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chronurgy · 6 months

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i loveeeeeeeee your hc about gortash in all your tags!!! can you share your favorite hc about durge/gortash shenanigans in the city?

Yeah absolutely! Shenanigans hmmm....

Some of these will be a little more specific to my durge (Vesper, half-drow wizard) than others

During the Hall of Wonders heist, gortash specifically left some guards out of his reconnaissance to test how Durge handled themselves under pressure. He wanted to know if this was someone he would work with or someone too crazy to manage.

Gortash and Durge did a heist in the House of Hope as a trial run for their heist of the Crown - this is when they stole Raphael's shoes (the helldusk armor boots that Gortash keeps in the chest at the foot of his bed). Gortash didn't tell them about his history there or with Raphael before they went in. I think after seeing him there Durge did put at least pieces of it together and really left lots of burn marks and blood and guts spread around in their wake to get back at Raphael. They also broke at least one priceless and irreplaceable vase on "accident" while they were there. Their ire towards Raphael from this realization actually manages to carry over even when they can't remember why and it's partly why they're so determined to kill Raphael and so insistent that they won't work with him.

Gortash takes Durge to fancy parties, for a number of reasons - as a bodyguard, to bring them close to a murder target, to introduce them to the kind of high society stuff they'll be involved with as his co-ruler. But also because he loves to show them off, his darling assassin, loves the vicious little comments they make about the other attendees. He starts finding excuses to bring them to any party he can because he only ever enjoys these parties when they're with him, when he has someone just as brilliant as he is at his side. Durge usually has to attend in disguise but sometimes just dressing up fancy enough not to look like a sewer rat is enough to fool people.

Gortash is the kinda guy who will work himself to exhaustion and then fall asleep at his desk. The first time Durge found him like that, completely dead to the world on top of his diagrams and sketches, they thought about killing him. They imagined every detail, knew exactly how it would go. It would have been so easy, because he's so defenseless like this. They see his eyes moving under their lids, see his hands flex, and little expressions pass over his face - they know he's dreaming. They wonder what he's dreaming about (is it them?). And they don't kill him. They just watch him sleep, fascinated by the differences between the waking man they know and this unguarded sleeping one. They leave before he wakes up. I think they do this a couple of times before he finally catches them (maybe because they try to stroke his hair or something in a fit of softness). At first he's like, "oh my apologies, please don't hesitate to wake me should this happen again" before he puts together the look on Durge's face and realizes they've been watching him sleep and tried to like, touch his hair. He considers this a success because they could've killed him a whole bunch of times and didn't and they seem to be developing some sort of feelings towards him. He resolutely does not acknowledge the existence of any things he could possibly be feeling about this. Not at all.

Gortash keeps a large fancy estate in the city, Durge has a guest room there - it starts out as just an extra room but as they spend more time there Gortash starts to customize it more to their liking. He also moves their room to be next to his once he realizes that they're staying over more often, blaming a maid for knocking over a candle and causing fire damage in their old room when they ask why it was moved.

I think one night they have to have at least one really stupid caper they pulled off while extremely drunk that neither of them will talk about - as an example, they got super drunk, decided that since they were so good at heists they should do more of them, broke into some patriars estate, and stole a ton of fancy liquor. They also stole the bust of some guy from the entryway and staggered up the stairs to escape out the window of the daughter of the house's dressing room. Anyway, they woke up the next morning on the floor of Gortash's bedroom, extremely hungover and both of them (and the bust they stole) were wearing fancy little fascinator hats they can't remember but must have stolen out of the dressing room. They try to laugh at each other but gortash just ends up violently throwing up in a trash bin while durge lies on the floor with their eyes squeezed shut because the room won't stop spinning. They refuse to speak of this and will adamantly deny it ever happened if asked. Durge absolutely killed sceleritas while trying to force him into a stupid hat. The exact series of events might need some workshopping, but the core idea is some extremely stupid adventure the two of them had together that neither would ever admit to but is also a cherished memory for both of them.

Gortash's gauntlets (before he had the netherstone) used a series of capacitors and a setup akin to a self winding watch to generate an electric charge that he could attack people with. He designed them himself.

Vesper finds these gauntlets fascinating. When they first meet in person, he shows them off and discusses their construction and it's the first thing about him that they find impressive and intriguing.

As a gift, Gortash gave Vesper a set of sharpened rings designed after his gauntlets.

Vesper actually helped Gortash with some of the designs for the steel watch, looking at the plans and making suggestions - they were especially helpful when it came to the magical portions of the construct.

I think the closest the Urge ever comes to forcing Vesper to kill Gortash isn't when they first meet or during sex. It's one day when they're waiting for some spy's report, so they're sitting around in his room. He's tinkering with something at his workbench, and they're sitting at a desk working on a spell. They realize they need certain special inks for the transcription and look up to see them in the desk's little shelving unit and then they look closer and realize the desk is stocked with all the things a wizard needs - inks, chalks, paper, magical components. And this is the desk they always sit at when they're here and need to do some work. And Gortash has stocked it as a wizard's desk. He's made it their desk. And he's working at his workbench and they're working at their desk together in companionable silence. It's domestic, almost. And that's when the urge hits, with just absolutely crushing intensity, and they turn on gortash. Jokes on them, he's into that shit. After some back and forth between them (the level of explicitness is up to you! Or me, if I can get my act together and write this!), Vesper more or less jumps out the window and spends the next couple of days cutting a bloody swathe through baldur’s gate. When they finally return to him, gortash just asks them if they enjoyed their little vacation. After that, even when recreating much the same scene, the urge never comes on as strongly again (they don't know it at the time but this is the first time they've managed to throw off Bhaal's yoke when he really wanted them to kill someone. He never pushed that hard again with gortash because he's afraid of the consequences, though he still does push them to kill him a little bit).

Gortash gave durge a number of gifts over their acquaintance, both practical and fantastic: jewelry, enchanted items, clothes, shoes, books, any and everything you can imagine. He loves seeing them using his gifts, carrying or wearing something he gave them, because it helps mark them as his. He spends absolutely lavishly on them, buying them beautiful and fancy clothes for them to wear when they're in his house or out with him in public. He also buys them more practical gifts, well-fitting boots, weapons, armor, all of it enchanted and worth a small fortune.

On some of his gifts to Durge, he encodes messages for them in their cypher. They say things like "For my dearest assassin" and "To the sorrow of all" on a weapon and "pari pasu" (Latin for with equal step) and "I've always liked to play with fire", plus any number of other things.

Gortash has a thing for Durge wearing his clothes. One cold morning durge throws on his black coat when they get out of bed to check something and seeing them wearing nothing but his coat is such a thing for him that he ditches all their plans for the day to spend the day in bed with them.

Gortash has a number of affairs, to help his star rise in the upper city. He may use them to make durge jealous, but they are ultimately people to be used and discarded. He doesn't care what they do, because they're tools. Durge is his. His partner. And that's why he doesn't share.

#Hmmm sorry some of these are more just personal headcanons about that time period than truly shenanigans #Well I hope you enjoy them anyway!#dark urge #enver gortash #durgetash #dark urge x gortash #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #Vesper

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dulcewrites · 11 months

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Fool Me Once (part 10)

Summary: As tensions arise in King’s Landing, you make moves to assure the safety of your children. Final breaths are taken, pacts are made and broken, steel is drawn and the dragons dance.

Warning: mentions of stillbirths/pregnancy issues, allusions to self harm, some unreliable narrator if you squint. In our f&b bag fr!

