#cf fic

[sameschmidtdiffname]

I personally choose to believe that the Hunger Games series is supposed to be Katniss's memoir/way of setting the record straight about her and her loved ones part in the Games/war. Meaning I think the entire country of New Panem was going into a FIT with every new chapter they read, let alone book. Just imagine the podcasts for a second.

"SO THE STAR-CROSSED LOVERS OF DISTRICT 12."

"YEAH."

"FATED SOULMATES."

"DESTINED TO BE TOGETHER."

"Role model for all of our relationships, I think it's safe to say."

"Mmhmm."

"It was a SURVIVAL STRAT????"

That baby reveal??? Had the country in SHAMBLES when they realized Peeta was lying. Her editors probably told her to just keep that out and she probably just said "why?? I have actual kids now, it's fine." The tabloids are blowing clear the fuck up all day every day. Peeta's hijacking??? People already knew but they didn't know EVERYTHING. God, those podcasts were LIT.

#lowkey would write a collaborative fic about this #peeta mellark #everlark #katniss everdeen #the hunger games peeta #the hunger games #hunger games series #the hunger games trilogy #the hunger games katniss #thg #cf #mj

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Crimson Flames & Blue Desires.

DARK!Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

WARNINGS: this story will contain mature and dark themes, MDNI, DD:DNE.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: groping, aemond being insane and horny, slight angst, slight manhandling.

<- prev // next ->

masterlist.

A/N: here is chapter 2! 🤭 hope you all enjoy <3

CH 2: The Proposal.

You had not slept after that.

The feelings of anxiety were too overwhelming, pacing through your mind rapidly, it provided you with no peace and no sleep, you were becoming tired, tired of feeling as if you're constantly on the edge.

Besides Aemond had already confronted you, and nearly killed you, what's the worst that could happen after all that? You had already faced him, there was nothing to fear now.

You tried to reassure yourself.

And it was only when the sun started rising in the sky had your eyes started drooping, exhaustion creeping your body as you yawned, finally at last sleep came to you, and so you went over to your bed, and laid on it.

And not too long into your slumber, you were woken up by a knock on your door, and you groaned, snapping out of the little amount of sleep you had before getting up and opening the door, you saw the same maid who prepared you for dinner yesterday, and without her having to say anything, you let her in.

But instead of repeating what she did last night, she bought a few other maids with her, carrying a large tub, and then they all left to bring buckets of hot water to pour into the tub, you watched as they scented the water, pouring lavender oil, and then the maid stood before you, before she could say anything you spoke up, “What's your name?” you ask, she bows her head, “Kiara, Your Grace.” she answers and you nod your head. “Thank you, Kiara.” you say before getting the tub and sinking into the water.

The perfect temperature water cools your nerves and eases the tension in your muscles, allowing you to relax, the smell of the scented oils all providing a relaxation effect, you feel Kiara place a wide bucket on the ground behind you and grab your hair, and pours water on your hair, washing it. She rubs and massages your scalp with a paste made up of herbs to clean your hair, before washing it all away.

And few minutes later, you got up from the bathtub and they wiped you off any excess water before they gave you your chemise and a robe, they patted your hair dry, letting it dry to the air for a bit, and in that time, the maids cleaned after themselves, removing the tub and cleaning the excess water that fell on the stone floor, and you sigh dreamily at the way your body felt so loose now, you felt at peace almost.

And as your hair dried up, the sun was now fully up in the sky, it was time for breaking fast, and so the maids all got you readied up, they dressed you in a deep red gown you had bought from dragonstone, with intricate sewing which showed off your house's pride and joy, the dragons.

And then they did your hair, in a classic Targaryen style braid, securing it so the braids don't come undone.

You heard a knock on your door, and one of the maids opened it, causing a guard to step inside, “It is time for breaking the fast princess, your presence is required in the eating hall.” he announces and you take a deep breath, “I will be there.” you reply and he nods before exiting the room, the maids finish up dolling you up before opening the door for you, you thanked them quietly and left the comfort of your chambers.

The walk there felt alone, even though you had a guard accompanying you.

And soon you reached the hall, climbing up the small stairs before sitting down where you sat yesterday, you noticed how everyone was there, except for Aemond, and then you took note of the empty chair right beside you, where Aegon once sat last night, and your flickered over to Aegon who sitting at Helaena's former seat, he gave you a smirk and you looked away.

Just then you heard footsteps, you knew who it was before evening turning back or looking, the herbal smell of rosemary hitting your nose as the air picked up, he looked confused when the only seat that was empty was beside you, and looked at his brother, who simply shrugged and looked at his mother, Aemond caught the cue. So he sighed heavily before sitting down next to you.

For an odd reason, you found his smell comforting, Rosemary and another scent you couldn't pinpoint, but guessing it was cinnamon.

“The King won't be joining us today, he is resting.” Alicent says and everyone nods, and a few moments after that, the food is served, you watched as everyone took their fill in, except for Aemond who only sipped on the wine he was poured, not touching the food served on his plate.

Just like yesterday.

And you were not dumb enough to overlook what this meant.

He doesn't want to break bread with the enemy.

“I have an important announcement.” Alicent suddenly stands up and everyone looks at her, she shoots a smile to your mother before looking at both you and Aemond.

Oh gods.

“Both of our houses have drifted far from one another, creating a gap that can never be filled, however, I had discussed with the king and came to a conclusion with him, to unite our houses once more-” her gaze remainds fixated on you.

No. no. no.

“by betrothing Aemond and Y/N, we could make amends that way.”

Fuck.

Before you had a chance to react, Aemond spoke up, “I refuse.” he says and you felt a pang of hurt in your chest, and alicent looks at him shocked, “Aemond-” she starts again but he cuts her off, “Mother, do not be ridiculous, you expect me to share quite possibly most of my life with someone who took-” Lucerys shoots a panicked look at you and you look at him, he swallows as he watches both of your expressions, “Sister, of someone who took my eye?” He finishes, not revealing that it was you.

“Aemond, you're making it as if she was the one who took your eye! Lucerys is repenting for what he had done, it is the only way to keep this family together.” Alicent reprimands him and his jaw twitches, “I still refuse.”

“Aemond just think about it-” and now it was your turn to speak, “My queen, it is fine, your efforts to bring the houses together is recognised, though your son seems to be ruing those plans, I do not blame him, I do not want to be tied to a man like him either.” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, clearly recalling the events of what Aemond had done to you last night, yet nobody knew that and everyone thought you were referring to his disfigured face. You saw his hand twitch in your periphery.

And the entire table was filled with silence, your mother clears her throat, “Lets move on from this topic, we have many other ways to mend the broken bonds, how about a betrothal between Jaehaera and my son Aegon?” she suggests and shoots Alicent an apologetic look and Alicent nods, “We'll discuss later.” Alicent says and everyone continues eating.

You were surprised as to why Aemond had not stormed off yet.

You gasped when you felt him place his hand on your thigh, giving it a squeeze, and you looked at him, but he pretended to know nothing and sipped on his wine.

And then he started moving his hand to your core, which made you shut your legs tightly together and push his hand off, but he wouldn't budge, he was much stronger than you, and so he pried your legs apart with his hand easily, before cupping your clothed sex.

