#{ by the grace of the fire and the flames; answered }

[val-of-the-north]

The "Hornsent deserved it" sentiments make me lose my goddamn mind

Short answer: No they didn't.

Long answer: Oh my gooooooooooood can we NOT do this shit, please???

There are two underlying sentiments to this line of thinking.

The Hornsent hurt Marika's people, thus Marika did nothing wrong, therefore they deserved to die badly

The Hornsent hurt Marika's people + Midra and some others, Marika is still evil, but the Hornsent deserved to be destroyed

Both may even come to the extreme of "Messmer wasn't cruel enough" or some other nonsense in the same vein.

-

Number 1

To tackle number one, we need to remember a little thing called Elden Ring's base game. The Hornsent's jar ritual is undoubtedly abhorrent, that much is true. But I urge you to remember the things that happened during Marika's reign. She:

Murdered all of the Fire Giants but one, subjecting him to a fate similar to hers but worse, forced into labor confined on the mountain among the remains of his people and culture. She mocked him, to boot. All of this because they might have burnt the Erdtree.

Enslaved the Misbegotten from birth "or worse" because their species just so happened to have made contact with the Crucible.

Rewarded her own loyal Crucible Knights with scorn because of it too, as they didn't fit her current society that they fought to establish.

Made sure the Albinaurics were seen as lesser just because they were graceless, which influenced the way they were treated. She even had her Inquisition, run by Rykard, torture them in needlessly cruel manners, as they appear to be their main victims.

Just in general, she allowed Rykard to run a sadistic Inquisition to torture heretics to the Golden Order in the first place, and she saw nothing wrong with it or their practices.

She entombed the entire Great Caravan over a false rumor, which is the sole reason why the Flame of Frenzy was even a problem during her reign. This has also scarred the remainder of their people greatly.

Made the lives of all Omen a living hell either by cutting their horns just as they were born which often kills them, hunting them down in as cruel a way as possible by using their trauma and body parts against them, or throwing them in a sewer to fester with evil spirits hidden from view. She also used to shackle them, including her two children, just to make extra sure they wouldn't crawl out.

Shunned anyone who saw a vision of the Erdtree burning, regardless of who it was, and chased them away from their homes.

Literally allowed the belief that shorter people are somehow lesser, for apparently no reason at all (her most random discrimination decision tbh). This forces them to band together and take up honorless jobs just to get by, and in turn, people start to spread rumors of their inhuman practices, which are likely all untrue.

Had people literally work as slaves for the nobility just by virtue of "being born into obscurity", whatever that means. As well as other accounts of slavery like the Fallen Hawks (likely tied to the defeated soldiers of ancient Stormveil).

Likely endorsed viewing anyone without Grace as inferior beings, which includes the Tarnished that only exist because she divested them of it. She has done nothing to ease their discrimination (despite potentially seeing them as a future asset of sorts), as even the members of the Crusade are more than ready to kill us, like Fire Knight Queelign.

All of this was done in service to HER religion and order. Killing all the Fire Giants and burying the Nomadic Merchants alive? Oh, they could have ruined her age with those pesky flames of theirs.

Systematically oppressing Omen, Misbegotten, Albinaurics and the likes? Oh, they are impure creatures, unlike her people, blessed with the Grace of Gold, elevated from the rest. (Which is the exact same line of thinking as the Hornsent and their horns for crying out loud).

"Oh but the Hornsent stuffed her people into jars" yeah, and I am not arguing the contrary! It was a cruel, deranged practice, born of simple superstition that their victims would be reborn as "good people". But Marika's answer if you don't fit her vision of the world is to either get rid of you and your people through extermination, by literally hounding you from your rightful home, or by enslaving you.

Both sides are genuinely awful... but there's only one side that people are justifying, and it sure as hell isn't the Hornsent.

Marika's backstory is meant to make her less a god, which is all we have ever known her to be before the DLC, and more a human, which is what she once was. It gives her complexity as a character, it's meant to be the catalyst from which we learn why she took the path that she took. It is absolutely not meant to make us go "holy shit guys, Marika was the good guy all along???", because what she brought upon this world through her burning desire for vengeance has ruined it irreparably, and ruined the lives of most of the creatures who inhabit it.

This includes her ruthless, honorless, pointless Crusade against the Hornsent. Sure, it was her own son that started it, but it was for her sake. It was her who allowed him to wage it, he had her full support... until the thing turned to such a slaughter-fest that even she could not associate with it anymore due to how appalling it all was. And what better way to do that than to seal her own son away to wage war endlessly? And not just because his actions made her look bad, but also for the same crippling fear and prejudice that saw her kill all Fire Giants but one and scar the Great Caravan.

Gratuitous violence across the board, and for what?

(I want to make it absolutely clear that I don't mean you can't like Marika now. In fact, I'd say the DLC made her much more of an interesting character to me as well. I just cannot fathom seeing the entirety of Elden Ring and coming out thinking "wow Marika was the good guy" because she isn't. Heck, coming out thinking that she'd be disgusted with what her grandson Godrick is doing with grafting as if she isn't the queen of having zero empathy for those who are graceless or aren't her family, which the Tarnished he grafts are neither. She'd probably be very proud if anything. Marika is a monster. She became one the moment she obtained godhood, because no milestone would quell her. She did all the wrongs, so take this whole section as a refresher in case you had forgotten)

-

Number 2

Now, to tackle number 2... this one seemingly has more nuance, but falls for the tried and true pitfall of "the many must pay for the crimes of the few" which is exactly where it rots and collapses onto itself.

Apparently, because of the perpetrators of the Jar Rituals, ALL Hornsent, INDISCRIMINATELY, deserve to be destroyed. They all, each and every single one, deserve the Crusade and the absolute pointless ruin that it brought them. From the children, to the ones who were friends with people with no horns, to the ones who found their own practices grotesque, to the ones that weren't even tied to the Tower's religion and were just simply living their lives.

They ALL, EQUALLY deserve to be burned, to have their cities destroyed, to have their lives ruined. All of them. Ok.

Number 2 works with the assumption that the Hornsent are some sort of hive mind. Some sort of all-encompassing religious order who believes in their superiority. But that's just the Tower's religion. Hornsent are a people. And people are individuals, with their own opinions, their own lives. In fact, from the perspective of the average Hornsent citizen, they were attacked out of nowhere as they were living in peace, which likely means they weren't even at war with Marika before this event.

People also have the assumption that all of the Hornsent were benefiting from their society, which is blatantly false. In fact, outside the treatment of the Shamans, the people that we know the Hornsent have hurt the most are their fellow Hornsent. We know of quite a few of them suffering at the hands of their kin BECAUSE of their religious and cultural practices.