A/N: you guys 🥺 we are finally on the last part. First, I want to say I am sooooo sorry about how long it took to get this one out. By the time I’m posting this I’m sort of like, do people even still care lmao 💀. Life has been hectic and tbh I’ve been putting some focus onto other things. Shameless plug to my other, more happy Aemond x oc series, on ao3. As well as I’ve gotten so much amazing feedback and interactions about this fic that I was slightly worried about how people would take the end. Speaking of feedback, and moving on to the more sappy stuff. My writing side blog has grown exuberantly since posting part 1 of fmo last year. It genuinely makes me emotional thinking about the little community that’s come from it. I hope to continue to make more stuff that I’m not only happy with, but further pushes said community ❤️❤️ if y’all have any hotd request let me know. Please reblog, like, and comment. As well as come chat in my inbox if you see something you like.

Slight housekeeping, though if you made it this far you probably already know. This fic does change the dance for self indulgent reasons (lol) and for the narrative of it all. This started as a cheating story and has sort of spun into something entirely else.

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Ninth moon of 129 AC

Rhaenyra’s voice could be heard from down the hall.

You wanted to reassure yourself that you had heard those screams before from Helaena, or even from yourself giving birth. But there was something so terribly guttural about the ones Rhaenyra was making.

As if outcome of the birth hung in the air. Lingering with the ghost of the past death that happened in the Red Keep. You try not to focus on the sheer look of panic on Jace’s face once you leave him at the door.

By the time you got to her chambers, Rhaenyra is already surrounded by midwives as she is hunched over, palms spread out against the wall. Midwives, and Alicent, whose face was terribly pale. Almost as drained of color as Rhaenyra. Her normally straight blonde hair wavy and stuck to her forehead with the sheen of her own sweat.

Alicent spots you, and gets away from her position from around her. She pulls you over to the side, but before she can even speak you interrupt her. The midwives begin to move Rhaenyra from her standing position to on the bed.

“Has this happened before,” you watch as Rhaenyra pleas lessen and lessen, her state becoming more sedated than what is probably normal.

Alicent shakes her head. Her auburn curls had been released for the night from the tight updo they were in earlier.

“No, at least not the first three,” she swallows hard before coming closer to you. “I fear - I fear this labor may go awry. I think we need to make preparations for if…”

The words catch in the back of Alicent’s throat. She is here with Rhaenyra; she has always been with Rhaenyra. Even when they were at odds; two ghosts haunting each other’s memories. Two sides of the same coin, causalities of the cruel fate. You want to feel sorry her; knowing that she is watching a close… companion go through this, but your mind has been elsewhere since earlier that day.

“Your son has made preparations,” you cross your arms. “All of them actually.”

Alicent brows furrow in confusion, and it dawns on you that Aemond and Aegon never clued their mother in on their little plan.

“You do not know, do you?”

“No, I do not know what your husband has been getting into. I rarely do these days.”

You and her both.

Rhaenyra lets out another groan.

“Where is Daemon,” you ask as Rhaenyra begins to mumble things incoherently to the midwives.

“He took one look at her, and left the room,” Alicent frowns. “She called for him but he went to get Jacaerys instead.”

And Jace came for you on the behest of Alicent. Tis the way of men you suppose. Often, they are absolute nuisance in situations like this, but you could not help but think that mayhaps if Daemon had stayed to seen her in this state, he would not put her through such things again. But that is giving him far more credit than you know he deserves.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra manages to mumble out the name louder. Her eyes fluttering open and shut.

Alicent instantly rushes over, dropping the conservation she has started with you.

As you watch Alicent coax Rhaenyra through this, her words ring out. Though she did not elaborate on what those plans should be, she was right. Aemond had taken the reigns from your hands plenty times before. Safety will not be completely ensured until any threat is taken out. You have never been to battle nor war, and even you know that. A slightly morbid thought creeps into your head.

If Rhaenyra dies, Aegon could descend the throne.

It was laughable for Rhaenyra, or anyone who supports her claim, to believe known bastards would follow her in the line of succession. Or that Daemon would not bypass Rhaenyra’s first three boy in order to ensure power for her last two. It would mean an all-out war between Aegon and Daemon… but maybe it did not have to go that far. Not if plans were made to undercut whatever moves you know Daemon could put into place.

They are all back in King’s Landing, no longer under the false tranquility they tried to spin at Dragonstone. Amongst their patrons who already have much to say about Rhaenyra’s still short reign.

Aegon on the throne would ensure the safety of all of the kids. And not only the kids, but the kingdom as a whole. A war of succession, especially including dragons, would only bring destruction. Rhaenyra’s boys would have a chance to swear obeisance after Daemon is out of the way, and if not, their presence will not be needed. Bastard blood being spilt is nothing compared to the life your children.

They could go back to Dragonstone and live their lives out there with young Egg and Viserys. With the possibility of Daemon for a father, they would be better off for it.

Your thoughts are broken by the midwives telling Rhaenyra to try and push.

There was already a significant amounts of blood trailing where Rhaenyra had been. Her pushes do little to soothe the position she is in. In frustration and pain, eventually Rhaenyra, much to the chagrin of the midwives and Alicent, shoos them all away. Reaching down to pull the babe out herself.

Letting out an already grief-stricken scream as she does it.

The air is sucked from the room as a gush of blood rushes out of Rhaenyra, followed by a tiny body.

A tiny… silent body. Wrapped in scales and slightly deformed.

No one speaks as they watch Rhaenyra pick up the baby from between her legs and rocks it as if trying to lure it into crying, into breathing. But nothing comes. Just silence, and the aches of a daughter stuck in the self-fulfilling prophecy of a mother that is no longer around.

It is not proper nor lady-like, and you can hear your own mother’s voice in the back of your telling you how rude it is in a time like this, but you just turn and leave. Without a word or peep. Suddenly feeling sick you go back down the hall, back to your chambers. Ignoring Jace who calls your name out in confusion by the sudden silence coming from his mother’s room.

By the time you make it back to the room, Aemond had gotten himself ready for bed. Completely casual as if the events earlier meant nothing to him.

“What’s happened,” he notices your ashen face.

You take one look at your husband, you think of your children away in a place foreign to them, and the stillborn baby Rhaenyra clutched in her arms.

The bile comes up quick. So quick you barely make I to the basin on the other side of the room. The dry heaving reminds you that you barely ate anything today, too worried about the task at hand.

You flinch when you feel a cold hand on your back. Shrugging Aemond’s hand off, you turn head with a glare.

“You made your move,” you mutter. “I’ll give you that. But now we are going to this my way. And Aemond, so help me, a single hair on those kid’s heads is harmed and I am not with them, I burn it all to the ground, you with it.”

You don’t know how and when, but you would do it for them if it came to that. You’d do anything for their safety. It may be time for others to realize that.

— — —

Princess Visenya Targaryen is set on the pyre a day and a half later. A small swaddled body lit on fire once Rhaenyra croaked out the words. Syrax blowing a mighty flame to burn Rhaenyra’s only little girl.

She was advised to stay in bed. Though her outward physical ailments had started to heal, it was clear Queen Rhaenyra was sick. Pale skin still prickling with sweat despite the cool air outside, dark bags starting to form under her eyes as she leans gently against the cane she was given.

You stand next to Aemond, Helaena, and Aegon. The only warm you feel from the fire in front on you.

It was slightly shocking when Helaena came up to you before the funeral with guilt written over her soft features.

“I just had… a funny feeling about the kids being here. I’m sorry.”

She knew.

You were not happy about once again feeling like you’re on the outside looking in with people you are supposed to call family. At least Helaena had the decency to feel ashamed by the omission. The decency to apologize. Guilt and Aemond is laughable being in the same sentence, and Aegon had been avoiding you. A thing that has not happened in months. Helaena was always right about these things; the scary part is that you all never really knew till the outcome already happened.

You run your hand over your black mourning dress. Peering out from under your veil, you make eye contact with Daemon across the fire.

