Lately, it feels as if death lingers around you. There is danger everywhere. On top of the stairs, near the training grounds, on top of Vhagar.
Aemond seems to be having the same thoughts because he grips you so tightly to him that it nearly hurts. Every time you breathe, his hands move with your stomach. He is holding you so close it’s making you feel awkward, but you are too afraid of falling to say something.
Storm’s End and the Stormlands are becoming smaller in the distance. Without meaning to, you start to tear up. You no longer can see the banners from the top of the towers, and you can’t remember what they looked like. It’s such a silly thing, being unable to figure out if it is the Baratheon sigil or just a plain yellow one, but it makes a pang of sadness take hold of your heart.
You suddenly wish you had spent your last days memorizing your childhood home and spending time with your family instead of trying to vex Aemond. He is now all you have. The only person outside yourself who will remember your home once in the capital. You bet Aemond never paid as much attention to the details as you did, but surely, he must remember something.
Perhaps that thought is what prompts you to curl your hands around his wrists, seeking comfort. He stiffens, and moves his hands higher up your bodice. You let him go without a word.
“What are you doing?” Aemond whispers against your ear. The wind makes it hard for you to hear him otherwise.
“I am scared.” You answer, trying to project your voice over the wind. He gives a put upon sigh, but reaches for your hands. When his hands envelope yours, you nearly jerk in surprise. Aemond is warm, and touches you very gently. Much more than he had the night of your betrothal. You had not expected him to conform to your unspoken offers of a truce, thinking him as proud as you.
“You should not be. Vhagar is a well-experienced flier.” He soothes, rubbing his thumb along your knuckles. You lean back against him, and Aemond seems to welcome the gesture. His breath changes slightly, but you can feel him relaxing against your back.
“It’s not about Vhagar.” You sniffle slightly. “I…” But how to explain? How to explain all of this to a man? This feeling of loss, of not belonging. Of being taken, yet at the same time doing your duty. He would never understand it.
“Why are you scared? Aren’t you so proud, so self-sufficient?” It seems Aemond hasn’t forgotten the slights you committed against him. While he might be willing to indulge you when it comes to fear of Vhagar or heights, he seems annoyed by anything else. You wish he wasn’t. Being comforted by him had felt really nice. For a second, you had actually thought everything was going to be alright.
“Don’t be like that.” You plead, voice breaking slightly. You don’t want to sob, but you feel on the edge of it. Aemond’s hands squeeze yours. He sounds tired when he next speaks.
“You have not apologized.”
“Nor have you.” You say, taking a deep breath. You are trying to keep your tone even, but anger leaks from your next words like poison from a wound. “I admit my tone was not the best. But you treated me like cattle. Or worse, a pawn.”
“Pawn?” He asks, the words seeming to give him pause. You jerk one of your hands from his grip, angrily wiping away your tears.
“On your brother’s game. Do not insult my intelligence, Prince Aemond.”
“We are all pawns. You, me, Aegon.” His tone is sharp. As if you should know this already. Are all men such fools, you wonder? Why would anyone be a pawn on someone else's game when they can play King on their own?
Cyvasse has always been a pastime of yours. You learned how to play it as a child, on your father’s knee. As he planned his ambushes against the dornish and commanded you to watch closely, watch better. There was always an out. Prince Aemond could not see it now, but you could.
“I do not want to be a pawn.” You whisper to him. A test. A prod, to see if he is willing to change the game.
“Neither do I.” He answers, grimly. Prince Aemond kisses your temple, soft and sweet. And the idea grows in your mind. Perhaps, this is not a Cyvasse board but a draughts’ one. They are easily mistaken, after all. Both checkered. But in draughts, even the most simple of the pieces can dominate the board.
And there it is. The opportunity you have been looking for.
“Is this a dagger which I see before me
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.”
The day of your wedding ceremony, a storm rages around the Red Keep. You and Aemond exchange your vows inside the royal Sept, with an air of grim determination. None of your family is in attendance. His, instead, fills the seats of the Sept.