Finger pads pushing against the material of your dress, touching the clit. You felt him rub circles and that's when you suddenly stood up, causing him to retreat his hand and you just glared at him, and he had the audacity to look confused.

“I'm retiring to my chambers, I'm full.” You say and quickly leave the table, storming back to your chambers, and it was when you were only half way there had you realised that you would be alone in your chambers.

And Aemond could come there anytime, which you feared.

A prey falling into its predators trap.

You halted.

Standing there in the empty hallway as you decided on what to do, you decided to not go to your chambers anymore, but instead go to the gardens.

Your feet let you outside, the fresh air hitting your face as you took in the surroundings, the garden constantly tended to, kept at a perfect state, and you walked and walked, letting your feet lead.

You stopped in front of the godswood.

And it was like magic, all your worries were washed away in an instant and you felt at peace, you noticed a spot which made you smile, you would often sit here with helaena during your youth, side by side as she showed you the newest bug she caught and gave you knowledge on them.

“Do you remember?” A soft voice made you jump in your spot, and you turned to look at the person, and there she was, your aunt Helaena.

“Helaena.” you say and she greets you with a smile, “What are you doing here? I thought you would be eating.” you ask confused and the smile on her face drops, “It was suffocating.” she murmurs, her eyes darted downwards, hands clasped in front of her, you step towards her and hold her hands in yours, not speaking further, knowing and understanding exactly why she felt that way.

“I do remember, you would show me your bugs.” you change the topic and she looks at you again, scanning your face, she clasped your hand with her own before leading you to the spot where you both would often sit.

And you sat with her in silence as she dazed off.

“I do not like it here.” she confesses and you look at her with pity, a hand on her shoulder, “I missed you, niece.” She looks at you and gives your hand a squeeze and you smile at her, before leaning your head on her shoulder, “I missed you too, aunt.” and she lets out a heavy sigh. “I want you to stay, it's suffocating when you are not there. For years, I've felt lonely. No one to talk to, except for Aemond… Aegon did not care.” her voice was shaky, as if recalling the worst times of her life.

“Hel, you know I cannot stay forever.” you tell her and she nods, “I know, I just-” she swallows a lump in her throat, “I do not know how much I can bear.” she lets out another sigh, and you squeeze her hand in reassurance, lifting your head up from her shoulder.

“You have not greeted me since you have arrived, it did not feel good.” she communicates her feelings with you and you look at her with an apologetic expression, “I'm sorry, everything that has happened was too much and last night…” You sigh and she looks at you questioningly, “What has happened?” she asks and you shake your head, “Just a nightmare.” you tell her but she knows you're lying, but doesn't pry any further.

The wind blows towards you both, pushing your hair forward while helaena's flows backwards, and the leaves of the tree rustle against one another before the weaker ones fall, Helaena reaches her hands towards your face, pushing back your hair and tucking it behind your ear, and you smile at her.

But her face goes into a daze, eyes blinking rapidly.

She seems to be getting one of those visions again.

Her finger twirls your hair strand, wrapping it around her finger before letting it go and then she's back to normal again.

“What is it, helaena?” you ask and she simply shakes her head, “Nothing.” She smiles as if she's accepted something, and then her eyes flicker over to yours, staring right into them, before her eyes travel downwards and then she looks away.

“I should go, Jaehaera has probably woken up.” you watch as she stands and walks away, but she looks at you with one last longing look and then makes her way. The warmth beside you disappeared as she left, and suddenly became cold.

You sat there, lost in your own thoughts before getting up, correcting your skirts and making your way to your chambers. You wondered what vision she got, that she did not want to share.

As you walk towards your apartments, you thought about you and helaena, how you both used to be so close since childhood, having been the only one who tried to understand her, you were the only one who she was able to openly communicate her feelings with, besides Aemond, and all of that simply had to be cut off since the incident. It broke many ties and relationships, splitting apart many relationships, breaking many friendships, promises, and recovering understandings.

Everyone blamed Lucerys for it, but it was actually because of you, and you don't know why Lucerys wouldn't just admit that it wasn't him, tell everyone the truth, yet on that night, the night aemond lost his eye, he took all the blame for you, even managing to get Alicent's anger towards him.

Jacaerys, Baela and Rhaena knew that it wasn't him too, but nobody said anything, as it was already too late.

“Sister?” As if on cue you saw Lucerys in front of you, looking at you concerningly, in front of your chambers as if he was about to knock, “I thought you would be in your chambers.” he says and walks towards you, away from the door. “I went for a walk.” you tell him with a small smile, and he nods. “You wanted to speak to me about something?” you ask and he nods, “What is it, luke?” you ask in a soft voice and then he seems to be in thought, “I- I forgot.” he looks away embarrassed and you chuckle, handing going up to his head to ruffle his hair, and he playfully slaps your hand away.

“Hey, don't do that, I'm not a little boy anymore.” he says playfully annoyed but this time you ruffle his hair with both of your hands, “You'll always be a little boy to me luke, you're my brother.” you tell him sincerely and he huffs annoyed before giving you a toothy smile.

“Luke!” You hear Rhaena's voice calling for him and he turns to look back and you look at him, with a knowing smile. “Shut up.” he murmurs to you and it makes your face break out into a big smile. Rhaena approaches you both, “Luke, mother is calling for you.” she tells him, and he nods, “See you later sister, I will come back if I remember again!” he says and leaves, rhaena watches him go, she gives you a smile before departing after him, and you sigh.

The guard opens the door to your chambers, and you go inside, closing it after you.

“Where did you go?” The voice makes you jump and you turn around to see Aemond sitting, crossing his leg on one another staring at you.

You look at him annoyed.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, rolling your eyes, and he raises an eyebrow, “What happened to the girl that was crying and sobbing yesterday?” he mocks and you glare at him, but do not respond to him.

“Get out of my chambers.” you tell him, and he suddenly stands up, stalking towards you like a predator towards its prey, but this time you weren't scared, so you stood still.

“Are you disappointed that I rejected the proposal?” he asks and you furrow your eyebrows, “What? No-”

“You are.” he says and you are confused.

“No I'm not-” he grabs you by the throat again, pushing you against the wall, but this time he doesn't choke you, he leans his face against your, nose pressed against your cheek as he sniffs in your scent.

“Fuck.” he curses, and let's go of your neck, and you glare at him. “Maybe it's you who's disappointed, uncle, at yourself, for rejecting a great proposal.” you mock him and he glares at you.

“You're right. I am disappointed.” he admits which catches you off guard, you expected him to deny it.

“Disappointed that you won't be stuck with a 'man like me', Disappointed that you'd escape my clutches, Disappointed that I would not be able to see how your cunt of a mother would react, when the boy she asked to be 'sharply questioned' while he was young and injured, fucks his seed into you, making you bear his heirs.” he growls.

“You are crazy, get out.” you say, panicked and Aemond pins you against the wall, kicking your legs apart and pushing his knee against your core, grabbing both your hands and pinning them above.

“Perhaps I should do it now, who cares if we're not married? Only fair for an alleged bastard to have another one.”

And just then, there is a knock on your door, which makes you push Aemond away immediately and rush towards the door causing Aemond to run to the passageway.