Being Hornsent isn't a "free from mistreatment" card. If anything, the large Gaols where they were imprisoned were built specifically to house them. The main prisoners we find in large numbers are commoners, the same types as the ones scavenging the ruins of their ravaged towns. They are often seen eating maggots off the floor and cowering in fear. All of them were Hornsent too, locked away for who knows what crime. Could have been big and important, small and insignificant, or even just a failure to do something properly (there's precedent), point is, it's clear the Hornsent weren't having a good time in there.

The jar rituals were used mainly as punishment for the imprisoned Hornsent themselves, as a way to have them become "good people". This was just as horrifying for the Hornsent prisoners as it was for the Shamans I assume. Look how terrified this Hornsent seemed at the prospect of sharing that fate. This is the reason why they chopped up Shamans in the first place, as ritual ingredients for a punishment meant primarily for their kin.

And there were more Hornsent who suffered because of the leading ideology. Curseblades were once shunned because they failed to become tutelary deities, and so they were thrown in the Jar Gaols. They were only let out so they could use their expertise and flowing movements to defend their homeland when Messmer invaded, otherwise they'd be rotting with the Innard Shamans and the other Hornsent prisoners the way Labirith is.

It's also worth pointing out that Midra's Mense was filled with Hornsent attendants who sided with their sagely master regardless of his lack of horns and what the Inquisition believed of him. If we were to operate with reasoning number 2, they too would deserve to be murdered in the Crusade because they just so happened to be Hornsent. Because ALL Hornsent deserve extermination for what happened to the Shamans.

And we also know that the Hornsent can find what happens in Bonny Village revolting. In fact, we know that from someone who was born and raised there.

This sounds nothing like someone who thought any of that was ok. So who is to say other Hornsent weren't like this too, especially those who DIDN'T live in Bonny Village? Those who risked being stuffed into those same jars themselves? We make waaaay too many assumptions about an entire race, and that in itself is foolish enough.

If there's someone to blame, it's the Tower's Inquisition. They are the religious order that governs the Hornsent. They have all the power in their society... and yet, would you look at that? Enir-Ilim, their sanctum, the one place where those calling the shots reside, is completely untouched. And what about Bonny, the most structurally fine Hornsent settlement, when you'd expect it to be a black stain of char by now. But nope, no sign of Messmer activity and the Greater Potentates are just running around naked, doing their thing as usual.

The Crusade isn't even a good tool of vengeance, the only ones suffering are the civilians who were likely the ones with a higher risk of ritual jar punishment anyway. If this isn't proof enough that the Crusade is a completely petty, useless revenge war that accomplishes nothing I don't know what else to say. I'll just leave with what the people taking part in it were taking pride in doing.

These are people who, without a shadow of a doubt, would have chopped up most of the oppressed groups described earlier and stuffed them into jars if Marika had told them to do so. (Heck, something like this was being done to the Albinaurics already, as we have seen previously...)

They have zero moral superiority, their deranged zealotry is the only reason they act in the first place. Not to mention that they have no connection to Marika's struggles or past, nor were they informed of them I bet. It's likely only Messmer truly knows the reason for the Crusade, and that's only because he is her child and shoulders all the blame onto himself.

"Those stripped of the Grace of Gold shall all meet death" is LITERALLY their motto. Do you really think they stopped at the Hornsent? They were just their main target, but judging by the way all of Messmer's soldiers, including Queelign and the other Fire Knights, and even HE HIMSELF, attack us on sight for the simple fact we are Tarnished and lack Grace in our eyes, I have no doubt in my mind these people were just rounding up and killing anyone who didn't conform with the Golden Order.

THESE are the people who should be allowed to play judge, jury and executioner with the entire Hornsent race. And people will genuinely, with a straight face, tell you "That's right".

-

To conclude... I think I actually hate reasoning 2 more than reasoning 1 lol, despite not liking either at all. At least 1 is understandable. Marika is a very interesting character, one that we have known for a few years now. We have an attachment to her, heck, sentiments of her being some sort of misunderstood/rebellious figure were already there before the DLC. In that regard, I understand the emotional response, even though I still think it's a wrong mindset to have. I have at least some hope that it is purely in the realm of fiction because it's a beloved character, nothing more...

Reasoning 2, on the other hand, attempts to be nuanced, or at least pretends to be. In reality, all it peddles is the "an eye for an eye" mentality which is much too common irl as well. Not only that, but it deals in monoliths. All people belonging to a group or race are equally responsible for stuff they didn't even commit, stuff that could have even harmed them, because their leaders decided to commit crimes against another set of people. And don't get me wrong, there will be even commoners from that group or race that will agree with and celebrate that bad deed, but just as many will not, but will be either scared, powerless, already being punished for speaking up through physical violence or elaborate shunning, or currently protesting and doing something to hopefully ignite a change.

But that reasoning only exists to perpetuate cycles; of war, violence, and hate for the most part. And sadly, this mindset is very prevalent, a lot of people fail to see the issue with wanton violence as long as it's to stroke that lust for vengeance. And vengeance is a theme that Elden Ring criticizes multiple times in a row, even beyond the obvious horror of the Crusade.

[lipglossanon]

Shimmer

Leon S. Kennedy x Fox Fem!reader <one shot>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, very little world building, smut a plenty 😆, Leon POV, hybrid reader, teasing, flirting, kissing, dirty thoughts, dirty talk, nipple play, oral (f receiving), breeding kink, mommy kink, unprotected sex, creampies

not proofread ✌️ just a smutty hybrid au

title from Shimmer by Fuel

Leon couldn’t believe his eyes. You wind around the trunk of a tree, bright eyes locked on him as a little smile hovers on your lips like a secret. He swallows, tracking your movement, tenebrous colored tail flickering in and out of the tree line. He didn’t know he’d see a pretty little fox this far out. 

Leon planned for his four day weekend to be a relaxing hike in the local mountains, camping for a night (maybe two), and then heading back home to veg out in front of the tv before the next work week starts. He’s been out here in the forest for a few hours now and finally found a place to bed down for the night when you appear. A gray fox isn’t as common as the red, but he’s heard people in town talk about the few that have been spotted out here in Arklay. 

Leon doesn’t consider himself a hardcore outdoorsman, but he at least knows enough about the local wildlife. The closer you get to his little campsite the more enraptured he becomes; you’re absolutely captivating. His fire crackles and keeps him warm despite the chill permeating the night air; he’s afraid to move once you take a graceful seat on the opposite side of his fire pit, flames highlighting the hollows of your face. 

“Hi,” you smile, sharp little fangs glinting at him. 

“H-hi,” he croaks, throat dry so he tries to clear it.

“Camping, hmm?” Your gaze lazily drifts to his tent and satchel before landing back on him. 

“Yeah, needed a break,” he shrugs, hands clasping together to give them something to do, “you live near here?”

“Now why would I tell a stranger where I live?” You laugh, a throaty sound that makes Leon’s blood run hot. 

