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lauraneedstochill · 8 months

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Cry me a river

summary: Aemond finds her wounded and left to die in the middle of nowhere. her desire for vengeance helps her survive — and her unbreakable spirit inevitably draws the prince to her. author’s note: her betrothed does what Daemon did to Rhea... this time, the woman survives 🔪 also, couples who kill together, stay together, I don’t make the rules warnings: archery (described in unprofessional language), slow burn (... and then not so slow), mentions of blood and murder (duh), it gets a bit heated words: ~ 11K song inspo: Tommee Profitt ft. Nicole Serrano — Cry me a river (cinematic cover) 🔥

>>> Aemond is caught in heavy rain midair, in the depths of a starless night. The storm rips through the clouds, and the lightning flickers across the sky that’s bowed over the Vale. He tries to resist the voice of reason that urges him to land, he’s no little boy to be afraid of the whims of nature. But the downpour only grows more ferocious, and the rattling of thunder soon drowns out Vhagar’s displeased roars.

Begrudgingly, Aemond sets his pride aside and peers into the darkness that stretches as far as the eye can see. He can barely make out a vague outline of the mountains but the rocky terrain is a poor resting place, that much he knows. Exasperation slowly claws at him as the wind howls, his clothes drenched and heavy, and the ribbon of moonlight slips away into the gloom.

When his gaze suddenly catches a flicker of light, a faintly lit cave in the distance — Aemond thinks it’s the Gods' mercy as it is. He is yet to find out that the Gods are leading him that way for a reason.

>>> The landing is rough but Aemond holds back complains and runs for cover, breathing a sigh of relief once he gets to the cave. Vhagar curls up in a heap, and her enormous silhouette can easily pass for just another mountain in the valley.

The prince tiredly wipes the raindrops off his face — and only then notices a spot of crimson right under his feet. He recognizes the color of blood in an instant, and the realization fills him with dread. Slowly, he turns around, his eye following the gory trail, his hand reaching for the dagger. But the sight he’s met with leaves him frozen in place.

Aemond is sure he’s never been so stunned and horrified all at once.

At the far end of the cave, a woman is lying next to a waning fire, with her eyes closed and face drained of color. She is dressed in bright red, and the blood on her hands blends into the laced fabric of her long sleeves, and Aemond is struggling to locate the injury that left her unconscious. She looks so helpless, a breath away from irrecoverable, he throws caution to the wind and rushes to her side without much thought.

Aemond kneels, examining her bare and bloodied feet, the torn hem of her dress, the smudges of dirt on it. With timidly blossoming fascination, he takes in the softness of her features stained with tears, green leaves tangled in her hair. Aemond reaches his hand to smooth a strand of it when he sees a splash of red framing the side of her face. His fingers barely graze her temple — and once he sees them stained with red too, his breathing hitches.

He’s no stranger to cuts and bruises but he doesn’t know how to treat a head wound. And his fighting skills won’t be of use against the Stranger.

A feeble voice brings him back to reality:

“I am not dying.”

Startled, Aemond lets his gaze fall on her lips, parted and faintly tinted with pink. Her eyelids flutter before she opens her eyes — they meet his in an instant. The feeling he gets bears no explanation: it’s sudden and overwhelming, raging like a hurricane that hits right at his chest. She doesn’t look away while her hand finds his — his fingers are still in her hair, and he shudders at the touch; her skin is cold but the grip is surprisingly firm.

“I’m not dying tonight,” she repeats, her tone a bit steadier. “I will not give him the satisfaction.”

His brows furrow from the lack of understanding. His body tenses at the very clear hint that he gets.

“Who did this to you?” Aemond asks with concern.

But she already drifts out of consciousness, back to where she can’t hear him. The thunder rolls and the lightning tears the cover of darkness, illuminating uninhabited mountains and valleys. The terrible weather seems like the least of Aemond’s problems.

>>> It rains all night, and the dawn comes shrouded in white mist. He cannot sleep a wink. The woman tosses and mumbles incoherently as her mind lapses back into the grasp of the unknown suffering. Aemond finds the sight so unnerving, it’s almost painful to watch, but he doesn’t take his eye off her.

He keeps the fire burning to help warm her up, ignoring his own discomfort. Not his shivering but hers eventually compels him to peel off his wet outer garment to dry it off faster. He hastens to put the clothes back on but leaves out his coat to cover her with it, black material over red, a night draping over sunset. Hesitantly, he rubs her arms and back, his usually deft fingers now tentative, until he sees the life returning to her cheeks. It puts Aemond’s nerves at ease, and he belatedly realizes how stiff his body has become from hours of sitting in agonizing suspense. And yet, he never leaves her side.

The mountain tops stay hidden by the clouds, the sky coated in gloom the sun can’t peek through, but around midday, she wakes up again. Her eyes dart to Aemond who moved to feed the fire with branches. He doesn’t rush into conversation, giving her a chance to come to her senses. She is looking at him with distrust but without a hint of fear.

“You stayed,” she concludes in a hoarse voice, slightly shifting in place.

“Leaving you all alone didn’t seem fair,” Aemond responds, which only earns a huff from her.

“I am perfectly capable of managing on my own,” she rebuts, trying to prop herself up on elbows — and instantly groans at the ache in her temple.

Aemond comes closer in a blink of an eye, and it’s hard to miss the empathetic look he gives her. He politely stays at arm’s length which she is thankful for.

“Your bleeding stopped but such a serious wound must be examined by a maester,” Aemond tells her peacefully. “How far away is your home? I shall accompany you there once the weather calms down.”

He sees emotion flashing through her face, and for a moment it gets so quiet, he can only hear the rain still drizzling outside the cave.

“I do not have a home,” she forces out, and Aemond is surprised to notice that she doesn’t sound sad. If anything, there is ire in her words. “You shouldn’t bother.”

“I am sure your family is worried by your absence and —”

“My family valued me so little, they got rid of me at the very first chance,” she cuts him off, her voice stern. “So I am not going back to them, I’d rather you leave me here.”

He looks her over — her ruined dress and anguished face, dried-up blood in her disheveled hair. No doubt, she is hurting, and it would be unbecoming of a prince to leave a lady in such dire straits.

“I can do no such thing,” Aemond insists. “You survived a severe injury but whatever discomfort you are now feeling can be eased.”

“Complaining would only make me look pitiful. I need none of that,” she is sitting with her fingers pressed to the aching part of her skull, her brows knitted.

“Only seems reasonable to pity anyone with a ble—”

“Did anyone pity you?” she interjects, looking straight at his eyepatch.

The question is meant to cut him yet it doesn’t — too much time has passed, and his once painful memories are now dust-covered images at the back of his mind. But he finds her intent amusing. Wounded and weak, she is supposed to be at his mercy, but her spirit stays unbendable, and her gaze is so blazing, it’s nothing less of a fire. She keeps her eyes on him, waiting for his reply, confident that she will get it.

“Hardly anyone,” Aemond admits. “But I wasn’t left in a cave to die, so the comparison doesn’t work in your favor.”

He expects her to snap again, he almost wants to have another taste of her insolence — a trait so uncommon among any women he’s met, Aemond deems it not offensive but thrilling. She only hums in response, throwing him a glance, and he sees curiosity shining through her cold stare, like a ray of sun in the storm clouds. Their exchange of pleasantries is cut short by another one of her groans. He is usually patient but the sound of her suffering is a test that he fails.

“You will not get better on your own and you know it,” Aemond tries to reason. “I can take you to the greatest maester there is,” — and his persistence is akin to a plea. He anticipates her fears and allays them before she can utter a word: “You will be free to leave at any moment, you have my word.”

“What’s in it for you?” she narrows her eyes at him, her whole demeanor a clear evidence of her refusal to give in just yet.

Aemond thinks for a moment. The real answer to her question lies on the surface and is as vivid as her dress and as her blood: he knows nothing about her and he wants to know everything. He has trouble not only voicing but coming to terms with his desires.

“I am afraid that guilty conscience will disturb my sleep,” Aemond says, and it’s not entirely untrue. He can already tell he’ll think of her many nights to come.

She looks at him appreciatively, slowly, as if her gaze can cut through the cotton of his shirt, flesh, and bones his body is made of. Whatever is her verdict, he can’t tell because in the next moment, she is stricken with pain again, and talking isn’t of much help.

“We shall leave at dawn,” Aemond recapitulates, helping her lay down to have some rest while he can’t find any.

“Do you happen to have any water?” she mumbles more humbly. He senses that showing weakness doesn’t come easy for her; he’s not the one to gloat at something he can perfectly understand.

“I will fetch you some,” he reassures and pulls his coat over her again — and hurries outside.

The mountain valleys welcome him with stillness, and Vhagar’s eyes are two beacons in the mist. The dragon seems comforted by the rain and pays Aemond no mind as he climbs up to get a flask with water he luckily brought, and some lemon cakes Helaena insisted that he take (“should something happen on the road”, she said; he makes a mental note to thank her later).

They eat in silence — she has no appetite, and Aemond feels food stuck in his throat. She tells him nothing but her name; he savors the sound of it, a weave of letters he can now put to her face. Aemond studies her discreetly and although he can’t read her yet, he puts everything in memory, down to the smallest detail. The slight tilt of her head, the pensiveness of her gaze, a blizzard of feelings trapped in her irises, the stubbornness in her lineaments paired with beauty. The curve of her neck and a thin golden chain around it, her collarbones flowing down in that hollow spot his thumb would fit in... He stops himself from looking further down; his face flushes nonetheless, and something sparks inside him, dangerously unnamed.

The evening approaches stealthily but comes chilly and dank. They go to sleep early, both laid next to the fire, and Aemond courteously keeps his distance. She notices the goosebumps that snake under his shirt; her suspicions are soon confirmed when she catches the sound — and can’t tell if it’s the hammering of rain or his chattering teeth.

She considers him: his sharp profile, tense angles of his jaw, lines of his cheekbones seemingly chiseled by the Gods themselves. With his silver hair and eye the color of wisteria, she expected a different attitude; everyone knows the Targaryens to be self-righteous at best and prideful as a given. But the man next to her is instead stoically enduring the hardship he can easily avoid — if he only rolls closer and allows their bodies to trap the elusive heat; he doesn’t dare to. She realizes he could’ve taken advantage of her if he wanted, but it seems like the thought hasn’t even crossed his mind. She finds it way more endearing than her vigilance would usually let her — the pain must’ve dulled her sanity, she thinks, reminding herself that it’s the sole intent of surviving that should motivate her.

No words will work against his wit so she wastes no time snuggling up to him, with her forehead against his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest as she shares his own coat with him. A quiet gasp escapes Aemond’s mouth, but he stays still.

“I can hear you shivering,” she can feel it now too — his skin trembling under her fingers. “You are risking to catch a cold.”

Aemond is frozen for a minute, his heart thrumming at that unexpected boldness, at the feeling of her — malleable curves and no rigid edges, their ribcages in contact, their thighs brushing. Calming his breathing is an arduous task; he’s used to fighting off opponents but now he’s battling with himself, with the need that’s treacherously strong, almost primal. He barely quells it, and only by some miracle his inhales are soon steady again.

He moves his arm — the one she’s lying on — a little to the side, giving her more space to settle into, tips of his fingers stopping at her lower back. He does feel undoubtedly warmer. Aemond glances down at her, his voice a whisper tinted with mirth:

“Isn’t this called pity?”

He hears a faint cackle. “Call it rationality,” she refutes. “Since we are to leave soon, and only one of us can fly a dragon.”

The words roll off her tongue like it is the most mundane thing, not a century’s worth of power encased under the thick-scaled skin of a creature the size of a castle.

“You do not find the beast scary?” Aemond can’t stop himself from asking.

“Why would I? It is only a dragon,” her voice grows smaller, eyelids become heavier. “Unlike some men, the dragons are at least not known for their ill intentions.”

At that moment, a wish is abruptly made — to find out who harmed her, make sure it happens no more. The fury in Aemond is a mounting force meant to cause destruction, tamed yet never really dormant. But he listens to her breaths and pushes his anger aside, and the full moon is the only witness of his surrender. As he falls asleep, he tries not to think how nice it is to have her body pressed to his.

>>> What he should be thinking of is how to explain all this — him, unwed, bringing a woman to the castle; a scandal, no less. And yet, it is the last thing on his mind. It’s only occupied with this moment he wishes would never end — with gusts of wind tucked under the dragon’s belly, clouds spread out around; and, most importantly, his arms snaked around her waist, her back touching his chest.

It is bittersweet, truth be told because her pain isn’t gone overnight, and he can’t heal her with just his hands and his words. The splotches of dark maroon are even more visible in her hair in daylight, and she winces at loud sounds, at the harsh flow of air that bites her skin while Vhagar soars up, and she has to grab onto Aemond a little tighter.

But soon they reach the clear canvas of the sky, the serene emptiness, and she looks around, taking it all in — and then the corners of her mouth curl up. There are sparkles of delight in her eyes, and still no sign of fear. And he thinks that her smile is the closest thing to the sun.

They cover many miles, crossing the lands as Vhagar bursts through the clouds, and the time allotted to their inadvertent closeness runs out, mercilessly as ever. Once they land and he helps her climb down, his anxiety comes back, like a wave approaching shore. But then a sound of her whimper reaches him, almost inaudible; he only has time to turn around, to see her pained expression. She passes out — he catches her; it’s his heart that falls, and no other thoughts and explanations matter.

When Aemond is seen at the castle, he’s carrying her in his arms, his lips pressed into a thin line, and not a word slips out after he calls for the maester. The prince pays no attention to the guards and the maids exchanging glances, to his mother stopping dead in her tracks upon seeing him, her hand over her heart. There is a question hanging in the air, parting Alicent’s lips, but she doesn’t voice it and only watches her son walk away, hurried and fearful in a way she forgot he was capable of. She struggles to remember when was the last time she saw Aemond in the company of a lady. And if he ever looked at a woman the way he looks at this one.

>>> Aemond is pacing the corridor, his eye on the floor, on the pattern of the stone surface. His mind is treading at the doors that were closed in his face after she was carried into the room. She was breathing still, and that’s what helps him keep it together, his hands clasped so tightly his fingers go numb.

He wonders if maester Mellos has always been so annoyingly slow. That’s the only wondering he can allow — otherwise the noxious thoughts will flood his head: how much blood did she lose before he found her? What if he was the one being too slow? What if —

“Her life is not in danger as she regained her senses” the maester moves with the pace of a cat, his face wearing the same unbothered expression. “The long flight might’ve been tiring for her impressionable female nature.”

That assumption is disregardful and uncalled for — Aemond hates it; still, he’s glad to hear the rest. He lets out a breath that frees his chest from the chains of agitation.

“I will fetch her some herbal ointment to help the cuts and bruises heal faster,” the old man then adds.

Aemond’s expression hardens; clearly, he knows the meaning behind the words but he cannot fathom them. Violet marks of violence blooming on her skin, how could he miss it? How did she get them? He accidentally thinks of it out loud.

“It is a rare luck to get only bruises after taking a fall from a horse,” the maester looks at him askance. He gives his final verdict before leaving, followed by a sigh: “The young lady surely must rest.”

The displeasure is a tiny tongue of flame at Aemond’s ribs. He is vexed by not knowing (nothing new in that, not with his eagerness to learn all and everything ever since he was a kid). Unexpectedly, he is equally vexed by not seeing her — so much so, that he almost reaches for the handle of the door that separates them.

Aemond stops himself, his reticence a fetter but also a necessity: she needs her rest, and he shall leave her be. He will not go beyond the bounds of decency.

She can’t be niched into any bounds, he soon will learn.

>>> Aemond is good at many things but not at waiting, as it turns out. In the morning, after he wakes up, anticipation already laps up in him, his day a blur — breakfast, sword practice, the lines in a book he picks at the library all merge and bore him. He only glimpsed the maids leaving her chambers once; it took all of his willpower to go the other way.

In just three days, his impatience smolders — then flares up, then erupts into a wildfire, his head in a haze that makes him lose focus. The more Aemond tries not to think of her, the harder it gets.

He pushes yet another thought aside as he sees Ser Criston approaching, armed with a longsword and perseverance. Aemond’s training is never a dull routine — the knight makes sure of that and doesn’t make concessions. Their swords lock and clank, and time is a whirl; in the midst of it, Aemond finds himself reminiscing about her shining gaze. He almost misses the hit aimed at him and ducks at the very last second — spins, glares, strikes, his blade stopping an inch away from Criston’s face.

The knight chuckles in good spirits, and the pride he feels is almost paternal. “Such a shame you aren’t the one for tourneys,” he pants, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Aemond rolls his eye, a brief respite not helping with his frustration. The subtleties of his emotions are unknown, unreadable like an ancient language: he’s daydreaming of her hands, her face, her —

“What a shame, indeed.”

Aemond turns to the sound of her voice. The whirl is silenced in an instant.

It’s different from his memories and his dreams — better than both: she is alive and well, she’s right next to him. She isn’t wearing a dress but a tunic and a pair of breeches, cool-toned material against her sun-kissed skin. Her wound is cleaned and healing, the mark left is a lightning peeking from her hair, the waves of it loosely braided. The simple attire doesn’t take away from her beauty (nothing can, he thinks), and it takes him a second to blink the enchantment away.

Aemond’s voice comes back, a tad low. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?” He’s looking too joyful for it to sound like reproach.

There’s laughter in her eyes. “No one forbade me from stretching my legs. Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Ser Criston chimes in, cautiously curious. “If only you don’t find the sight too unsettling,” he twirls his sword, the steel soundless in his hands.

“On the contrary, I find it entertaining. Although that wouldn’t be my weapon of choice,” her gaze follows the blade up.

Aemond throws her a surprised look but Ser Criston is the one to raise the question. “You have your preferences? Do tell,” he turns his head to the weaponry on a nearby table. “We’ve got shortswords, flails, axes...”

“All of which lack speed,” she remarks pertly, leaving the knight mystified.

Aemond sees no mystery; he knows that in the highlands catching prey is way trickier than killing. Knives, swords, blades of any kind won’t cover a long distance. Something else will.

“Archery, then?” the prince guesses.

“Doesn’t seem like the type of weapon you Targaryens prefer,” she shrugs but her disinterest is feigned.

Ser Criston catches onto that. “Can’t have preferences if there is nothing to choose from,” he grins, then calls for one of the guards, giving short instructions.

The man runs back in a minute, with a bow and arrows, and her eyes light up. They glide over the tight string, the polished wooden bend, concave at each end; it’s crafted beautifully.

“I must ask you to spare the guards,” Ser Criston jests while she takes the weapon, laying hold on its grip. “But do not be shy about taking your pick,” he points randomly at a stack of barrels, about thirty yards away. “These might be nice for a start.”

“That is too easy of a target,” she barely glances that way, then takes a good look around. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

The knight’s cheeks heat up. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to —”

“Oh, I do not find it offensive,” she grants him a meek smile without looking, already eyeing something much further away. “To tell you bluntly, it only spurs me on,” she mounts the feathered end of the arrow against the bowstring — and then pulls it.

Both men follow the direction the arrow is pointed at. Right outside the castle gates, there’s an apple tree, tall and branched, bent slightly over the stone wall. The fruits are bulked and ruddy, mouth-watering; but from where they are standing, the apples can barely be seen, obscured by foliage the wind breezes through.