Normally mirth filled eyes, and folly written all over his face had been replaced by an emptiness that scared you. Often, you had felt the unearned confidence and ambition around you was just noblemen living up to an expectation put on by others around them. But a Daemon, already known for his rogue behavior, feeling emboldened by the death of his brother, daughter, and the newly weakened state of his wife, made you nervous.

Only compounded when you think about the conversation shared at Dragonstone. Your loyalty was not expected, but even demanded. You can’t help but wonder if the kids not being around has only put a fiercer target on your back, or even on theirs.

You look over at Aegon - messy hair, bored expression, purple circles under his eyes. But he is no worse for wear compared to Rhaenyra.

If it one thing you have learned since being around this family, it is appearances often make up for everything. Slap a smile and nice outfit on, and people tend to believe what they see versus what is underneath the surface.

The funeral ends, and you make a sharp beeline towards Otto.

“I need to run something past you.”

You rake your knuckles against Aegon’s door, and get reply in return. You do it again, this time with more vigor, slightly embarrassed at Ser Arryk just watching you pound away.

“He is in there,” you question, turning to him.

“The last time I checked, he was my lady.”

The last time he checked?

You supposed not ever sworn protector can be as diligent as Quinton, and not every subject can be well behaved.

“Aegon,” you knock once more.

Blowing out frustrated air through your mouth, you turn to go but the door eventually swings open.

His hair is crumpled on one side, shirt unbuttoned, and reeking of wine. It had not hit you that he may be with someone.

“If you are… predisposed, I apologize. I can come back”

A dopey grin breaks out of face, before he hitched the door open wider. “No one is with me. Oh, dovelet were you worried about that?”

You look over to see Arryk raise a brow at you. You push at Aegon, further annoyed. “Go.” Forcing him back into his chambers.

“Everyone is so touchy today.”

You were there, before the funeral, when Alicent fussed at him about going to it. About trying to look engaged, which he clearly did not. You think about the conversation you had with Otto in his office.

“He is not going to like it. He has long come to terms with not wanting to be king.”

“But his wants are of no concern to you now, are they?”

When put that way, you can’t help but feel a bit bad. But it is true. What Aegon wants right now means little to you. He will eventually learn to like it, and if not like it, he will learn to tolerate it. The way others have to tolerate their fate in life. We are all stuck in the same miserable cycle; the only difference is some of us will not be able to call ourselves King of the Seven Kingdoms.

“We need to talk about some things.”

“Black is one your colors,” he changes the subject. “You should wear it more often.”

“Aegon, I’m serious,” you pinch your nose.

“Is this about the kids? I thought you would be happy they are out of harm’s way.”

“They are not out of harm’s way,” your voice raises, and this is not going the way it was supposed to.

You must push him with a gently hand. A woman’s touch.

There was a something slimy about how Otto ended the conversation. Sending you to Aegon to enact a woman’s touch… whatever that meant.

“But they could be,” you lower your voice. “If - If there was someone else at the helm. None of us would have to worry about their safety. About our safety.”

Aegon give you a funny look before flopping down on his bed.

He is drunk so he may not remember any of this by next morning. You sit next to him on the bed.

“There is no running from this. Despite what you may say, you know you would not be able to live with yourself if you left your family, your kids. Aegon, you are too smart not to know what this is all coming to.”

Though not something you voiced yourself, running was an option that crossed your mind. Finding a way out to Oldtown, grabbing your kids, and running. The logistics seemed all to wash away when the word dragon comes along. Traveling with two young kids would be difficult enough, managing to travel discretely with a giant dragon would not work. You don’t know how you would tell Daella to leave Vermithor.

And then a chill would run up your spine. Where could you go where he would not find you on dragon back?

The two of you sit in silence before Aegon sighs softly.

“Share a drink with me,” Aegon whispers. “Before we all die.”

It makes you laugh. Because that is all you can do at the folly that is your life. You nod softly.

The wine is a Dornish Red. Sweet, warm, and sultry tasting drink. It reminds you of the look Aegon is giving you.

Alicent peaks her head into the door.

“Rhaenyra,” she sees baby Aegon and Viserys sitting on their mother’s bed. Both babbling away over each other. Rhaenyra weakly waves her in. Both Egg and Viserys give Alicent tiny little bows. They do it to everyone, even those who technically do not have the same amount of power toddlers do. Bowing at guards, nursemaids, and court members alike.

The boys are eventually escorted out by one of the maids, but not until they both tell Alicent about the flock of lizards they found in the garden. It’s sweet, Alicent thinks. Reminds her of when her kids were that age. Not yet tainted or disrupted by the life around them. Alicent supposes she also has herself to blame for that when it comes to own children.

Both boys not understanding the position their mother is in. She knows that Rhaenyra is grateful at least two of her kids are not aware of her vulnerable state.

“How are you feeling,” Alicent sits at the edge of the bed next to her, taking in scattering of notes around Rhaenyra. Members of Rhaenyra’s small council have written notes for Rhaenyra to read while she is abed. From things as simple as the mouse problem in the Red Keep to things more serious. Like the Shepherd’s continued teachings; this week sermon’s going as far to say the death of the Visenya was an act of the Gods. That this is Rhaenyra’s punishment. Punishment for the dragon, the incest, the Targaryen of it all.

Alicent makes sure to only visit Rhaenyra when she knows she will not run into Daemon. He flaunted around the castle as if he has never left. Still the same air of arrogance and fire, only now swathed under a layer of coolness. The passing of Viserys, clearly leading him in a quieter path.

So many awful things lead back to that man. Alicent is sure of it.

All Rhaenyra can do is give a small smile and the shake of the head.

“A bit better now that you’re here.”

Alicent just ducks her head shyly.

Rhaenyra was always good at that, making Alicent feel like she was a girl again. Ten and four and completely out of her depth when it came to her feelings. An issue she worries she still has not gained control over.

“I am thinking of naming Daemon protector of the realm,” she then croaks out. “I do not know how much I can get done while in this bed. Watching it all crumble beneath me.”

Naivety. It is the only word that comes Alicent’s mind when it comes to how Rhaenyra handles Daemon. Ironically, it is the same way Otto describes her relationship with Rhaenyra. Her father never forgets a chance the remind her the nostalgia of girlhood, and security she wraps in Rhaenyra. The same way Alicent does not know if Rhaenyra has convinced herself that Daemon’s will head her council above anyone’s else is her true feelings, is the same way Alicent does not know if she holds onto the good parts of Rhaenyra because they still exist. Or because without holding onto them, she would be again flailing and alone. Once again left with the cold, empty feelings that comes with duty above else.

The only person Alicent saw ever cut Daemon down to size is now dead, rotting and finally silent. If Rhaenyra thinks the bond, she had with Daemon is anything more than him trying to hold onto the last semblances of Viserys he could find, she has been sorely mistaken.

“Mayhaps, you should speak that over with the rest of your council,” she pushes the duvet further over Rhaenyra. It is not her job to advise. She doesn’t know if she has it in her advising another clueless monarch. Another seemingly well meaning, but headstrongly clueless monarch. Rhaenyra gets her same propriety from her father.

Rhaenyra is not a bad person. The same way many people would say Viserys was not a bad person. But when all things are said and done, Viserys will be remembered as peaceful. Alicent worries history will not give the same charitable read to Rhaenyra. Who fumbles and doubles down on her bad actions in the way she learned from her father. Terribly misguided in each path they take, paying no mind to the carnage left behind.

Too much trust in Daemon. A fault both will have to live with or die by.

“Everything will be fine, once I recover,” she takes note of Alicent’s distant eyes. “It will be alright.”

You look so much like your father when you lie to me. So much like him with false hope and no tact. They riot in the streets over your reign already, and you are sure it will be alright.