A flush overtakes his cheeks, “Sorry, I-I’m just making small talk.”

You laugh again, tail shifting to drape across your lap, “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

“Leon. What’s yours?”

He listens as you answer but his eyes can’t stop darting between your perked ears and soft tail. 

“Do you want to pet me?” You grin, tail swishing back to your side. 

“What—no, I mean, maybe,” Leon’s sweating bullets, mesmerized by you but also terrified you might rip his throat out with your sharp little teeth.

Smiling even broader, you stand up and make your way to him, folding down into a crouch in front of him. This close up, Leon quickly takes in your facial features before noticing the small black collar wrapped around your neck; his eyes trace down the modest sundress to your bare legs and feet. 

“Aren’t you cold?” He murmurs, blue eyes roving back up to your curious gaze. 

“No,” you smile, “but I’ll be sure to let you know if I am.”

Leon blushes and you look delighted, kneeling closer to peer up at him. 

“You’re pretty far out for camping, little Leon,” you fingers graze over his jeans, sharp nails making his pulse race, “aren’t you scared you’ll run into some big scary animal?”

Swallowing, he shakes his head no, “I-I brought bear mace and I’m sticking to the game warden trails.”

He watches your head tilt as one of your ears flick back, listening to the dark forest behind you. 

“Hmmm, you should be safe enough then,” your smile returns and Leon feels your tail brush across his arm, “want to see how soft it is?”

With hands steadier than his heart, Leon carefully strokes over the soft fur. It’s more silver than grey with a streak of black that ends at tip of your tail. Some white highlights catch his eye as his hand softly glides down the length. 

“It’s lovely,” he murmurs, dazed eyes coming back up to lock on your bright ones. 

“Thank you, Leon,” you purr, flicking your tail away behind you, ears perking forward, “you’re no slouch yourself.”

You let your nails brush across his sandy blonde fringe before pulling away. Leon doesn’t know what it is but he’s so drawn to you that his defenses are completely down. So he makes no move to stop you when you drag those sharp claw tips across his scalp and down his neck. 

A low groan slips from his mouth and he jerks away, an embarrassed blush crawling up his neck. You laugh and inch closer, hands moving down to skate up his jean clad thighs before resting on his chest.  

“Little Leon,” you coo, “are you feeling flushed? You look red.”

“I’m,” he coughs, trying to cover up his nerves, “maybe I’m just too close to the fire.”

“Do you need help to your tent?” You hold his gaze, your little grin showing off an incisor, “don’t want you to pass out.”

Your fingers drum across his pecs and he has the intrusive thought of you ripping into his shirt to tease his nipples. Biting back another groan, he nods jerkily. 

“I should probably lay down,” he clumsily stands, watching as you easily stand next to him, hands hovering over his shoulders. 

“I’ll help,” you take his arm and guide him the few feet away over to his accommodations for the night.

Pulling back the flap, you help Leon ease down onto his knees so he can kick off his boots before placing them inside next to the opening. Before he can thank you, you crawl in next to him, tail brushing across him as you splay out on his sleeping bag. 

“Comfy,” you pat the space next to you, “come lay down, Leon.”

His cock twitches in interest and he quickly zips the tent closed; the light glow of the fire can still be seen through the mesh. Moving over to you, he copies you, lying on his side with his head propped against his arm.

“Figured you might like some company tonight,” your eyes drop down to his mouth, “don’t want you to feel scared.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, pulse thundering in his neck as you shift closer, legs tangling with his. 

“Maybe,” you murmur, lips ghosting across his, “you should get comfortable for bed.”

Without any other prompting, he quickly shucks off his jeans and socks before taking his shirt off just leaving him in his briefs. His cock sits half hard against his thigh and he watches as your greedy eyes take him all in.

“Mmm, not bad,” you grin at him, tail waving back and forth behind you. 

He settles back where he was and you move into his space, lips kissing across his jaw before pressing softly against his own mouth. With a groan, Leon lets your hot tongue lick into his mouth, hips rolling forward until you finally push him on his back and lay atop him. You break the kiss once to stare down in his face while you rock your wet little cunt against his bulge before lapping at his parted lips. 

Kissing you messily, Leon can’t stop from moaning and groping your ass through your sundress. The hard press of your nipples against his chest makes him grind against the apex of your thighs even rougher. Pulling away, you raise up into a sitting position over his lap. Your sharp nails tease across his pink nipples and his whole body jolts like he got an electric shock. 

“Oh, Leon,” you grin. 

He feels powerless while your fingers pinch and tug his stiff buds until he’s mewling and rocking up into your ass. Hands grabbing onto your thighs, he presses your dress up until he can see your bare cunt coated in clear slick that makes his mouth water. 

“Sit on my face,” he pants, “fuck, sit that fucking chubby pussy on my face, please.”

“What a dirty boy,” you lean forward and bite his nipple. 

Leon keens in his throat, a sharp high noise he’s never made in his life. Fuck, he thinks he might cum from just you abusing his nipples. His eyes flutter as your wet little mouth decides to suckle and tease his swollen buds; your sharp teeth scraping across them has his cock weeping precum, staining his briefs. 

“I-I’m gonna cum if you keep that up,” he finally gets out, hands tangling in his own hair, “fuck, please baby, sit on my face.”

“I guess since you’re being so good,” you sigh, sitting up to pull your dress up and off, nude body coming into view for the first time. 

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes out, eyes sweeping down your body. 

Your ears twitch and you smile, “You’re so sweet, Leon. Now sit back so I can ride your face.”

“Please,” he whines, helping you crawl up his body.

As you move, Leon shimmies his briefs down and off his legs. Your knees then rest on either side of his head and you gently sit your fat dripping cunt down onto his face. With a moan, Leon’s lapping and sucking up all of the slick coating your pussy lips, tongue running up and down your slit. Settling more of your weight down, you relax against him and he humps the air, cock drooling everywhere as he licks your pussy. 

“So good, Leon,” grinding your cunt down on his mouth, he flattens his tongue letting you rut against the slick muscle. 

He moans, hands cupping your ass to keep you from moving off of his face. Even if he suffocated, Leon would die a happy man. Chillbumps race down his body when your tail brushes over his chest and stomach. The soft fur of your tail eventually drapes itself over his stiff and leaking cock making him lap eagerly into your cunt, tongue fluttering against your pussy walls. 

“Right there,” you purr, nails carding through his hair and scratching at his scalp, “suck on my clit and I’ll cum all over your pretty mouth, Leon.”

More precum leaks from his slit, cock so swollen it aches. His eyes shut in an effort to control himself, control his thoughts before he cums all over himself like some virgin. You rock and grind down on his tongue, low moans filling the tent as he laps along your clit before sucking it into his mouth. Keening, you press your bodyweight down, making sure he stays suckling your swollen bud until your orgasm finally overtakes you. 