Ser Criston raises an eyebrow, not incredulous but intrigued; Aemond only gets time to take a half-breath. The first arrow is fired with no warning — it cuts through the air, a flash of color above everyone’s heads, — and pierces an apple, pinning it to the trunk. A moment later she takes another shot; after the second one, Aemond isn’t looking at the apples, his eye instead drawn to her.

He suddenly can see nobody else.

Her every move is concise and simple, but her gaze is dead-set on the tree. She repeats each shot with a honed precision, controlled yet gracious; one of her arms set in a straight line, the other one follows a well-learned pattern — an arrow out, an apple down. That’s where, he thinks, her intrepidity comes from: the deadly weapon in her hands sings like a musical tool. The chance to watch her is bliss, and she’s a vision.

Only when she’s down to the last arrow, her hand unexpectedly flinches. She doesn’t miss, still, but the iron tip veers off and knocks the apple to the ground; a shadow of discontent glides across her face. Ser Criston is too impressed to notice yet Aemond knows that feeling all too well. He’s always strived to be the best too, and he knows how poisonous the pursuit of excellence can be.

“With that level of skill you might be unrivaled,” the knight praises, his words backed up by some of the guards and passersby clapping.

She seeks no praise, her quest is more troublesome. “I can do better,” she says, with her disappointment forced down. Her voice wanes a little when she adds: “I will do better by the next full moon,” and that hidden meaning holds unfathomable weight.

Aemond is too eager to bring her comfort to read between the lines. “The bow and arrows will be waiting for you, shall you decide to train more. But do have mercy on the tree,” a smile ripples her lips, a warmth ripples his heart. “I will ask for some target rings to be made.”

That gives her a dollop of contentment, and their fingers brush when he takes the weapon back. As Aemond gazes after her, he wonders if she feels it too — blood stirring, sweet dizziness, limbs lightweight.

Ser Criston watches the prince with a knowing look, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “It is so rare to find a lady with such a competitive spirit and a talent to match,” the knight muses. “Her husband must be a lucky man.”

Aemond’s joy shrinks, that mere word disturbing. “She doesn’t have one,” he responds. The uncertainty of his answer leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Doesn’t she really?

“That might not be for long,” Ser Criston carelessly comments. The prince’s cold stare makes no impression on him. “Shall we resume our training?”

Aemond goes to pick a shorter sword, his blood now boiling for another reason. There’s a gaze that’s akin to a caress, to a gentle tap on Criston’s shoulder — he turns readily to meet it, dark brown eyes that are a mirror of his own. Alicent casts a glance at her son, questioning and worrying, then holds the knight’s gaze once more. The looks they share are hand-written letters — both of them write the same thing.

>>> Alicent goes looking for answers first — she walks into the woman’s chambers the very same day, with the elegance of a Queen, with the benevolence of a mother. She doesn’t push but guides the conversation; she faces no resistance from the woman she’s facing.

When they are both seated, she tells her a story as old as time, a tragedy lived out by many. Her mother died when the girl was ten years of age, too weak to carry on her blank existence, and her father couldn’t even bear to look at her, no matter how much she tried to please him. Growing up in the Vale felt freeing but lonely, so she preferred archery over embroidery to leap at every chance to get away from home, into the beauty of the wilderness she had no one to share with. But she held out to hope that her life would change. She couldn’t predict that said change would start as an accident — her horse slipping on wet grass.

Alicent can’t help but bring her into a compassionate embrace at the mention of it. Her embrace turns into an offer — of a place to stay, of a shelter, and a friendly ear (maybe those were all the things her younger version wished for but was robbed of). The lie Alicent heard was so skillfully woven into the truth, she didn’t get suspicious.

Once Aemond learns the story from his mother, he discerns the misleading part in a second. All the other pieces fit together like a puzzle — her being self-reliant and guarded, her brazenness a shield, just like the one he’s grown accustomed to. But that last bit was made up, he can tell. And yet, he just doesn’t know how to approach the subject and not scare her off.

Aemond takes a task on earnestly.

>>> He looks for an opportunity to talk — he ends up tirelessly watching her, and he can’t say that there is no pleasure in it. She does resume her training, and every morning she’s the first one at the training yard when the sun is barely up, and no prying eyes can witness her dedication. Him having an eye on her doesn’t seem to be a problem.

His relentlessness has always been something Aemond prided himself on but it’s hers that he grows to enjoy. He carefully notes her refined movements, her sharp focus, her gaze cutting through any target before an arrow does. It’s easy to be fascinated by her; it takes him a couple of days to look past her outward calmness to catch a flicker of a feeling he can effortlessly recognize — an undercurrent of fury. And then he grasps that each time she aims at the wooden boards, she means to hurt someone. And maybe that is the exact reason she struggles with her every last shot, and her hand keeps flinching, unsure, or maybe too overwhelmed with certitude instead.

On one of those mornings, Aemond gets an idea, an outburst of bravery (or madness, but he’s too excited to care). She’s grimly collecting the arrows, inspecting them for damage when she sees him out of the corner of her eye.

“I couldn’t help but notice that something’s been troubling you,” Aemond comes closer, hands behind his back. She gives him a look that holds no denial but no explanations, either.

Aemond goes to the wooden boards, round and lined up on a hastily built frame, — and stands in the middle, right in front of them. He then puts out a hand with an apple in it, ripe and deliciously red. “Maybe I can help.”

Nothing short of shock flashes through her face, her eyes darting from him to the fruit and back. “What— ” her jaw drops as the words escape her; she strings them into a sentence. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you focus better,” Aemond offers in the calmest tone he can master.

It’s not uncertainty that leaves her speechless, her proficiency hard to deny. It’s the genuine, borderline naive trust that he shows her — with his open gaze on her, his body not moving from the spot, his faith in her as unwavering as his posture.

The moment is fleeting, soft like a morsel of a gossamer cloud, with so many words not shared; in another blink of his eye, it ends. The change in her isn’t drastic but chilling, like a touch of steel blade to the skin — her hand doesn’t waver when she reaches for the arrow, her gaze firmly locking on him.

As her last attempt at leniency, she notes: “There is no stopping an arrow once it’s shot.”

Aemond doesn’t think twice before replying: “You trusted me with your life once. I trust you not to kill me.”

She lifts the bow without hesitation, and he keeps eye contact with bated breath. The never-ending movement of life abates and the pale sunlight fades, and Aemond is deaf to everything but his booming heart. She drops the bow out of the way just a little and pulls the string up to the tip of her nose. She waits at full draw, the passing seconds endless and fulminant at once, before her hand flows back, her fingers relaxing — and the arrow slices through the air.

The first one hits somewhere above the apple; Aemond doesn’t dare to even take a glance, standing motionless, rooted to the ground. The second one follows soon. It’s a blood-curling contrast — how quiet is each shot until it reaches the target, and then the arrow rips right through the board, a deafening crash, a waft of death he’s spared from. Until she draws the bowstring again.

Aemond hears the third and the fourth hit, his hand unmoving, every muscle in his body tense. He is rarely scared, and it’s easy to mistake the fluttering of his heart for fear. But with how his eye is riveted on her, his gaze rapt and throat soar, — he thinks, it might be some other feeling. He gets no time to guess as the fifth arrow — finally — plunges into the apple and pins it to the board.

It’s a momentary reprieve, a quivering wave going through his body; and yet, she doesn’t lower the bow, eyes still fixed on him. Aemond can see her inhaling, the metal tip of the arrow pointing in his direction — and then released smoothly. In a split second, it lodges into the gap between his ribs and his arm, the feathery end stopping right next to his heart. When Aemond looks at her, he catches fiery glints of mischief in her gaze — and then something else, bright but short-lived like a glare on the water.

She puts the bow down, and they both know — her hand didn’t flinch once.

Only when Aemond steps away, he sees that the six arrows form the letter “A”, with the red apple right in the middle.

>>> He’s afraid the change is transient but it lasts — she is now watching him, too. Aemond finds it befuddling at first, not considering himself worth the attention, not used to being seen as something other than a wreckage of man, intimidating, and lonely, and harsh. She doesn’t look daunted. On the contrary, every time she sees him, the ice of her concentration thaws, and her gaze softens and lingers on him, mending every part of him that’s been broken by his insecurities.

She doesn’t recoil from the parts that are irreparable, either. She shows the same understanding when he can’t find the right words and shrinks into his shell — in the middle of conversations, in between rows of bookshelves, at bustling dinners; her company is a haven he can retreat to without a word. She welcomes his every impulse to talk and to share — thoughts, meals, books he thinks she will like (she bites down a smile thinking how much time he spent looking for any mention of archery).

She stays by his side when he doesn’t want to talk and when he overshares, when he’s bleakly taciturn, and when his temper gets as rigid as his sword; she’s enthralled by his anger, never burnt by it. One week turns into two, then into three. Day by day, Aemond wakes up earlier to watch her hit every target without fail, and she then watches him win one bout after another with evident amusement. They explore the castle, get lost in the library, take rides to the woods — she laughs as her horse breaks into a gallop, she basks in the sun, wind ruffling her hair, and his heartbeat raises to a clamor upon seeing her like that.

Her seat is next to his at the dining table, their chambers not too far away, and he persistently walks her to her doors, and every evening he dithers before saying goodnight and parting ways. Her presence soon becomes a warming light nurturing his days — and simultaneously the reason for him losing sleep. But as he lays at night, watching the moon wax, he thinks of another constant, bothering him like a page missing from a book, a closed door he’s got no key for — it’s her secret that he is yet to uncover.

He gets his chance when he least expects it.

>>> The month is nearing its end when Aemond is nearing the dining hall, brimming with emotion he cannot capture — excitement, unrest, sprinkling of anguish. He last saw her hours ago, when his mother came to her in the training yard, and the two of them hastened to leave, seemingly in some agreement he knew nothing about. He caught bits and pieces of words — mentions of fabrics and seamstresses, but it didn’t help with his confusion which soon turned into worry he had trouble coping with. And it wasn’t the worst part.

What’s worse is the comprehension, icy and unforeseeable like a blast of northern wind: it’s only been a few hours, and he’s already missing her. He looks back at the days she wasn’t with him, but they all seem too far away and forgotten, his life before her a blank canvas that she’s now painting with colors. He keeps thinking of her, getting more pensive with each step, until he reaches the doors, and walks in, and —

the ground is cut from under his feet.

All is the same in the hall: long table in a cloud of mindless chatter, silverware clanking, a rich palette of scents. What stands out is the color, bright like rubies formed within the earth’s crust. It’s the red of her dress — the same old and brand new — and he can only catch a glimpse but it’s enough to leave him dazed. It lasts a second before she senses him, her conversation with Helaena interrupted; she springs to her feet, the dazzling hue stirs up his ardor — he’s almost blinded when he gets an eyeful.

He is staring at her, everyone’s staring at him.

Helaena stands up with a laugh in her attempt to smooth things over: “It isn’t very nice of you to keep a friend waiting,” they both sit down then.

Aemond goes to join them with cotton feet.

He must’ve been too busy last time, her injury too big of a disturbance, so he paid the dress no mind. But once he’s seated, he can’t help but notice: the layers of fabric, flowing lines of her body, the cut in the front, the golden chain now ten times brighter. She casts him a wondering glance, he drinks half the cup in one swallow. The minutes that follow are like a fog, and although the conversations carry on, Aemond can’t bring himself to take part in any.

That is until he hears vaguely his sister’s delighted voice. “The stitching is barely noticeable! What an excellent work,” she marvels at the red dress, then looks at him with the spontaneity of a child. “Wouldn’t you agree, dear brother?”

He’s certainly grateful he’s not drinking otherwise he’d choke. Aemond manages to cast one furtive glance. “A fine work indeed.”

His mother gently picks up the discussion. “It was only fair to help repair the thing your friend holds so dear,” Alicent’s gaze is directed at her. “You can now wear it on more than just one occasion.”

Why would she hold so dear the dress that only carries the memories of her pain, he wonders. The dress that was covered with blood, with fingerprints of someone who wanted her dead. He takes a peek at her, and her face expression gives away no answers but for a second too short to comprehend he sees the undercurrent again; only it never takes shape. She puts on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and he’s the only one to notice.

“I greatly appreciate you taking your time to help me,” she says, and Alicent’s smile — a genuine one — only grows wider. Maybe even a bit too wide for it only to be about some stitching.

“I suspect we tired you out with all the measuring and dressing up,” his mother points at her plate. “You hardly ate, my dear.”

“It’s been a long day,” her fingers close around a cup but she doesn’t drink from it, “And the dress brought back some memories,” her grab tightens, the only sign of everything she’s keeping covered. “But I am glad to get a chance to wear it one more time.”

“And I am happy to help,” Alicent assures, “But please, go have some rest, you have seen enough of our boring dinners.”

“I was never bored,” there’s a glimmer of gratitude, a tone of sincerity as she gets up from the table and looks at the faces sitting at it. For a moment, it seems that she wants to say more — grand, meaningful, closer to the truth. And yet, she just opts for a short, “Thank you for having me.”

She barely has time to take a step before Aemond all but jumps to his feet. “I will walk with you,” the words leave his mouth as he stands up with unflinching determination. And it’s not that he wants to leave as much as he wants to follow her.

His eagerness doesn’t come off as a surprise. No one says it but it seems that everyone knows — Alicent and Criston sharing the same looks, Helaena beaming, Aegon smirking into his cup. Aemond only waits for her reaction, his eye focused on her face. She isn’t against it — just like she’s never been before, every time he found a reason to come to her and be with her, and even when there was no reason to do so. She gives him a nod, a tad guiltily but more so accepting (and maybe just as eager as he is).

While they are on their way out, Aegon turns on his chair to say something but Helaena covers his mouth with her hand.

>>> Aemond breathes a little deeper and walks a little slower, gathering his words, — and before he knows it, they are talking again, his infatuation receded, although never truly gone. He asks about her day, and in the corridors and hallways curtained with silence, her voice flows lightly. He can tell that she’s abashed by all the fussing over her.

“Our seamstresses are quite fierce,” he chuckles. “I fear no sword of mine will stand a chance against their needles.”

“They said this dress was made for feasts,” she quotes, fiddling with the material as if she can’t see what’s there to admire.

“Well, Aegon’s name day is approaching. That will surely be a feast we are all invited to endure,” Aemond jests.

“I don’t think that I will —” she doesn’t finish the sentence, biting down her lip. He’s too distracted by that movement to pay attention to what’s left unvoiced. “You do not find those celebrations to your liking?” she changes the topic swiftly.

“I find them boring,” Aemond huffs. “The same old lords boasting about their wealth, making up achievements that are each so hollow.”

“Sounds like ladies aren’t a part of those conversations?”

“Theirs are hardly better so you should keep your expectations low,” he ruefully remarks. “Сourt gossip is one thing you can’t avoid. And then they’ll either lament about their husbands or try to find one for you,” he doesn’t think much over his words until he sees her smile dropping. And then, before he can find a reason not to, he adds: “...Assuming you are not already married.”

As soon as she hears it, she stops — Aemond does too, and he can tell that she isn’t looking for lies and excuses. She only timidly looks around, as if she’s afraid the walls have ears, and the truth she’s about to tell him is only meant for his. They managed to reach his chambers first, so without a single word Aemond goes to open the doors, and she accepts the nonvocal invitation.

They walk in — both are hasty and agitated, but he gives her space and scarcely hides the trembling of his hands. She finds it hard to utter a particular word. “I was... betrothed but not anymore. The man in question now believes I am dead.”

Her face is turned away from him, her gaze gliding over every object in his room, searching for something to fall on. She hesitantly walks to his table, glancing over a stack of books on it.

Aemond gives her a minute, then inquires: “Was he the one to hurt you?”

Her pain is still fresh, her face briefly splashed with it but she pushes through. Her response is not affirmative and yet, it’s enough of a confirmation. “I should’ve known better than to trust him.”

His anger rears up its head, a beast on a chain readying to get loose. “There is no excuse for what he did,” Aemond punctuates. “There cannot be —”

“There isn’t,” she cuts him off, not harshly but with a weary acceptance, her finger grazing thick book covers. “And I’m the last person to ever make excuses for him. But I should’ve known.”

Aemond is hurt by the thought he gets, but her torment is even more hurtful so he says the words, each letter scorching his heart. “You can’t take the blame for having feelings. Love often makes people let their guard down.” (And for years, he never did. Not until her).

With how fast she retorts, his ache is cured: “It wasn’t love.” Whatever it was, she regrets it so deeply, it’s written all over her face. “Now that I think about it, it never was.”

Her fingers travel down to the table surface, her thoughts straying back to the time that’s too distant but too haunting to forget.

“Lord Dykk Hersy is a son of my father’s friend, we’ve known each other ever since we were kids. He was always too noisy, then turned too self-centered, not much to like about that. And I never thought he fancied me, either. But my father made a decision about us some years back, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Dykk started coming more often, following me around, being very nice. And I wasn’t...,” she stops fumbling with strewn parchments and lets out a sigh. “Not a lot of people were nice to me back then. I was naive to mistake his kindness for something else, and he was smart enough to say all the right words to make me believe him.”

Her fingertips reach his dagger, unscabbarded and left in plain sight. His eye is drawn to her every movement.

“We were betrothed when I was ten-and-six. I grew to like his company, and I think he did try his best, at first. For a couple of years, he was courteous, generous enough to give in to my every whim. Not that I had too many,” she’s glassy-eyed, and Aemond’s glare would be enough to kill. “But the illusion didn’t last for long. I soon began to notice pitiful stares, taunting whispers behind my back, maids dropping their gazes in shame. Three years in, I found out one of them was carrying his child.”

“Am I right to assume he denied it?”

“He did,” she chuckles bitterly. “He seemed taken aback by my anger, tried to persuade me he was falsely accused. But I could never blame the girl, it’s not her fault he was so good with words... I fell for them too,” her sadness is washed off with virulence; her fury awakened again, flames of it rising from the bowels of her restraint.

Aemond finds himself only a few feet away from her, pulled in by empathy at first, enamored somewhere in between the first and second steps.

“From that day, the complaints began, the excuses — he was too busy to stay for long, then got too busy to visit.”

“Was it so hard to saddle a horse?” Aemond bristles.

She casts him a glance followed by a half smile. “He lives in The Reach.”

“So chivalry is dead,” he snorts, and her laughter gives him a spark of joy. “It isn’t far away from here,” Aemond notes.

“Takes way longer to reach the Vale,” she explains, then pauses. Her memories eat up the merest hint of cheer. “Only he wasn’t road weary. He was burdened by me.”

Aemond almost reaches out for her, but clasps his hands together, his knuckles whitening. Her finger traces the very edge of the blade.

“And then, on his latest name day, my father made a poor joke,” her smile is crooked, hating. “He said me and Dykk were meant to stay together unless death do us part. That’s when, I think, he got the idea.”

“It is unworthy of a man to ever nurture such a thought,” his voice is embittered, his chest ablaze with wrath.

“I should’ve known,” she sounds dull like an echo. “He’s always called himself a man of traditions — the start of the month was meant for hunting, and he preferred the grounds of Grassy Vale, the shore of the Blueburn river. But then, all of a sudden, he wanted to explore the mountains of the Vale,” she wraps her hand around the hilt. “Said he wished to reconcile, that the trip would bring us closer, made me wear a dress,” she stumbles over the words, “And I didn’t even want to come or to see him, and all the signs were there, but I put on the stupid dress, and I was the one being so unbelievably stupid and —”

His palm covers hers in a rush of tenderness, his gaze more telling than a poem, confessions embedded in it — so many of them, it would take all night to unravel. They stand still, their eyes locked, his affection sweeping in between his fingers and her skin.