Alicent just squeezes Rhaenyra’s hand. The way she used to when she used to get the urge to pick at her hands. She looks around the room. Rhaenyra, now laying in the same bed her father did before her. Alicent just hopes the morbid memories of Viserys do not haunt her in the way Aemma’s ghost still haunts Alicent to this day.

Aemma was right, and they did not even know it at the time. The birthing bed was their battlefield. And it feels like it is all catching up to them.

It has been a few minutes since your parents welcomed you into their parents, and in those few minutes your mother has done nothing but pick at your hair and fret over your outfit.

The sun was at its height in the sky, brightness peaking through their windows. This morning you woke up, and did what have for the past couple of days. Remember your children are not there for you to kiss and hug, and look over at your sleeping husband. Multiple ways of smothering him popping into your head.

“Wearing your hair back makes you look so severe, my darling,” she fiddles with bun. Your hand goes up the move it way. “And grey is not slimming on everyone.”

“Yes mother,” you try to grin and bear like you have always done. Your resolve faltered when she gushed about how lovely of a father Aemond was for wanting the kids to spend more time with their uncle, the excuse the both of you had parroted whenever someone asked here Daella and Alaric were.

“I think it may be best, if both of you go back home,” you sit both of them down. “I just worry that things may get a bit hectic, and I would feel better if you both were far from it.”

They both give you a curious look. There is only so much you can say without giving all away. Your father gets up and pulls you to the side.

“There has been… rumblings,” he mutters. “About the Queen and her state.”

He chooses his words wisely. As if he was worried others are listening.

“I want you to know that whatever path may arrive. The full backing of the house is behind it. Your uncle and I will make sure of that. If there was a change in power.”

Tears pinch and sting your eyes. It should be reassuring but it only makes you realizing that backing comes at the whim of others. This will always come back to who is ruling, and who people think should rule.

That is why you married Aemond right? To be put in the best position for your house.

“Thank you, father.”

He kisses you on the cheek, before leaving. You turn towards your mother who sits on the bench in front of the bed.

“I do hope your little excursion has renewed your spirit,” she gets up. “Your husband seemed just beside himself after you left. No wife, no children around. I can only imagine how hard that was for him.” You just stand there as she comes towards you. She stares at you for a moment, taking in your new dark dress, and hair. You cannot tell if the look is unimpressed, or filled with sadness. Your mother’s faces tend to blur together into nothingness.

“Of course, that is what you took from it,” you mutter.

“What was that, lamb?” Another hand runs over your hair.

“Nothing, mother.”

Your mother laughs a bit, in that cold, jilted way she does. The joy never reaching her eyes.

“It’s always been that way. Sweet with him, distant with me.”

You stare at her in slight shock, slight mortification when she leans back. Is that how she’s read the situation? You choosing your father over her. Not the paralyzing fear that came with having to please her. The heart arching want to make her proud of you, even at the expense of your own wants.

“You made it that way. I - you sent me away to - to this place and -“

“Oh, here we go. You got married to a Prince, you had your babies, and I am still the evil mother.”

She bows her head as is she about to cry. Initiatively, you put a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not evil,” you don’t understand how the conversation how switcher so fast. How now you have to the one to comfort her. “We just don’t see certain things the same way.”

An understatement.

“Mayhaps, I was never meant to be a mother,” she looks up, eyes dry. She says it so casually.

“What?”

“I should have taken the hint after the first miscarriage. But your father just begged and begged about wanting a child.”

You just watch in horror.

She runs another hand over your hair, nagging on the bun and frowns.

“Some women just aren’t meant to be mothers. Too headstrong for it, too weak for it,” there is an air of pity when she says it.

She leans in, and her breath hits your ears. “Be careful, my lamb. The softer the heart, the harder the fall.”

You swallow hard. She’s fed a poison that is hard to be weaned off.

— — —

Leaving the room, in a slight daze. Softly shuffling the opposite way of your chambers, and up the large stairs. You had promised Rhaenyra you would come see her soon.

The only thing that breaks you out the trance is the heavy footsteps of Daemon. You stop and lower your head in acknowledgment.

“My prince, I have not been able to catch you to give my condolence.”

Daemon hums. You’ve noticed how he walks around with Dark Sister attached firmly on his hip. Sometimes sheathed, other times unsheathed as he leans against as some sort of crutch.

“I suppose I should be sending you sorrows too,” a small smile on his face. You tilt your head in confusion.

“Your children.”

Your blood runs a bit cold.

“They are just with their uncle. Taking it the beauty of Oldtown. We want them to see many parts of the realm.”

“With Vermithor?”

You just nod. “You must know how important the bond is between dragon and dragon rider. More importantly during these early stages.”

Daemon’s mirth grows as he comes closer. “I do remember our conversation. About how your loyalty would be not only expected but rewarded. I would absolutely hate to see anyone get hurt, especially as our queen is recovering.”

You smile, brightly and sound.

“Of course, it would be quite a shame if anyone was putting their own needs ahead of Queen Rhaenyra’s. Those close to her must be diligent, and kind.”

The two of you exchange more fake smiles before he steps around you, sword glistening under the flicker of flames in the hallway.

Trying to compose yourself as you make your way to the master chambers. You are slightly relieved by the changes that were made by the time Rhaenyra arrived and settled in. The model Viserys spent even his last days speaking about that collected dust had been removed. Different drapes that let the sun in, the furniture moved around a bit, and the smell. Thank Gods, the smell was different.

The smell of rotting, and noxious air replaced by something a little sweeter. You know that Alicent would come in daily and light different incense for Rhaenyra.

The guards let you in, and she is still in the same place she, day after day, the large canopy bed. The bed you see Viserys lay in as you visit him with Daella and or Alaric.

“Rhaenyra,” you pull back the certain a bit, to let light in. “Have you eaten today?”

You walk over and lay a hand on her forehead. She is burning up. Her fever spiking again. All you get is a groan and the shake of the head.

“Rhaenyra, you need to eat something.”

She just gestures toward the table. Different tonics, drinks, and glasses on top of it. You walk over to see tea as well as a familiar milky substance on it.

You remembered seeing how Viserys was when he was on milk of the poppy. Hells, you understood the strength of it, and you only took it while having Daella and Alaric.

It was the beauty and ugliness of the drug once it was taken too much. The pain was gone, but then came a new problem - the grogginess of the mind and withdrawals.

“The Queen only needs five dops of it,” said the maester, a sour look on his face once asked to leave when you visited her a few days ago.

In all her paranoia, Rhaenyra had asked only those closest to her to help administer it. Not trusting the maesters the very same way she did when it came to Viserys. Out of part guilt of what she just went through, and frankly fear, you agreed when she asked you. But now, as you feel the tides changing once again for the battle for power, your hands shake a bit applying the remedy to her tea.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five….. Six. Seven. Eight.

Before you can change your mind, you a twist cap back on the milk of the poppy.

You walk back to the bed, giving a pale Rhaenyra a strained smile. “Let’s sit you up.”

Rhaenyra winces, eyes in a faraway stare as you help her lean up in the bed. The same bed she had been beholden to for the past week. You bring goblet to her lips and watch her all but chug most of it.

A part of you wants to say a prayer to the Father. Perhaps he will forgive you for all that will happen beyond this point. Understanding how stray animals often act when they are backed into a corner. Teeth bared and fighting for their lives.

She will name him Protector of the Realm if she stays abed any longer. Despite the mistreatment, Daemon has always had a way about him when it came to Rhaenyra. I have no way to stop it. Did not back then, and do not now.

Guilt only mounts when you think about the sadness in Alicent’s eyes when she said that. But then you think about your daughter’s laugh or the wide-eyed innocence of your son, and the guilt fades. All that is left is resentment. A deep hole where you think your heart used to be.

You have to shudder thinking about anyone from this family sitting the throne but at least you know some options are more… malleable than others.