Leon moans just as loudly as you do, drinking up your slick like he’s a man dying of thirst. You undulate in place until the overwhelming feeling of his mouth has you shifting back down into his lap with a pleased little hum. 

“Fuck, you taste good,” he rasps, eyes blown out as he takes in your relaxed posture.

“Glad to know,” you tease, running your hands down his pecs and across his puffy nipples. 

He lets out a low hiss but doesn’t stop your touches. Your soft hands drift down to the thatch of hair at the base of his cock before sweeping down his thighs. 

“Finally,” you sigh, one hand slowly stroking his dick while the other cups his balls, “a nice fat cock.”

Said cock jerks and leaks even more into your palm, balls throbbing as Leon watches you play with his dick. 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, slowly rocking his hips up, “you like it?”

“Mm hmm,” you purr, “I’ve had lots of men over the years, but you have the prettiest cock I’ve ever seen.”

A spark of jealousy lights in his chest but it’s washed away by the twist of your wrist around his tip making him lose all train of thought. 

“I’ve been looking for someone like you,” you whisper, eyes flashing, like it’s a secret— Leon supposes it might honestly be, “someone to mate.”

His cock kicks, a glob of precum dripping over your fingers where they’re wrapped around his length. You use the sticky wetness to glide your hand more easily up and down his dick, slowly jacking him off. He groans, hips pumping but you only loosen your grip with a sly little grin. 

“Please,” he murmurs, “it hurts.”

“Does it?” You pout, hand softly massaging his sac before tracing the seam down to his taint, “poor little Leon wants to cum?”

“Uh huh,” he drops his head back with a broken moan, “please, w’nna cum for you.”

“Oh?” 

The way your voice piques with interest has his gaze lasered back in on your face. Your attention is focused on his cock but he sees the want sitting as heavily on you as he feels.

“Since you’re being so sweet,” your eyes flick to his and you hold the connection as you rub his cock over your slippery clit, mouth dropping open to pant. 

“God, you feel so good,” he grunts, hands grabbing your waist, thumbs digging into your hip bones, “please, please.”

You press his cock against his stomach and glide your soaked cunt up and down—the world's most torturous pussy job he thinks dazedly. His tip leaks so much there’s a small sticky puddle of precum forming on his stomach as your slick coated pussy lips part around his cock, hole dripping and rubbing against him. 

“You’re going to stretch me open so much,” you coo sweetly, tail swishing excitedly behind you, “hope you don’t cum too soon.”

Before Leon can even argue, you tilt his cock up and sink your pussy down on him; he knows he’s gripping you too hard, but he can’t let go when your hot little cunt’s sucking him in so agonizingly slow. 

He’s babbling too, but fuck if he knows what he’s saying; whatever it is, you don’t mind since you’re giving him that same throaty laugh from earlier that makes him wanna spill deep in your greedy hole.

It feels like a lifetime before you start to bounce on his lap, pussy squelching deliciously, making his mouth flood with saliva knowing what you taste like. The pace picks up and before he can blink, you’re riding him rough and fast, pussy clamped down on his cock like a vice. 

“I’m gonna cum,” he grunts, hands going to your hips ready to pull you up and off so he can spill all over your pussy.

He feels like a fucking teenager, not able to hold back on cumming inside your pussy like he’s never fucked a woman before. Hybrid pussy must be something else, he thinks dizzily, cock throbbing as your slippery walls pulse and throb around his thick length. 

“Cum inside,” you moan, nails digging into his forearms so harshly blood runs down his arms. 

The pinprick of pain makes him buck up harder into your spasming hole. His brain fizzes in arousal, dick buried balls deep in your soaked cunt. 

“Can’t,” he gasps, “fuck, what if you get pregnant?”

His cock thickens at the thought, balls tight against his body, at the hint of knocking you up. You laugh, that throaty sound that makes Leon throb, and you grind harder down on his lap. 

“Then mate me, little Leon, spill your seed deep inside and give me kits,” your lips spread in a smile so wide your fangs show, “breed my pussy like your cock’s begging you to.”

“Oh god,” he whines, “I-I can’t,” but he doesn’t stop himself from fucking into your pussy harder and deeper, balls aching to shoot his load.  

“Aww you can’t?” You mock, guiding his hands up to grab your breasts, “can’t fill my cunt with your thick cum? Can’t breed a wet pussy that wants it so bad?”

He’s losing the battle. It just feels too good inside your fluttering walls while he rabbits his hips against yours, cock stuffing you on every thrust. He squeezes his hands until your tits spill over his fingers, nipples hard against his palms. 

“Make me a mommy, Leon,” you croon, voice saccharine sweet in his ears and he nods before even realizing what you’ve said. 

“M-mommy?” He slurs out, body flushed and overheated as he fucks up into your cunt. 

You giggle and lean forward, “Mm hmm, you like mommies, Leon?”

He gasps, eyes rolling back as he leaks heavily inside your hole, “Ye-yes. Love mommies.”

“Good boy,” you murmur, dropping a dizzying kiss to his lips and he chases your mouth with a moan. 

“Mommy, want you to be a mommy,” he babbles out, brain complete mush now from the arousal, “want you to be my mommy.”

“Ohh?” You sigh gustily and lean forward more, pressing your breasts into Leon’s face. 

Taking the hint, Leon’s hand shift down to your ass so he can mouth and suck at your tits, licking and suckling your nipples as he thrusts sloppily. 

“Mommy,” he murmurs, tongue lapping at the soft skin of your breasts before sucking a nipple into his hot mouth. 

Whining, his eyes flutter shut. If he breeds your cunt, you’ll leak milk from these gorgeous tits. He moans loudly, the thought turning him on so much he can’t stop sucking your nipples. He pumps his hips up into your soaked cunt, feeling you drip slick down his cock to drip off his balls. 

“So hard, Leon,” he distantly hears your voice, “being such a good boy for me, fucking your mommy so good.”

Mewling against your breasts, he bites the puffy bud in his mouth, tongue lashing against it until you’re squeezing and rocking down on his dick. He could fill you to the brim, bust his load deep in your pussy and keep you on his cock til it takes. Eyes rolling in pleasure, he swaps to your other breast, mouth greedily suckling the hard nipple into his mouth. 

He pulls away, mouth brushing across the stiff peak as he looks up at you, “Mommy, gonna cum for you, gonna cum so hard in your pussy.”

“Good boy,” you smooth back the sweaty strands of hair sticking to his forehead, “if you fill me up you can keep me, a mommy all to yourself.”

His eyes drop to your collar and you grind down hard on his cock making him moan. 

“This is to keep people from getting any ideas,” you smooth your hands down his chest, nails scratching at his abs and making them tense, “you can put your own collar here if you want.”