“None of that was your fault,” Aemond asserts. “And no one is to blame but him. Your fortitude is only worthy of admiration.”

It’s alluring how unrelenting he is in his desire to please her; the shift of her body toward his is barely noticeable, and she looks a second away from giving in. Something stops her, a sign of regret on her face, her gaze averted.

“And yet, he continues with his life thinking he got the last laugh,” she bemoans. “And I fear I... will never forget the feeling of his stranglehold as long as we are both alive.”

“You survived the unthinkable,” he tugs at her hand, caring in a way no other man ever was with her. “Why can’t it be enough?”

She ponders, hesitates, her outrage tempered by his solicitude. “I guess some lessons can only be learned the hard way,” she draws conclusion.

There it is again — the puzzling implication, a mystery wrapped in an enigma; it leaves Aemond with a sense of unease. “You deem that lesson to be worth it?” he questions.

The truth slips away from his grasp, but her hand stays, and it is too disarming of a sensation for him to think clearly. “I am afraid it’s too soon to tell,” she deflects, her thumb pressed against the flat of the blade. She can’t resist glancing briefly at it.

“You seem to like this little thing,” Aemond observes. “If so, you can have it.”

Her face is so bright with glee again, all the light in his room grows dim in comparison. “I’ve never seen such an intricate pattern,” she clarifies shyly, then adds with appreciation: “It’s truly beautiful.”

“It is,” he’s only looking at her.

“Teach me how to use it,” she unexpectedly asks. She looks at him again, her gaze exulting, and his heart skips a bit. “Properly.”

“And why would I do that?” he asks, undeniably willing.

“Why wouldn’t you?” she teases, her hand moving from his, clamping the dagger tightly.

Aemond misses the feeling — her skin against his, tighling with warmth, — and he catches her fingers in the same second. The distance between them is shortened down to a few inches; they don’t seem to care.

His touches are light and feathery. “You need to make sure your grip is strong,” he gently presses his forearm to hers, her hand positioned in his palm. “Not too tight so there’s some room for maneuvering. But with all your fingers in place,” he gives instructions, and she eagerly follows.

The red of her dress is a striking distraction; as is the softness of its lace, of her touch, of her lips parted in wonder, her diligence bewitching. She waits, his blood rushes; Aemond gulps.

He continues. “It is a common mistake to take a swing with a pommel up,” two of his roughened fingers latch onto her palm. “But the backhand grip works better,” Aemond rotates her hand in the right position, a steady motion with unsteady breath; her shoulder comes in contact with his chest.

He halts all movement, she makes no attempt to step away. He wonders if she can feel... He lacks the words to describe it. But he can discern her bosom heaving with every breath, and his heartbeat is caught in his throat.

He keeps the dagger pointed down, then calmly guides it up and away, their fingers intertwined. “This way, the point of the blade always comes first,” her eyes are on the steel, on the veins scattered on the inside of his wrist. “Which means that the threat also comes faster,” his eye is on the curve of her neck, on the necklace gleaming, beckoning him to glance lower.

Both of them feel the pull, too spellbound to resist — she takes a half step back, he meets her halfway. Her back is now fully propped against him, every bit of his body overflushed with yearning. Their hands stay adjoined as his words vine through her hair: “You try it.”

And so she does. The first time she repeats the movement, it’s almost reluctant, and his long tenacious fingers lead the way. He inadvertently leans in, his forearm molding into hers, a touch that edges towards embrace; her bashfulness then disappears without a trace. The metal shines coolly as she dexterously twists the blade, and Aemond should be concerned with how easy it comes to her; he is instead utterly transfixed.

She looks at him over her shoulder, his breath fanning out over her cheek, the space between them almost nonexistent. She makes a turn, torturously slow, their hands an inseparable duet, bodies longing to share heat.

“Seems like you did have some practice beforehand,” Aemond notes, voice barely above a whisper.

“Or you are a good teacher,” her eyes slip over his lips.

“And you are a fast learner,” he says under his breath.

This once, his gaze wanders, like a wayward traveler in search of means to satisfy his hunger; she is the one he craves. His fingers are itching for every curve of her body — she’s burning in all the places she wishes he could touch her. The tension rises, floods their bloodstream like fever, and —

“Hardly fair to leave me deal with our grandsire on my own!” Aegon bursts through the doors without knocking, a cup in his hand. “Did I ask for a lecture on table manners? I did not!”

He then sees them, already a step away from each other, and there’s a hint of surprise in his eyes which quickly turns into suspicion. He’s about to voice it when she blurts out: “Aegon would make for a good target.”

The cup he’s holding doesn’t reach his mouth. “...I beg your pardon?”

“I talked your brother into teaching me how to throw a dagger,” she lies slyly. “Would you mind stepping back to the door?”

Aegon blinks, incomprehension evident on his face for a moment, until he frowns and does move back to the door — only to open it and rush out, grumbling: “Both of you are utterly insane.”

The second he leaves, she bursts into laughter, and the same sound, low and hearty, spills from Aemond’s lips. She glances at him — his face relaxed, cheeks adorned with dimples, and he catches her gaze. The moment is lost but their desire isn’t, still swelling in both, unabated fire under the navel.

But now she tarries, her delight eclipsed by a grim understanding she chooses not to put into words. She tries giving him the dagger but Aemond gently pushes it back: “I meant it, it’s yours.”

“Thank you,” she puts it into a scabbard he hands her, then murmurs, sincerely grateful: “For listening, too.”

“I am glad to be worthy of your trust,” he replies warmly.

There’s a ringing urge in the back of his head to come closer to her again. But she is unanticipatedly avoidant of any intimacy, mumbling something about the late hour, moving out of his reach — and then the urge turns into a need so desperate, he can’t keep it bottled up.

“I think he is the biggest fool in the Seven Kingdoms,” Aemond lets slip.

She turns to him when her hand is already on the door handle. “Because he couldn’t manage to kill a woman?” the smile she gives him is acerbic, but her gaze is sad.

“Because he didn’t love you the way you deserve,” he breathes out.

She looks astonished, her mouth falling open, and he wants nothing more than for her to say another word, just to give him a reason to spill his every feeling out. But she slumps her shoulders and purses her lips, and then pulls the handle and gets out so quickly, the door slams behind her, and the sound makes him wince.

He is left all alone, with an unsaid revelation at the base of his throat — the way I would’ve loved you, he wanted to say. And with another heartbeat, Aemond realizes: he already does. He is already hopelessly in love with her.

>>> That realization is a ball lightning that swirls in his chest, and he cannot close the eye all night. It’s liberating to say it to himself — love, the word that sounds and tastes so sweet; it’s also absolutely terrifying. Chaotic thoughts run through his mind, and he is racked with indecision that’s paved with his self-doubts and fears. Amidst the chaos, Aemond finds himself reminiscing of her shining gaze — and then of a touch of her hand, of her eyes on him, of her body leaning toward and her lips not shying away from his. He couldn’t have made all that up, he thinks. He also can’t let fear dictate his future.

Aemond leaves the room with the first rays of the sun, while its light only shyly skims the ground, but the prince’s never been more awake. His intent is a vital force, a fuel that makes him quicken his pace. He all but runs — down the stairs, through the doors, through the castle, and out of it; her name and his proclamation on the tip of his tongue

— only she isn’t in the training yard.

And neither are her bow and arrows.

Anxiety scrapes his ribcage and spreads like ice, then creeps, sluggish and squeaking, into his subconscious. His gaze roves over every corner of the yard, but he can’t catch the slightest hint of where to look for her.

He does break into running on his way back; the corridors and walls all flash before his eye. Her chambers greet him with her absence, the maids all share his concern. Aemond tries to look for clues — a letter, a piece of anything that once belonged to her — but she had no belongings, he remembers then.

Despair crawls out, like a predator sensing blood; Aemond isn’t about to give up without a fight. He goes to question the guards — surely, she couldn’t just disappear into thin air, no matter what her talents are. The men in silver-plated armor are doubtless striving to help, but only one of them recalls her visiting the yard not long before the sun emerged. That knowledge is rather scant and hardly helpful, and Aemond’s determination traitorously falters.

Help comes in the form of a stable boy passing by who gleefully chirps:

“The lady must be a skilled hunter,” he says to no one in particular, dreamingly impressed. “Not many people stick to traditions these days.”

“...Come again?” Aemond throws him a glance so piercing, the boy stammers.

“I only m-meant that it’s a full moon,” he hurriedly explains. “They say, on that day deer move more at night hence why the hunters favor it so much.”

That’s when her words resurface in his mind —

“I will do better by the next full moon.”

“Lord Dykk Hersy always called himself a man of traditions.”

He thinks that for a man who’s only lost one eye, he surely couldn’t have been more blind. Because the clues he’s been so desperate to find were all before his eyes this entire time. He promptly knits together all the fragments — her tireless training, haunting memories, her asking to repair the dress. Only, the one occasion she wanted it for was not some silly dinner.

Disappointment clashes with worry in his chest as Aemond leaves the castle once more, this time with a destination in mind. He blames himself for not guessing sooner; he hopes and prays that it’s not too late.

>>> The grounds of Grassy Vale are robed in green, a canvas of valleys and flats with lone wooden shacks interspersing; Aemond reminds himself he didn’t come for sightseeing. He gazes into fields sprawled underneath, and Vhagar’s body casts a shadow that sweeps along the earth like a water stream. With how low they are flying, it won’t be hard for any of the smallfolk to spot the dragon but Aemond can’t find it in himself to care.

His gaze is searching for one person only, his longing for her immense against everything in his life that’s been measured. But soon he sees the river, and the valleys smoothly give way to forests; Aemond admits with increasing concern that he’ll have to continue on foot. Vhagar grudgingly plops into the high grass, burying her claws in the ground, the flap of her wings so strong, it brings down a couple of trees. Once their rustling is stilled, the sullen peace settles in the vale.

As if to add to his unrest, the sky gets blanketed with clouds, and he can hear the thunder humming in the distance, his heart already hammering in tact. The Gods, it seems, certainly have a penchant for drama.

The sound of the branches crackling is what catches his attention first, and he discerns heavy footsteps fast approaching. In just a second, Aemond sees a man running out of the forest, and there’s no need to take a guess — not only does the stranger look clearly aghast, he’s also got an arrow sticking out of his shoulder.

Aemond throws him a disdainful glance but Lord Hersy is too distraught to notice. “Please, help!” he begs and whines, “I am being chased by a mad woman!”

The prince holds back a snicker, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the sight. “Oh, how unfortunate,” he drawls, and every feature of the man looks hideous to him. “A woman instilling that big of a fear? It is the rarest of things.”

Lord Hersy can’t seem to share his amusement. “She’s truly evil!” he assures with wide eyes, his legs unsteady, hand pressed to the wound, red seeping through his fingers. “She led me into an insidious trap, and I am left completely disarmed!”

“It sounds like it required quite a lot of planning,” Aemond notes. “Might it be that she has a reason to be cross with you?”

“I am a righteous lord, I wouldn’t hurt a fly,” the man lies profusely, and a dark look crosses Aemond’s face. “My only fault was trusting her, that scheming wen—”

With one hand movement, Aemond grabs him, his fingers holding the man’s collar so tightly, Lord Hersy has trouble breathing. “But you are surely cross with her, it seems,” the prince remarks in a dry tone, his gaze blistering cold. Underneath the ice, there’s a flare, a spark; he is actually enjoying this. “Would you mind, my lord, telling me more about her?”

Lord Hersy seems taken aback by the request but obeys implicitly. “She’s n-not lacking beauty, that I will admit,” he weakly tries to free himself yet to no avail. “But ignorant of manners and so terribly short-tempered!”

“Is it her temper you are so afraid of?” Aemond doesn’t hide his mocking.

“She’s got a dagger!” the man complains in distress. “An angry woman armed poses a horrid threat! Gods know, I’ve done nothing to merit that mistreatment!”

He opens his mouth to accuse her some more — but then finally takes note of the frighteningly stiff look on Aemond’s face. The prince’s lips curl up into a wrathful and malignant smile, and the air gets heavy with silence.

His anger is a beast that breaks the chains with its teeth.

“Hm,” Aemond shakes his head with derision. “Worry not, ser, you are in good hands,” the prince lowers his face to his, his voice spewing poison when he hisses, “I was the one to give her the dagger.”

Lord Hersy does attempt to escape Aemond’s grip, he’ll give him that. Pathetically and weakly he twitches and wails, tries scratching his face, then reaches for the eyepatch, wobbly fingers tugging at the stripe of leather, gasping and swearing and —

all of his efforts fall short, and Aemond’s iron grip doesn’t loosen one bit.

And then, out of nowhere, another hand grabs a fistful of the lord’s hair, yanking his head back so harshly, that he gasps. They both were too distracted by the scuffle to notice her draw near, but once she reaches them — engulfed in red, her gaze equally flaming — she truly is force to reckon with. The fury looks so good on her, it makes Aemond hold his breath.

“I see your luck did finally run out,” she says to the man, words filled with resentment.

Lord Hersy grows unsure about his every accusation. “I think there’s been a grave misunderstanding,” he protests in a whiny tone. “I deeply regret causing you any offe —”

“I don’t remember you regretting dragging me down from a horse to try and crash my skull with a rock,” her voice is low, biting. The grin that follows makes her face look sinister. “I knew you couldn’t finish.”

His frown betrays his irritation — he puts it out the second he pulls out the dagger. “There are still ways for me to make amends,” Lord Hersy pleads so sickly sweet, Aemond lets out a growl. “I made a terrible mistake, I shall admit, but I did search for you! Day and night, I prayed to the Gods to find you, I cried my eyes out!”

Her face seems empty while she listens, and Lord Hersy is enough of a fool to mistake it for reluctance. But Aemond thinks she’s never looked more sure, and there’s no mercy she can grant the man whose fate has long been sealed.

She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth twitch, and the prince reads this expression with ease — she’s finally facing her most wanted target. He loosens the grip, and Lord Hersy falls to his knees, gulping air, the breath of death no longer tickling his neck; but his relief is premature.

The blade in her hand pale-glimmers in the vanishing rays of the sun — the man only catches a dreadful glint before he feels the metal pressed against his throat. Her gaze is just as sharp. “Go on then, dear lord,” she sneers without a sign of mirth, each word hastening his end, “Cry me a river.”

He barely gets a breath in when she swings — unmerciful and with the backhand grip; the dagger draws a scarlet cut across his throat. The wound is deep and fatal, and the blood runs fast and thick, cascading down his chest, his body going limp and falling lifeless to the ground. The red seeps out into the grass, splashed beads of it shining dully against all the green, and it’s almost alluring to look at.

Unceasingly and invariably Aemond only looks at her.

The trees sway in the wind, and the clouds race, the sky now veiled with the darkness of the unfolding storm. He’s never been the one to value landscapes, but it makes him think: the same lush wilderness surrounded her while she was growing up, a rose among the weeds, her thorns repellent to most but no obstacle for him. With bloodied hands, disheveled hair, dirtied clothes — she’s still the only one he wants, irresistible as life.

She stands in reverie, her gaze boring into the huddled body of the lord: “I must admit, this is poor planning on my part.”

As if on cue, Vhagar’s roar echoes in the distance, and Aemond smirks: “I know of a way to get rid of a body.”

She hums and slightly leans over the dead man, wiping the dagger off on his coat, and Aemond sees that she ripped the dress again; he finds it funny.

“Not the best choice of clothing, I might say,” the prince notes.

She follows his gaze and doesn’t even bother to adjust the damaged hem. “He thought I came back from the dead to hunt him,” she lets out a dry laugh, “I counted on that.”

“Wish I could see it,” Aemond says, a gentle admiration in his tone.

Her mask of concentration crumbles, replaced by the expression he remembers from the day before. The same astonishment mixed with timorous indecision, with a tint of shyness, washes over her face as their eyes meet.

“You came for me,” the words fall from her mouth as if she only now becomes aware.

“Why do you find it so surprising?” he wonders because leaving her was never an option for him.

“Unreasonable, mostly,” she bashfully remarks. “You’ve been so kind to me, and yet I left without saying goodbye.”

“You did,” he agrees, thinking that shyness only adds to her charm.

“And I never told you of my plans,” she admits, even more coyly, and he just nods.

Her gaze falls, mouth unsurely half-open, as if she’s trying to pluck the right words from the grass. He watches her, and there’s that pull again, the flowering desire in his chest.

“I think it’s time for us to go our separate ways,” she musters out, and it knocks the air out of his lungs. She’s curbing her own pain, deeming it to be a relief for his. “You’ve done more than enough for me... I think your conscience should be clear.”

The wind picks up, and so does his pulse. “And where will you go?” Aemond asks, his voice faltering.

“I am my father’s only heir” she shrugs, mostly burdened than pleased. “He will take me back and,” she works up the courage to find his gaze again, “I won’t be a problem of yours any longer.”

The thunder is approaching, a rushing sound disrupting the peace of nature. Aemond knows he will never find peace if he lets her leave.

“So you can go,” she offers but they both don’t want it, and he instead allows himself a step to her. “If this is what you want,” she blurts out in a shaky voice that gives away her struggle no matter how much she tries to put up a face. “If this is what your heart desires,” she adds so quietly, she isn’t sure he will hear her. But Aemond does.

Something snaps in him, and his body is an arrow shot out — he closes the distance in a heartbeat, and his lips all but crush into hers. She kisses him back with the same fervor, without a moment’s hesitation, and neither of them is timid or holding back. His hands find her waist, follow the gentle bend of it as she presses herself to him, as her mouth opens more, and his craving turns into hunger, his desire not hidden any longer, erupting right through.

Aemond grabs onto her hips, desperate to feel more, ravenous in his need, and each of his kisses is a plea for her to heed to; she does. Her fingers frantically travel up, then tangle in his hair, untieing knots of his restraint, his quivering sighs all disappearing into her mouth. There are no other sounds but their shuddering breath, their lewd touches, moans — hers or his, he can’t tell.

The massive storm is brewing when they part, both breathless, their lips still brushing.

“It’s you,” his confession is hot against her mouth, “You are the only thing I desire,” the syllables flow, pouncing like a waterfall, “He was undeserving of you, foolish, pathetic excuse of a man, and if only I—”

His words die down at the feeling — her fingers dancing right above his cheek. The one that’s scarred, unloved, detested by him; the gruesome sight that was supposed to be covered by the eyepatch. He must’ve missed the moment when he lost it, too wrapped up in his anger to notice the despicable lord succeed in his attempts. Aemond can’t find it in himself to ask for confirmation, to even move his hand to cover half his face.

She never looks away. And then, in the gloomy evening, she smiles — the sun rises again, a crack of dawn formed by every feature of her face. Her fingertips tenderly graze his scar.

“You asked me once if I thought it was worth it,” she recalls, her gaze affectionate, without a shadow of a doubt. “It was. Because I would do it all again if I knew the fate was leading me to you.”

The warmth of her touch heats him up, then ignites every part of him. She’s still caressing the side of his face when he reaches for her — his kiss so searing, her hand trembles, while his confidently moves to the hollow of her throat; this time, the sound of pleasure is undoubtedly hers. With his eye closed, his mouth on hers, Aemond sees the vision, bright as day: him going through the layers, lace and red, until she is all bare in his sheets, and he can put his lips to every inch of her skin. And feel her, drink her, worship her, their limbs intertwined, him drawing moans from her until the night sky lets in the first streaks of light.