His grandfather proudly boasts of the alliance to anyone who is willing to listen. It is no secret to anyone that the dismissal of Prince Lucerys from Storm’s End has made Rhaenyra’s cause take a blow.
What did Borros Baratheon see, that convinced him to betroth one of his daughters to Aemond? The nobles ask themselves. Surely, if even a renowned fool like him could see something wrong with Prince Lucerys, it must be obvious for the whole realm to see. The question mark on the legitimacy of those Velaryons changes into an exclamation sign. His poor, Strong nephews, doomed not to inherit anything at all.
“Well done, Aemond.” His grandfather had said to him, pulling him aside after Aemond had returned with you and the promise of Borros Baratheon himself leading his men into battle. “The girl, she reminds me of your grandmother. Bright, but well-behaved. I am glad you found enjoyment in your duty.”
And surprisingly, Aemond had. He had warmed up to you on the ride home. You were sweet when you wanted to be, and he had finally managed to find some common ground with you, which made you more interesting.
You still had impulses. But when asked to cooperate and behave in front of his family, you had proven surprisingly agreeable.
“Of course. I wouldn’t want to cause your Lady Mother a fright. I understand she is heavily burdened.” Your last comment had been said with a puzzling smile on your lips, and Aemond had found himself losing sleep over it. What did you mean by that? Were you making a subtle dig at him? Or was it at his siblings? Or perhaps, simply commenting on the near civil war about to break out?
The memory follows him all the way to the hand fasting and the wedding feast. The storm outside does not subside, perhaps a goodbye to the doe that is now becoming a dragon. You tear up during the hand fasting, and even manage to look the hopeful bride. If Aemond had not been betrothed to you, he would have thought you loved the idea of marriage. That you loved him.
You do not. It does not bother him. Both of you have agreed that love will come with time. For now, you are both trying. You are much better at it than him, less cold and guarded.
“I want us to be friends, at least. Care for each other.” You had said, holding his face in your hands as you shared your first dance as a married couple. Aemond had not been expecting the gentle touch from you, focused on not missing a step. He had startled. But you had guided him to look you right in the eyes, expression sincere. “Or I shall wilt so far from home, husband. We have been doing better.”
“We have. And I care.” He had brushed your hair away from your face, sensing your melancholy. It must have been hard on you, Aemond mused, getting married without any of your family present. You had been behaving spectacularly, but you were still very sensitive. Your father had warned him about it for a reason, after all.
“I do too.” You had reassured him, eyes glassy, before hugging him. Aemond had decided then that he would need to protect you from any harm. You were awfully fragile, nothing to do with the Storms you had as sisters. His doe. Dramatic, vain, but so sweet.
His new resolve faces its first test when the feast starts to die down. The bedding ceremony approaches, and your eyes, nervous, go from the increasingly drunk Aegon to Aemond and towards the empty seats left behind by his mother and grandsire.
Aemond only needs to follow your gaze a few times to understand what you are trying to convey. Gone are the only two possible moderating influences on his brother, his mother had retired when Helaena had become upset by the noise and his grandfather claimed being too old for such a celebration.
The crowd gets rowdier and rowdier as the end draws near. They are drunk and eager for a show, and know the best one is about to be provided by the two of you.
Aemond has already decided to endure this. While the thought of those hands all over his body it's not a pleasant one, he doubts the women would dare go any further. You, though. Your laugh is stilted and your eyes keep darting to the exit. Determined as you are to appear brave, you force your lips into tense smiles.
It’s not long after before someone calls for the bedding. All bravado, you get up on your own when the men, led by Aegon, approach you.
“Gods, you are a lucky bastard.” He says, as he starts to tug at the sleeves of your dress. Something tightens in Aemond's chest and he sees red. He had hoped that he had conveyed to his brother that he cared for you, but Aegon either didn’t care, or was stupid enough not to notice.