Leon closes his eyes, trying his best to behave. Having you in a collar he picked out? Coming home to you waiting for him, maybe even splayed out in his bed, wet and wanting his cock. Shuddering, he blindly mouths at your chest nuzzling until he finds your nipple to pull into his mouth with a rough suck. 

“Mommy, ‘m so close,” he groans, “wanna keep you on my cock forever.”

You pull yourself from his lap with a loud wet suctioning noise that makes his balls draw up tight. The words to keep you sitting on his cock die in his mouth as you kneel down at his feet with your back facing him. You dip at the waist to press your chest into the sleeping bag as you arch your ass into the air. Your tail mesmerizes him for a minute before he scrambles up onto his knees behind you. 

“So pretty,” he slowly strokes his hand down your tail and you moan longingly, spreading your knees to present your wet little cunt to him. 

“Breed me, Leon,” you look back at him, ears twitching and teeth biting your bottom lip, “want you to fill me up.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, notching the head of his cock at your opening before slowly sinking inside. 

His hands grip the fat of your ass, eyes unable to pull away as he watches your pussy eagerly suck his cock back into your slick soft heat. The first few thrusts are slow and deep, letting him luxuriate in the feeling of burying his cock in your hot little pussy. 

“Harder,” you whine, hips pushing back, “give it to me, Leon.”

He lets out a pained grunt as he pumps his cock in and out of your tight hole. Leaning forward, he braces one hand on your shoulder to pin you down as his other grips your hip. The new angle lets him piston his dick deep and hard into your slick greedy hole. Moaning, Leon rabbits his hips faster and faster, balls smacking your clit on every thrust and making you squeeze his dick. 

Moving the hand from your hip, his fingers seek out your slippery swollen clit and rub soft circles across the pudgy bud. 

“So good, such a good boy,” you pant, nails clawing his sleeping bag to shreds, “god, you’re gonna make me squirt.”

The words turn Leon on so much he nearly blacks out. Chills race down his back and he teases your clit from side to side, dipping down to wet his fingers from the slick leaking from your stuffed cunt before pinching your bundle of nerves.

“Your pussy is so perfect,” he gasps, leaning back as he slides the hand from his shoulder down to grab the base of your tail, “gripping me so fucking tight.”

He tugs lightly and you keen, body thrashing wildly as your pussy clenches rhythmically around his cock. 

“Fuck that’s hot,” he groans, chin dropping to his chest to watch him fuck your cunt. 

The more he pets and tugs on your tail, the harder you squeeze down on his dick. Leon’s fingers also never let up on teasing and rubbing your clit while the fat tip of his cock kisses your cervix and makes you squeal. 

“Leon, ungh— fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you slur out, drooling on the slick material of the sleeping bag.

“Please cum for me,” he keeps the same breakneck pace paired with circling your clit and tail, “want that fat pussy creaming my cock, mommy.”

Your body locks up underneath him and Leon feels a gush of slick push his cock out and wet thighs; quickly recovering, he shoves his dick back inside your spasming walls and humps your pussy fast and hard. 

“You fucking squirted,” he whines, “never had a girl squirt on my cock and you fucking—god, I’m cumming, fuck, this chubby fucking pussy is making me cum, oh mommy—”

Leon nearly collapses as he presses himself as tight against your ass as possible, balls drawn up tight and pulsing as he spills deep inside your cunt. Your slick walls milk him for every drop— his dick spurting rope after rope of thick hot cum until it’s dripping from your used hole. 

When he goes to pull out, you whine and press your ass back against him. 

“Stay,” you sigh, “don’t want a mess just yet.”

Shuddering, he groans as your walls flutter and hug his cock. In no time, he’s just as stiff and hard as he was ten minutes ago. 

You moan low in your throat, “You can go again?”

“Yeah,” Leon’s breathless reply surprises himself, cock flexing inside your pussy and making you whine. 

The second time Leon creampies your pussy is rough and nasty. 

Pulling out, he flips you onto your back and slips his cock back inside your cunt. Slick and cum ooze out around his fat cock, but he’s too busy pressing your legs up and over his shoulders to notice.  

Mewling against his messy kisses, you clench and whine from Leon’s rough fucking. At this point, he can’t stop himself from giving it to you hard and fast.

“Gonna fuck your little cunt all night, mommy,” he knows he has no filter at this point, completely pussy drunk, but it doesn’t stop him from talking, “you’re gonna be stuffed to the brim, stuffed full of my cum.”

“Leon,” you moan, nails digging into his back and making him buck harder, dick knocking into your cervix roughly. 

“Yeah? Like that? I’m gonna pound this hot little pussy til you can’t take it anymore. Fuck, ‘m gonna give my mommy what she needs,” he growls out, feeling your heels bounce against his back with his thrusts.

“Want it,” you grin wickedly up at him, “give it to me, Leon. Be a good boy for mommy.”

He’s too wound up from earlier so in no time at all Leon’s cumming inside your pussy for the second time that night. His fingers pinch and rub your slippery clit until you’re clamping down tight on his cock, milking him into overstimulation as he finishes spilling his seed in your sticky walls.

Pulling out with a grunt, Leon collapses next to you with a sigh. Laying there in the quiet, he lets his heart rate drop back to normal before turning to you.

“You really want to get pregnant?”

You smirk and it makes his pulse race. 

“No, that little issue has been fixed,” you kiss the tip of his nose, “but it’s fun to pretend, right?”

Leon’s cock twitches against his thigh and he nods. 

“Yeah,” pink blooms across his cheekbones, “I liked it.”

Curling up into his side, he softly runs a finger across one of your ears. 

“Can I really keep you?” He whispers.

Night sounds slowly seep back into his awareness as a cicada screams nearby. 

“Can you truly keep a wild thing?” You muse humorously, head tilting back so he can see your bright eyes. 

At his contemplative silence, you run your hands through his hair with a half smile, “But I want to go home with you, Leon. If the offer is there.”

“Please,” he blurts out, not caring if he sounds desperate or whipped, “I’d love for you to come home with me.”

Smile softening your features, you brush the fringe from his eyes, “Then, I’m yours.”

Relief and excitement fills his chest and he grins, “Perfect.”

[novaursa]

The Searing Flame

- Summary: Rook's Rest broke you and Aegon both. But it didn't separate you. And Stranger, it appears, has other plans for you.

- Pairing: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N and is bonded with dragon Starfyre. Reader's and Aegon's children are mentioned. If you want to read all parts in chronological order, check out my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+ (just comfort)

- Word count: 4 078

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The smell of herbs and poultices fills the chamber, mingling with the faint metallic tang of blood that lingers in the air. You can hear the crackle of the hearth, its warmth reaching only the foot of the grand bed where you and your brother-husband, King Aegon II, lie side by side. The once-magnificent room is now a haven of convalescence, the drapery muted and the furniture pushed aside to make room for the needs of the infirm.