He has to take a labored breath to blink the dream away, to hold his ardor back for just a little longer. By the look on her face, she’ll welcome his every offering.

“It seems that all those years I’ve been searching in all the wrong places for you,” Aemond whispers, holding her tight in his embrace.

“But you found me,” she follows the contour of his jaw with her finger, her smile never fading. “And you can have me,” she makes a vow, and her lips trail for his to seal the promise.

And no storm can compare to the love for her that rages deep in his heart.

✧ if you are into stories about revenge (enemies to lovers, with angst, fighting, and quite a bit of fire involved), I have a multi-chapter fic for you ✧ two more stories inspired by songs (modern!au): with Aemond & with Aegon ✧ my masterlist tagging @amiraisgoingthruit who was kind enough to ask (girlie, I’m sorry this one is so enormous…) also big thank you to arcielee for approving the gif it was driving me insane 💙

English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!

#aemond targaryen #it took me 3 (THREE) months to find inspiration to finish the gif and I can't say I'm 100% happy so I will take NO criticism #to the ten people who will read this — I am forever grateful (I'm sending you cups of cacao as a treat)#my stuff #aemond targaryen fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen fanfics #aemond targaryen fic #aemond one eye #aemond one eye x y/n #hotd fic #house of the dragon fanfics #hotd fanfic #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond #aemond the kinslayer

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wthtorke · 6 months

Text

Snowstorm

*Looks around* Well hello lmao what a better way to return than posting a THICK ass fic huh

8K words - Warnings for getting trapped, small spaces, and everything that comes with it + general trauma + injury - Gender-neutral reader

Enjoy! <3

You often put others' needs before your own.

Not that you noticed you did it. It took some pointing out from your close friends to get you to realize just how you swept your desires under the rug.

After god knows how much pushing, you agreed to go on a trip by yourself. "No work worries, no guys, no girls, just you and your alone time!" Your friend had said.

You sat in your living room with your laptop, browsing through destinations and flight tickets. Everyone seemed eager to see you go on the trip. At least, you hoped it was that. While you loved your friends, you worried that if you were not helpful somehow, they would drop you cold.

Were they happy for you or happy to see you go? You didn't know, but the trip could help that too. You wanted to be more independent, sure, and in tune with yourself.

Your eyes stop on an ad, and immediately you click it.

Skiing in the Rocky Mountains.

You smile. The cool crisp air may do you some good.

You book the ticket and the hotel for your stay, and as the week goes by, you pack your bags. You had gone on other trips throughout your life, of course, but this one felt a little different. Maybe because it'd be your first alone adventure in a long time, but whatever it was, you felt good about it.

The day before the trip, you say goodbye to your friends and head back to your house. Only 7 hours of sleep and a couple more of flight separated you from snow and, hopefully, a lot of fun.

The trip is easy enough. You get to your room at the hotel and unpack just enough to start exploring as soon as you could.

Groups of people gathered at the tourist stops choosing what they would be doing and booking activities for the day. Just as you reach the board, the ski equipment is fully booked for the day already.

You frown as a lady beside you nods. "Yup, all gone! I'm pissed as fuck too! You either bring your own or get here at the butt of the morning to rent equipment." She sighs. "I'm going on a hike. Make sure to leave your name in the equipment call, though. If somebody gives up, they should give you preference, it seems." She shrugs.

You nod, perking up and signing your name with the clerk's list, looking back at the girl again, "what hike did you choose?"

"Me? One of the easy ones, that one-," she points at the boards again. The list still had some spots left, "It's the longest of the easy ones, though. Thinking about joining?"

You nod, "Yeah, it's only my first day here. It sounds good enough for a first day," you say, picking up the pen and putting down your info on the list. The group would depart in 30 minutes, enough time to prepare for it.

"Nice! I'll see you at the meeting point later then!" She smiles and walks off. You smile at the clerk and head back to your room to pack your bag for the hike.

You pack your backpack with energy bars, the biggest water bottle you could find, the emergency first aid kit one of your friends gifted you, a hiking map you bought in the reception, a small emergency light, an emergency bivy, and an emergency blanket, just in case.

On your way down, you buy two sandwiches from a machine, along with a soup-filled thermos, stuffing them in your backpack before heading to the meeting spot.

You look around, searching for the lady you talked to earlier, wondering if she would make it in time.

She arrives 2 minutes before your departure, panting a bit but smiling at you, waving as she walks over. "Hey there, ready to freeze up there?"

"Definitely not." You two laugh as your guide speaks up, stating the hike rules and emergency tips. "And lastly, do not go anywhere alone. The hike is easy, but don't underestimate it! Safety is in numbers, always. Now, with all of that said, let's get hiking!"

The way up is slow. People chat quietly while they walk, taking pictures and generally marveling about the views, you included.

The wind is ice cold and makes your lungs feel a bit prickly when you breathe. Your cheeks are cold, a reminder that you were really there, enjoying a hike on a trip you made on your own. It makes you smile.

You're halfway up when your newfound friend approaches you again.

"So, you came by yourself?" The girl asks. You nod, "yeah, I thought I would do something different…what about you?"

"I travel alone all the time. First time here, though!" She smiles, "After I started going places alone, I just couldn't stop. It's way easier." She says. The guide announces your first stop to rest is just up ahead.

As most of the group sits down to eat and drink, you and your friend sit on a fallen log at the edge of the trail. You pull out one of your bars while she takes a few swigs of her water bottle.

You're laughing at her jokes when a crack calls your attention toward the trees. You turn around to look, staring intently at the trees. Your friend’s gaze switches from you to the trees multiple times, “Bestie? You good?”

“Did you hear anything?” You ask her, still searching. The chatter from the rest of the group dies down as you strain to hear anything from the trees again. “It’s probably a squirrel or something.” She shrugs.

“I think that was too heavy to be a squirrel.” You say, hearing it again as you get up from the log, picking up your backpack. She does the same, “Okay….maybe it’s a huge squirrel or a deer?” She says, starting to sound worried as well.

The cracking sounds get louder and more violent before a strong gust of wind hits both of you. A big thundering sound follows it. You realize what’s happening all too late.

“Avalanche! Run!”

You both scream and make for it. The snow comes crashing down through the trees as you and your friend sprint through the trail, trying to catch up with the rest of the group. You look at the snow for a fraction of a second and slip.

You fall to the ground. You can barely hear any screaming over the falling snow’s booming noise. You scream and try getting up again, putting your hands up to shield yourself from the snow.

Another sound hits your ears before a blur launches itself toward you. The sound is blood-curdling, bone-chilling, roaring as loud as the snow coming for you. You feel the impact of said thing against your body, throwing you both off the edge. You hold onto it, whatever it was. Screaming and closing your eyes as you both flew over the edge.

He had seen it coming, of course. While his brothers and sisters went for the hottest countries on whatever planet they landed in. He loved the snow. He had over two centuries of experience with it.

He saw it coming.

You are as light as he thought you would be. He holds you and your backpack against his chest as you fall off the snowy ledge. The cord of his wrist gauntlet catches against the stone. He snaps it off as you both get launched into the cave underneath the ledge.

He lands hard on his feet, setting you down unceremoniously on the ground before rushing back to the cave entrance. The snow rages violently over as it falls from the edge, washing over anything in its way. He had been using this cave for a few days now. He knew this could happen. Would happen.

Still, he needed to close the entrance.

The snow piles and pushes inside the cave. He aims his blaster toward the entrance’s ceiling and shoots, jumping over to your side as the stones crash down, stopping the snow from burying you both alive as he shields your body from the falling rocks.

It’s too much. You cry and scream while keeping your face on the floor, hands shielding your head as the booming noises of cracking trees, snow, and falling rocks make your heart pound in every which way inside your ribcage. You get dragged closer by the man who saved you, and you hug the thigh he was crouching on the ground with, sobbing into it as you wait for the nightmare to be over.

It feels like hours. It probably is hours long until the wreckage comes to a stop. You still hear the avalanche layers settling on top of the cave and its would-be entrance. The cave is pitch black. You can’t see a palm in front of your face. All you hear is your ragged breathing and the man’s -somehow- calm one. His is heavier, although slower than yours. he was big, you were sure he was from the blur you saw standing there before the rocks fell. His breathing had a dragging sound to it, a soft ‘ch ch ch’ that made your hairs stand on end. Oh God, what if he was asthmatic?

“I- I think we’re okay now-” You say. He doesn’t reply. “Sir, are you hurt? Oh God-” You panic, patting around the floor for your bag, scooting away from him until you find it. “I’ve got a light in here. God, I hope it’s not broken!” You take a deep breath and try to remember where you placed it, counting the small bags on the front before reaching the fourth one. You pull its zip and reach for the light. The thick, now wet, gloves you wear make the metal almost slip from your grasp.

“Please turn on, please turn on,” You pray as you push the button, successfully illuminating the wall in front of you. “Yes! Okay, now we can-” You turn around, looking for the man,

Finding something else entirely.

It’s bigger than any man you’ve ever known in your life. Its skin is of a blueish hue with black mottling. It has protrusions that remind you of a hedgehog’s quills up its forearms, chest, and the sides of its face. It wore a mask along with dense-looking armor that looked battle-worn. Its chest heaved the same slow and steady breathing, making the quills drag against the black netting it wore.

Your pupils dilate in dread as you perceive it whole. Your body freezes. Your breath hitches.

And you faint.

The light falls from your hand as your body hits the floor. Your backpack acts as a hard pillow as the world darkens and comes to a stop.

He watches as you turn into stone and pass out on your equipment, and only then does he move toward you. He grabs the small light you produced from your pack and turns it off with the click of a button, careful not to break it. He did not need light, not as long as he had his mask (even if he didn’t, if he was honest), and not as long as you were unconscious.

‘Might as well save its power.’ He thinks.

He takes a quick check over your form. Bruising was sure to occur. Your ankle was sprained, also expected. All in all, everything is fine. He’s glad about that.

Now, for air.

He stands up and walks to the entrance again. While it wasn’t safe to leave the cave while the layers were still loose, and with the temperatures dropping outside, your chances of survival were low, even if his weren’t. But being wholly shut in wouldn’t do either, especially with your panicked breath. Screaming requires air. Lots of it.

He stretches his palm over the cold stone, feeling around. A few well-placed holes would do well enough. Stepping back, his aim shines over the stone once more.

Adjusting the width of each blast, he lasers perfect circles scattered on the wall. The snow outside melts, and fresh, cold air drifts in through the holes before more snow covers them once more. He reaches for his back pocket, retrieving several silver rings, and places them into the holes in the stone. Adjusting the desired length of each ring before pressing a button, he watches the holograms expand on his gauntlet until they surpass the snow outside. He checks each tube, satisfied when air flows steadily through all of them.

He turns back to you and walks over.

He couldn’t say what made him save you. He had been hunting in the mountains. He did see you and your group going up. But why did he risk himself to save you? He didn’t know. He found himself clutching the tree he was perched on when the snow went down, even though he would have been safe. He leaped before you fell to your knees in the snow.

Crouching down, he takes a second to look at your face.

You groan, and he sits down, moving back to give you some space. You look around, seeing the thin light streaks coming from the wall. You look a bit to the side and squint, spotting the one figure you hoped was a dream.

A scream rips from your throat as you panic once more, almost crushing your light in the process. You back up into the nearest wall and point your light at him, turning it on again. “What are you?! What-!”

It’s a strange creature, half man and half… something else. You had no idea what.

He lifts his hands up, and you grasp your light firmly as if it were a gun. “Don’t move-! Stay there! Who are you? What do you want?!” You ask. Demand.

You hear audio shuffling before a distorted, “Easy…- Easy…” reaches your ears. You recognize the voice. Your instructor, the line spoken to the whole group while going through a particularly slippery part of the trail that morning. “What-...What are you? You’re not a man-, who are you?” You ask desperately.

He shakes his head, and you want to cry harder, though he didn’t answer your second question. “Am I dead?” You sob. He shakes his head again and slowly points to the door.

“-..-Thick S̴̨̛̛̞͉̗̜̦̘̤̤̱͉͖͒̍̑̆̑͌͆̃̕n̴̡̳̖͕̹̞͎̝̞͂̿̀̾̏̈̈́́͝ơ̸̝̣̓̔̾͊̈́̇̇̋̎̓͜͝w-.”

You sniffle, not peeling your eyes from him. “Are you going to hurt me? Please don’t-” He doesn’t reply, slowly lowering his hands again. You start to get nervous again before he points to the corner of the cave. Hesitantly, you cast the light to it, seeing the glint of the metal-like cord he had used to save you both. Your eyes widen as you try to remember the quick flashes of the occurred. You fell. The snow was coming. Something caught you, held you, and you fell over the edge. The light moves back to his form. “It was you-, so you saved me, okay-, but why?”

Again, no reply.

The tears form cold, stiff streaks on your cheeks as you try to wipe them with the back of your gloves. You look around the cave. It wasn’t that big. You doubted you could stand up fully inside it, let alone someone as big as your…new friend. He had taken care of the air supply, but you weren’t properly trained for this. You feared you wouldn’t last until the morning. Not like this.

“You-, you made the holes in the walls, right? Can’t you get us out?” You ask him. He shakes his head. “Safer-...Here.”

“How is it safer here? We’re buried to our necks in-...Snow.” He nods.

“Snow is a good insulator, right?” He nods again. “Right…So you’ll get us out in the morning?” He doesn’t reply. “I’ll take that as a hopeful yes.” You say, setting your light down in the middle of the cave, pointing at the ceiling, illuminating the space the best it could.

You open your backpack and set to planning your night here. You see your phone and gasp, trying to get it. No signal.

You sigh as you look at the rest of your pack. You had your blanket, emergency bivy, and food and water were also fine. Nothing got broken during your rescue, thankfully.

You take a look at your companion to find him also going through his own pack, though his equipment looked far different than yours. They almost seemed like…weapons.

Oh, God.

“Do you come here often?” You ask. His head snaps at you. You freeze.

He shakes his head, and you sigh in relief. “You don’t…hunt people, right?”

He keeps staring. You wish you hadn’t asked. “Innocent people? You hunt innocent people?” Perhaps it was the trauma, the ice, the pain, or the sheer chaos of the situation you found yourself in. But judging an alien creature wasn’t as impossible as you thought it’d be. “Hunters- -Like me.” His mask croaks.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You hunt…other hunters? Human ones or, like, -really- like you? People like you?”

“-Like me.” He repeats.

“Your own species? Like a cop?”

A few seconds pass before you hear your own voice. “Like a cop.” Your eyes widen more. “So you’re a space cop, got it…Then what are you doing here on Earth? And in the -snow- of all places?”

A strange sound comes from him. A scoff.

“Vaca̶̤͔͚͌̃͝ͅtion timee̷̛͖̬͙̞̞̯͙͉͓̓́̈́̀̚e̴̛̞͎͆̀͂̉̎̂͘̕͠͝e-” A young girl’s voice followed by laughter.

You find yourself laughing nervously at the audio. A soft laugh that makes him tilt his head slightly. “Me too.” You say, “Ironically enough.”

You set out your equipment in silence before you unwrap your first sandwich. You look at your watch. 3 PM. Nice time to have a heavier snack, then you could eat the bars until the night and then eat your soup. And you’d still have your second sandwich!

Your…second sandwich.

“Hey.” You look at him again. He looks up from organizing his gear. “Do you have any food in that pack of yours? I have an extra one here.” You lift the wrapped sandwich to show him.

He seems to consider before giving you a dismissive hand gesture, going back to his fiddling.

“I have plenty here,” You say. “I don’t think…someone as big as you shouldn’t go too long without eating something.” He looks at you again. His mask moves slightly. You weren’t sure if he was really looking at your hand or not.

“It’s just a turkey sandwich, are you vegetarian?” You ask, worried, for some reason. He makes a strange sound. Clicking and huffing came from his mask. Was he laughing?

“Look, to me, you’re a carnivore -at least- but I can’t be too sure, right? You’re the first…alien I know.”

He shakes his head. “Not-, Vegetarian.”

You nod, digging around your backpack for the other sandwich before tossing it to him. The speed with which he catches it is impressive enough. You blink, and his hand moves from the ground to beside his mask, catching the sandwich.

He eyes it as you eat your own. For a second, you wonder if he’s allergic to anything in it. You’re about to ask when he moves again, sitting with his back turned to you.

You frown in confusion as he sets the sandwich down on his thigh before starting to take the mask off.

Each pop it makes has your eyes widening impossibly more. With everything that happened, you forgot the mask wasn't his -face-.

He sets the mask down, its impassive expression staring at you from the floor while he picks up the sandwich again, unwrapping it.

You wondered what he looked like without it. It felt too rude to ask. Maybe he wanted to remain anonymous from you.

Maybe the light hurt his eyes. Maybe he didn’t want to scare you.

Maybe he was just -shy-.

The clicking sound- now much louder and clear, calls your attention back to reality. You watch as he apparently throws the whole sandwich into his mouth, if he really had one, and swallows it whole.

If he chewed it, you didn’t hear it. But you do hear the biggest ‘gulp’ of your life coming from him.

You jump a little bit when he picks up the mask again, snapping the tubes back on and turning around again.

You finish eating your own food and put the trash in your bag. "I need something I can…call you- you know, other than alien? That feels rude.”

He shakes his head, and you lick your cold lips in thought. “How does Storm sound? I don’t think ‘Avalanche’ is any good.” You shrug, taking a swig from your water bottle. “I don’t think I should mention this to anyone, right?”

He nods. You purse your lips again, “Look- I know the less contact between us the better, and I definitely shouldn't be asking these questions- but if I don't talk I think I'll go insane."

Storm crosses his arms, seemingly in thought before he says a simple, firm, "Yes."

"...Are there more alien species? Do you know them? Seen any?"

"Yes. -Yes….Yes."

"Wow." You whisper to yourself. "You're the most amazing and intense thing that ever happened to me…besides the avalanche, of course."

He relaxes, shifting a bit to sit against the stone wall. You do the same, resting against your pack. "Our government must know of you- are we friends? Our people?"

He shakes his head. You sag. "Oh…that sucks" Storm tilts his head, and a series of cut audios gather your attention again. "Government- sucks."

You laugh. His shoulders shake slightly. Maybe he was laughing as well?

"This wasn't what I had in mind when I came here, but I'm glad you're here. Thank you for saving me," you say. He stares at you before nodding slowly.

You smile and look at his pack on the floor, "Hey, do you have water? I have some if you want." He shakes his head and pulls out a metal bottle from one of the pouches on his back. A canteen?

“Do you want to lay out our things? We could see what we have and how we’re going to split it until tomorrow. I know the first rule is overpacking is good but…I don’t reeeally have that much,” you let out a nervous laugh.

He takes a second and stands on his knees. He is almost as tall as you'd be standing like that. He gathers his pack and throws it closer to you while he moves over.

You stare at him for a couple of seconds before the mask slowly turns to you. “Oh-, right, sorry- you’re just- okay never mind- So, I got my light, of course-, I got some energy bars, water, a map, a bivy, a blanket, a knife, a little emergency kit, and soup! Well-, more food if you can’t translate that.” You hold up the thermos like it was a prized trophy, "what do you got?"

He starts laying his own things out.

A dagger, cuffs of some kind, knives, a -whip-, the canteen he had shown you earlier, mini orbs that suspiciously looked like smoke bombs from movies, plus other things- probably weapons too, you had no idea the use of. And last, but not least, he offers you a jar.