Lucerys was beaming brightly at you

“I rushed back here because I remembered what I wanted to ask!” he says bashfully but you pull him into a tight hug, clutching onto him as if your life depended on it, which makes him confused.

“Yes?” you pull away and calm your breathing.

Lucerys had saved you.

Once again.

TAGLIST ; OPEN

@marihoneywk @vaylint

BOLD IS WHO I CANNOT TAG!

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #MAE:DARK!CONTENT #crimson flames and blue desires #CF&BD #crimson flames & blue desires #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #dark!hotd #dark!fic #tw: dark content #aemond x fem!reader #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond #house of the dragon smut #house of the dragon fanfiction

[rosewaterandivy]

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather. 

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction. 

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold. 

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning. 

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too. 

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed. 

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat. 

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily. 

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that? 

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so! 

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town. 

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend. 

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name? 

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

_

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

[darkspiket]

spot illustration for a fic in the lysithea zine by @/euphemeas on twt/ao3!

you can read it here!

#fe3h #fire emblem #lysithea von ordelia #hilda valentine goneril #READ THE FIC!!! SEND LOTS OF LOVE!!! i love cf lys aguhghuhggngh

[mrs-snape5984]

“I think, I know just what you’re longing for…”

“I may be undone, but nothing seems to undo you…” (“My Thieving Heart” by Sivert Høyem feat. Marie Munroe)

Wow…I’m crawling back to the surface of tumblr, coming from hell. My last crash has been one of the worst so far…I couldn’t stand up, I couldn’t get myself something to drink, I couldn’t eat, I wasn’t even capable of thinking in a proper way. Since I couldn’t even type anymore, I had to ask my sweet friend @vulnus-sanare to help me out by sending messages to some of my friends. I didn’t mean to make anyone feel worried about me, so please forgive me for my long silence.

This beautiful artwork, which I’ve requested from my lovely friend @opalchalice, is based on a dream, which I’ve had some weeks ago. Lia, I’m sorry for the delay, but I wanted to transform my dream into a short one-shot fiction to honour your fabulous work the way, it deserves to be seen. You know, that I’m a fan of your art, my dear….but this one…damn, Lia! You overwhelmed me with this stunning piece of art! Thank you so much for your understanding of my ideas. I’m beyond grateful for our verbal exchanges and I’m proud to call you my friend. You’re so talented and kind, Lia. Please…never change!

Now…back to my dream. Since I’m struggling immensely with brain fog, due to my disease ME/CFS, I noticed that my ability to write seems to fade away. This isn’t my best work and I’m very aware of this fact…so please keep in mind, that I’ve written this under the torture of my sickness and be gentle with me.

TW: smut and a slight mention of lactation kink…well…I leave it like that. 😅

🔞 🚫mdni 🔥💦 (1012 words)

More to love

It was midnight. From afar Julia could hear the faint tintinnabulation of the church tower bells…ringing once…and her bare feet touched the cold grass beneath herself. Twice…and she felt a cold breeze caressing her blushing cheeks. Tilting her head back, Julia closed her eyes and listened to the remaining ten strikes of the clock tower. Her nightdress was billowing in the wind, sending shivers down her spine.

Suddenly Julia sensed some arms coming from behind, tightly wrapped around her waist, when she was pulled back against a tall presence. A surprised gasp left her lips, but the familiar personal scent of her husband soothed her nerves immediately. “What are you doing here alone in the middle of the night, Jules?” Even after so many years, the deep voice of Julia’s husband caused a certain weakness to her knees. Severus‘ hot breath tickled the soft spot behind her ear, leaving goosebumps all over her alabaster skin. „You‘ll catch a cold, darling,” he murmured lovingly, burying his face in Julia’s wild curls. “Mmmh…so divine…,” she heard him whispering hoarsely, his voice was dripping with desire.

Severus’ hands roamed over her tummy, clenching the satiny fabrics of her nightdress in his lustful grasp. “Severus…,” she breathed, pressing her back against his chest. “…this isn’t the right pl…,” but one of his hands silenced her resolutely, whilst his other hand passed the plunging neckline of her nightdress, massaging her voluptuous bosom with a firm grip. “Shhh…stand still and be quiet, Jules,” Severus urged her, playfully pinching her erected nipples, causing a muffled whimper from his wife.

Suddenly, Julia felt two more hands grazing over her bare legs and her eyes widened in disbelief when she perceived another man kneeling beside her, shoving her nightgown up to her waist. But this wasn’t just any man, who touched her so intimately! The silky raven hair…the adorably crooked nose…and oh, those mesmerising obsidian eyes! She didn’t understand how this was even possible, but the man on his knees was no one other than a second version of her very own husband…observing her reactions with a seductive smile on his lips.

Julia couldn’t suppress a guttural moan escaping her lips…smothered by Severus’ hand on her mouth, when bold fingertips brushed against the edge of her panties…pulling them aside in a swift move. Another groan found its way up her throat as soon as a finger dipped into her moist depths. “Gods, you’re already so wet for us, Julia,” the deep voice of her husband cut the silence of the night, a subtle hint of mockery seemed to be layered underneath the lecherous tone of his words.

“Be a good girl and spread your legs for us, Jules,” Severus murmured close to her ear, still holding her in place from behind her back. His hand released her mouth…only to be replaced by his arm, tightly wrapped around her neck. The tickling sensation of Severus’ breath on her delicate skin sent goosebumps all over her body, which didn’t stay unnoticed by him. His amused chuckle echoed through the air, only to be followed by a strict demand: “Wider, Julia! We know, you could never get enough of us…”

Severus’ commanding tone and the mysterious situation left her speechless and aroused. The wetness between her thighs glistened in the moonlight, causing a never known neediness to creep up inside herself.

“Damn…you’re dripping already,” Severus teased her from his kneeling position, before his thumb started to draw circles on her throbbing clit, causing her to moan in delight. “Just give in and enjoy the magic, Jules…,” his dark voice growled and Julia couldn’t make out, who of them said that. The confusion mixed with her growing excitement made her feel slightly light-headed. Two fingers entered her moist entrance, adding a new layer of greediness to her already tense body. While her husband held her in place, his magical likeness drove the redhead crazy with the gentle and yet determined play of his digits….fingering her deliberately slowly…teasing her clit with his thumb until she begged for more. “Oh, gosh….yes! Please, Severus….fuck me! I’m begging you,” Julia whimpered desperately, almost crying from this lustful torture.

Suddenly a third Severus joined the scene. Julia noticed how good he looked with his man bun, a cheeky strand of hair falling over his eye, just like she had seen it countless times before, when her husband was focused on brewing his potions. His voice sounded so mockingly when he approached her, pinching her hardened nipples through the silky fabrics of her nightgown. “Well, well…what do we have here?,” he groaned huskily before he licked over the delicate skin on Julia’s neck. “Damn, you’re truly insatiable, Jules…but so am I!” Ripping off her dress, Severus revealed Julia’s soft, full breasts and bit his bottom lip in anticipation. “Fuck, Jules…you know, what I want…,” he murmured under his breath before his mouth found its destination…embracing her stiffened nipple with hungry eager. “Let me be your good boy, Jules…,” Severus mumbled before he started to suckle greedily until a small trace of milk drooled from the corner of his mouth…causing her legs to tremble.