Your body aches with a dull, persistent pain that pulses with every breath you take. The effort of sitting upright in the bed is monumental, and the bowl of broth before you seems an insurmountable challenge. The spoon trembles in your hand, the mere act of lifting it exhausting. You glance at Aegon, who watches you with furrowed brows and tense lips, his gaze burning with worry that he cannot hide.

"She struggles with every bite, Orwyle," Aegon states, his voice rough with the lingering pain of his own injuries. His piercing eyes lock onto the Grand Maester, who stands nearby with a face of forced calm. "You must do something about it."

Orwyle shifts uncomfortably, the weight of the king's command heavy upon him. "Your Grace, I have done all that is within my power," he responds cautiously. "The potions and elixirs I've administered should ease her pain, and the fact that the internal bleeding appears to have stopped is a promising sign. But… it is difficult to determine the full extent of the damage. Her body is still fragile, and the healing process is slow."

Aegon huffs, the sound more pained than frustrated, as he fights to push himself up on the bed. His burns throb, and his broken hip sends sharp stabs of agony through his side, yet he ignores it with grim determination. He refuses to let his own suffering deter him from helping you. He inches closer, his face etched with the effort of movement.

"That is not enough," Aegon growls, the intensity in his voice betraying the depths of his fear. He grits his teeth, the motion tugging at the scarred skin of his face. "She needs more than promises and half-answers, Orwyle."

The Grand Maester bows his head, his lips pressed thin. "I understand, Your Grace. I will continue to monitor her condition closely. If there is any change, I will be the first to act. But for now, the best I can advise is rest and sustenance, as much as she can tolerate."

Aegon’s gaze flickers back to you, his eyes softening despite the pain that etches deep lines into his features. He reaches out, his hand trembling as it hovers near yours. The sight of your struggle to eat tears at him, and he can’t bear the thought of you suffering more than you already have.

“Here,” he says, his voice gentler now, laced with the tenderness that he shows only to you. He braces himself as he takes the spoon from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The contact is brief, but it sends a warmth through him that no fire could match. With great care, he dips the spoon into the broth and lifts it to your lips.

You try to take the spoonful, but your stomach rebels, a wave of nausea washing over you. You force yourself to swallow, the taste turning to ash in your mouth. Aegon notices the grimace you try to hide and his expression darkens with concern.

“Easy, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice soothing despite the tightness in his throat. “Small sips. I’ll help you.”

You meet his gaze, seeing the pain and determination reflected there, and you nod weakly. You know he suffers as much as you do, perhaps more, for he carries not only his own pain but the weight of his love for you. His hand trembles slightly as he brings another spoonful to your lips, and this time you manage to keep it down.

He stays close, ignoring his own agony, focusing entirely on you. Each movement costs him, but he hides it as best he can, his only thought to ease your suffering. He coaxes you to take another sip, and then another, until the bowl is nearly empty. The strain is evident in his features, but the small victories — each spoonful you manage to swallow — give him strength.

Orwyle watches in silence, his face betraying a flicker of admiration for the king’s devotion. He knows better than to offer more words; they would be hollow compared to the actions unfolding before him. The love between the two of you is a force that no wound, no scar, can diminish.

Finally, when you can take no more, Aegon sets the bowl aside, his breath ragged from the exertion. He settles back onto the pillows beside you, his hand still lingering near yours as if he cannot bear to be apart from you. He closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling with the effort of merely breathing, but a faint smile tugs at his lips.

“We will get through this, Y/N,” he whispers, more to himself than to you. “I will not lose you. Not to wounds, not to fate.”

His words are a promise, one he intends to keep no matter the cost. And as you both lie there, battered and broken but together, you feel a flicker of hope kindle in your heart. The road to recovery will be long, and the scars will never fully fade, but with Aegon by your side, you believe you might survive the storm.

The corridors of the Red Keep are dim, the flickering light from torches casting long shadows along the stone walls as Grand Maester Orwyle makes his way to the private chambers of Dowager Queen Alicent. His heart is heavy with the weight of the news he must deliver, and his footsteps are slow, as though he wishes to delay the inevitable conversation.

When he reaches the door, he pauses for a moment, gathering his thoughts before rapping softly on the wood. A moment later, the door swings open, and Alicent, her face lined with worry and exhaustion, beckons him inside.

“What news, Orwyle?” Alicent asks immediately, her voice strained with the tension of too many sleepless nights and too many fears unspoken. She gestures for him to sit, but he remains standing, his expression grave.

“Your Grace,” he begins, bowing his head slightly, “I bring some news from the King and Queen’s chamber. Queen Y/N managed to eat today, with great effort.”

Alicent’s breath catches, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. The relief that floods her is palpable, her shoulders sagging slightly as if a great weight has been lifted from them. She clasps her hands together, pressing them to her chest as a sob escapes her lips.

“Thank the gods,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “Thank the gods… I feared the worst…”

Orwyle allows her a moment to savor the relief, though his expression does not soften. The moment is bittersweet, and he knows it will not last long. Alicent’s joy is short-lived, for the maester’s next words are as heavy as iron.

“Your Grace… I must also speak of something more… delicate.” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “I believe it would be wise to consider… separating the King and Queen into separate chambers.”

Alicent’s head snaps up, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief. The mere suggestion seems absurd, even cruel, and she stares at Orwyle as though he’s gone mad.

“Separate them?” she repeats, her voice rising in incredulity. “You would have them suffer the torment of being apart? Even for a moment? They are all that each other has—how can you suggest such a thing?”

Orwyle’s face remains impassive, but there is a deep sadness in his eyes as he continues. “Your Grace, I do not suggest this lightly. I know how much they depend on one another, how their bond has sustained them through these trials. But… it is precisely because of that bond that I suggest this course of action.”

Alicent’s hand grips the armrest of her chair, her knuckles white with the force of her anger. The thought of her daughter and son being parted is abhorrent to her. She shakes her head vehemently.

“No, Orwyle. I will not allow it. To separate them now, when they are both so gravely injured… It would be a death sentence for them both. They will suffer more from being apart than from any physical wound.”

The Grand Maester bows his head, knowing what he must say next will only cause her further anguish. “Your Grace, I fear… Queen Y/N’s condition may be more dire than we hoped. While the internal bleeding appears to have stopped, her body is still fragile. She struggles with every breath, every movement, and I cannot be certain that she will recover.”

Alicent’s breath hitches, and she stares at Orwyle with dawning horror. The implication of his words sinks in like a stone dropping into a dark pool, sending ripples of dread through her. “You… you think she will die,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Orwyle does not answer immediately, but the silence speaks volumes. Alicent’s eyes fill with tears, but they are no longer tears of relief. They are tears of rage, of sorrow, and of fear for her children.