How could he? Even his grandsire had congratulated him for finding pleasure in duty, it was that evident. And Otto Hightower was not exactly the most perceptive of men when it came to emotions.
Aegon eagerly rips one sleeve out of the bodice, and you can't hide your flinch. Aemond sees it even among the crowd of women that are trying to divest him of his own clothes. Some lord's hands are greedily wrapped around your waist, squeezing your flesh. There is panic on your eyes. Brave, stubborn, little doe that you are, you don't say a word.
But even if Aegon had not noticed, how did he dare touch something that was his? The only thing to his name, and he dared envy it, try to take it away. Aemond had endured Aegon’s needs going first his whole life. Seven Hells, even marrying you meant catering to him and putting aside his own desires. But his brother was too selfish to even keep his hands to himself and not fondle his bride.
There is another ripping sound. The other sleeve of your dress, now gone. You struggle to keep the bodice up, a hand against your chest, but some lords are already jeering and tugging at the waist of your dress. You whimper, barely audible.
“Enough!” Aemond orders, pushing away the women and grabbing his gambeson from one of them. Enraged, he nearly throws the men off you. “Enough. No one touches her.”
“Brother, we were just having a bit of fun…” Aegon shouts, and Aemond grimaces. This close, he can smell the alcohol on his breath. What a poor excuse of a King he was, drunk and groping a woman who wasn’t his to touch.
You flock towards Aemond like a scared bird. He places his gambeson over your shoulders, trying to cover you in case the dress fails to stay up. You shrug it on, gratefulness shining in your eyes. It only serves to irk Aemond further. He wants to strangle Aegon and his stupid friends.
“I do not care.” Aemond barks, and pushes Aegon off him. “Where is the Septon? Send him in, now.”
“You should not take that tone with me.” Aegon warns, puffing up his chest and advancing again towards you. You flinch, huddling impossibly close to Aemond’s side.
“I do not care! What do you think this is? First night?” Aemond snaps, right back. The confused crowd stands back, starting to notice something is wrong. “Did you ever paid attention to your history lessons or were you drunk then, too? It is abolished!”
“I…I…I” Aegon splutters.
Aemond huffs. He grabs you by the waist and throws you over his shoulder, to the delight of the crowd. Many men cheer and hoot, but he makes sure to keep their hands away from you.
“I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss ‘em.”
Your hands still shake when he sets you down. For a moment, you had thought you were being carried off to be bedded, and all the nasty promises Aemond had made you before your truce had come to mind. He had a right to it — now. Your father was not coming to save you.
Panic had threatened to drown you. But then, once the two of you were out of sight from the crowd, Aemond squeezed one of your hands and placed you down on the corridor for you to make your way there on foot.
“Thank you.” You say to him, once in his chambers. Yours, now. The thought brings tears to your eyes, and you are not sure why. You knew you were going to marry him, and he was not as bad as he seemed. Why were you crying?
The day had been taxing. Emotionally and physically. Sadness and excitement had all mixed into one, and the wedding preparations had not allowed you a second to rest. You had been on your best game, bringing Aemond over to your side, and enchanting the court. Laying the groundwork for when you decided to move your own piece.
You had not planned for the reality of Aegon Targaryen, though. Being almost assaulted on your wedding feast was not what how you envisioned meeting the King. It only steeled your resolve. You had to get rid of him.
But no matter how politically sharp you were, you were still a woman. The threat of assault and rape would forever hang over your head, no matter how high in the game you were. And it hurt. Because you could never win.
You sob. You had been doing everything right. How could this have happened to you?
Aemond approaches you from behind, loudly. He is almost always silent in his movements, a predator stalking prey, so you know he must be exaggerating for your benefit. One of his arms wraps around you, trying to comfort you. The touch is tentative, hesitant. When you do not pull away, Aemond hugs you fully from behind, pressing his forehead against your nape.