“Aah! Severus…yes…do with me whatever you want…,” she whimpered needily, closing her eyes in pleasure.

“Oh no, Jules…open your eyes, my darling,” her husband growled from behind her back. “You will watch us, sweetheart…we want you to see everything, what we’re doing with you…and you will enjoy the view until you’re coming undone.” Julia couldn’t do anything else than nodding obediently, when Severus held her in place for his companions…pressing his hard cock against her back….

Suddenly Julia woke up from her naughty dream, with a loud gasp escaping from her mouth. Blinking rapidly, she looked at her familiar surroundings, feeling the soft surface of the bedsheets beneath her bare skin. Her gaze fell on her peacefully sleeping husband on the other side of the bed. Tenderly Julia bent over to place a little kiss on Severus’ adorably crooked nose…before she slipped underneath the covers to worship him the way, he deserved to be treated…..

🖤Severus & Julia🖤

🖤Sevy & Jules🖤

#Severus x Julia #Sevy x Jules #Severus x OC #my dream #transformed into an one shot fic #commissioning artwork is my goddamn coping mechanism #this is my red carpet for all the artists of snape fandom #fuck me/cfs #severus snape #i love snape #snape #i love severus #pro snape #snape love #pro severus snape #snape content #severus snape art #severus snape fan art #severus fanart #severus snape fanfiction #snart #severus snape fandom #snape art #me/cfs #severus snape smut #snape smut #smut

[everlarksquell]

someone pls drop the link of an everlark fic about the rooftop picnic in catching fire i’m begging

#cf #catching fire #fic rec #ao3 #the hunger games #everlark #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #thg #thg series #the hunger games series #katniss and peeta #hunger games

[kb9-ships-mistercriky]

what I see about the photos....

choose the name: valbelli or jede? I like jede...

#jede #valbelli #jude bellingham #fede valverde #real madrid cf #I'm writing a fic about them <3 #I like them so much...

[flyingwide]

😇 love y'all, I promise

"If you can... fuck. If you can say something, I need you to say something, you asshole." I need to know that this worked, she wanted to say but couldn't. I need to know that I didn't make this worse.

And then she felt it. It was like a flower, petals uncurling one by one, rising to the light, as he seemed to wake up in her awareness. Relief was followed quickly by agony. Pain shot through every nerve ending she had, as sudden and miserable as if she had closed her hand on an electrified fence.

She had bound them closer than she had thought possible and now his pain was hers. Her own breathing grew ragged as he roused himself enough moan weakly.

#Lys Writes Fic #Frey Realizes She May Have Done Fucked Up Actually #forspoken spoilers #CF don’t maim me please

[definitelynotshouting]

everything i loved and feared (first 1k)

hello scarianblr beloveds this is the unedited very beginning of my completed scarian fic that im posting for the hell of it. fic is 7k rn but that will likely expand after the final draft rewrite<3 so this is just a funky little teaser thats gonna be rewritten anyway, hence why i dont mind sharing.

CWs for: blood, graphic injury, implied character death. Enjoy :]

Grian’s eyes are red now.

It’s an odd color on him– not because it doesn’t suit him, but because it suits him far too well. Like a glove, Scar thinks past the hazy, heady fog settling over his mind. Red like his tattered sweater– like the blood that beads between Scar's neck and shoulder, clouding the water he kneels in. Red like life.

Red like love.

That’s the fog settling thick over his senses. Love, the amalgamation of it, something so beautiful and terrible that anyone else wouldn’t– shouldn’t– look at it head-on. But inside Scar’s chest is a warm purr; he has rolled the die, shown his hand, and now Grian stands over him, vibrating red, red, red. He’s gorgeous like this, all righteous, trembling fury. Scar wants to pull him close and kiss him until they’re both dead.

“You can kill me” he says, and his voice shakes with the cost of this victory. “Grian. You can kill me.”

Above him, an avenging angel falters. Grian’s sword, so swift with its raging swing, lowers by a noticeable fraction. “What? No.”

“For everything you did to me,” Scar says, breathless, “to keep me alive this long– you may slay me, and take the enchanter.” He lowers his head, until his forehead brushes against cool, rippling water. It feels like benediction. It feels like a curse.

Grian will win. It is both the least and most Scar can do for him.

When Grian speaks, his voice is small. “No– no, I can’t. I literally can’t. Scar–”

“Do it,” Scar insists, that eager haze billowing through his veins, unfolding to rest with steady pressure against his bowed spine. Distantly, he wonders why nothing is singing. There should be war horns, trumpets, a blazing, crescendoing melody. Birds, at the very least.

Instead there is only miserable silence.

Grian sucks in an audible breath. “I’m not–” he starts, then breaks off; Scar lifts his head to watch him struggle, how his grip loosens on the hilt of his sword, how his eyes pinch around the edges. Grian flinches, presses his free hand to his head, eyes going middle-distant.

“The spectators want a fight,” he says at last, hollow.

And this is what he's waited for, this moment of realization; the other shoe dropped, the culmination of the game they've waltzed around. Scar smooths his voice, curling it around the two of them with gentle, insistent pressure. “It’s okay, G. You can kill me. You can be the winner.”

For one, long moment, Grian holds his stare, expression flayed open for only Scar to see. Raw and wild, his eyes gleam in the dawning sun– thin strands of hair curl around his ears, damp from their earlier struggle in the pond.

Slow, so slow it’s almost imperceptible, Grian shakes his head. Clenches his jaw. “Scar, they want blood.” Something in his face shifts– some beetled brow, a muscle jumping before smoothing out. He’s shaking: ripples blooming around him as he wavers on his feet, as if adrenaline has finally retracted its claws.

Scar’s shaking too. Even in this, they are together.

Scar opens his mouth– to push, to press, to snap him out of whatever spell holds him in suspension– but Grian beats him to it; his sword lifts from its helpless stance, glittering bright and blue in the sun. His mouth twists, tired affection curling the corners of his lips.

“Scar,” Grian says, “no matter what happens, we can claim this as a double victory. Right?”

The words are a cool caress against his fevered skin. Scar sinks into them, eyes drifting shut– because even now, with victory dancing through his veins, he can’t look Grian in the face when he kills him. “Yes,” he breathes, and braces for the blow, the cut of diamond against his carotid–

It never comes.

Instead, a rush of air as the sword comes down; the sharp, wet schlck of a blade entering flesh; a choked-off, gurgling yelp. Scar’s eyes fly open just as Grian falls to his knees with a splash, and–

And blood is tumbling from his gut in great scarlet waves where his sword is buried, slicking around his hands where he grips the hilt. Grian’s teeth are stained as he grins up at Scar, sharp and feral, eyes alight with more fire than Scar has seen in them since he knelt to die. “You win,” Grian hisses, and shudders, one hand flying out to sink into the silt of the pond they’re both kneeling in. Like a toppling tower, the rest of his body follows suit, falling sideways into bloody water.

The fog clouding his mind is ripped away in one fell swoop. Scar isn’t sure if he screams– all he knows is that one moment Grian is collapsing, and the next Scar is holding him, breath stuttering in his lungs.