“You want to separate them,” she chokes out, her voice shaking with emotion, “so that Aegon doesn’t wake up to find his sister dead beside him.”

The accusation hangs in the air, sharp and cutting. Orwyle winces, but he does not deny it. “Your Grace… it would be an act of mercy,” he says quietly. “If the worst were to happen… it might spare the King the pain of that moment. And it would allow the Queen to… to pass peacefully, without causing her brother-husband further torment.”

Alicent rises from her seat, her tears forgotten as fury takes hold. “Mercy?” she spits the word as though it is poison. “You would take my daughter from her husband, from her twin, and put her in some cold, lonely room to die alone? You would have her pass without the comfort of his presence, without the warmth of his hand in hers?”

Her voice rises, her grief fueling her anger. “I will not allow it! She will not die alone, cast aside like some… some useless thing! She is the Queen, and she is Aegon’s other half! He would never forgive himself if he were not with her in her final moments—if those moments come at all!”

Orwyle bows his head, accepting her wrath without protest. He knows she is right in her own way, that separating the twins could do as much harm as good. But he also knows the toll that the Queen’s death would take on the King if it were to happen in such a manner.

“Your Grace,” he says softly, “I only wish to spare them both as much pain as possible. But I will not act without your consent.”

Alicent’s chest heaves with the effort of containing her emotions. She closes her eyes, struggling to find some measure of composure. When she speaks again, her voice is steadier, though the pain in it is unmistakable.

“You will do no such thing, Orwyle. They will stay together, as they have always been. If my daughter… if she is to die, then let her die with her husband beside her. And if Aegon is to lose her, then let him be there, holding her, as he deserves.”

Orwyle inclines his head in a gesture of respect. “As you wish, Your Grace. I will see to it that their care continues as it has been.”

Alicent nods, her eyes still filled with unshed tears. “Leave me,” she says quietly, and the Grand Maester obeys, bowing once more before retreating from the room.

When he is gone, Alicent sinks back into her chair, the strength drained from her limbs. She buries her face in her hands, and at last, the tears she has been holding back flow freely. The thought of losing her daughter, of watching her son suffer such a devastating blow, is more than she can bear.

But she will not let them be parted. Not now. Not ever.

In the dim, flickering light of the chamber, the Dowager Queen weeps, her heart breaking for the children she has always tried so hard to protect, knowing that in this, there is no protection she can offer.

The chamber is steeped in a comforting silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. The warmth it offers is gentle, a stark contrast to the coldness that lingers in your bones. The ache in your body has dulled slightly, allowing you to lie beside Aegon without the overwhelming need to close your eyes against the pain. His presence beside you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, brings a sense of peace that you haven’t felt in what seems like an eternity.

Aegon is quiet as well, though you can feel the tension in him, the way his body lies rigid against the soft pillows. You turn your head to look at him, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. He meets your gaze, and you see the flicker of something in his eyes — a sorrow, a fear that he hasn’t voiced yet. He studies your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch, and you notice the way his brow furrows slightly, as though he is searching for something.

His gaze lingers on your cheeks, and a small, sad smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "Your cheeks… they've regained some color," he murmurs, his voice hushed as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile peace between you. "But… you still look like a ghost, Y/N. A beautiful ghost… but a ghost all the same."

You try to smile, but the effort is too much, and you settle for a soft sigh. "It’s been a hard few weeks," you say gently, your voice a whisper, nearly lost in the crackle of the fire.

Aegon nods, his eyes drifting down to where your hand rests on the coverlet. His fingers move slowly, aching as they intertwine with yours. For a moment, he simply holds your hand, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. The warmth of his touch spreads through you, but it’s the sadness in his eyes that draws your attention, the way his jaw tightens as though he’s holding something back.

Then, without warning, his composure cracks. A choked sob escapes his lips, and his shoulders tremble as the tears start to fall. He tries to hide it, turning his face into the pillow, but you feel the tremor in his grip, the way his breathing becomes uneven.

"Aegon," you whisper, squeezing his hand, trying to offer what little comfort you can. "What’s wrong?"

He shakes his head, but the sobs keep coming, his pain spilling out in a way that he can no longer control. His voice, when he finally speaks, is thick with grief and fear. "I… I’m terrified, Y/N," he admits, his words broken by the weight of his emotions. "I’m terrified that I may never be able to… to make love to you again."

The admission hangs in the air between you, raw and vulnerable. You feel a pang in your heart, not for yourself, but for him, for the fear that drives his tears. You know that your bodies have been broken, that the road to recovery is uncertain, and that the intimacy you once shared might never be the same. But to hear it from him, to know how deeply it troubles him, cuts deeper than any physical wound.

You reach up with your free hand, your fingers trembling as they brush against his cheek, wiping away the tears that have gathered there. "Aegon," you say softly, "that isn’t what’s important. What matters is that we’re here, together. As long as we have each other… that’s all that truly matters."

He shakes his head again, his tears flowing more freely now. "But it is important, Y/N," he insists, his voice breaking. "It’s important to me. I… I want to hold you the way I used to, to love you the way I always have. I’m terrified that… that I won’t be able to do that anymore, that we’ll lose that part of us."

You feel his anguish as though it’s your own, and your heart aches for him. His fear is more than just about physical intimacy; it’s about the connection that you’ve shared since birth, the bond that has always been a source of strength for both of you. You know that in his mind, the loss of that connection is tied to the loss of something even greater — the fear that the bond between you might weaken, that the love you share might fade in the face of your suffering.

You tighten your grip on his hand, your resolve hardening. "Aegon, listen to me," you say, your voice steady despite the exhaustion that pulls at you. "We have faced dragons, battles, and betrayals together. We’ve been through hell, and yet, here we are. That connection we share, it’s not something that can be broken by this, by anything. We’re more than just our bodies. Our love is stronger than that."

He looks at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and hope. "But what if… what if I’m not strong enough? What if…"

"Then we’ll find our way together," you interrupt, your voice firm. "It doesn’t matter how. We’ll heal, Aegon. Maybe not in the way we were before, but we’ll heal. And we’ll find new ways to love each other, new ways to be close. We will not lose each other."

Aegon’s sobs quiet, though the tears still streak down his cheeks. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, the closeness offering a comfort that words cannot. "I don’t want to lose you," he whispers, his voice barely audible, trembling with the depth of his emotions.

"You won’t," you promise, your voice soft but filled with conviction. "We’ll get through this, Aegon."

He nods, though the fear still lingers in his eyes. But there is a glimmer of something else now, something that wasn’t there before — a fragile hope, a belief that maybe, just maybe, you’ll find a way to survive this, too.