You stood there for what felt like an eternity. Until you were no longer shaking in his arms, until you had no tears left. Only then, Aemond pressed a soft kiss to the first knob of your spine. And to the second. And the third. He softly traces the places they would be under your skin, lavishing them with attention.
You don’t stop him. His touch is comforting and familiar. Aemond has saved you twice now. That night, when you were enemies in a tower. Tonight, when you were already his woman.
When he reaches your bodice, he doesn’t tear the broken garment apart. Instead, he unmakes every button with care. The dress slips from your form with a soft murmur. For a second, the reminder of Aegon, his friends, and what they had tried to do to you, makes you tense up.
Aemond doesn’t say a word. He just hugs you to him, cradling you in his arms. When you are calm again, he kisses your nape once more.
Your eyes dart towards the bed, in the middle of the room. Around it, some candles provide a low lighting. Aemond kisses your shoulder, and moves one of the straps of your shift aside.
You shudder. Your knees feel weak. It’s a new feeling, but one that fills you with warmth. Pooling in your stomach, towards your core. Making you slick between the legs.
His kisses move from your shoulders, down your arms and towards your wrists. Each kiss feels soft and warm. It makes you forget about King Aegon and his friends, and their dirty little hands all over you.
Aemond touches you softly enough to want to lose yourself in his touch. It is clear he has done this before, and that he cares. Your husband, your improbable ally. So you do. You lose yourself in him, in his body, in the kindness behind every touch. It is only as you come to be, laying with your head on his chest, that you think of it again.
You are satisfied and warm, laying under the covers. Aemond is by your side, eye closed. Softly, you run your nails down his chest, watching the skin and flesh give. His body is so different from your own, thin and elongated, but softly muscled from all his training. There are some scars on him, pink raised flesh standing out among the white.
“You are smarter than him.” You say, your voice low. You are speaking treason.
“Hm?” Aemond’s hand starts caressing your back. His eye remains closed.
“Your brother.” You reply, listening attentively to his heartbeat, You try not to tense under his ministrations, not give your move away.
“I was more dedicated to our studies.” Aemond’s heartbeat starts to feel faster. You feign calm, focusing on other things. It would not do to let your excitement show. You trace a more silvery scar on his side. You wonder how he got it. Training? Riding Vhagar?
“Your education was fit enough for a King.” You say, after a while. You are so close you can taste it. Shifting to lay on your stomach, you peer up at him from between your lashes.
“It is.” Not was. Aemond’s eye meets yours. Your look turns knowing. “It’s no use. He was born first.”
“The world is cruel. Princess Rhaenyra, too, was born first.” You say, boldly. What is it, to usurp a usurper?
Aemond smiles. Slow and cruel.
“He should not have touched you.”
His hand goes to rub at your shoulder. There is a mark there. His teeth, bruising and awful blue. What had possessed him to do such a thing, you did not know. Otherwise, your lovemaking has been soft and tender. Not at all what you had expected.
“With a brother like that, you have to learn to share.” You whisper, once again treason.
His grip on you tightens.
“The only man I intend to share you with is the one who will be my heir.”
It is only years later that you come to know the truth. Both of you are old and scarred by the many atrocities you have committed. The first, of course, the hand you had in the murder of the King.
The chronicles will tell, years after, that it had been a confusing incident. Someone had poisoned Aegon. Not you or Aemond, of course. A servant on Prince Daemon’s payroll, who had been tipped about what wine the King would drink. With him, goes each one of his sycophants. It starts a war. Aemond and you stand, silent watchers of it all, as both sides tear each other apart, conveniently sent to a diplomatic mission with Dorne that bears no fruits.
Is it more of a crime to be the hand that wields the sword, or the man who in the face of an atrocity just watches? His nephews die. All and each one of them, including Aegon’s children. Until both of you can march into King’s Landing, Baratheon forces at your back, and take the Iron Throne.
“Do you remember our wedding night?” Aemond asks, as you watch your grandchildren play on the foot of the Iron Throne. You sit on his lap, cradled comfortably. It has been worth it, you think. It has all been worth it.