You put yours down and hold his. The lid is not nearly as simple as yours, it has a mechanism on top of it. You frown in confusion before he snorts and presses two buttons on top of it.

The lid fizzes, and you gasp, looking up at him. He nods, and you slowly take it off, placing it on top of your blanket. The smell hits your nose, and you look at him again. "Jerky? Oh my God-, can I?" He nods.

You carefully take a strip of meat from the jar. "What kind of meat is this? This isn't…human, right?" You gulp. He shakes his head and lifts his wrist. His gauntlet shows a hologram of a deer.

"Ohhhh, wow, you're really a hunter, aren't you?" You marvel, putting the strip back in the jar before closing it again. Storm taps the same buttons, and it seals tight again.

You place the jar on the floor along with everything else. The contrast between your equipment and his is stark. You laugh a bit. "Well, aren't we made for each other?" He snorts as you check your watch.

You look up and find his mask very close to you, also looking at your watch. "It's not as fancy as yours," you laugh, holding your wrist up for him to see.

Being this close, you feel your face heat up. You look down at his torso when he gently grabs your wrist, inspecting it closer. "You- are you not um- cold? You're not exactly ah…layered up."

He did wear some fur around his shoulders and waist, but other than that, only the netting and some armor. He does the clicking sound again- chuckling?

The hand on your wrist firms it while the other pops your glove open, pulling it up and off your hand. You jerk a bit when he pulls the naked hand to his chest. "Oh- what-...Oh."

Hot. He is hot. Literally.

You can't tell if the netting is heated or if he's just a furnace. But he's incredibly warm. Your fingers twitch as you concentrate on the feel of his skin. It wasn't like yours, that was for sure. It was almost rubbery, and hot but texturized as well. It was…well, alien. The prickly quills he had also were interesting to stare at.

What a Tarzan moment.

You take your hand back, putting your glove on again, "I'm jealous of that temperature. Even with all these layers, I'm still cold," you frown, "your planet must be scorching hot," you say.

He takes a while but nods.

He didn't exactly like sharing information, you learned. It was fair, he saved you- and he was an alien. Things were complicated. "I think you look great here though, in the snow," The glove feels cold compared to what you just experienced.

He scoffs, crossing his arms as you think about the events of today over and over again before looking at him once more. "Do you have any family?" The question hits you like a train and blurts out of your mouth before you could filter it. "I mean- if you can tell me."

He nods, and your eyebrows go up in surprise. Not that you thought he wouldn't have one. He had a belly button, so he couldn't have just…spawned from somewhere. You smile at the mental image of him just popping into existence.

You look back at your equipment, especially at the food. "Look, I know we're on 'not too much involvement' thing, but you don't have to turn away every time to eat. I won't tell anyone- though I'm sure the government must have blurry pictures of others like you in their archives somewhere already."

He's closer to you than before, having not moved away since your little touching moment. His presence is as grounding as it is exciting. It makes you alert and awake, even though you're so tired.

Storm's mask turns to you slightly, considering.

"Scary."

You frown. "Scary? Your face is scary? But your mask is so…familiar? Is it too different from it?"

He nods again.

"Oh- well, I won't be afraid of you, you saved my life, and now we're here chatting and having an icy picnic covered in snow. I'd say this makes us best friends." You smile. He huffed.

What he does instead is lift his wrist gauntlet again. Another hologram pops up.

"Ohhhhh my-" You look back up at his mask. Its cold expression almost mocks you. "Okay, you weren't lying when you said it was different- why do you guys make it like that? You know what- that's none of my business, sorry." You look back at the hologram.

While you didn't know if it was really him- the hologram was all red-, the way their faces were just…made sense. The tusks, the teeth, the mandibles. You marvel at the quills on the eyebrows, just like they were on the rest of him.

Something must have been wrong with you, but you didn't think he was ugly.

"I get the scary part. I'd freak out if I saw you in the dark, no offense." He chuckles deeply, the most you've seen him laugh so far. You smile again. "Thanks for showing me, now I won't pass out on you again if you take it off." He shuts it off. You almost made a sad noise at it.

Suddenly, all the excitement takes a toll on you. With your last burning curiosity sated, your eyes begin to get heavier. "Okay, I think the adrenaline is starting to wear off." You say. "I think I'm going to sleep a bit."

He gets up, checking the air supply tubes in the stone. You worm your way into your bivy, leaving the blanket for him if he needs it. He probably wouldn't, but the thought eased you. "Wake me up if anything changes okay?" You say. He doesn't react. You take a painkiller and lay down again.

"...and please don't leave me here alone." You say, with a little more emotion than you anticipated.

He turns his head and nods before going back to his inspection.

You close your eyes for a second.

Just a second.

You jolt awake when a hand closes around your shoulder. You blink several times, breathing in deeply as you focus on the mask before you again. "Hey- anything changed?"

Storm shakes his head, pointing at your watch instead as you sit up. You check the time. 7:15 PM. Your ice cave definitely feels colder now.

You get up, taking your soup thermos out of the bag. Its lid made for a little bowl. You prayed it was still warm.

You sigh in relief as you pour the soup on the lid. It was lukewarm, but the warmth spreading through your torso was priceless. You're on your second sip when you hear the same fizzy noise as before. Your eyes darted to your side where Storm was taking his mask off.

You gulp as the second tube is snapped off. He's facing forward as he's sitting beside you. But still, you would see it.

You tip the cup back as you swallow your third sip, hoping the thick plastic would disguise your blatant staring.

Storm's fingers slip under the metal, snapping it briefly before lifting it from his face. Your breath quickens quietly as your eyes follow the metal until it's placed on the floor. You stare at it before slowly looking back up.

Storm is looking at you.

Your eyes dilate as you take in every aspect of his face. The mandibles, the tusks, the sharp teeth peeking from behind tightly closed tusks. The blue hue from his body painted his face, fading into a cool white tone in the middle of his face. The edges of his head are shaped like a crown. A black crown that closed into the middle of his head, where the blues and whites were.

And then the eyes. His eyes.

Unlike the rest of him, Storm’s eyes were yellow. Deep, electric yellow. The primal instinct in your brain told you this was wrong. His face was wrong. Well, he wasn’t human. You were coded to think anything with different features walking on two legs was weird.

Your brain told you to run, scream or get help, to do something -against- him while the rest of you knew well that he was an ally. It was hard to go against every fiber of your being and stay still.

‘He’s still your friend.’ You think. ‘He just looks a little different.’

Storm’s expression changes, and while you can’t grasp what the tusk movements must mean yet, you surely know what a skeptical eyebrow raise looks like. “I’m not freaking out, I swear.” You manage to say. You have no idea if he still understands you without the mask.

He seems to, as his top tusks twitch and his eyebrows relax. He looks away and grips his own jerky jar. You’re suddenly reminded of your soup. You pour more soup onto the lid, gulping it down while trying your best not to openly stare at him.

It’s evident he’s also trying to ignore you while he eats. His tusks part and he inserts the chunks of jerky in. You can’t see any molars in your ogling. Maybe he was made for tearing out chunks of food and swallowing them like a crocodile?

You gulp down more of your soup until it’s down to half of it. You shake the thermos a bit, doing your best to stir the soup before leaning it toward him. “Would you like some?” To your surprise, he’s also offering you his jar. You smile, nodding, “Let’s swap.”

You trade bottles, picking out a piece of jerky while he brings the thermos closer to his mouth. He didn’t have an apparent nose, but maybe he just smelled things differently. He must have deemed it good enough for his mandible part, and he tips his head back, drinking the soup. You half expected it to spill over and make a mess, but having done this for however long he had lived, he knew what he was doing.

You, on the other side, had no idea what you’d do without your lips.

After eating your fill and re-packing, you huddle close to him. Storm messed with his wrist gauntlet as you lost yourself in your thoughts once more. For once in your life, the silence was comfortable. Sure, you couldn’t exactly communicate, but that didn’t feel like a problem.

You could communicate with your friends and family, but it still made you anxious at times. Next time you check your watch, it's about 9 PM. “I think we should sleep,” you say, getting his attention once more. “I’ve slept a bit and…fainted, but you haven’t slept yet.”

Seeing him without the mask was as otherworldly as it was interesting. Seeing his expressions as he listened to you, then changing while he thought before finally setting as he nodded.

You smile and crawl back to your bivy while he checks the air supply once more. You had no idea how you would get out of the cave tomorrow, but you trusted Storm and his high-tech equipment. And his muscles. The muscles were a big plus, too.

By the time he turns around, you’re inside your bivy, but you point to the blanket folded neatly on top of your backpack. “I know you’re well warm, but the blanket is over there if you need it.” He looks at it briefly before nodding at you. He hands you your emergency light and lays down on the opposite side of the cave, about two arm's lengths away from you.

“Good night, partner.” You say before shutting the light off, getting a grunt in return.

The cave was pitch black as you expected. You shuffle a bit in your bivy before settling down completely on your side. You wondered how people outside were doing. Did the avalanche make the news? Did your friends know? Was anyone else hurt during it? You were thankful to be alive, thankful for Storm, but you felt bad for everyone else.

Tears prickled in the corners of your vision as you try so hard to fall asleep. It’s cold, you’re trapped in a cave with an alien. Not that Storm was a negative point. You’d be dead without him. But things were far from okay right now.

You hear shuffling and wonder if Storm also has trouble sleeping. He’d been calm so far, never raising his voice or panicking. ‘Maybe he’s used to these situations.’ You think, given the scars he bears on his body. You didn’t want to think of what could hurt someone like Storm.

Your chest feels tight. It’s hard to push the anxiety down. You almost want to talk to him again, but what would you say? What -could- you say? You were the one to suggest sleeping in the first place. Your heart beats faster, and you’re awfully aware of your surroundings, even in the dark.

The walls are cold and wet. The air is a little stale. You can smell yourself as you can also smell Storm behind you. You can smell the thick rubbery scent of your gloves as they grip the bivy’s lining with all they got. Like you had gripped Storm earlier that day when he rescued you.

You swallow dryly, trying to breathe in and out to avoid negative thoughts. Things would be okay. You were alive, fairly warm, and you had a big alien as your personal bodyguard through a disaster. You hear more shuffling. The sound of the emergency blanket being unfolded hits your ears. You wait a couple of seconds, eyes darting around in the dark before you open your mouth to ask him if he was okay.

You’re in the middle of breathing your first word when you feel the blanket getting laid on top of your bivy. Storm smooths out the blanket on top of you before laying down again, closer to you this time. You’re at loss for words. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water.

You feel his breath against the top of your beanie, so his chest must be somewhere in front of you now. You bite your lip, feeling the knot in your chest loosen the tiniest bit. You were not alone. Things were going to be okay. You focus on his breathing pattern, so even and calm. Constant. The sound his tusks occasionally make is soothing over the deathly silence of the cave. You don’t remember closing your eyes, nor do you remember falling asleep.

The way your bladder burns wakes you up. Storm’s breathing is heavier now, asleep. It pains you to move, like getting your pet out of your lap after it finally got comfortable.

As soon as you move, his breathing stops. Then resumes in that light, calculated rhythm. Awake.

“Sorry, sorry,” you whisper, worming out of your bivy, patting around for your light. You go to the far corner of the cave and do your business, covering it with loose dirt with your boot, thanking the universe Storm didn’t move an inch from where he was.

Taking your pants off in the unbelievable cold of a 3 AM shut-in ice cave was no easy business. Curse bodily functions to the end and back. You do your best to push the burning shame down and head to your backpack, sanitizing your hands.

You steal a glance to your side while you think, catching Storm looking directly at you. Your spine shivers a bit, a mix from the cold and his gaze. You take another sip of water and crawl back into your bivy, mindful of your ankle.

It makes your face heat up more to see how close he’s been to you for all these hours and how he doesn’t care enough to move away, even now that you disrupted him awake.

You lick your lips and clutch your light, looking at him again before shutting it off. Your face is still hot from all of it, but you listen intently to his breathing and clicking. You hoped he wouldn’t move away from you just yet, at least until you fell asleep.

You feel the warmth coming from his chest, moving your head forward so you could be closer to it, trying to chase away the rest of the cold from your suit again. That pee break cost you some precious degrees.

You’re still sulking internally when he finally moves. Your eyes widen in the dark as he spreads the blanket over you again. You smile and close your eyes, only to open them again as widely as before when you feel his arm drape over you.

He grunts, and suddenly you’re being dragged forward by that same arm. Your forehead hits something, and you instantly know it's his chest. You swallow hard. It’s as hot as it was earlier, rumbling with each breath.

“Warm.” He croaks. You shiver at how deep his real voice is. You nod fervently against his chest. The arm stays around you.

It takes you several minutes of internal struggle to calm down again. Your face is hotter, both from your embarrassment and his body temperature. Your ears turn back on when you hear a faint noise.

You squint, leaning in closer, and the sound gets louder.

His heartbeat.

Your body relaxes, almost melting against him.

His arm tightens the tiniest bit around you. You press your cheek against his chest, feeling his mandibles graze against the top of your beanie.

The rest of the night goes by too fast for your liking.

He wakes you up at 7 AM sharp. You almost want to cry when you realize the arm is no longer holding you, that his heartbeat is not against your ear still.

He packs his equipment, and so do you, leaving only the map out. “We were here yesterday.” You say, pointing at the map. “The hotel is here, and I think the equipment stall is here?” You felt like you were explaining your destination to a taxi driver.

You look up at him. He’s masked and ready to leave. So are you.

“How are we going to do this? Or, well, how you’re going to do this?” You ask. Storm makes a punching motion toward the stone. You almost can’t believe your very eyes. “Oh.”

Storm retracts the tubes and puts them away in one of his bags. This was it.

You stand at the side as Storm readies himself. He pushes some buttons on his gauntlet. You brace yourself as it makes a firing-up noise.

Storm steadies himself and times the punch with the gauntlet’s blast.

You close your eyes at the noise, protecting your head with your hands before you’re snatched from the ground once more.

You open them again when blinding light covers your eyelids. Everything is white as your eyes adjust. When colors flood your vision, you realize that not only you’re out of the cave but you’re in the air. Everything moves too fast.

Storm holds you up as he lands harshly in the snow piled below between trees. You shake the snow off your face as he works you both out of the thick snow bank. He squats again, and you hold tightly onto his neck before he jumps once more.

You struggle not to scream this time as well.

Storm lands firmly onto the snowy forest floor. He places you down gently as he surveys the area before relaxing once more. You look around, looking at the mountainside, following the trail of broken rocks until you see the cave's would-be entrance, quickly getting topped with more falling snow. “We were there?” You ask, out of breath. Storm nods. You turn to him. “Good legs.” You compliment. He huffs behind the mask.

You feel buzzing coming from your backpack, frowning in confusion before you remember your phone. Placing the pack on the floor, you quickly check it, watching as the multiple messages and missed calls finally load into your screen. You smile, choking on your breath before looking at Storm again.

You avoid your hurting ankle as you surge forward and wrap your arms around him again. He barely moves, not stepping back or stopping you. His hands hesitate at his sides before coming up and resting them on your shoulders, pressing you against him once before letting go.

You look up at him, seeing him at full height in daylight felt unreal. “Thank you so much. I owe you everything. You saved me. You had no obligation to, but you did. Thank you so much.” You bury your face into his chest again, feeling it rumble. You smile before he tenses up, and you both hear the helicopter sound from far away.

You let him go, looking up at the sky before looking back at him. Your heart tore into pieces. “You can go now.” The tears sting your eyes. “I’ll be fine from here.” He looks back at you.

“I’ll never forget you.” You sob, “Thank you again, for everything.”

The helicopter gets closer. You watch as he disappears in front of your very eyes. The blue skin and armor blend with the snow and trees behind him before the reflective figure jumps up one tree to another, and another, until you lose track of it in the distance.

Cold tears slide down your face as you hobble your way to a clearing, throwing your arms up when the helicopter comes into view.

The rest of the day goes by too slowly for your liking.

You’re taken back to the hotel, where a makeshift hospital has been set up. You’re asked questions, to which you reply either ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I was buried in the snow all night’. You text your friends and relatives back while your ankle is tended to. You see the hiking girl from yesterday when you’re getting cleared from IV hydration hours later.

She screams in surprise, coming to hug you. ‘How did you make it?! Oh my God, we thought you were dead! I’m so happy to see you!” She cries, and so do you. After talking for a while, she shakes her head. “I’m cutting the damn trip -short-. I’m going the fuck home, and so should you. The flights are crazy, but there’s a company giving preference to the victims and their families.” She informs you.

One hour later, she hugs you one last time before leaving.

You do as she says, cutting the trip short as well, needing to process and recover from everything that happened. You’re promised heaven on earth by the hotel and the flight companies for future trips. Your friends scoff at the very thought of it. “Why the hell would you go back there? That’s insane of them to offer you packages like that.” One of them says.

You nod along the next few weeks until things slowly blend into normality again. You don’t tell anyone about what happened that night, and people don’t bother you about it. You look at your bag in your wardrobe every time you open it, thinking back to him, wondering if he also thought about you.

Six months of this go by. Followed by another six months.

One day, you open your wardrobe and pull your bag out again, dusting it for your trip. People worry about your decision of going back there. Some worry it might reopen wounds rather than closing them for good like you told them it would. Some others just thought you were crazy.

Crazy or not, you packed your bag and left. The flight took off and landed. You found yourself at the hotel, looking at the same clerk in the eyes again while she checked you in again, welcoming you back to the hotel.

You look at the hiking lists, finding them slightly different, but still running. You check in for solo hiking. You pack your bag accordingly this time, filled with all the necessities a survivor could need before you take off.

The forest is peaceful, and the track is fresh beneath your boots. You’re enjoying soup fondly at the end of the track when you hear that noise. The rumbly, clicking noise that you heard in your dreams for the past year. Always followed by the steady sound of a strong heartbeat.

You turn around, smiling when blue hues and armor flood your vision once more. ----------- If you read it till here, you're a champ lmao

Thanks for reading <3 muah muah

more work like this here

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wh0refornikolailantsov · 11 months

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Compass Of Pirates - Nikolai Lantsov

Summary: Nikolai is given a compass that he was told would solve all his problems, and yet he cannot figure out why it doesn't seem to work. Yes, I am merging with Pirates Of The Caribbean because I fucking can.

Content Warnings: No Beta/Proof Reading.

Nikolai Taglist: @hauntedenthusiasttragedy

The brass points across the centre of the compass are centred by a sundial, which as far as Sturmhond can tell is the most functional part of the compass. He holds the compass in the clutch of his palm, staring at the red arrow as it gently swings between two points, neither of which are north. He had picked it up from someone in one of the markets in the last port they docked in. It was this rocky, mountainous island, just off the northern coast of the mainland. The name of the port escapes the captains mind, but it was some fishing port with a name not unlike a weapon of some kind. But that isn't really important, what is important is the illusion of help this compass had been acquired under. "It will bring you to what you most desire," they had said, "the compass never leads you wrong." He had been dubious but nevertheless he has hope he isn't sure he has a right to, and yet he was finding the outcome very disappointing.

"This thing doesn't even point north," Sturmhond says, staring again at the compass in his hand. Mal shrugs, offering out his open hand.