“I can come back to give you more when you need it,” you brush a stray hair behind Rhaenyra’s ear. “Maybe I can read to you too.”

She gives you a tired smile, and nod before her eyes begin to flutter. You watch as her breathing labors as she drifts into a hazy state. In and out of sleep. Here she lays, a victim of the birthing bed like her mother. Ill equipped, and far too foolish to see the damage she will leave behind like her father.

“What is all of this?”

You walk into your chambers to find a table of food in the room. Aemond hops up from the bed. You take a look at the array of breads, and sweets on the table.

“All this for me,” you question, popping one of the lemon candies on a lemon cake in your mouth. “How romantic. The last time I had the pleasure of such a spread, you were telling me you got your mistress pregnant and it sent me into excruciating labor.”

Aemond face falls, and for a moment you understand what it has been like for him the past few years of marriage. To hold power over him, even if it is small and fleeting in the moment. Dangling kindness in front of his face to rip it away for no reason other than you can.

You continue to pick at the food, as Aemond just stares.

“Are you gonna say what this all about or just stare with that silly look on your face?”

His face flashes from sad stoicism something a bit angrier. Ah, that’s your husband.

“I am trying to mend things with you, and all I ge-“

“Oh, that is your first mistake,” you hold up a finger. “Well, not the first. You know your first. But trying to mend something that was never there to begin with? And with food that I could get myself. You’re smarter than that Aemond,” you tut at him.

“So, what now? We spend the rest of our days hating each other?”

If we even get that far.

“It has worked for others,” you shrug.

“It won’t for you,” he rebuts. “The hate will eat you alive. You’ll be miserable.”

Promise?

He speaks as if he is so sure of it. As like Helaena does at times, he has seen into a murky future, and pulled this out. You utterly miserable as you let that dark voice in your head play out all your morbid desires.

“But you would like that, wouldn’t you,” you think about the look he gave you when you wanted to reach for his knife. “Why else would you put through all of this but to make me as miserable as you are?”

It hang on the tip of your tongue. You could push you luck again, and tell him that she is gone, and never to be seen again. Twist the knife that you already have point at his back. But then you would have to be sure of things yourself. Dreams have dissolved into nightmares. Blood mixing the salty water of Dragonstone.

Then you wake and Otto’s words ring in your head. He took care of it. Now you are left trying to sort out the mess of memories that makes up your head. Guilt, anger, and sadness all managing fuck with your head in ways you could not imagine.

You eye the wine on the table. As much you admonish Aegon for it, you do get why he turned to it from such a young age.

The few hours of solace it gives is wonderful. Fleeting but necessary when everything else becomes too loud. Too much.

“It was not an absence in you. It was one in us… in me,” he looks so young when he says it. It almost reminds you of him when he ten and five. Fresh off a growth spurt. Terribly shy, terribly distant. But that was before. Before the expectation of marriage, of children and semblances of loyalty and care.

That boy is gone, and you are surely not the girl you were once you came to King’s Landing. You mourn that girl, the way you mourn the boy Aemond was before he lost his eye. You did not know him then but you always wonder what strings in him broke when that happened. An unjust act with no reconciliation to follow. If any of that led up to the man standing before you today.

“Well, at least that is something we can agree on,” you look down, trying to get rid of the hot tears in your eyes.

You have spent time trying to build up an armor in front of him. You’d hate to have it crack now.

“My grandsire told me about your little plan.”

It makes you look up. Aemond’s arms are crossed in skepticism.

“Your sister’s health is declining rapidly. Aegon needs to ready himself for this.”

“And he has agreed?”

“Your brother will fall in line as he realizes this is the only way to keep those dear to him safe,” you fiddle with the chocolate tart. “He already has actually.”

Helaena and him took a trip to one of the orphanages down in the Red Keep. It is about time people outside of this castle get a look at those in power. Aemond still does not look convinced.

“Does that upset you? The thought of him being king?”

“No more than it does having my useless sister or foolish nuncle on the throne.”

“What, no mention of the bastards technically in front you for the throne right now,” you think the joke falls flat till Aemond narrows his eye, and tilts his head to side in merriment. You have to do a bit of double take at the slight smirk on his face.

“You danced with one of those bastards.”

So, he remembers that.

“A tactical move,” you roll your eyes. “And when I advise Rhaenyra and Jacaerys that he should go back to Dragonstone as the new heir to the Irone Throne and Prince of Dragonstone, it would have payed off.”

“Leaving Rhaenyra as she’s abed, and stuck with Daemon? How would you manage that?”

“I can be quite convincing,” you shrug. “Not that you would understand.”

He takes another dig on chin, uncharacteristically good natured this day, but he gives you that look. The look where you don’t know whether he wants to skin you or kiss you. No one really has ever looked in the way Aemond has. As if he sees nothing of what you’re really made of while managing to look right through you at the same time.

“Better yet, I may even tell Baela and Rhaena that they should take this time to be with grandmother and grandfather, especially as Corlys may stand a similar fate as Rhaenyra.”

“What about the other one,” Aemond frowns.

Your brows furrow in confusion before it dawns on you. Both him and Lucerys had done a good job of avoiding each other since you all came back from Dragonstone. But you can tell the tiptoeing has created strain and awkwardness for everyone.

“If Baela and Jace are gone with Moondancer and Vermax in toe, that just leaves a clearly petrified Luke and Arrax. I think Vhagar, Sunfyre or Dreamfyre can handle that, no?”

Aemond raises a brow. “You want them to die?”

“I don’t want anyone to die,” well that’s not entirely true, and the look Aemond gives you lets you in that he does not believe that as well. “As few casualties as possible is the goal. They can swear to Aegon when the time comes or be put the King’s Justice. As of now, we should take advantage of the uncertainty that rest amongst everyone.”

Aemond laughs, like really laughs. It takes you for surprise, and only upsets you. He laughs as if he finds your thoughts funny in the way seeing a squirrel run up a tree is funny. “What?”

“Nothing…. Lady Hightower.”

You scoff and throw the pieces of the fruit on the table at him. “Fuck off.”

“You make those faces and turn up your nose at Aegon being king, but you and I both know you will be the first to defend his throne,” you throw a strawberry at him but this time he catches it and eats it. “This is all for the kids, right? It is why they are not here, away from their mother?”

“They are away from their father as well. For their safety.”

You just hum.

“I want to write to them. They did not even get to say goodbye.”

“That could be dangerous.”

“I do not care, Aemond,” you raise your voice.

There is a knock at the door and Quinton comes in with a note in his hand. He eyes the food on the table as you read the note. It is from your father, assuring you about your parents soon departure back to the Riverlands.

“Are you alright,” he whispers. You nod softly. Quinton had been hovering somewhere in the background whenever Aemond was around, especially with the children gone. Clearly not trusting him around you.

Quinton should probably be more worried you around him. His cape swishes behind him when he goes to leave the room.

“You can write to them when the timing is better,” Aemond continues once you two are alone again.

The timing is never right. Not with him, not the with situation you are in.

The end of ninth moon of 129 AC

As you walk down the hall, a soft hand brushes against your arm.

“Are sure you are alright,” Quinton’s voice rings in your head, and tickles your ears softly.

“Of course,” you give fake smile, tilt of the head. He stops in the middle of the empty hall. Though he is your sworn protestor, you feel it is best to keep Quinton on the fringes unless needed otherwise. The less he knows, the safer he is you assume.

“I know you are not well without your children around,” he sighs. “But I would not want you to… sully yourself with things before you can get back to them.”

Sully. You take a long look at Quinton. There is something sweet about the way he views you. Entirely too earnest at time but sweet. You wish you could tell him he had nothing to worry about, and meant it. The pedastal he puts you on, my would it be a hard and long fall.