“Of course I do.” You smile, so in love with him it hurts. Your sword and shield. Your King. The one that you chose to place on the throne.
“There was a mark on your shoulder.” Aemond rubs the spot where a scar has formed after all the times he had bitten you when you made love. “His fingers were all over it, and I thought, if I lack an eye, he will have to lack a hand.”
The next king wears an antler crown. History books will not remember you or know what you did. But both Aemond and you do, and as you share a secret, vicious smile, you know it. The most dangerous thing to walk the Red Keep was you all along.
Summary - Raised as the sheltered daughter, she yearns for freedom from her family's protective embrace. Evading her guards becomes a thrilling escape until a chance encounter with her uncle Aemond sparks illicit desires amidst the secluded alleys of King's Landing.
Pairing - Aemond Targaryen x Strong reader
Warnings - Sexual content (hickeys)
Word count - 2067
Masterlist for Aemond • House of the Dragon General Masterlist
Rhaenyra Targaryen and Harwin Strong had only one daughter together, the younger sister of Jace and the older sister of Luke and Joffrey. This familial position meant I was both cherished and protected, sometimes excessively so.
"Princess, stop running," commanded the guard, his tone stern, yet I couldn't help but laugh and glance over my shoulder, having no intentions of stopping.
As the youngest daughter and sole sister in my family, their protectiveness knew no bounds.
I cherished their concern, but sometimes it smothered me. That's why I often found myself darting through alleyways and side streets, evading my guards.
The streets of King's Landing became my playground, here, amidst the cries of vendors and the whispers of beggars, I tested my limits, savouring the bitter-sweet taste of freedom, so different from the sterile air of the Keep.
If my mother, father, or my brothers knew of my escapades, I'd undoubtedly face their wrath. Yet, all I craved were a few fleeting moments of freedom.
Down a narrow lane, I made a sharp turn and collided with a solid mass that nearly sent me sprawling. Strong arms encircled my waist, steadying me. Without hesitation, I manoeuvred behind my rescuer, shielding myself from the approaching guard.
"Niece," a familiar voice greeted. Looking up, I saw my uncle, unmistakable despite the eye patch.
"Uncle," I breathed, my voice softening as a smile tugged at my lips. I stepped back, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease.
"Seems you've outpaced your guards once again," he observed, straightening himself. I chuckled softly.
"It's a habit I've yet to break over the years," I confessed, glancing briefly at the patch covering his eye, the same eye my younger brother had taken.
"It has been too long," I remarked, attempting to shift the focus.
"Far too long," he agreed, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.
Aemond Targaryen, my mother's half-brother, had always been a figure of complexity in my life.
Footsteps echoed behind us, growing louder. Aemond glanced over his shoulder, his expression resigned. Then, without hesitation, he took my hand.
"Come," he said, his grip firm as he led me deeper into the labyrinth of alleys and streets. His hand, rough and calloused from years of swordsmanship, felt reassuringly strong.
We stopped running eventually, seeking refuge in the quiet embrace of a secluded alley. Beyond the distant hum of market activity, we were alone.
My chest heaved with exertion, each breath a struggle to steady myself.
Aemond stood against the opposite wall, his sharp features softened by the shadows. For a moment, the world outside our little hideaway ceased to exist.
Aemond's gaze swept over me slowly, lingering on the rise and fall of my chest before drifting downward with deliberate intensity.
Every inch of my skin seemed to burn under his scrutiny, his gaze was intense, causing me to press my back against the cool stone wall, feeling its rough texture against my skin.
He took a slight step back, creating space between us.
"You've grown," he remarked, his voice low, sending a shiver down my spine. The corners of his mouth lifted in a familiar, teasing smile that brought back memories of our years past.
"So have you," I replied, unable to hide the flutter in my pulse.