"May I?" he asks. He hands it over, without pause and the dial spins to quickly into a new direction the moment it touches Mal's palm. Mal watches the dial and follows it's direction. He knows exactly what the privateer has observed, that this compass does not point north, but instead it is now pointing at Alina, who is leaning over the edge of the ship, staring at the way the waves are breaking onto the boats side, creating the white foam of sea spray and she is smiling like she has never seen the ocean before. "Oh, Sturmhond," Mal says, "it points north alright," he chuckles, "true north."

The Captain frowns. "True north?" he questions, staring the tracker down. "What kind of navigational system are you working on Oretsev?"

"The only one that hasn't ever lead me wrong," he hands the compass back to Sturmhond and the moment it enters his hand it changes direction back to where it had been previously pointing. Mal taps the fabric of his shirt, directly over his heart. "I told Alina about true north once, she asked me what scared me most, and I told her I get the most scared when I am lost, but I don't really get lost. Yet, getting lost happens even if you know where you are sometimes. So I told her about cardinal north and true north."

"Cardinal north is a direction on a map," Sturmhond says. Mal nods, not letting his eyes leave the Sun Summoner. "So, as for true north?"

"True north is home," Mal says, sounding more like a poet than a tracker, "it is where you feel safe and loved."

"Miss Starkov is your truth north," Sturmhond says with a nod. Mal doesn't even need to respond to that. "So you think this compass points to what exactly?"

"Whatever you most desire, that's what the translation says on the side isn't it?" Mal says, finally looking at him. "You did see that, didn't you? Since you're always six steps ahead of everything, and ever so flawless Captain?"

He is too eager to test the theory to even care about Mal's teasing of him. He just thanks him absentmindedly and follows the compass forward. "Don't walk off the edge of the ship," Mal calls after him, "or do..."

He spends a good while walking the length of the decking, trying to figure out why the dial spins into a change of direction, seemingly without link. "Maybe you don't know what you want," Mal teases, observing him.

"Doesn't this interest you?" Sturmhond asks, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Mal shrugs. "What use is a compass what would be pointing right beside me all of the time?" he asks. "Besides my heart always brings me back to her."

"You're good with your words when it suits you, aren't you?" Tamar asks, coming to stand beside Mal, bored of her card game and far more interested in whatever it is that has gotten the Captain all pacing and flustered. "Still staring at the broken compass?"

"It's not broken," Mal says, "it's just not helpful."

"A compass's only purpose is to point north, and it doesn't, so it's broken," Tamar argues.

"It's a heart compass, not a compass," Mal says. The Heartrender laughs.

"Those are legend," she says, taking some walnuts from her pocket to snack on. She offers him one and he shakes his head to dismiss the offer.

"Wasn't the Stag legend too?" Mal retorts. Tamar gives him a shrug.

"That means nothing of all legend," is her response, but she keeps watching Sturmhond.

"It doesn't even make sense," he says finally holding the compass up and above his head to see how the dial moves. "It's not pointing to anything, I thought it might've been pointing to Ravka but I was wrong."

"You're suggesting your truest love is a country?" Mal asks, "what kind of excessive patriotism is that?"

"You're not patriotic?" Tamar asks, her tone littered with laughter.

"No," he admits, not feeling pulled down by the admission, "I came here for Alina. She's my flag, my nation, she is the one thing I remain loyal to."

Tamar's question was to sway Mal from paying too much attention to the captains words, but he doesn't throw her a look of gratitude, instead he returns to his fixation on the compass, as it spins to point towards the ships bow. Some of the crew start to appear on deck, changing placement as the time passes, and Tolya walks beside you, as you tell him something out of their earshot.

He takes his eyes off the compass, staring directly at you, forgetting what his original intentions had been, he offers you a smile and you grin back, all teeth and cheer. Even after the days at sea nothing seemed to sway your mood.

Tamar elbows Mal in the side and before her can take issue with it, she nods his attention to Sturmhond, who has lost interest in the compass altogether in your presence.

"Got it working yet?" you ask, coming closer to the three of them Tolya by your side.

"Think it might be a lost cause," the privateer admits, holding the compass down and to his side, as if to hide it's direction from those around you.

"Come on, Captain, plenty have said that about broken things, but often you just need time or the right pair of hands," you say, "show me?"

He hesitates and Mal and Tamar share a look, a look that spreads into matching grins. "Oh, he is not as smart as he gives himself credit for," Mal says in hushed words.

"Most of the time he is, but any heart can get blind sighted, and when the heart is blind, the mind can fog," Tamar says, voice equally low.

You look at him and he is smiling at you like you're a sunrise, like he is seeing you for the first time, and you wonder how he always manages to look at you like this. Look at you in a way that makes your head spin and your stomach twist. You know Sturmhond, and you know the man can flirt like second nature, that no one you've yet to meet have been susceptible to his charms, so you try not to let go to your head. But that's not easy when he looks at you like he has just discovered what love is for the very first time.

He holds out the compass out and you look at it, not reaching to take it from his hands, you move around to his perspective for the dial to swing back in your direction. You lean around him, to get a better look and then stare out at the ocean. But he just watches you, not as much are daring to confirm what he suspects by glancing to the compass.

You move back in front of him, and the dial points to you, and you turn your head to look at the big blue expanse behind. "Compass doesn't know north that's for sure," you say, giving him a wild smile and a shrug. "But I guess it's no better than most of us in that."

"It doesn't know north," he agrees, shoving the compass back in his pocket, "but it seems to know things I should have before now."

"Hmm?" you ask, turning back to him from the waves.

"Nothing, now, tell me, what was so funny?"

#shadow and bone #grishaverse #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov fanfic #nikolai lanstov x reader #nikolai x you #nikolai x reader #malina #alina x mal #tamar kir bataar #sturmhond x reader #sturmhond x you #sturmhond #tolya my darling i adore you

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nonuggetshere · 2 months

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(ID start: Three pictures of a wyrm oc as a human, one headshot and two reference sheets. She's an older woman with pale white skin and darker purple-tinted markings on her limbs with stripes; her nose, forehead and ears are similarly tinted with stripes on her cheeks. She has long white hair brushed back and kept in a low, loose ponytail, some hair strands falling over her face. She has four spikes on her head resembling a tiara and a long tail with long while fur at the tip, long white claws and legs resembling two-toed hooves. She's wearing thick cloak lined with white fur underneath and a long fur collar; on one reference it's dark greyish blue and on the other it's mottled white, black and grey. She has thick, dark blue-grey layered clothing and white leather armour on her neck and limbs. She's scowling in all of the pictures. End ID.)

Adamas is Pale King's mother, though they had little time together as the flash flood took him from her much too early. She's an Arctic wyrm that had moved more towards the temperate climate area, and although not a god in her own right she is still an impressive wyrm with many years of experience, a former empress that has left her desire to rule in her younger years and chose to stay solitary, rearing many clutches by herself in her years before deciding the one the Pale King belonged to would be her last. Long after her children left to fend for themselves she was challenged for her territory by a younger wyrm and lost, mortally wounded she fled for the mountains where she dug into the ground and died, leaving her former body in hopes of survival. Now she lives there, in her old tunnels in the mountains, feeding off her corpse and any poor fool that ventures too close to her densite. She isn't opposed to one day travelling again, but for now she's quite content in her life.

She's a tough love type of gal, letting her children learn the hard lessons by their own mistakes but always being there to support them. More of a person that shows she loves you with her actions rather than words. She has a resting bitch face, good luck catching her smile. She's more of a traditional, tough wyrm, though unlike most of her kind she doesn't share their pride in her battle scars; not being ashamed of them but believing that having scars just shows you weren't strong or fast enough to get out of the danger's way and it's foolish to feel prideful over them.

The white armour she wears is made of the leather and scales she carved from her old corpse. She has two cloaks, the white/grey/black mottled one she wears on her hunts, allowing her to blend in with the rocky environment of the mountains and breaking up her silhouette.

#hollow knight gijinka #hollow knight ocs #hollow knight original character #hollow knight oc #hk oc #hk ocs #my art #my ocs #oc: adamas #spooky arts #faaf au #adamas beloved :3 #using she/her for convenience as most wyrms dont have a gender identity. she just presents a little more feminine. and her working name was #wyrma LMAO.#gonna do WL's parent next 👍I like giving canon characters backstories and fanilies its fun!#cringe culture is dead and i am freeee

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celluloidbroomcloset · 5 months

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People in other fandom are criticising the 1st gentlebeard kiss again, and I think we need to discuss how this is the result of oversexualation in queer media

I’m assuming that other fandom refers to the Canyon? I’ve mostly either blocked or been blocked by them, it seems, which is perfectly fine by me. They don’t want to see me and I don’t want to see them.

I’ve written, as have others, about how there’s a clear progression to those kisses, from the very tentative sweetness of the first and the absolute confidence of the last. In that beach scene, Ed can barely get out what he wants to say, and Stede doesn't immediately clock what it means (because he's dealing with that initial emotion of "I make...you...happy?"). I’m not sure what was wanted with the first kiss? Like, full-on snog? How would that make sense to either of those characters at that point? It might even have looked like assault, since Stede is obviously surprised and not quite expecting it. The fact that it is gentle and unsure is part of their relationship - they’re figuring out who they are to each other, and Ed especially is being so careful about how he does it.

In terms of oversexualization generally...I'm not a queer media scholar or critic, though I've done work with queer theory and I know a lot of Hollywood history. So much of mainstream queer media was initially about subtext and suffering - characters that were typed as queer without being made explicitly so (because they literally couldn't), stories that treated queerness as a mental illness or that ended in death and destruction. So there's been a natural pushback against all that, often outside the mainstream and then more into the mainstream now. I think there was also a desire to shock the straight world, hence things like John Waters's films, Rocky Horror, etc. (not knocking these - I fuckin' love 'em), which are also in conversation with pornography.

With Our Flag Means Death and a handful of other shows and films (Good Omens, A League of Their Own, Heartstopper, etc.) there's been major movement forward, in part because there are more queer writers/artists/creators getting a say in mainstream texts. But there's still that fear of assimilation - because mainstream. So there's a cadre that will demand that if it's queer, it's gotta be explicit. It's gotta shock the straights. Which leads, eventually, to a sanding away of complicated emotions and nuance and not allowing characters or plots to progress in an organic way. There has to be space for sexualization if it's natural to the story, but it can't be forced.

I would absolutely have been upset if all we ever got was that beach kiss, and all we ever saw was Ed and Stede barely kissing each other. That wouldn't have made sense to the story that was being told. I even remember messaging my friend after "Curse of the Seafaring Life" that I was glad they "finally got a proper kiss." And looking back, even then, I was pretty much thinking that that's all we were gonna get, because I've been so conditioned to just expect crumbs in mainstream media. (Also, like, I remember very well how Ellen lost her sitcom when she came out, how people had an absolute fit about Will & Grace featuring a nonromantic same-sex kiss, and how all the interviews around Brokeback Mountain were along the lines of "how terribly uncomfortable was it to kiss a dude?!" So the idea of two straight actors maybe possibly not being grossed out by kissing each other is relatively new, in terms of media history.)

I think some of this is a desire for all queer media to be all things. That if any show doesn’t do ALL THE THINGS, then it is bad and problematic. And that’s just not the nature of art. It would be awful if they tried to do all the things. It wouldn’t work. But that's also a result of having so little explicitly queer stuff, especially from mainstream shows/films, that when something like OFMD or Good Omens comes along, it gets picked apart and people are upset that it didn't do all the things. The more queer stories there are, the less we'll have to depend on single works and the less infighting there will be.

Well, there, I wrote way too much. This is all very complicated and I'm not trying to pretend that it's easy to distill down or that I'm 100% right here. I'd be happy to hear other opinions or caveats (that are not "no, I love Izzy, therefore you're wrong").

#ofmd s2 #ofmd #queer theory #queerness #stede bonnet #edward teach #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #our flag means death #i will however block any straggling canyon folks #i am even upset that i know what canyon means now #bad faith arguments are not cool #i've been through the twitter trenches and i ain't doing that again #long post #it's an oldie but for early queer theory #do read the celluloid closet #not everything in there is 100% correct imo #but it's deeply important

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emilybeemartin · 7 months

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Inktober Days 10-12

Day 10: "Fortune"

On the farthest-flung spit of the Florida Keys are a handful of islands bearing the second-oldest surviving European name in the US, recorded by Ponce de León for the abundance of sea turtles and the lack of fresh water (Florida’s name is considered the oldest). Shallow straits create a ship trap that has claimed hundreds of vessels from the age of sail, including loaded Spanish treasure galleons. Old lighthouses stand as memories to the effort to guide ships through lucrative but risky channels. Rising from Garden Key is a hexagonal fortress—Fort Jefferson, the largest all-brick fort in the US, which housed Union prisoners during the Civil War. Under the turquoise water are some of the most intact coral reefs in the continental US. The water teems with sea life, and in addition to several year-round seabird species, the islands serve as stopovers for migrating birds. It’s a treasure trove lousy with natural and historical abundance. A vast fortune of biodiversity and human history.

This message is not brought to you by Visit Dry Tortugas LLC—it’s brought to you by a too-romantic ranger who’s a sucker for lonely maritime outposts and would desperately like to visit this unusual little member of the National Park Service.

Day 11: "Wander"

Some parks more than others seem to invite visitors to wander. It’s the twists of a path, dipping in and out of the rises in a landscape. It’s the light filtering through dark forests, promising something new beyond the branches. It’s the shoulders of a massive mountain standing like a beacon, or its invisible summit covered in clouds. Mount Rainier, like so many other protected places, seems to beckon—come. Explore. Take it in.

But stay on the path—alpine habitats are fragile.

Day 12: "Spicy"

Olympic was the first park I fell in love with, and it was a twenty-year long-distance relationship. A National Geographic article I read in high school painted a picture of verdant rainforests dripping with moss, wild windy coastlines, and high snowy peaks. I desperately wanted to see these places myself, stand under the towering cedars and breathe in their spicy scent. My desire to visit was so strong that the summers I worked in Glacier and Yellowstone, I would constantly plot the drive west, hoping the travel time would somehow get shorter. It was eleven hours. I could do that in a long weekend, couldn’t I? Take one of my precious few days off and just blitz to the coast?

The plans never worked out, which is probably for the best. Instead, after two years of Covid-cancelled plans, my husband and I decided to make the trip together from the east coast. It was infinitely better than a snatched day and a half all alone. For a week, we explored the glaciated mountains, rocky beaches, and primordial rainforests. After two-thirds of my life spent pining after this park, it was everything I’d dreamed it would be and more.

#31 days of national parks #inktober #dry tortugas #mount rainier #olympic #inktober 2023

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loverhymeswith · 7 months

Note

I am thinking of a fic with Tommy to “the lakes” by Taylor Swift. Maybe the reader is trying to escape the criminal lifestyle, and essentially is begging Tommy to come away with her to live in the country away from all the danger… But he just can’t seem to let go. There’s a sort of comfort in the chaos for him. Lots of angst I think.

Calamitous Love

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x F!Reader

Summary: Enough is enough. You present Tommy with an ultimatum.

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: Pure angst, swearing

A/N: Thank you for the request, Anon. This was heavily inspired by season six. Thank you @a-reader-and-a-writer for the beta ❤️

In the early hours of the morning, you watch him leave.

Dense fog shrouds the grounds of the Arrow House estate, but amidst the dull, muted grey, the pitch black stallion is a dark silhouette, harsh hooves crunching over the gravel as it gallops along the length of the driveway and beyond, towards the rolling Warwickshire hills.

With a heavy heart, you relinquish your vigil at the window, the linen curtains falling back into place as you sweep across the bedroom, concern quickening your pace.

Like the consumption currently ravaging the nation, sleep’s reluctance to claim your husband is contagious, his torment and madness spreading through the cursed house and infecting all those in its path.

You’d fought again, this evening. The same old story. How much more was he prepared to lose before enough was enough? Couldn’t he just rest?

But these days, getting a sensible response out of Thomas Shelby is akin to drawing blood from stone.

You dress in darkness. Riding boots and a woollen coat to protect you from the autumn chill. Silent footsteps along the hallway and whispered words through Frances’ door; a harried plea for her to watch over the children. It pains you to leave them, but - one way or another - this will be the last time.

It’s quiet outside as dawn prepares to break over the crest of the hills; a stillness in the air, charged and expectant, even beyond the blanket of fog. The stable boys won’t report for duty for another hour, but you can saddle your own horse or better still, ride bareback. Years of banquets and ballrooms haven’t yet turned you soft.

You take the white mare; the gentle creature is your favourite. Beneath her calm exterior, there’s a wildness threatening to escape. Her pace might be no match for Thomas’ horse, but she’s a kindred spirit, requiring no instruction as she breaks into a gallop and follows in the black stallion’s wake.

The wind whips your face as you ride across the foothills and dales, mist and drizzle plastering strands of damp hair to your brow. Tears stream down your burning cheeks as you clutch the reins tightly. When was the last time you felt so alive? So free?

It was long before politics. Before the Italians and the Irish. Before bookmaking and Billy Kimber. Before the war.

Before death had set up camp outside your front door.

The sun has risen by the time you reach him, rays of watery light escaping through the silver haze. Perched atop the rocky outcropping, your husband is a lone figure, surveying his kingdom from the mountain peak. You know why he came here: isolation; solitude; remorse.

As soon as you dismount, your mare trots off in search of the stallion. She has no desire to bear witness to this conversation. Sensible girl.

White smoke curls around Tommy’s head as you approach, his grey cap is discarded on the rock face along with a handful of spent cigarettes. The subtle shift of his shoulders is the only indication he is aware of your presence.

The words, well-rehearsed despite your fervent reluctance to speak them over the last ten years, catch in your throat, but you can put this off no longer. It’s now or never.

“I’m leaving, Thomas.” Your voice breaks, just as you knew it would, each bitter syllable burning your tongue.

Any sense of relief you hoped to feel is unforthcoming; the ever-present tightness in your chest remains. You’re not sure what you expected… something rather than nothing. Tangible evidence of the weight of your words. But perhaps, like the consequences of a vengeful curse, patience is in order.

Tommy stubs out his cigarette but makes no move to turn around. Maybe you should have been brave enough to face him while you spoke, but it’s easier this way. Those blue eyes get you every damn time.

“You came all the way out here just to tell me that, eh?”

His tone is entirely devoid of emotion, just as it has been for the last seven months. Even when you fight, he doesn’t get angry anymore. Once upon a time he would trade you, blow for blow. Now, he simply walks away.

“You can’t shut the door on me out here.”

Slowly, as if it’s causing him great pain to do so, Tommy looks over his shoulder. His cold stare is as lifeless as his words. “What do you want me to say? Sounds like your mind's made up.”

You didn’t come here for an argument. The fight finally left you last night when he didn’t follow you to bed. Instead of arming yourself with more words, as ineffectual as the weapons that have tried to kill him over the years, you slip out of your boots and pad barefoot across the wet grass.

Kneeling on the ground before him, you take his face between your hands, his skin as chilled as your own. You force yourself to look at him. To really see him. Glacial eyes, rung by dark shadows, have lost their sparkle; his cheeks are sharper, his chapped lips drawn tight and his strong brow furrowed. A shade of the man you once knew.

“What happened to you, my love?”

Tommy looks away, freeing himself from your touch, and you force yourself to ride out the heart-stopping wave of hurt alone. You both know the answer. Some things don’t need to be spoken out loud.

“I’m leaving,” you repeat, more softly this time, reaching for his hands, “but I don’t want to go without you.”