“Grian– Grian, no, hang on. Wait, wait, wait, no, no– no, no, no, no. Grian.” His hands find the hilt of Grian’s sword, but make no move to pull it out– that would just kill him faster. It's like he's been punched– the bright, earnest rays of the sun have missed their mark, gilded the wrong death in stunning, flagrant gold. “What are you doing?” he chokes, like that will reverse everything.

Grian was supposed to win. Grian was supposed to be the winner.

“They never said what kind of blood,” Grian says, hazy. His lips wobble. “I can’t– I couldn’t, Scar. I couldn’t kill you.” When he coughs, blood bubbles on his lips. “Sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Scar whispers, fingers shifting to catch in the wet strands of Grian’s hair. “You did that on purpose– Grian, you were supposed to win.”

He’d done everything– cast the die, folded his cards, offered up his life, because Scar knows himself; he could never handle being alone. Not in that emptiness. Maybe it’s selfish, how he’d planned to let Grian take that fall instead– but Scar is selfish. And more than that, he’s in love: awful, truthful, scarlet love, with a man now dying in his arms.

“You weren’t supposed to die,” Scar wails, terror thick in his lungs, despair a weight around his ankle. He leans forward, brushing his forehead against Grian’s, until the trembling puffs of breath from Grian’s lips fan over his own. “Grian– how could you?”

When he pulls back again, Grian grins at him. The sun slips across his face, revealing the pale, faded remnants of freckles scattered over his cheeks. Scar has always wanted to count them. He’s never gotten close enough until now. “Guess I’m just not cut out to be a winner,” he murmurs, one hand lifting to rest, delicate as a butterfly, over Scar’s cheek.

He does not say I love you. He does not say anything at all. Instead he guides Scar’s head down, until their lips brush, the taste of copper flooding Scar’s tongue. Then his hand drops, breath hitching, head lolling back–

Scar wakes up choking on his own desperate scream.

#scarian #goodtimeswithscar #grian #gtws #3rd life #trafficshipping #trafficblr #hermitcraft #mostly for the last line tbh #again sorry for quality this WILL be entirely rewritten #ao3 black tie vs tumblr sweatpants etc etc #thank u to kai in cf for looking at this and telling me its not as bad as i thought it was EJDNSJDJD #a real one ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ mwah mwah #anyway yes this is how the fic Starts #im out here with a metal baseball bat and im swinging #shouting speaks #my snippets #ALSO THATS THE TITLE!! THATS THE OFFICIAL TITLE!!! AAAAAAAA i love love love it im so pleased at how well the song fits the fic #(its from Silver and Gold by City and Colour ftr) #mcyt #txt

[beeeinyourbonnet]

I heard "Renbelle" and here I am with a little prompt/headcanon)

Renard is not okay with his... bullet situation. But he insists that he accepted it, that he is fine with it, etc... The harder he insists, the less okay he actually is. Belle, ever perceptive, sees right through him.

So this is my first foray back into renbelle (and fanfic in general) in approx six centuries. Hope you enjoy ;-;

----

It felt like another lifetime when Belle had felt relief about the bullet in Renard’s brain slowly killing him so that she could eventually go home. These days, the home she yearned for was his arms, squeezing her just a little too tightly so he could feel the pressure and know she was there.

She knew he didn’t like her wandering the base, that a part of him feared she’d be attacked or that she would escape, but she knew that there were enough men on her side that an attack wouldn’t be a problem, and she didn’t want to escape. 

When Renard wanted to hide, he was impossible to find, but Belle had an inkling of where he might be today, so she meandered down the halls, waving to guards as she passed. The guards outside her own room had offered to accompany her, but Renard wouldn’t have wanted them to see them together even if he might have preferred that Belle not be alone.

Just as she thought she would, she found him in his control room, glowering at his reflection in a compact mirror. 

“Renard?”

He jumped, slamming the compact shut, and the fact that he hadn’t noticed her come in told her just how important it was that she had.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, hands clenched tightly enough to hurt—if he could have felt it.

“I missed you.” She sat in the chair usually reserved for Lagunov and rested her palms atop his fists. When he didn’t look down, she pressed her nails into his wrist. 

That got his attention. He loosened his grip, allowing her to take both hands in hers and lace their fingers together.

“I would have come by tonight,” he said. His gaze strayed toward the closed compact. She knew he’d been staring at his scar, thinking about the bullet traveling further and further down. His last CT scan showed it moving for the first time in a few months. She didn’t like to think about it.

“Didn’t you miss me now though?” She nudged his knees with hers, and was finally rewarded with his full attention.

“I always miss you.” 

He looked like he wanted to kiss her, but he only ever did when they were alone, tucked up together in their own little world. In the light of day, it was like he didn’t believe she was there. Sometimes she didn’t believe she was there.

Keeping hold of his hands, she stood to kiss him on the forehead, then settled into his lap instead. As she’d hoped, he wrapped his arms around her and rested his head against her shoulder.

“Are you dwelling?” she asked. She wanted to touch his scar while his eyes were closed, but he didn’t like anyone to touch it, so she wouldn’t violate his trust. 

“Of course not,” he scoffed. “Just thinking about where to set myself on fire to go out with the most glory.”

“I don’t want you to blow yourself up.” She cupped his cheek, knowing he would see that, and he tilted his head so she could run her fingers across his stubbly chin.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “What’s done is done.”

She tilted his chin up to look at her, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“Renard.”

“What?”

“Look at me.”

“Why don’t you go back to your room?”

“Renard.”

“I’m fine.”

She pursed her lips, still gripping his chin, and he rolled his eyes.

“Fine.” He cupped her cheek with the hand not supporting her back, fingers digging in harder than usual. He wanted to feel her in his hands. “Are you happy now?”

“I’m always happy with you.” She turned her face to kiss his palm, and he watched her, all his focus finally on her. 

“You don’t have to comfort me,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said. “So you’re fine. Maybe I’m not fine.”

He frowned, hand flexing at her hip. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like thinking about it.” She tapped him on the forehead, not wanting to acknowledge it out loud. “I just want to hold you.”

He licked his lips, glancing back at the compact. She plucked it off the desk and stuck it in her pocket—it was hers anyway. 

“You need comfort?” he asked.

“Desperately,” she said. “I’m dwelling.” 

They both knew she was massaging the truth, that Belle could never be as haunted by the bullet as he himself was, but Renard slid both his arms underneath hers, crushing her to him, and kissed her collar.

“You may hold me,” he said, and she nearly laughed as she wrapped her arms around him. Even if he couldn’t feel exactly where her arms laid across his shoulders or exactly the way her hand cupped his head, he could still feel safe and warm and held. 

“Thank you.” She kissed his head, sure to make the loudest smacking sound she could so that he’d know, and she felt him smile against her. 

“I never dwell,” he mumbled into her chest.

“I know,” she said, and kissed him once more.

#renbelle #anyelle #anyelle fic #ace-cf-cups #new update

[sparkles-and-trash]

So it turns out I’ve lost the ability to write.

Like, completely.

It’s so bad. I’m freaking out.

It’s never been like this, I’ve lost motivation before, but this is about my ability to put together words.

It feels like a cognitive thing, and I’m not ready for this illness to reach that point yet.

Praying to any and every deity that it’s just temporary.