His chuckle resonated through the narrow alley, a sound that was both comforting and thrilling. It was as if no time had passed between us, despite the years that had stretched out since our last meeting.
The moments we had shared in the past, filled with laughter and mischief, seemed to surface with his every word and gesture.
"Tell me, dear niece," he asked, his tone turning more serious as he shifted the conversation away from pleasantries, "what brings your family here? I wasn't informed of any visitors."
I began to explain the succession matters concerning Driftmark, the tense negotiations, and the family discussions that had brought us to King's Landing. However, his attention seemed elsewhere.
His gaze was fixed on my face as if trying to capture every detail he had missed over the years. His intense scrutiny made my heart race, and I found it difficult to maintain my composure.
"Aemond," I murmured softly, the sound barely audible over the distant noise of the city. His name on my lips felt both familiar and new, a reminder of the bond we shared as family yet tinged with a hint of something more.
"Yes, my dear sweet niece?" he replied, his voice tender, his gaze unwavering.
I felt a blush rising in response to his unabashed scrutiny, the warmth spreading across my cheeks. The intensity of his stare was like a flame, igniting emotions I had tried to keep buried.
"You're staring," I whispered, though the flutter in my voice betrayed my amusement.
Aemond's smirk widened as he closed the remaining distance between us, taking a step towards me, until our bodies pressed together, his warmth enveloping me. I couldn't help but worry that he might feel the frantic rhythm of my heart beneath my chest.
His left hand traced a path up my arm, fingers intertwining with mine. The sensation was electric, sending tingles through my skin.
Meanwhile, his right hand grazed the side of my face, trailing delicately along my jawline, his thumb gently brushing over my lips. The touch was both tender and possessive, a silent claim that left me breathless.
The sensation weakened my knees, and I struggled to compose myself.
"How could I not?" he murmured, his breath warm against my ear as he dipped his head closer. His proximity was intoxicating, his scent a mix of leather and something uniquely him.
Every rational thought, every instinct I had ever been taught, screamed that this was forbidden, an act that could unravel everything we knew but my heart, traitorous and wild, refused to listen, and instead, I found myself leaning into him, craving the forbidden comfort of his touch.
Just as the tension between us peaked, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered our intimate moment.
"Prince Aemond," a voice called out, jolting me back to reality. I reluctantly pushed him away, turning to face a man standing at a distance, uncertainty written across his features.
"Princess?" he ventured cautiously, his eyes flickering between us.
"I apologize, are we in your way?" I stammered, feeling the weight of the situation settling on my shoulders. Glancing at Aemond, who wore an amused smirk, I attempted to diffuse the tension.
"Yes," the man began tentatively, then corrected himself hurriedly, "No, I apologize." His fear was palpable, and I softened at his obvious discomfort.
"It's quite alright," I reassured him gently, trying to ease his nerves. He nodded gratefully, lowering his head before swiftly passing us by.
As he disappeared down the alley, I turned back to Aemond, a maelstrom of emotions swirling within me, guilt, desire, and the lingering warmth of his touch.
I heard Aemond's laughter, and I cleared my throat, attempting to regain composure.
"This is not a laughing matter," I managed to stumble out, but his laughter only grew louder, echoing off the alley walls.
Sighing in frustration, I moved to step away when his hand gripped my arm firmly.
"Aemond, please," I pleaded, but he tutted softly.
"It's alright," he reassured me, guiding me back against the stone wall with gentle insistence.
He stood before me once more, closer than before, his presence overwhelming. My stomach churned with nervousness and butterflies fluttered wildly within me at his proximity.
"Aemond," I repeated, my voice barely a whisper this time, but he silenced me with a tender touch, his hand cupping my cheek as I involuntarily leaned into his caress.
Simultaneously, his other hand snaked around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Hush," he whispered against my lips, his breath warm against my skin as he leaned in and kissed me. Our lips moved in perfect rhythm, the kiss both sweet and passionate, igniting a fire within me.