The truth hangs heavy in the air between you. And it is the truth. Despite the constant pain… despite the insurmountable grief that his actions have wrought, you still want him. You can’t bear to imagine life without him; Thomas Shelby, your calamitous love.

Tommy allows you to lace his fingers together with your own. He has the courtesy, at least, to meet your gaze when he responds.

“There is business.”

You squeeze his hand. “Fuck business. I don't belong here Tommy, and neither do you.”

“You think I don’t know that, eh?” A cocktail of sorrow and anger spills through the cracks in his words. “You think I don’t hear that every minute of every day? The workers say I’ve betrayed them. The rich will never accept me as one of their own.”

“Since when did Tommy Shelby ever feel the need to fit in?”

With your free hand, you stroke his cheek. His eyes shutter as he leans into your touch, his warm breath visible as he exhales into the frigid air. “I’m trying to make a difference.”

“Is changing the world really worth risking your family?”

You don’t wait for him to answer. Your knees are straining against the cold ground and you climb into his lap instead, surprised when he doesn’t resist. It’s been too long since he held you this close and you welcome the warmth of his arms as they wrap around your waist.

“I’m not cut out for this. For any of it,” you tell him calmly as he tucks you beneath his chin. “I’ve stood by your side through all of it. I thought I could handle whatever they had to throw at us. The vendettas, the Russians. We’ve survived so much. But I don’t want to just survive anymore, Tommy. I want to live.”

You feel the weight of his lips as he kisses your head. “I need time. Just a bit longer, eh. And then it will all be over. I promise.”

You’ve heard it all before and God, how you wish you could believe him. You’ve no doubt he means it, and maybe it is the truth. Maybe this time, it will stick.

“But at what cost?” You wonder aloud. Because Tommy knows as well as you do that there’s always a price. A payment demanded in blood.

Shelby blood.

“If you want to leave, I won’t stop you.”

You untangle yourself from his embrace, all the better to face him. You need to be brave enough now. You need him to understand.

“I know you think you have no limitations. Maybe you don’t. Maybe they’re right about you, after all. Maybe you are a god, or the devil himself, Tommy Shelby. But I can’t stand by and wait around to find out.”

After you’ve allowed your words to sink in, you press your lips - now unburdened - to Tommy’s. Recognition, realisation, flashes across his face - this is one battle he will never win. Hands fisting in your hair, he pulls you closer, sealing your goodbye with a feverish kiss.

When you eventually ride back through the valleys and mountains, you are alone.

Tommy Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @crysxtal @simpforbuckyb @shynovelist @amberpanda99 @globetrotter28 @iammrsrogers @dragonsondragons @butterfly-lover @sunshineyourethebesttime @iwantmyredvelvetcupcake @breezy2and2freezy @fia-thefirst @dreamy-caramel @trixie23

#tommy shelby #cillian murphy #peaky blinders #song fic #tommy shelby x reader #taylor swift #the lakes

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super-ion · 3 months

Text

Such Lovely Fur

Chapter 1

The wind howls horribly as I stagger through the drifts of snow. It tears at my cloak and dress, digging icy fingers down to my bones. My teeth are chattering and I can barely feel my hands as I tug the cloak tight around my shoulders.

I find myself wondering for probably the thousandth time if this whole endeavor is a fool's errand. Many men have attempted this very mission, most have never returned.

What hope does someone like me possibly have?

I pause beneath a rocky outcropping, desperately trying to rub feeling back into my numb hands when I hear the voice. It comes in the form of a song in a language I do not recognize, piercing through the storm unnaturally (though there is hardly anything natural about this storm in the first place).

Were I in my right mind, I would ignore it, but I am cold and delirious from exhaustion. Instead I stagger forward blindly through the wind driven snow, drawn inexorably towards the haunting voice.

What I find is a cage, hanging from a sorry looking tree and woven from rough hewn strips of wood and covered with glowing symbols. Within sits the hunched figure of the singer. Her back is to me, so all I can see is a cloak that appears to be covered in dusky feathers.

“Hello?”

She stops singing and whirls to grip the bars. What I previously mistook for a feathered cloak is in fact a pair of wings in place of her arms, three fingers with wicked looking claws emerging halfway down their length. Curling horns and pointed ears sprout from beneath the raven dark tresses of her hair, framing a face with pale mottled gray skin and a sort of flattened nose and tilted eyes like a cat’s. The eyes themselves… they are jet black with glowing flecks like sparks dancing within.

She… I don't even know if this is a she… regards me hungrily with those eyes.

“Hey!” she says desperately. “Get me out of here and I'll grant you your heart's desire!”

Her husky voice snaps me out of my shock and I stagger back.

“Demon!” I gasp.

Her face falls and she makes a sulky pout at me.

“Please?” she asks. “Judging from the spells inscribed on this cage, there are sorcerers about, no doubt intending to carve out my hearts and drink my blood. I would really rather not be around when they return.”

Still in shock at the sight of her, I stumble backward, turn to leave and…

Her words are finally catching up with me.

She could help me save my betrothed.

“You… you can grant my heart's desire?”

She blinks in surprise and her ears twitch. She crouches in the cage, beckoning me closer. I take a few cautious steps forward.

“That might have been a slight exaggeration on my part,” she confesses. “But it is within my power to grant you boons to aid you in achieving such a heart's desire.”

“What sort of boons?” I ask, trying and failing to hide my shivering.

She makes a pointed glance at my cloak, fine dress and thin shoes, all of which are wholly unsuited for the ice and snow whirling around us.

“Well, that depends on what you need,” she replies. “If, as I suspect, you intend to brave this cursed storm and climb the mountain, it is within my power to grant you such tools to assist in such an endeavor.”

I should say no. I should not deal with demons, caged or no.

I also should not be out here in the elements attempting something so foolish. I am far outside of my realm of experience. I will surely freeze to death or worse before getting anywhere close to the top of the mountain.

“How many boons?” I demand.

A hopeful spark shines in her eyes and she grins, revealing sharp teeth.

“Three,” she says. “Standard package. Very powerful number, three.”

“Just so we're clear, I let you go and you grant me three boons?”

“You release me from this cage and I shall grant you three boons spread over three days of your choosing. I swear it on the skulls of my ancestors.”

She points eagerly to a surprisingly simple latch holding the cage closed. I know very little about magic, such things are anathema in civilized society, but I can only assume the glowing writing on the cage is meant for something like her and not something like me.

Regardless, I am reluctant to get too close. I find a long stick amongst the snow at the base of the tree and poke fumblingly at the latch from a safe distance. After a few attempts, I finally manage it and she comes tumbling out in a great squawking bundle of feathers.

She dusts the snow off of herself, revealing great birdlike feet with wicked talons and a whip-like tail that lashes excitedly behind her. She uncurls her body to full height and extends her wings in a languorous stretch.

I am not a short person, but I find myself dwarfed by her. At full height, she is nearly a full head taller than me, and her outstretched wings are nearly twice that height.

She cracks her neck and folds her wings close, ruffling her feathers and puffing up to ward off the cold.

My heart is hammering in my chest when she finally turns her attention back to me.

“What manner of person are you?” she asks as she begins circling me. “Man or woman? Something else maybe?”

She pauses behind me, craning her neck to get a look down my collar. I wrap my cloak around myself tightly in an attempt to preserve my modesty.

“I am a woman!” I snap indignantly.

She cocks her head.

“Indeed?”

When I was fifteen, my household hosted a delegation of merchants from a land across the sea. I remember them ogling and leering at me and asking the most inappropriate sorts of questions. I hated every minute of it, but the trade interests were too important for any sort of argument my father had told me. So I played the dutiful daughter. I made my family proud.

Out here in the wild, so far removed from any sort of propriety, this demon seemed to possess a genuine desire to understand, without a hint of derision. Perhaps… perhaps I could have a conversation with someone unburdened by any preconceived notions of the dictates of gender, neither from my homeland or distant lands with backwards beliefs.

The old familiar traitorous thoughts send a thrill through me and I quickly shove them aside. It is not proper to question my place in society or my role as a daughter or a bride. Nor is it proper to hold any such conversation with a demon.

(Nor is it proper for a woman of my station to be out in the wilderness such as I am, but these are special circumstances)

“Indeed I am,” I say. “Now tell me of these boons.”

She scowls in disappointment at the change of topic.

“Fine,” she sighs. “But first, answer me this: what is it that you seek? What is it that your heart desires?”

“I was to be wed at the end of summer, but the night before the wedding day, the Lady of Winter came down from her mountain and stole my bridegroom away. He is the nephew of a merchant prince, they are a very wealthy and-”

“You're out here risking your life for a man??” she interrupts. “No man is worth trifling with the Lady of Winter, trust me.”

“I am doing my family a great honor!” I reply defensively. “I will prove my devotion and earn my parents an even greater brideprice than what has already been agreed upon.”

She cocks her head the other way and leans forward, raising an eyebrow dubiously.

“But do you love him?” she asks.

“He was one of my dearest friends when we were children,” I say, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “On my naming day, a soothsayer read our fortunes in the stars and determined that we were a most auspicious match.”

She leans closer, too close now.

“You didn't answer my question,” she purrs.

“What is it to you?” I demand, jerking back.

She smirks and gives a little shrug.

“Nothing to me,” she says. “I'm simply gauging your conviction. These sorts of things come with a cost, and if your head and heart possess different notions of that cost, it can complicate things.”

“A cost??” I sputter. “But I freed you-”

“In exchange for the privilege of receiving my gifts,” she enunciates slowly with a roll of her eyes. “Listen, my friend. I can't make something from nothing, so everything costs something. It's called equivalent exchange.”

She taps her chin thoughtfully and sweeps me head to toe with her gaze.

“For example,” she continues. “A fur coat would serve you well… something nice and cozy to keep the chill at bay. I can't simply pull one out of thin air, I need something from you first.”

“What do you need?” I ask nervously.

“Your skin.”

“My…?”

I recoil in horror and she bursts into cackling laughter.

“Your face!” she wheezes as she doubles over. “You should see it!”

I feel a rush of embarrassed indignance and I'm surprised to find my fists clenching.

“This isn't funny,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Oh, but it is,” she says as she wipes tears from her eyes. “Seriously though, we'll need your skin. The best, easiest way to do this is to trick part of your body into forgetting that it's human.”

I stare at her, mouth agape.

“You mean… fur. Literal fur on my body? You can't be serious.”

“I am,” she says with a wicked grin. “That's how my magic works. How far are you willing to go for this man?”

I think of the pride in my father's face when my brideprice was negotiated. I think of the face of my bridegroom, the way he looked upon me the last time I saw him, the desire and satisfaction that I would soon be his.

I shouldn't even be out here, it is not a woman’s place to conduct such a rescue. If I returned now, empty handed, the dishonor I would face would be unimaginable. It would be far, far worse than if I had never left at all.

For better or worse, I am committed. I am also woefully unprepared and my success is now dependent upon the gifts this demon has to offer.

Fur would not be such a terrible thing, would it? I already shaved my body daily. This would just be one extra step to my morning and evening routines.

“Do it,” I command.

She claps her hands in delight.

“Close your eyes," she drawls, "and try not to think. Don't fight it.”

I close my eyes and stand shivering in the cold. I try to force my thoughts into quietude. It is difficult, with each stray thought I supress, it seems that two more appear to take its place.

I feel a jolt and a tingling feeling spreads throughout my body. I know instantly that it is the demon's magic, writhing and worming its way through me.

Don't fight it. Don't fight it. Don't fight it.

An itch starts at the back of my neck, spreading down my spine and across my back and down my arms and legs. It is not painful, but it itches more and more terribly with each passing second. I clench my fists tighter and tighter as it takes every shred of willpower not to scratch.

Then, so abruptly that it makes me gasp, the feeling is gone and I am left blessedly warm. I can still feel the chill of the wind, but it is a distant discomfort now, as if I really were wearing a thick winter coat.

I crack my eyes open and look down to the backs of my hands. From beneath the sleeves of my dress pale silver-grey fur pokes out, with darker spots like the rosettes of a leopard.

“Oh,” the demon gasps. “Fascinating...”

She steps forward and rubs the back of a clawed finger against the exposed fur on my neck, sending a thrill through me and setting my heart racing.

“Such lovely fur,” she croons.

#my writing #writers on tumblr #lesbian #transgender #fantasy #monster x human #transgender fairy tale #fairy tale #fantasy lesbians #fairy tale retelling #transformation #original fiction

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atinylittlepain · 1 year

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I'm Your Venus - A Robin Buckley Story

Robin Buckley x f!reader

Robin really likes candy, and also the new girl in town.

warnings | 18+ nothing specific, just queer angst (sigh)

a/n | this is just a little intrusive thought I had inspired by Bananarama's "Venus" - highly recommend listening to the song as you start reading - also this doesn't follow the timeline of the show's plot, just a lovely indulgent snapshot

update: read how Steve's night went here :)

another update: I'm turning this into a series! find the masterlist here

Robin has always had a weakness for candy. Specifically, the kinds of candy that take you a while to work through. Taffy, caramels, gobstoppers, lemonheads, even those nasty hard candies shaped like root beer barrels. Her most preferred option, however, were lollipops. She liked these tooth-rotting confections because so long as she had something sweet to roll around in her mouth, she could keep herself from going off on some long rambling tangent, preoccupied with the sugary sensation. Tonight, arms hanging over the half-wall of the roller rink, she was working on a cherry tootsie pop, no interest in how many licks it’d take to get to the center, keeping it pocketed in her cheek.

She wouldn’t normally be spending her time at the new Hawkins’ rink, except Dingus was going as a chaperone to his scraggly, adopted brood, and where Dingus went, so too did Robin follow. Somehow Max had goaded Steve into putting on a pair of skates and was now dragging his very rigid body around the ring. The kids had no such luck getting Robin onto wheels, she sometimes still had trouble walking straight, there was no way skating was in the cards for her. So, she relegated herself to the sidelines, watching everyone rolling to blaring, glossy pop music. It was packed tonight, the middle of summer, and everyone just bored enough to go skating.

Even amidst the crowd, there was one person Robin couldn’t stop looking at. She had come into Family Video the other day, Steve had set her up with an account, Robin eavesdropping as she restocked shelves. Steve was laying his so-called “Harrington charm” on thick, very shamelessly flirting with the girl. She told him that her family had just moved to Hawkins, she'd be a freshman at Indiana State next year, going to the same college as Robin. Even Robin was shocked by how forward Steve had been with her, asking her out as he handed her her tapes. But, she had politely declined, and Robin knew it was silly but her heart did a little kick at that, because what heterosexual girl in her right mind would turn down the hair? She hadn’t even realized that she’d crunched right through the cinnamon-y fireball she’d been sucking on until the girl was out the door.

Robin watches her skating, making it look effortless as she links arms with a friend, laughing, glossy lips glinting under the disco lights. Bananarama is blaring through the speakers.

A goddess on a mountain top

Was burning like a silver flame

The summit of beauty and love

And Venus was her name…

Robin feels like such a guy, but she can’t stop looking at her legs, perfectly sun soaked and framed by cut-offs. She tells herself it’s just because she’s checking out her technique, in case she herself wants to skate later. Yeah right.

She's got it

Yeah, baby, she's got it

Well, I'm your Venus

I'm your fire, at your desire

Well, I'm your Venus

I'm your fire, at your desire…

After she made sure Steve wasn't watching, Robin had looked up the girl's account at the store, seeing that she’d checked out Young Frankenstein, Gone With the Wind, Rocky Horror, and Cleopatra. It was classic, it was bizarre, it was delightfully eclectic. Robin was smitten, and she hadn’t even talked to the girl.

Just then, she caught sight of Vickie, skating cozily with her boyfriend who was home from college. It still stung, to see the girl she’d been pining over completely oblivious to her feelings, but Robin had gotten good at avoiding it, avoiding her. She pressed up off the rink barrier, getting ready to meander over to the snack bar and drown her romantic sorrows in plasticky nacho cheese. As she spun around, however, she ran smack into someone on skates, a blur of gorgeous legs and cut-offs. Lord help me, she thought. The girl shrieked, giggling a little as they both held onto each others’ forearms to steady themselves.

“Oh god, sorry about that! Totally wasn’t looking where I was going,” she’s smiling so widely at Robin, who for maybe the first time in her life is rendered completely speechless, lollipop dangling loosely from her lips.

“Hey, I saw you working at Family Video, Robin right? I think that’s what that dude with all the hair called you,” Robin wills herself to nod at that. The girl was still holding onto her forearms, cracked cherry red nail polish contrasts against her freckled skin.

Robin finally tries to speak, to say anything, but all that comes out is “I– you– um, I–” mumbling around her tootsie pop. The girl’s smile softens.

“Here, let me hold onto that for you, then you can say what you wanna tell me,” it happens so quickly, Robin thinks she’s having an aneurysm. The girl lets go of her arms and reaches up, taking the lollipop right out of Robin’s mouth before sliding it between her own glossy lips, grinning around the quickly dissolving treat.

Robin lets out a stuttering exhale, “I’m Robin.” Nice, real smooth. The girl’s grin just widens, she speaks around the tootsie pop. “It’s really nice to meet you, Robin.” She extends her hand, and Robin stumbles to shake it as the girl tells her her name. Robin’s brain immediately starts to chant it like a prayer.

“You seem cool, can I give you my number? It’d be rad to hang out with you sometime.” Rad. Normally Robin would roll her eyes at a word like rad, but now she’s just nodding frantically, “yeah, uh-huh.” The girl smiles, “you don’t happen to have a pen do you?” Robin pats at her jeans, and thanks the merciful universe when she finds one in her back pocket.

When she takes the pen from her hand, their fingers brush and it feels like the tiniest fire running up Robin’s arm. She glances around briefly, worried that people are watching them, but then she figures they just look like two really good girlfriends chatting. But when the girl holds her forearm again, turning it over and scribbling out her number, nothing about it feels platonic, not even with a lower-case p. I’m never washing this arm again.

She hands Robin back her pen before taking the lollipop out of her mouth. She holds it out in front of Robin for a moment, quirking her eyebrow until Robin understands what she wants her to do. Robin feels her entire face burning as she jerkily moves forward, taking the tootsie pop back into her mouth, swiping it into her cheek.

“Call me soon, okay?” Robin nods, mute again, as she watches the girl flash her one more smile before she’s rolling back into the rink.

Robin thinks she needs to find Steve immediately. He has her inhaler in his stupid fanny pack and suddenly, Robin can’t really breathe.

#robin buckley fluff #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley #robin buckley oneshot #robin buckley fanfic #robin buckley imagine #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction

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lettersfromaphrodite · 9 months

Text

[9.00]

― pairing : Felix x fem! reader ― content warnings : fluff, vampires au, Felix is a vampire, reader manages to travel to a parallel universe, medieval settings, reader gets kidnapped for literally a paragraph but nothing happens because Felix saves the day ― word count : 4.380

― notes : this fic looks familiar?it is! I’m reposting ALL my works on this brand new blog and therefore please, bear with me! as always, askbox is always open and feedbacks are always welcome 💌

🧛‍♂️ VAMPIRE! STRAY KIDS SERIES

Chris // Changbin // Jisung // Hyunjin // Seungmin // Minho // Felix

Strange and unusual as it was considered by everyone in your village, for you, working as an archaeologist was only a source of pride; despite most people still thought that “it wasn’t a woman’s ideal job”, you simply settled for ignoring their unrequested comments and kept going to work with a smile on your face.