“I appreciate the concern, but I am ok,”’you reach up to touch his cheek. “You will be the first to know.”

He gives a half-hearted nod before then both of you continue your way to Rhaenyra’s chambers. When you get there the maidservants are beginning to place lights out in the hall for the night.

When you walk in, Rhaenyra is perched where she has been for some time now. Fiddling with the books on the shelf in the corner of the room.

“Maybe something a bit more upbeat. A love story,” you whisper. You go sit next to her on bed, flipping through the large brown book in your hand.

Rhaenyra begins to mumble as you shush her softly.

“It’s ok,” you reach over for the cup next to her bed. Sniffing the cup, you take note of how differently it smells compared to the tea and milk of the poppy mixture you used to.

The tonic seems different, stronger than usual. You put it to her lips and watch Rhaenyra drink it. You wipe her mouth. Even if this weakened state, you find her tragically beautiful. Like a fallen Angel. She resembles her siblings in that regard.

“I need - I need,” her eyes flutter open and shut. “The Prince that was Promised.”

You frown.

“Aeg- Aegon…”

“Your brother?”

“Tell Jacaerys.”

She trails off. Your back straightens as you watch as Rhaenyra’s eyes close, and her breathing slow.

The Prince that was Promised… Aegon.

You lean down and kiss her forehead. Mayhaps, in another life things could’ve been different for her. For her siblings, for her children, for you… for your kids. Climbing off the side of the bed, you gently tuck Rhaenyra in.

When you walk out, you see Quinton standing at attention. You motion for him to come with.

“I need you to do go get Otto,” you mummer. “We have business to get to.”

You cannot see the look Quinton gives you as move to walk ahead of him, and to that you are grateful.

Sullying is your only other option.

In the tenth moon 129 AC, the bell connected to the Royal Sept tolled for thee.

The death of Queen Rhaenyra, First of her Name, sent ripples through the Realm. But that was just beginning of the great strife that would follow her passing. A years peaceful period of reign for the Targaryen family ended by infighting.

Histories will say the first problem came the moment the then Princess and heir decided to sire bastard heirs. Others would say it began the moment, Rhaenyra left her succession vulnerable to her young brother. Not ending his line the moment she had the chance to.

Throughout her short reign as queen, there were festering rumors of usurping. That Lord Otto Hightower would hold secret meetings planning for the best moment to strike to get his grandson son on the throne. Others dispirited this claim, saying that the Dowager Queen Alicent’s afflictions for Queen Rhaenyra would never let that happen.

Ironically, it was not the death of the Rhaenyra is not the official start of what would later be called the Dance of Dragons. Instead the death of Prince’s Aemond One-Eye Targaryen’s lady wife’s parents triggered the domino affect. An escalation of plans.

Most would say the overflipped carriage was a tragic accident, but others whispered about something more serious. An inside attack from a member of the Targaryen family themselves. It was this tragedy that led to a public outcry from the members of the house in the Riverlands, coupling with the public crowning of a new king.

It was Ser Criston Cole, member of the Kingsguard, who crowed King Aegon, Second of his Name, in a private ceremony. Only flanked by his new crowned Queen Helaena, Prince Aemond and his wife, and Lord Hightower. King Aegon was crowned in front of the septon of faith, dawning his namesakes crown.

Back on Dragonstone, Jacaerys Velaryon recieved the news of not only his mother’s death, but also the usurping. Except it was not allies with the news, but foes. Jacaerys was slain at the footsteps of the castle.

It is still debated which side has more to gain to having Jace out of the way. King Aegon or Prince Daemon. But in the end, it was the later who eventually set up him home base at Dragonstone. Fleeing under the watchful eye of his spies in the Red Keep. With only two of his sons with him.

Both sides strategizing their moves. Daemon labeling Aegon and his supporters traitors to the realm, while Aegon set out to kill his uncle himself in given the chance. Under the insistence that it was him who accerlated Rhaenyra’s already bad condition.

Support the amongst the realm split as some supporter the efforts of the new king, far more open to his tactics than one of the Rogue Prince or Rhaenyra’s Bastards. While others scoffed at the boldness of Aegon the Usurper.

Those called on the opinions of the sons that remained at King’s Landing. Rumors of the Lucerys and Joffrey Velaryon being chained arriving. But it was not Daemon who negotiated the release of the boys. It was members of House Velaryon.

But there was one condition. It would be Baela and Rhaena, of both House Targaryen and Velaryon, that recieved equal titles after the passing of Corlys. Lucerys would be stripped of title of heir to the Driftmark Throne. It was rumored that this was not a cruel twist of fate from team green, but instead a plea from Lucerys himself.

It was Rhaena Targaryen, in all her wisdom, that worked through the terms. With a heavy heart, and no more bloodshed in her pleas. The more bold sister of the twins, Baela, had other plans. Sensing the release of Lucerys and Joffrey was a trap. She climbed on top of Moondancer, despite the calls not, and made her way closer to King’s Landing herself. But she was not alone. Her grandmother was with her.

Never one to sit from a battle himself, it was King Aegon who climbed his dragon to take them both on. All three dragon and riders fought diligently. Moondancer sustaining life ending injuries, while both Sunfyre and Aegon were injured at battle. But the most costly lost came at the hand of the One-Eyed Prince himself. Taking out Rhaenys and Meleys before further injury could come to his brother.

Enraged at the news of the death of Moondancer, and the almost costly lost of Baela, Daemon began his March. But he also had other plans at play. In efforts to lure the new Prince Regent out of the castle, he sent spies to Oldtown. Where not only Prince Daeron worked with all of Reach to support King Aegon. But also where the young Prince watched over his younger nieces and nephews.

There was an attempt to take the Jaehaerys Targaryen, son of Aegon and Alaric Targaryen, son of Aemond. But the plan was thwarted by a terrible beast. Vermithor lurched and lured over Oldtown like a tower himself. His flames as green as the Hightower Beacon. Highly protective over his new rider and those close to her. At just six and seventh month, Daella Targaryen was feared as her father.

Still not wanting to be outdone, Daemon sets his sights towards not only Harrenhal, but another certain house in the Riverlands. His march pillaging those close to Aemond’s wife. Still grieving the lost of parents and seperated from her children, it was rumored the lady became more quiet, drowning herself in her cups.

It was she, with Queen Mother Alicent and Queen Helaena, who pleaded for Aemond to not take the bait. But it was too no vail. After he heard of the attempted kidnapping, he set out with men of his own.

His march mirroring his uncle’s not only through the Stormlands but as well as the Riverlands. There were whispers of inhabitants at Harrenhal. It is still speculated by both Daemon and Aemond did not burn the structure to the ground, when they had to chance. Tales would be written of a certain magic soiling the ground. Keeping safe from harm.

Though those tales are all rumors, what was undeniably true, is that two Targaryen princes breathed their last breaths over God’s Eye on the sixth moon of 130 AC. No one saw the battle, but the sound of snapping dragons and the sight of green and red flames that called attention.

Vhagar and Aemond both fought a valiant effort but it the wounds to both proved to be to substantial. Aemond Targaryen died on top of his crowned dragon. The burns from Vhagar burning Daemon beyond repair.

When their deaths made it back to the Red Keep, the halls recount the Queen Mother tearing her hair in anguish, calling for the deaths of not only everyone who supported Daemon, but Aegon the younger and Viserys alike.

A story of crowns and iron thrones whittled down to death and fire. The grief felt by team green only compounded by the body of Aemond’s lady wife found charred in their chambers. It was Ser Quinton, her sworn protector, who lived to tell the story of having to fight off several guards before it was too late. In a matter of days, Daella and Alaric Targaryen missing from their places in Oldtown.

Both jobs speculated to be last minute plans carried about for Daemon Targaryen, done by his loyal Gold Cloaks. It is said that King Aegon never fully recovers from the death of not only his brother, but his good sister. Punishing those he deems responsible once he comes to.