His hand trailed up my side, fingers brushing gently over my skin before cupping my breast. I couldn't suppress a soft moan, which only seemed to encourage him, his smile evident against my lips.
"Aemond, please," I pleaded again, unsure of what I was asking for as his touch sent a rush of conflicting emotions through me.
"Say my name again," he murmured huskily against my lips, and I sighed, tangling my fingers in his hair.
"Say it," he urged, withdrawing his hand from my cheek to press against my back, pulling me even closer to him.
His lips moved down my neck, he began sucking on my skin tenderly, his breath warm and tantalizing. I felt a rush of heat and desire, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.
"Aemond," I murmured, my voice catching as he found a particularly sensitive spot. His lips and tongue worked in perfect harmony, creating a sensation that was both thrilling and achingly intimate.
He paused for a moment, his breath hot against the damp skin of my neck.
"You taste like heaven," he whispered, his voice husky with desire.
His words sent another wave of heat through me, and I arched my neck, offering him more of the tender skin that he seemed intent on marking as his own.
As he resumed sucking, I felt the pressure intensify. His tongue swirled, and his teeth grazed my skin lightly. I gasped, the sensation bordering on pain but underscored by a pleasure that left me breathless. All that mattered was the feel of his mouth on my skin and the passion that flared between us.
"Please," I pleaded softly, though I wasn't entirely sure what I was asking for. Perhaps I wanted him to stop before we were caught, or maybe I wanted him to keep going, to lose ourselves completely in each other.
His right hand, which had been resting on my back, slid lower, tracing the curve of my hip. His left hand still cradled my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin tenderly.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked, his voice a mixture of teasing and genuine curiosity.
"No," I whispered, barely recognizing my own voice, thick with longing. "Don't stop."
He chuckled softly, a sound that vibrated against my neck.
"Good," he murmured, his lips trailing back up to my ear. "Because I don't intend to."
With renewed fervour, he resumed sucking and licking at the delicate skin of my neck. I could feel the bruise forming, the skin tender and sensitive under his attention.
The knowledge that he was marking me, that I would carry a piece of him with me even when we were apart, filled me with a heady sense of belonging.
Just as I felt myself slipping further into the intoxicating haze of desire, the sound of approaching footsteps shattered our intimate bubble.
Aemond pulled back abruptly, his eyes dark with a mix of frustration and regret. I reluctantly stepped away from him, turning to face the approaching figure and covering my neck with my hair.
"Princess!" one of the guards exclaimed with evident relief, his face breaking into a smile as Ser Lewyn and a couple of others caught up with him.
"Ser Lewyn," I greeted warmly, acknowledging their presence.
"We should return to the Keep," Ser Lewyn stated decisively, moving towards me with a sense of duty.
"I suppose we can now," I replied, brushing my fingers over my lips as Aemond smirked knowingly beside me.
"Prince Aemond, will you be joining us?" one of the guards inquired, prompting Aemond to nod in agreement. "I should greet my nephews, it's been quite some time," he added.
"Very well," Ser Lewyn acquiesced as I began to walk, feeling a twinge of amusement.
"Ser Lewyn, you ought not to worry as much. I fear it may be affecting your health," I teased lightly, earning a sigh from the guard in question.
"I will, Princess, once you stop eluding your guards," he replied with a wry smile, causing Aemond to chuckle.
My expression turned somewhat serious. "I suppose we won't mention this to my mother or brothers," I remarked, addressing Ser Lewyn but keeping my gaze on Aemond.
"I believe that's the wisest course of action," Aemond interjected smoothly, understanding the unspoken agreement between us.
"Indeed it is Princess," Ser Lewyn replied. "We are fortunate that you encountered the Prince, he managed to keep you both safe and occupied," he added.
Aemond smirked, mouthing the words 'safe and occupied' to me, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
For now, this moment would remain ours alone.
A/n - Very safe... very occupied indeed
Aemond tag list - @darylandbethfanforever9 @lessdepressy