Knowledge was dangerous in your time, especially if a woman knew too much; luckily, you’ve never paid too much attention to them and slowly grow accustomed at people addressing you as a witch.

“Until they decide to burn me,” you constantly thought, “let them believe I’m getting informations by mysterious spirits and not from books.”

For more than two weeks you have been assigned to a small team, your days busy with trying to find signs of an ancient population. The excavation site was on top of a lonely hill which stood at a rocky mountain’s feet; apparently, a huge column had showed up out of nowhere, laying to the ground used and corroded by natural events.

Rationality prevented you from thinking that such a large column had come out of nowhere and therefore, you ended up spending most of your days at the excavation site, not bothering whether you were alone or if there was someone else with you; working by yourself was probably what you preferred, since you didn’t have to waste your time doing small talk with your colleagues.

It was early in the morning, and the birds were chirping all around you, keeping you company as you were busy cleaning a part of the large column with a soft brush; you were determined to find anything useful and therefore, you refused to give up on your research, although you still haven’t found anything.

Quietly humming a song to yourself, you didn’t realized about the fact that you’ve pressed the bush against the stone column a little harsher than needed, not until you heard a soft and unfamiliar clicking noise coming from the mountain’s wall.

It was incredibly weird, almost as if a lock had been unlocked, but where could it be? You were completely surrounded by nature, it was impossible for a lock – or a door, to be there.

Nervously biting on the wooden end of the brush, you kept curiously glancing around yourself, when suddenly, part of the mountain began to move. Your expression was a mixture between horror and utter shock as you watched a circular part of the rocky wall big enough to resemble a door, shift and fall to the ground as if it was being absorbed, completely disappearing.

An insane amount of dust was released due to the sudden movement of the door, but still you could see a faint light coming from the other side; despite the fact that you were terrified, your curiosity and your desire for adventure were slowly creeping into your mind. You stood there, motionless, pondering whether you should try to get inside it or not, when the door somehow seemed to decide in your place; it didn’t remain open for more than few minutes, and as soon as you saw the rocky wall slowly erupting from the ground in order to close that mysterious passage again, you acted before thinking, quickly running towards the now closing door and jumping over it.

As the wall completely closed behind you, you realized that you didn’t have a way out, if not moving forward; you decided to place your hand on the wall as you slowly stepped towards the faint light you were seeing at the end of the corridor, hoping not to find any dangerous situations, since your only weapon was the brush you were using at the excavation site.

Strange and intricate drawings met your fingers, and you noticed that they were elegantly written on the walls; you were incredibly curious, where did that door lead you to?

Quickly enough, you reached the end of the corridor, and you abruptly stopped in your tracks: the corridor led you to a wide rocky chamber, where a boy was sitting on the floor while leaning against a wall, presumably asleep. The first thing you noticed was the neat bright red circle written around him on the floor and you furrowed your brows, assuming for the first time in your life that it was something related to witchcraft.

“Where did I end up?” you thought, instinctively walking towards the sleeping boy with slow and cautious steps; his hair was light blonde and a bit long, his bangs delicately falling on his delicate features; his face was sprinkled with freckles, almost resembling as he had a galaxy printed on his face, making him look some sort of angelic.

Even if you felt bad for waking him up, you honestly needed to know more about where you were and how could you go back home. Carefully, you stepped over the circle without noticing that your boot smeared part of it; as soon as you kneeled next to the sleeping boy, his eyes fluttered open, and you held back a surprised gasp as soon as bright crimson eyes met yours. The boy gave you the brightest and most gentle smile you’ve ever seen, before tugging at your wrist and making you lean on his chest; your hand came in contact with his velvet jacket as you tried to push yourself up, noticing that he wasn’t try to hold you against him in any way.

«Finally, my bride came to set me free!» he said excitedly, and you were sure your eyes almost popped out of their socket.

«Your what?!» you shrieked, abruptly yanking your hand from his grasp, ignoring his sad expression at your rough gesture, and you sat on your heels, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.

«My bride,» he repeated with a pout, refusing to meet your gaze, «the demon that trapped me with this,» he added as his left index pointed to the circle on the ground, «said that only my bride would have managed to set me free!»

Pressing your fingers on your temples, you refrained from laughing in his face, since he was probably out of his mind.

«Listen, I’m not your “bride”, I simply stepped inside the circle,» you tried to clarify, «and now I want to go back home.» The boy – Felix, carefully listened to you as you explained that you had walked inside the door at the end of the corridor, and gently furrowed his brows in an apologetic expression.

«You can’t go back,» he shrugged, carefully standing up and stretching his limbs as he had been sleeping for years, «that door opens… Well, honestly, no one knows when.» Felix gently offered you his hand, and as you instinctively took it, he helped you to stand up; despite his hands were cold, his touch was extremely gentle.

«What am I going to do, then?» you mumbled weakly, more to yourself than to him, trying to do your best at hiding your panicked state; you weren’t doing a good job, since Felix awkwardly patted your head with a frown in the attempt to console you.

«Listen… I can ask to a friend, he’s a witch, but you’ll have to stay with me all the time, since it’s dangerous for humans to stay by themselves in our world.» Felix said, and your eyes went wide.

«He’s a what?!» you shrieked, «quit talking like you’re not a human being!» much to your surprise, Felix chuckled at your words, as if you weren’t noticing something obvious; you were so determined to find a rational explanation to everything that actually, you still didn’t realize that you’ve never met anyone with bright red eyes, and as soon as Felix slightly opened his mouth to show you a pair of sharp fangs, you swore you felt as if you were going to faint.

A month later, you still had troubles believing where you managed to end up; apparently, a whole parallel world was existing along yours, the two dimensions divided by a stone wall that randomly opened every now and then, allowing anyone to trespass.

Felix had insisted for you to live with him, and despite the fact that you had been reluctant at the beginning, he was the only person you knew and the fact that he offered to help you was both risky and comforting. Truth be told, when you discovered Felix was a vampire you didn’t sleep for the first three nights, afraid that he would sneak into your room and drink your blood until you were dead, but he never did.

However, anytime Felix was hungry, he’d simply say that he was going for a hunt and that «there’s plenty of food, don’t wait for me.», and you eventually ended up having your meals by yourself.

Felix also absolutely prevented you from going out by yourself, saying that there were too many dangerous creatures ready to take advantages on humans – since human trespassers were rare; you listened to him, but anytime Felix had showed you around the village, you couldn’t help but to want to see more.

Various and different creatures – some looking less human than others, were living together and in apparent harmony; you were forced to admit to the rational part of yourself that such a thing could not be explained, and that therefore, the supernatural really existed.

As you strolled the village, Felix always refused to let go of your hand, saying something along the lines of «my scent covers yours», a thing which you didn’t understand but didn’t really want to question, either. Inevitably, you found it easy to trust Felix, which was attentively looking at your naive astonishment with an amused face.

«Look at him!» you had whispered to Felix once, tugging his hand to claim his full attention, «he’s like a walking jaguar!» you exclaimed, your head tilted towards the tall blacksmith focused on his work; Felix laughed whole heartedly at your comment, thing that make you immediately blush for unknown reasons.

«He’s not a jaguar, he’s a Fadus.» he explained gently, as if he was suddenly talking to a child; you tilted your head, as if to ask what was the difference when he obviously resembled a really tall wild animal standing on his feet, «Fadus are like leopards, but they’re way more clever, and their skin is blue.» satisfied, you hummed to yourself.

«Another thing,» Felix exclaimed, bringing a finger to his lips and slightly leaning towards you, as if he was about to tell you a fundamental information, «don’t tell them they look like jaguars, Fadus are awesome, but they’re incredibly… sensitive about these things.» you immediately nodded, and eventually you ended up asking Felix about things that didn’t exist in your world; Felix was always more than eager to explain you everything you wanted to know, and slowly this had become your new routine.

Honestly, you found it impossible not to trust Felix, and you inevitably started to get along, quickly becoming friends; contrarily to your world, he had explained that no one had any kind of prejudices against women, and therefore, many of them held very important social and political positions.

“Sounds like the place for me,” you ended up thinking sometimes, wondering about the feeling of openly speaking about your interest without being looked down; actually, you already were having glimpses of how it would be like.

Felix was a vampire, and therefore, thanks to his age he knew a lot of things you didn’t; the two of you spent endless nights talking about your interests and the difference between your worlds – from the biggest ones to the faintest details, and you couldn’t help but finding yourself getting a little more attached to Felix each passing day.

Not only Felix was witty, caring, playful and sarcastic, he was also incredibly handsome; there was something in the way his nose scrunched when he laughed, baring his fangs and his eyes disappearing behind two tiny crescent moons that made the butterflies in your stomach do somersaults.

Felix was also a man of word; he had keep his promise, asking to his friend to find out more informations about the portal. Sadly, despite a month had passed, there weren’t any news and apparently, there wasn’t any way to predict it.

Felix was on a hunt, and you took advantage to take a hot shower; autumn had just started and therefore, the sensation of hot water on your skin was more than enough to relax you.

A white towel was safely wrapped around your body, reaching around mid-thigh, and you were about to brush your wet hair when you started hearing weird noises coming from your living room.

«Gosh,» you heard someone say, «it reeks of human in here.» you furrowed your brows, tightening the towel around your chest before walking through the living room with quick steps; you were decided to confront the intruder by grabbing the most dangerous looking object you could see in Felix’s living room but you didn’t expect for the intruder to look so hot: honey coloured skin, dark red eyes and black hair, something in his appearance was incredibly alluring. He was wearing a heavy black coat that reached his ankles, leather pants were detailed with leather strings that travelled on the mid of his thighs, leaving part of his skin exposed.

The stranger seemed to sense your presence, as he immediately turned his head on his left, meeting your gaze.

«Oh, now that’s interesting,» he mumbled more to himself, taking a step forward, «Is Lixie home?»

“Lixie?” you thought, remembering that only his closest friends called him like that; you slightly relaxed, realizing that you probably were not in danger anymore, despite the fact that he looked quite intimidating.

«No,» you admitted, «he should come back soon.» even thought the boy was standing on the opposite side of the living room, something in the air shifted; his eyes seemed more glimmering, and you started to feel warmer. It was as if you were feeling a strange sensation of pleasure flooding on your body and instinctively, you pressed yourself against the wall as he took a small step closer.

«Changbin,» Felix’s stern voice suddenly spoke, and you relaxed as you saw him appearing out of thin air, «keep your incubus tricks to yourself.»

«I wasn’t doing anything harmful!» the stranger – Changbin, groaned, «you guys don’t even let me play nowadays.» he pouted, and you saw his shoulders lowering in defeat as he quickly walked towards the small circular wooden table in the living room.

«I’m sure Hyunjin would let you have plenty of fun.» Felix chuckled, even if he kept standing in front of you.

«My husband isn’t food.» Changbin pouted, before placing a small velvet box on the table, «Here’s what you asked for. Make sure she never takes it off.» with that, Changbin vanished in thin air right after saying goodbye to both of you.

It took you few seconds to realize that you were still clutching the towel around your body as if your life depended on it; eventually, Felix slowly turning around and walking in front of you made you snap back from your thoughts.

«Are you okay?» somehow, Felix’s voice came out a little bit raspier, and you didn’t fail to notice his gaze flickering from your eyes, to your lips, and along the part of your slightly exposed chest; you nodded in a silent answer, confused about the fact that the strange feeling you felt when Changbin was in the room didn’t go away.

Felix lifted his hands and placed them against the wall, caging you between his arms; you felt your cheeks heaten as you felt your heart picking up pace and instinctively, you licked your lips, noticing that Felix attentively followed the gesture. You felt trapped, and you could feel the heat emitting from his body; it would be a lie to hide the fact that you fantasized about kissing him more than once, and the fact that he was so close to you and seemed so serious was enough to make you struggle to keep your breath even.

«Did he do anything stupid?» Felix asked again, imperceptibly inching closer to you; his breath was fanning your lips, and you desired nothing more to feel his lips moving against yours.

«He didn’t.» you mumbled, afraid that if you spoke any louder, the atmosphere would have been ruined.

«Good.» Felix mumbled back, as if he was desperately trying to say something to keep the conversation going and not wanting to move away.

«I… Should go get dressed.» you tried, hoping that he would disagree.

«Yeah,» Felix licked his lips, unmoving, «you should.» your hands were itching with the desire to kiss him, but you held back; you closed your fist around the towel, ignoring how you knuckles went white, and eventually, Felix moved. You strode towards your bedroom, closing the door behind your shoulders and placing your back against it. What just happened?

Eventually, you decided to walk out the comfort zone provided by your room just to see Felix peacefully reading on the couch in the living room; you could swear that a blush was dancing on his cheeks as soon as he saw you, but eventually, he got up and walked towards the small wooden table, pointing to the velvet box that Changbin had placed there.

A small necklace was hanging from a silver chair; it looked harmless and not too particular, you noticed.

«Thanks to a magic spell, this will hide the fact that you’re a human,» Felix said as soon as he noticed your confused expression; «you can go around by yourself every now and then. Just… never take it off.» Felix nervously scratched the back of his head, and you felt incredibly happy.

«Thank you.» you smiled, and without thinking too much, you reached out to hug Felix, which immediately tensed up; lost in your bliss to finally having the possibility to visit more of this world, it took you a while to realize what you had done, but before you could pull away, Felix’s arms hesitantly circled your waist, before mumbling a weak and embarrassed «you’re welcome.»

Turns out, the enchanted necklace was not a good idea. During a chill and sunny afternoon, you spent your time wandering through the village, keeping close enough to your house in case you felt insecure and wanted to go back when suddenly, a piece of cloth tightly pressed on your nose and your mouth startled you, and instinctively you inhaled; your throat started burning, and your head started spinning. You felt someone roughly grabbing your waist, probably preventing you from falling before you started feeling too weak to call for help. You didn’t know what kind of substance you inhaled, but you didn’t faint, instead, fear and panic creeped through your senses as you saw that you were being dragged through narrow and less walked alleyways.

«I’m curious, is Felix that eager to play with his food?» much to you dismay, you found out that your capturer was an incubus; the boy stood taller than you, and he had pressed you against the wall while tightly keeping a hand around your throat. You wanted to scream, to claw at his face, but you couldn’t move.

Despite the fact that he was an incubus just like Changbin, the aura they were emitting were totally different. Changbin emitted a pleasant aura, and when he used his influence on you you felt warmer and slightly in bliss; this incubus was using his aura to make you feel afraid. He touched your chin to lift your head, and as his cold hand touched your skin you felt nothing but disgust and repulsion; you started feeling numb, since he was probably already taking away part of you energies.

Even if you forced yourself to stay awake, you eventually lost consciousness, with the faint hope that Felix would eventually find you.

What you definitely didn’t expect was to wake up in your own bed; you tried to sit up with a pained groan, but petrified as soon as you felt your throat burning in a painful way.

“So, it was real,” you thought, but before you could try to voice your own thoughts, Felix walked through the door, sitting on the bed and looking at you with apologetic eyes.

«Please,» you felt your own voice shake with fear, «Tell me that nothing happened.» Felix give you a sad smile, understanding what you were implying and eventually, he shook his head.

«I found you as soon as you lost consciousness.» he spoke, and you felt relief wash over you. Immediately, you shifted, throwing yourself at Felix and hugging him like your life depended on it.

«I’m sorry,» you said, on the verge of crying but somehow holding it in, «I never took the necklace off, I don’t know what happened. I’m sorry.» you kept repeating like a mantra, despite the fact that Felix was gently rubbing your back while repeating that it wasn’t your fault.

«He had been following you for a while, I should have been more careful,» Felix admitted, claiming the blame of what had happened. It was strange, how both of you tried to place the blame on yourself but even if – after what happened, you were dreading any form of human contact, you didn’t want to part from Felix’s embrace.

«Come on,» Felix said during breakfast, turning his chair towards you, «lean in.» you wondered what exactly he had in mind, since it’s been two days and you unconsciously yanked yourself away as soon as he tried to touch you.

Hesitantly you did as he asked, and placing one hand on the edge of the table and the other on your knee, you leaned in; Felix moved hesitantly, but eventually placed his forehead against yours.

«I know you’re still shocked, but I want to console you somehow,» Felix said with a smile, his red eyes burning into yours from up close, «I can’t hug you, so this will do.»

Felix’s features were mesmerising, and you felt your cheeks heating up due to the sudden proximity; since the night when you were about to kiss, you’ve never been this close.

Honestly, you don’t know what came over you, but you found yourself leaning in and capturing Felix’s lips in a brief kiss, a simple and gentle peck; however, as you were about to part, Felix’s hand prevented you from moving away by gripping on your nape, pulling you to him in order to finally properly kiss you. Felix’s kisses were hesitant and gentle, and anytime the two of you parted to breathe, he always waited for you to start the contact in a silent way to respect your pace after what had happened to you.

What he didn’t know, was that you felt incredibly safe with him and therefore, you never wanted to part from him; slowly, that night, you trusted Felix enough to give yourself to him completely, finding the missing part of your soul as your bodies gently moved together on his bed.

«Hyunjin told me that the portal will open tonight,» Felix’s voice broke the peaceful quietness in the house as he stormed in through the front door, «I came back to tell you.»

«Oh.» despite the whirlwind of thoughts in your head, it was everything you could bring yourself to say; you politely thanked him, before eventually, going back in your room.

Honestly, you didn’t want to spend your last day silently weeping on your bed; at first, you wanted to create a lot of good memories to look back to once you finally got back to your world, but now, you found the idea of leaving honestly painful.

Things between you and Felix remained unspoken and unsettled, and you didn’t know where the two of you were standing; you couldn’t deny anymore the fact that you were in love with him, but what about him?

Felix had always made you feel loved with the way he acted or talked to you, but did he return your feelings? Was it okay for you to wish to stay with him?

Evening came before you realized, and you and Felix stood in the chamber where you met for the first time few months earlier; he didn’t let go of your hand not even for a second, as the two of you walked to the narrow corridor you’ve once walked by yourself. Felix could hear your quick heartbeat, and mistook it for your desire an anticipation to go back home when honestly, you didn’t.

«Then, goodbye.» Felix said after taking a deep breath, gently kissing your forehead.

«Bye…» you nodded to yourself; you wanted to tell him a lot of things, but the familiar click prevented you from talking.

The wall shifted slowly, and you could see a glimpse of your world and the excavation site you’ve been working on for weeks; you took a small step towards the door, but eventually, stopped. Leaving things unspoken and unsettled was probably the most coward thing you could do before leaving because despite everything, not only you loved this world more than your own, you also loved Felix. You wanted to give the two of you a possibility to be together.

With a gentle smile you kept to yourself, you stood motionless and eventually, you watched as the world you’ve once lived disappeared once again in front of your eyes; proudly, you turned around, smiling at Felix which was looking at you with a dumbfound expression.

«Oh!» you chanted, skipping towards him and snaking your arms around his waist, «looks like I missed it!» the smile on your lips was more than enough for Felix to understand that your decision would have always been the same: stay with him.

«I love you,» Felix said out of the blue, even thought he was originally planning to say something along the lines of “I thought I had lost you,” or “I was ready to jump into the next portal”; you smiled at him, relief washing over you as he spoke.

As Felix connected your lips in a gentle kiss, you knew you had made the right choice.

Do not modify, repost, translate or plagiarize my stories. I only publish my works on tumblr & AO3.

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#stray kids scenarios #fanfics #vampire series #vampires au #felix x reader #felix scenarios

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