#luckily for you guys I have weeks worth of drafts and Twitter threads to post here lnai #but I want to write NEW things #esp the fantasy fic :( #writing #cognitive decline #:( #chronic illness #lupus #cfs #endometriosis #irl tag #personal #cw health

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Crimson Flames & Blue Desires.

DARK!Aemond Targaryen x Niece!Reader

WARNINGS: this story will contain mature and dark themes, MDNI, DD:DNE.

CHAPTER WARNINGS: dubcon (not towards reader), oral (m. receiving) not by reader, choking, fainting, violence, anxiety.

next ->

masterlist

A/N: please mind the tags, Aemond is an absolute asshole and a dick in this story, just a heads up.

CH 1: Return to King's Landing.

One, two, three, four.

You counted to keep your mind busy, occupied, preventing any thought from entering your mind as the carriage was moving with a constant speed, you peaked through the holes of it, watching as the keep came into view, biting your lips in nervousness.

You dreaded it.

Dreaded coming back to King's Landing, at least, not after what happened back at driftmark during your childhood days. Your breath hitched in your throat as the carriage came to a halt, and it was time to get out.

With shaky legs, you descended the carriage, taking in the view of the keep, a sudden wave of nostalgia washing over you as you took in the surroundings, memories of your younger days flashing by in your like a flickering flame.

Your shared youth with your brothers.

With your family.

With him.

The dread quickly replaced the nostalgia when you thought of him, you let out a sigh, moving along with your siblings, going inside.

The first thing you noticed was how foreign it looked, it almost seemed like a different place, watching all the three headed dragons be replaced by the faith of the seven symbol, it seemed alicent was changing a few things around.

Regardless, you were glad you didn't encounter him.

A day of peace, spent in your brothers chambers as your original chamber was being cleaned.

Not until the petition was announced to be heard, Vaemond had signed a petition against your little brother, questioning his lineage, which is the main reason you have to come to King's Landing in the first place.

There he stood.

All calm and mighty, oozing off an aura you couldn't quite pinpoint, you wished to be anywhere but here right at this moment. He was still handsome, the loss of his eye weighed absolutely nothing on his looks, in fact, he somehow looked even more attractive.

He was paying any attention to you, more focused on Lucerys, as if he was waiting for something, as a predator looked at his prey, waiting to strike.

That was until his eyes finally flickered to you.

You stared at him back, eyebrows furrowed.

The side of his lips twitched, curling into a small smirk that made you lose your mind. You felt as though you were set on fire, lava coursing through your veins as he continued to stare at you, you broke the eye contact focusing on the situation before you, and you noticed from the periphery of your eye on how he huffed a laugh, making his mother turn to look at him in confusion, before he shook his head.

Your grandsire just then entered the room, looking all sickly, no doubt coming to defend his daughter and her name, trying to be a good father, you wouldn't dare say it but you truly did not think that he was a great father to your mother nor others, he had made your mother feel insecure about her gender for many years, let her be plagued by pressure and stress, only to suddenly then owe her support.

You didn't dislike him, of course not, he was your grandsire after all, though you wished he tried to do more than just the bare minimum. You knew that it was useless for Vaemond to try and argue more against your grandsire so you zoned out, until you heard Vaemond yell.

“HER CHILDREN ARE BASTARDS!” and you immediately snapped your head towards his direction, the court gasping as the words left his mouth, everyone looked at your brothers, and not you and you hated it.

Having been the only one to escape the clutches of the bastardised traits, they think you are the legitimate daughter of Laenor, but the bastard blood flows through your veins just as it does in your younger brothers, even worse is that you do not know who your actual father is, unlike jace.

“And she is a whore.” he says the next part quietly, and you watch in anger, holding yourself back from lunging towards him and stabbing him to death, everything seemed to move both quickly and slowly as you felt a figure pass by you quickly and you were only then able to process what had happened.

Daemon had cut Vaemond, leaving his tongue intact but with the other half of his face on the floor, exposing the innermost flesh. You should be disgusted, look away, but you didn't, instead you smirked a little, comforted by the fact that no such thoughts can bloom nor be relayed by his brain. Your eyes flicked up to Aemond and you saw how his gaze was already on you, pupil blown wide as he watched you cruelly smirk at someone's death.

You changed your expression to that of a blank one quickly, before you watched as Viserys, who was standing, fell down on his seat weakly, and Alicent panicked, calling for the maesters, immediately going over to Viserys to help him. Aemond watched in distaste as his mother did that.

And soon you were being escorted to your chambers, the guard allotted in the front opened the door and you entered inside, smiling at the view, it was your old chamber, the reddish pink hues of the room kept the same way, not at all changing.

You went over to stand at the window, gazing out at the ocean in a daze when you reminisced about the moments you spent here, how you used to sneak out of this very room, to play outside, with him.

You wouldn't lie to yourself, you missed him, the uncle who you had spent your childhood with, running around and reading books together in the library of the keep, helping him practise high valyrian, you loved him back then.

What has changed?

Everything.

Everything except the emotions you felt for him.

But you pushed it far, far, far away.

To the depths of your heart, brushing it all under the guise of hatred, disgust for him, only for it to resurface again after all these years, the moment you saw him.

And you would push them down once again, convince yourself that you hate him, that you never found joy in him, that you didn't enjoy the moments spent together with him, that you never even loved him.

You have to force yourself to lie to yourself.

For it was better. Better for you to bask in ignorance than swim in the truth that is poison.

You rested in your chambers for a bit, and watched as the sun went down, the sky that was once blue and bright plunging into a red that bloomed around it, some hues of purple here and there, the white clouds scattering, it was beautiful, to watch the sky, you wished it would stay like this forever, but you knew that it was inevitable that all of this plunges into darkness, only to rise again and repeat.

The knock on your chamber door brought you out of your thoughts as you went and opened the door, seeing a fair maid stand before she nervously announced that dinner would be soon, and that she was appointed to get you ready for the dinner.

You allowed her inside, she put down the bucket of water she was carrying, and you undressed, leaving you in almost nothing but your chemise, you watched as the maid pour lavender oil into the water, before dipping a washcloth in it, wringing it and clean you with it.

The smell of lavender had invaded your senses, your mind calm and relaxed by it, it provided an odd sense of comfort. After the bath, she had dressed you in a black gown, with cuffs that were red to honour your house colours, you left your hair almost entirely loose except for the two braids that were pulled to the back of your head and intertwined.

With each step you took towards the dining hall the more your heartbeat increased, your nerves on the edge, you felt anxious, anxious to see him again. Would he even be there? You wished he wouldn't.

But the gods don't hear your prayers, and you spot him, talking to your eldest uncle, Aegon, you slowly go to the table, noticing how your seat was next to Jace, but also next to Aegon. You did not miss the glare Aegon threw your way, looking up at you in disgust and anger and you looked down, fidgeting with your hands.

Why were you becoming so weak?

This isn't like you.

Where had your fire gone?

Soon the king came and everyone settled down, toasts were given to one another, celebrating the houses and the betrothal of your brothers to your cousins, baela and rhaena.