But there are merchants in Essos that believe they have spotted a beautiful lady hand in hand with her children. One with sparkling white hair, the other with blonde streaks through her dark curls.

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#im truly screaming crying throwing up about this being done #I hope y’all enjoy this and thank you again #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #prince aemond targaryen #aemond fic #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond x you #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond imagine #prince aemond #aemond x y/n #aemond one eye #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc

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petrichorium · 1 year

Text

Symbiosis

in which you break down, and draken is there to pick up the pieces

draken x gn!reader

word count: 2.9k reader: gn (no pronouns, neutral terms, neutral clothing) tags: hurt/comfort ig??? just pre-relationship, cuddling, flirting, idk man reader's going through it and draken's v much in love w them

“stay,” you mumble.

draken stiffens. he pulls up a little, just enough that he doesn’t have to brace himself anymore, but it has you whining anyway until he sinks to his knees and lets you fall in close again.

“i can sleep on the couch—“

“no.” you shake your head and ball your fist around the fabric. “here. sleep with me.”

“i’m not getting in your bed wearing my work clothes, baby, i’ll get grease all over your sheets.”

“i can change my sheets. small price to pay for you to hold me tonight.”

he’s quiet for a moment. you think the words might have stunned him, just a bit; but they work either way, because after a beat he rises without protesting any further and silently pulls your covers aside to join you.

“all right,” he says, unbearably low and soft as his work boots fall to the floor with two heavy thuds, “can’t say no to you.”

Draken shows up on day three of your self-induced isolation.

You’re sitting out on your balcony, enjoying the cool of the evening and watching the sun dip beneath the horizon. It helps you orient yourself, you've come to find, being outside as the light slowly fades. When you crash like this you need all the help you can get.

Frankly you should be thankful it’s only him and not an entire brigade of motorcycles and ex-gangsters. You’re not well-versed enough to know it’s him from the sound of the engine—not like he is, when you sit next to him in the shop and he can tell you who will come walking through the door by the roaring noise of their approach—but you’re fairly certain it’s him. Even when he stops, and stands, and you can’t see much more than the bulky silhouette of his form with those broad shoulders and thick forearms covered by the work overalls he still wears, you know.

He doesn’t see you at first. The first few steps he takes are towards the stairwell that leads up to where your front door is, but then he pauses and lifts a hand to squint up at you before approaching your balcony.

You can only just see him through the bars of the railing by the time he stops, but he’s close enough now that you note the ponytail his hair is in—you hadn’t been there to braid it over shitty burnt coffee from the pot in the back room this morning.

“Didn’t come to work today,” Draken calls up to you. You hunker down further in your seat, and though you thought he couldn’t see you well enough he moves forward a bit at the action. “Everyone’s worried, you weren’t answering your phone.”

“I called out.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been three days. You hurt?”

“No.”

“Sick? You sound—“

“No,” you say again, more sternly the second time, because you know he’s asking about your voice and you don’t exactly want to shout down to your colleague that you sound congested because you’ve been crying all day.

“Good.” There’s relief in his voice as he glances over towards the stairwell up to your front door, then back to you, “can I come up?”

“Door’s locked.”

“I’ll pick it.”

You shake your head. “Latched.”

His sigh is long-suffering. “Always makin’ me work for it, huh?”

When he disappears from view you figure he’ll kick down your door. You resign yourself to it; anticipate the muffled sound of his foot against solid wood until it gives in, the complaints from your neighbors in the morning. Maybe someone will call the police thinking you’re being robbed and you’ll have to deal with that at whatever hour it currently is.

Instead you hear a grunt, and the shabby metal railing of your balcony rattles violently as a big hand catches hold of it.

And what you let out is more a screech than a yelp, taken entirely by surprise. You’re a bit calmed when Draken’s head follows—he hefts himself up with a surprising amount of ease, bicep bulging visibly even beneath the long sleeve of his jumpsuit—but your heart still pounds rapidly within your chest, and you’re still frozen half lunged away from him.

His other hand finds the top of the railing and it’s all over from there; soon he has all six-feet-and-change of his body up and one leg over. For a beat he sits like that, straddling the banister, and then he swings his other leg over all the way and settles heavy on the concrete floor.

The balcony is tiny, made even more so by the sheer size of your new companion. He approaches, careful not to disturb the multitude of plants, and drops to sit facing you.

For a heartbeat, two, several, he is still. You’re both silent. You tuck your head further into your knees, looking out at the drab buildings and glowing yellow street lights past the railing. Before your very eyes you watch rain begin to fall—a light smattering of drops at first, thick and fat against the dark asphalt below, and then more, heavier and heavier, until the world beyond is covered by the curtain of a deluge and nothing more than blurry acrylic on canvas.

“Got up just in time,” Draken says suddenly. You nearly jump. His voice is surprisingly clear despite the roaring sound of rain hitting every surface beyond the balcony.

You let yourself turn to him. He straightens as soon as you do, shuffling in a bit closer until he could practically lay his head in your lap. But he doesn’t; he shifts, turning to face out and extend his legs as far as they can go, toes of his large boots pressing between the bars of the railing he’d just climbed. His legs are so long they’re still largely bent, but he rests his arms there as he leans back against the building behind you, and you suppose it seems comfortable enough.

“How’d you even get up?” you ask him finally, earning yourself a biting grin.

“Used the balcony under yours. S’easy to climb these things if you know what you’re doing.”

Your nose scrunches, and that grin softens into something fond. Draken shifts to reach out and press a thumb between your eyes, smoothing out the wrinkles there.

“I don’t like when you do stupid shit,” is what you settle on saying.

“That’s a lie, you love when I do stupid shit.”

“Not when it’ll get me a complaint in the morning about the massive boot print on my neighbor’s railing.”

“To go with the noise complaints about the motorcycle after dark.”

The hackles you’ve had up slowly fall; his presence is calming, big but warm. Protective. You feel like he could shoulder every burden for you.

It would be cruel of you to make him.

But he catches onto your silence. “Hey, don’t go quiet on me now. Unless you’re figuring out how to tell me what’s up with you.”

Your shoulders slump. You pull your legs up again, leaning back, and Draken’s hand finds itself on your thigh, all big and heavy and comforting.

“Look, it’s just… been a bad few days. Happens sometimes. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Hm.” He hums to himself, and squeezes your thigh, almost in thought. “Can’t say I agree with that. In fact I think my whole goal here is to make you somethin’ I gotta worry about. So… give me more to work with.”

“It’s just me, okay? I just… crash, sometimes. Need to take a few days and work it through.”

“Alone?”

Your lip quivers. “Always have.”

“Not what I asked.”

“Well… fine. Talking won’t do much. I’ve just told you all I know—I get in a funk, like, twice a year and can’t leave my place for days at a time. Can’t say there’s been anyone around who wanted to help me out during it. So I guess if you wanna spend your Friday night trying, be my guest.”

He ponders on that a moment, turning away from you to look out at the still raging storm. Then he turns back and says, “C’mere.”

It sounds almost like an order as he pats his thigh, and to your genuine surprise you obey it. There’s barely enough room on the balcony as-is and you think it’ll only make things worse to attempt to fit two grown adults in the space next to the chair—especially when one of them is Ryuguji Ken—but there’s a magnetic pull to the idea of letting him comfort you that you don’t even want to fight. Halfway down though, as he reaches up to guide you, you have a sudden realization of what position you’re in—and what the implications might be, despite the overall context.

“Don’t kiss me,” you say.

“What?” There’s easy amusement in his voice—endearment, adoration—as he leans back comfortably against the wall and pulls you all the way into his lap without missing a beat. It’s strangely right. You’d have thought that feeling small in his hold would be distressing to you, but somehow it’s not some disjointed desire to leap away that beckons the tears welling in your eyes—rather it’s something like his hands, large and warm and secure on your waist, punching down whatever dam had been stopping the waterworks.

One of those hands reaches up to wipe away your tears. It’s sturdy, calloused—so very much the hand of a man who uses them for hard labor. Draken seems to have the same thought at the same time, though he comes to a vastly different conclusion.

“Sorry.” His thumb pauses against the soft skin beneath your eye, eases off you slowly. “’s probably—too rough.”

Your hand is flying up to make him keep it there before he can fully take it away, fingers a vice around his wrist. There’s a denial on your lips, an insistence that his hands are perfect, but you make the mistake of looking up to meet his gaze before you speak and whatever words you might have said get caught in the back of your throat.

He lets you hold his hand to your cheek and you kind of want to melt with him staring down at you like that. Sable eyes—deep and abyssal, like the starless night sky above you—regard you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. You watch as they trace over your face, as his Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat and his thumb brushes away your tears again, and your heart jumps.

“I’m serious,” you choke out, burying your face into his shirt just to hide from the way he’s looking at you.

“Aww, c’mon, don’t get all shy on me—“

“If you decide to kiss me for the first time like this I’ll hit you.” Your voice is muffled against him, thick with sobs, and you can feel in your chest the way his broad form shakes with low, smooth laughter. “I’m literally bawling, pick a more romantic moment.”

It takes a minute for Draken to stop laughing long enough to answer. “Noted. I won’t kiss you.” A pause. His arms tighten around you. When he speaks it’s softer, slightly hesitant. “Can I kiss your head, though?”

You snort. It’s watery. “Sure.”

The word is no sooner out of your mouth than he’s pressing his lips to your hairline, just above your temple, right where the head of his dragon is, on his own scalp. And he doesn’t pull away when he’s done; he noses into you, like some affectionate dog, pulling your own bark of laughter out of you simply from shock by the way the motion makes your stomach flutter.

“There. Feelin’ better already, yeah?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

At your waist, his thumb brushes soothingly against bare skin, tucked up beneath your shirt. His hand squeezes there, almost groping at your stomach; if he were anyone else you might be annoyed by it.

“You ready to head in?” he asks. “It’s getting cold.”

You wouldn’t quite say cold, but certainly brisk. And now that you’ve cried your eyes are feeling heavy, the exhaustion of your emotions settling in, so you nod against him and allow him to help you to your feet.

Once you’re standing, he joins you—and suddenly it’s even more tight, and you have to lean back against the railing to let him sidle along the building to get to the door and open it for you. His hands find your hips as he does; you laugh breathlessly at the cliched motion, and he squeezes at you again in a silent tease.

Draken reaches out to guide you through the door with a broad hand on the small of your back, thick fingers spread wide. The heat of it flutters across your skin as it urges you forward, stark against the chilly air, gentle but insistent.

You’d probably let him carry you back to your bedroom if the opportunity arose—honestly, he’d probably do it if you asked, but it’d been too cramped outside for him to even attempt that and you’re feeling far too contrary now to ask. Soon enough you’re at the door anyway, and he’s trudging over to turn on your bedside lamp for some light before returning to you.

“Wash your face,” he orders with a little nudge towards the bathroom. “It’ll help you feel better.”

And though a part of you resists giving in to his advice, you know he’s right. You even successfully push down the urge to tell him you’d have done it anyway; instead you obediently wander in the direction he pushed you towards and begin running the water to let it get warm.

“What do you sleep in?” he calls out as you go to bend down.

“Top left of the dresser,” you call back, directing him towards a drawer of soft t-shirts. “And a pair of sweats under it.”

By the time you’ve finished cleaning your face and patting it dry with a clean towel, he’s returned to lean against the door frame.

“Put a set of clothes out for you,” he tells you as you approach him, and sure enough when you look over his shoulder you can see a shirt and sweatpants laid out on your bed. He dips now that you’re closer, turning his face into your hair for a fleeting moment, and mutters, “I’ll go get you some water while you change.”

With that he’s gone, carefully closing your bedroom door behind him.

You want him to stay the night, you realize at that moment. You want him to stay the night and you’re almost certain he’d never go for it—Draken and his stupid, thickheaded chivalry. He’d have kissed you if you hadn’t stopped him, just because you looked cute cuddled up in his lap with your eyes all big and watery, but you’ll have to drag him into bed yourself if you want him to stay.

No matter. As you pull on the shirt he’d picked out (it’s big enough that it might be one of his, you think absent-mindedly; yet another thing he’d shamelessly do if he thought you wouldn’t notice) you make up your mind, and a plan of attack comes to you easily.

You’re getting into bed when the knock comes at your door. Draken doesn’t quite wait for you to answer, opening it just barely and peeking in to check himself if you’re decent. When he sees that you are he opens it entirely and comes in with his promised water cup in hand.

He sets the glass on your bedside table and turns off your light but you don’t acknowledge him verbally. Instead you reach up to hook a finger into his collar and tug his towering form down to loom over you. It’s a little clumsy, and he lets out a surprised grunt, but he catches himself with a hand against your headboard before he can come crashing down on top of you.

Like this, it’s easy to press your nose into his neck, just beneath his jaw, letting your eyes flutter closed as you take a deep, slow inhale to ground yourself.

“Stay,” you mumble.

Draken stiffens. He pulls up a little, just enough that he doesn’t have to brace himself anymore, but it has you whining anyway until he sinks to his knees and lets you fall in close again.

“I can sleep on the couch—“

“No.” You shake your head and ball your fist around the fabric. “Here. Sleep with me.”

“I’m not getting in your bed wearing my work clothes, baby, I’ll get grease all over your sheets.”

“I can change my sheets. Small price to pay for you to hold me tonight.”

He’s quiet for a moment. You think the words might have stunned him, just a bit; but they work either way, because after a beat he rises without protesting any further and silently pulls your covers aside to join you.

“All right,” he says, unbearably low and soft as his work boots fall to the floor with two heavy thuds, “can’t say no to you.”

One of his hands eases beneath you as he eases himself over you and pulls the covers back on top of you both, sliding up under your shirt to press a warm, calloused palm against your back. You reach your arms over his shoulders in return and use the motion to tug the hairtie from his hair—one of your own, you realize as you slide it onto your wrist, and it has your chest fluttering as those black strands fall to curtain your face along with his.

You let your fingers scratch at his scalp and he lets out a low groan. First his head drops to tuck into the crook of your neck, then his whole body, pressing not even close to the full weight of him against you. His other hand runs down the side of your body to your waist, and then he’s shifting you, pushing you over a few inches so that there’s enough room between you and the edge of your bed for him to lean against it.

At last Draken relaxes, more on top of you than not but carefully keeping enough of his weight off you that you’re not being crushed. You’re not sure you’d mind, though; as you begin to nod off, all that remains in your mind is how nice the pressure is. It’s grounding, and warm, and it’s not as if you’d complain about feeling him pressed up against you.

You turn your head to tuck his beneath your chin, and he sighs heavily against your skin, pulling you in even closer. Like that, you both drift off.

In the morning you think you’ll finally let him kiss you.

#draken x reader #draken x y/n #draken x you #ken ryuuguji x reader #ken ryuuguji x y/n #ken ryuuguji x you #tokrev x reader #tokrev x y/n #tokrev x you #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers x you #tokyo revengers x y/n #mine.🌧#char.🌧 draken #fic.🌧 symbiosis #god this was supposed to be a lil drabble lmfaooooo i truly do not know how long things will end up JAHKDBF #I HOPE IT DOESNT DRAG ON TOO LONG TBH i think it might but yk what. we ball #its fanfic im allowed to drag a little #enjoy JHSBDF

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