You watched as Jace talked to baela, and never have you felt so alone in your life, you simply began eating, and then Aegon leaned his hand against your chair, calling out to Jace, completely ignoring your presence. You had zoned out most of their conversation, not interested in it until you felt Aegon rise from his seat and go over to pour himself some more wine.

“But if you ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have to do is ask.” and that made Jace slam his fists onto the table, startling everyone, he breathed heavily.

That's when everyone heard the sound of a chair sliding and turned their attention to it.

Aemond was standing, hands by his side, twitching to take some action as he eyed Jace, silently warning him, Aegon had the audacity to look confused and sat down once again.

Everyone watched in silence, which was suffocating until Jace picked his wine glass up and toasting, taking a deep breath.

“To prince Aegon, and prince Aemond, we have not seen each other in years, but i have fond memories of our shared youth,” he begins, “and as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies, to your and your family's good health, dear uncles.” he finishes, you hear viserys utter a quick 'good' before Jace sits down.

Aemond's eye follows him in disgust, before he looks away and sits down, and just then helaena gets up, clearly pissed since Aegon pulled something stupid again, so she indirectly makes fun of him while hiding her sadness.

“It isn't so bad, he mostly just ignores you.”

“Except sometimes when he's drunk.” she chuckles awkwardly before sitting down and you feel bad for her.

“Dear niece, you haven't spoken at all today.” Aegon turns his attention to you, which makes Jace stiffen up, ever the protective younger brother he is.

“Oh- uhm, I do not have much to say.” you mumble and he purses his lips before realising you're boring and turning his attention somewhere else. Your eyes filt over to Aemond once again, who already seemed to be staring at you, with the same intense gaze and you look away in fear.

Jace got up and asked helaena for her hand in dance, to which she happily gave and then they both danced, everything seemed to be going well, until Viserys had to be taken back to his chambers since he was weak, and then the pig had arrived.

Your breath hitched in your throat and you looked over to lucerys, hoping he'd not do something stupid but he laughed and Aemond slammed his fist against the table, picking up the wine glass in one smooth movement.

“Final tribute, ” he started and you watched him.

“To the health of my nephews, Jace, Luke and Joffrey, each of them handsome, wise…”

there was a pregnant pause.

“Strong.”

“Aemond.” Alicent tried to butt in.

“Come. Let us raise our cups to these three strong boys.” his attention then falls on you, “And their elder sister, unknown whether she is strong or not.” those words were clearly meant to be menacing, and you glared at him.

“I dare you to say that again.” you hear Jace talk, “Why? Do you not think yourself strong?” he questions and that was enough to anger Jace and he punched him, Aemond just smirked arrogantly before pushing Jace, using only little of his power, you immediately got up from your chair and got inbetween them, holding Jace back before the guards came in and held him back.

Jace glared at you, “Why did you stop me? Of course, protecting your fucking childhood love.” he spits and your mouth drops slightly open and the air becomes silent before your mother butts in, “Jace! That is no way to talk to your sister, go to your chambers! All of you.” she reprimands and all of them obey except you, you turned to look at Aemond whose gaze was already on you, and it felt like the world stopped for a moment.

Your eyes scanned his face, he looked even more beautiful from up close and you felt your heart wrench when you noticed how his intense gaze softened, even though it was for a moment, when he took in your features. You looked away, putting your head down and leaving the hall, rushing back to your chambers.

You slammed the door behind you and leaned against it, breathing heavily before slipping down onto the floor. You couldn't bear to look at him, not after what happened. The way his gaze still held softness for you, masked behind his stoic expression, it made you feel bad, guilty, anxious.

You bit your lip to prevent sobs from slipping out, tears streaming down your face, you did not want to look at his face, a constant reminder of what happened.

What you had done.

You still remember the way you pierced the blade through his skin, the way you just swung it to protect yourself, not knowing what or where it hit, and the next thing you knew was Aemond laying on the ground clutching his eye, you remember throwing the knife down and rushing over to him, crying and apologising, it had haunted you since that day, Lucerys took the blame cause he couldn't bear his sister crying. Aemond had not said anything the entire time he was getting his eye stitched and you couldn't look at what you had done.

The sobs broke out before you could stop it, crying to yourself as you hugged your knees.

“What's the point of crying?” You got startled when you hear the voice of Aemond, coming from inside your room, it seemed he snuck in through the secret passageways.

You hiccuped as you watched his dark figure come to you, the candlelight illuminating his features, he had taken off his eyepatch and you watched as the sapphire glinted, the reflection of the orange light, bouncing off of it.

He leaned down, and you twitched in fear before you felt him roughly grab your throat and force you on your feet, shoving you against the door, the metal hinges digging into your skin as your hands shot up to grab his, clawing at them to release you, but his only tightened his grip more.

“You are repenting now? After all these years? After you took my eye.” he growled, further tightening his grip and you gasped for air, thrashing around in his hold as the blood supply was not reaching your brain. “Did you know how painful it was? Of course you don't.” he releases his grip for a moment, letting you breathe but not letting go completely, hand still on your throat, he pushed your head back on the door, and leaned his forehead against yours, before he took a deep breath and sighed in content as he smelled the familiar lavender on you.

Tears streamed down your face, crying because of everything, your heart beating loudly from being scared, your mind becoming fucked with messy thoughts.

You felt scared, guilty, vulnerable, ashamed, embarrassed, everything at once.

You closed your eyes to calm down as much as you can, that was when you felt something wet slide against your face, trailing up the pathways your tears left before, only then did you open your eyes and realise what was going on.

He was licking up your tears.

Tongue travelling upwards your face to your eye, licking the trail where your tears had travelled, before he pressed a small kiss on it, and doing the same on the other side, he kissed your jaw, completely let go of your neck, before wrapping his arm around your waist and dipping his head, kissing your neck.

You felt too weak.

Too overwhelmed.

The previous attempt at choking you finally caught up, causing your body and limbs to give up and completely shut down.

You fainted in Aemond's arms.

Aemond wasn't surprised, instead he carried you over his shoulder. He placed you on the bed, watched as your chest heaved up and down, he grit his teeth feeling his anger come to him once again, and grabbed your unconscious form's cheeks tightly, digging his nails before opening your mouth and spitting into it, he wished you were awake to feel the humiliation.

He fucking hated you so much.

He hates you so much.

He really does.

If he could kill you, he would.

He wants you to hurt you badly, to scar you, to ruin you, the way you had done to him.

Aemond targaryen hates you.

So much, to the point it makes him love you.

A fucked up love.

It doesn't make sense.

He lets go of your cheeks before storming out of your chambers angrily.

Aemond went to his chambers enraged, the poor maid that seemed to be present there at that moment was unlucky, his face turned into a scowl as he watched her slightly misplace his book before he went up to her and grabbing her by her hair, “Your majes-sty i-” she tries speaking but grips her hair tighter, “Shut up, or I'll cut your throat.” and she listened. 

He wasn't usually the one behaving this way towards women, his brother was. He would usually take his anger out by sword training, because his anger never included sexual frustration. 

And so he watches as the poor maid tries to breathe, reminding him of the way you struggled to breathe earlier, as he violently thrusts into her mouth, her tongue swirling around his shaft as he grips her hair tightly, grunting at the way it feels, he lets out a loud moan. 

Of your name. 

The maid, still on her knees, flinches when he climaxes inside her mouth, pulling her off him before looking at her with disgust, He throws some money at her and tells her to never return to this keep again, which she accepts while sobbing. 

She leaves the room and Aemond lays on the bed thinking about you. 

“Fuck.” he groans rubbing his eye thinking about how you had undone him making him react so violently towards someone that had nothing to do with you.

You wake up on the bed, mind all groggy from what had happened, few hours ago, Aemond in your chambers, choking you, and you fainting in his arms, you sat up suddenly and looked around to see if he was there, to your surprise he wasn't, you looked out and noticed how the sun had yet to rise, leaving you in darkness, nothing but the moon far up in the sky, illuminating your room as the candles were all blown out. 

You winced when you felt a burning sensation on your throat, causing you to touch the area, only for it to hurt more. You sighed, knowing it was caused by his tight grip. You felt nauseous when you remembered what he had done, quickly brushing it off. 

Your feet lead you to the window again, as you gazed outside, the moon shining brightly, the water bouncing it's white light off them, you remembered the story that the moon was the sun's wife, but the moon looked so lonely, alone in the sky, but it wasn't truly alone, there were many, many, many stars surrounding it, keeping it company. 

But it looked so lonely in the night sky, without its sun. 

Yet they can never coexist together at the same time. 

Always engulfing each other, either with light, or darkness. Never appearing together as one in the sky.

For that would be a natural calamity.

You related with the moon, a little bit. 

You were truly alone. 

You can never be together with the person you considered the sun in your life. 

You knew you had your parents, your siblings and everyone, though you loved them, you felt like an outsider, at least Jace had the opportunity to know who his real father was, you one the other hand, did not. 

Maybe it was just your insecurities getting to you, you have always ignored feelings such as this, but ever since you returned to kings landing, it almost feels like everything is falling apart. 

You bring your hands up behind your hair, before undoing the braids, causing the hair to curl slightly before it falls on either side of your face, the night breeze hitting your face gently, wind blowing through your strands, lightly pushing them back. 

You closed your eyes in content, taking a deep breath, one you desperately needed, after what happened. 

You’d have to face him when you have to break fast in the morning.

And It was making you anxious.

#CF&BD #aemond targaryen x reader #crimson flames and blue desires #crimson flames & blue desires #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen fanfiction #dark!aemond targaryen #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!fic #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen smut #aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond x fem!reader #aemond angst #aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #dark!hotd #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fanfic #house of the dragon smut #MAE:DARK!CONTENT #tw: dark content #tw: dark themes #tw: violence

[rosewaterandivy]

careful fear & dead devotion m.list

Summary: and you want to beg, like Andromache on the ramparts of Troy, don't do this, don't have me nurse fresh grief, but his gaze in reply is redolent and kind, do not borrow sorrows from tomorrow, for you and I have arrived at the grief we were born for.

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: on-going

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | inspo | lore | timeline

Inquiries and requests are open for this au, if you're so inclined!

Series:

I. coup de foudre

II. traîner quelqu'un dans la boue

III. filé à l’anglaise

IV. folie à deux

V. ce n’est pas la mer à boire

VI. passé une nuit blanche

VII. faire la grasse matinée

VIII. à bon chat, bon rat

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

[dumpsterfireofsubtext]

Whenever I comment on a fic

#lifted from that cf post because I love Carrie so so much #also so very true #I’m sorry for the person I become when I comment on fics that make me feral #warrior nun #avatrice #etc etc

[ellanainthetardis]

The fact that I can still get hate on ITGN even so long after it's been finished XD

#don't go looking i deleted it #i'm an ableist people #yeah I dared mentionned Peeta's missing leg wasn't helping him in CF #sue me #and then you wonder why i don't want to go back to hayffie XD #whaaaaatever #this story is probably the one that got the most hate ever #but being called an ableist first thing in the morning is a new one #one that makes me angry #how many ff authors just skip over peeta's leg? #how many times did I include it in all my stories #including modern aus? #whatever #shouldn't let this get me so angry #I'm kind of tempted to freeze all comments on that fic #but then again i hate moderating #and i can't be bother

[goldenfox3]

It's fun exploring the different aspects of (game) Falcon's character through fic like I have a tendency to write the SNES era one as a cocky little shit but I've also tried playing up the cool and mysterious bounty hunter angle to make him a little more taciturn and serious. GX era Falcon I tend to write as more conscientious and focused on doing good though some of his youthful attitude and cockiness still shines through lmao. There's also his general theatrical nature that appears in (I would say) all his iterations (and is I suppose par for the course with a cast this colourful) and his (outward) confidence and love of showing off that remains even in his upstanding GX era.

The flirtiness I tend to give him is completely a result of my imagination bc Falcon is not at all flirty anywhere in canon ever but I think it would fit in with his flashy and forward demenaour (especially SNES era) and desire for attention even if he's not necessarily actually interested that way. Gotta get that taunting and preening in after all.

(More Falcon musings below the cut)

In contrast to the way I write Andy I don't think game Falcon has quite so defined a separation in how he acts with/without the costume on, but I do still think being Captain Falcon is a performance as well as a mindset. When he doesn't have to put on the face of "Captain Falcon" I like to think of him being quieter, more withdrawn/desiring alone time to recharge, sometimes even anxious about social scenarios that he might have to navigate as not-the-Captain. This isn't always necessarily tied to him having the helmet/costume on or not—if he still feels like he's present in a given situation as "Falcon", he'll act the same way in or out of costume.

This is kind of tied to my name hcs for him—it's not just that he doesn't want to give out his first name, he really does conceptualize of himself most of the time as the persona of "Falcon". The only time I think he would use his first name or even think of himself using his own first name would be if he was with people he was extremely close to, whether that's family (I have no idea what's going on with his family situation lol), best friends, or serious long-term lovers. The switch in use of surname to given name is a symbolic lowering of defences, a signifier of increased intimacy and almost like mental permission to him to just be...himself without any of the performance.

In Thousand Five, Stewart has known him only as Captain Falcon, his public persona, for 11 years and counting so even when they hang out out of costume he still feels the need to put that act on, though the amount of acting he does unconsciously lessens more and more as he grows more comfortable around Stewart. At least that's the explanation I have for why he's been gradually showing more and more vulnerability in anxiousness, earnest desire for approval, clinginess, etc. as the story goes on lol. The part where they finally address each other by given name will be basically when the final barriers between them are dissolved and they're letting each other know that yes, it's ok to be your unfiltered self around me and yes, I'm offering up my honest unfiltered self to you in return (which is why this won't be for many chapters to come lol).

In Living in the Fast Lane, since it's SNES era Falcon and Stewart haven't known each other quite so long there and Falcon isn't yet quite so practised at the whole performance of being Captain Falcon thing so there's less separation between how he acts in and out of costume. But there is indeed still an internal pressure to conform to his usual persona and to stick to the familiar snarky rivals dynamic that is eroding despite his best efforts in the face of unfamiliarly tender and squishy feelings ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ The use of his Captain persona being a sort of safety wall and its gradual dissolution is always very fun and juicy to dig into and getting to write it happening in mutiple different ways is always a blast 🕺

#dusk rambling #thousand five #doug #cf #litfl #fic talk #fz musings