The aftermath of Rook's Rest still haunts you after many weeks, lingering in the air like the scent of charred flesh. The pain has not lessened, not truly, but you have grown accustomed to it, learned to live with the ache in your bones, the memories that sear through your mind as vividly as dragonfire. Aegon remains bedridden, his hip shattered, but his burns are healing, the flesh knitting together in agonizing slowness. You, too, bear your scars—though less visible, they are no less severe. The Seven have seen fit to keep you alive, and for that, you are grateful. You tell yourself that over and over again, especially on the nights when the pain becomes too much to bear.

Despite the grim prognosis given by the maesters, you manage to rise each day, your limbs heavy as if laden with chains, yet you rise all the same. Aegon watches you with those familiar violet eyes, a mixture of awe and frustration in his gaze as you shuffle to his side, determined to care for him as much as he has for you. He hates to see you struggle, hates the reminder of how close he came to losing you, but there is nothing to be done about it. You are still here, and so is he, and that is enough.

“Y/N,” Aegon murmurs as you approach, his voice low and rough, as if the words themselves cause him pain. He tries to sit up, grimacing as the movement sends a jolt of agony through his hip. You are quick to place a gentle hand on his chest, urging him to stay still.

“Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the bandages that need changing. The scent of salves and ointments fills the room, mingling with the ever-present smell of smoke that seems to cling to your skin no matter how many times you bathe.

Aegon huffs out a breath, frustrated but compliant. “You shouldn’t be doing this,” he grumbles, though there is no true heat in his words. “You need rest as much as I do.”

“I need to be useful,” you reply, unwrapping the old bandages with careful fingers. “And there is no one else I trust with this.”

Aegon falls silent, watching you with a mixture of concern and affection. The truth is, he needs this too—the closeness, the reassurance that you are both still here, still fighting. The loss of your sons weighs heavily on both of you, their absence a gaping wound that refuses to heal. And then there are the dragons—Sunfyre and Starfyre, once magnificent and untouchable, now grounded by wounds that mirror your own.

“How is she?” Aegon asks quietly as you tend to him. “Starfyre?”

You pause, your hand lingering on his shoulder. “She heals, slowly. As we all do.”

Aegon’s eyes flicker with something akin to hope. “Perhaps, when this is all over…”

You nod, understanding what he cannot bring himself to say. When this is all over, when the blood has stopped spilling and the war is won—if such a thing is even possible—perhaps then you will find a way to live again, to reclaim some semblance of the life you once knew. But for now, that future remains distant, an unreachable dream.

A knock at the door draws your attention, and you glance over your shoulder to see Alicent standing in the doorway, her expression weary yet relieved as she takes in the sight of her children together. She enters the room with careful steps, as if afraid of disturbing the fragile peace that has settled over you both.

“My Queen,” Alicent greets you, her voice soft. “How do you fare today?”

“I manage,” you reply, offering her a small smile. “As does Aegon.”

Alicent’s gaze shifts to her son, her eyes softening with maternal concern. “You look better today,” she notes, her tone hopeful.

Aegon snorts, though it’s more self-deprecating than anything. “I look less like a corpse, you mean.”

“Hush,” you chide gently, though you can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips. “Mother is only trying to help.”

Alicent’s lips press together in a thin line as she surveys the two of you, her heartache palpable. “I wish there were more I could do,” she says quietly. “For both of you.”

“You are here,” you reply, reaching out to take her hand in yours. “That is enough.”

Alicent squeezes your hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I pray to the Seven every day, for yourstrength, for your healing.”

You nod, though your thoughts drift to darker places. The prayers of the faithful have done little to save your children, your dragons. The thought claws at your insides, a bitter resentment that you can never quite quell.

“Do you think she will ever pay for what she’s done?” you ask suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper. “For the deaths of our sons, for breaking our bodies and our dragons?”

Aegon stiffens beneath your touch, his jaw clenching as the old rage flares anew. Alicent’s eyes widen slightly, but she does not shy away from your question.

“Rhaenyra will answer for her crimes,” Aegon says, his voice hard as steel. “She will burn for what she has taken from us.”

The words hang heavy in the air, a promise, a vow that neither of you can afford to break. Alicent bows her head, as if in prayer, and you feel the weight of your shared grief pressing down on you once more.

But in that moment, with Aegon’s hand resting over yours and Alicent standing beside you, you also feel a flicker of something else—a determination, a resolve to see this through to the bitter end. You will survive this, together, and one day, Rhaenyra will pay for the blood she has spilled. The Seven have kept you alive for a reason, and you intend to see it fulfilled.

[lizzyiii]

just read “his lady love” and i’m completely obsessed with your writing, i definitely need a part 2 for that please 😭😭😭

His Lady Love (2)

pairing | aemond targaryen x vampire!mikaelson!reader

word count | 3.8k words

summary | you return to westeros, to find that the young prince has become a man and his burning infatuation with you has not died out and you reconnect with helaena

tags | no warnings? usual mention of targaryen incest (but let's be real, everyone who reads hotd fanfic has now normalised targcest), and child marriage (my poor bby Helaena), filler

note | oh my god, y'all 😭. idk what I was thinking with that dramatic ass mikaelson reveal. as we all know the reader is never described, but as we all also know the mikaelsons are white af. so I'm making it clear that the reader is NOT mikael's daughter, leaving the reader's description and race unknown, esther was busy getting her freak on and her real father will never be disclosed. because in my mind the reader or y/n is and will always be a curly-haired, brown-skinned baddie....so each to their own. AND I'm pretty sure this is going to be a series cause for the life of me I am unable to make a oneshot without further exploring a story.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 — 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 — 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

Five long years had stretched into nearly two thousand sunrises since Aemond Targaryen last laid eyes upon you. Each passing day weighed heavily on his soul, a slow burn of a thousand bitter memories. Some days, the tempest of his emotions roiled within him, bidding him to hate you—for your departure, for the way you had vanished from court like a wisp of smoke, leaving only echoes and shadows in your wake.

But the flames of that hate flickered and faded, giving rise to a deeper yearning, a gaping void where love had once flourished. Even now, after all this time, your spirit held his heart captive, stolen under the very nose of fate when you chose to forsake the realm.

In the wake of your absence, thirteen year old Aemond had become a specter haunting the hallowed halls of the library, pouring over tomes and scrolls in a frantic quest for knowledge of House Mikaelson—a house that seemed to dissolve into the mists of myth with each turn of the page. The histories were silent, and when he turned to his elders, the lords and ladies of the court, their ignorance stung deeper than any sword. Your name was but a whisper lost amongst the louder clamor of dragons and destinies.

Desperation guided his steps toward the Queen’s solar, where his mother resided. He pressed forth, demanding answers of her, yet it was peculiar; though he sought her wisdom and guidance, she seemed to have forgotten the very reason of why she had made you one of her ladies-in-waiting. Her brows knitted with confusion as he spoke your name, her big brown eyes clouded with a nostalgia she could not place.

Yet Aemond could see it in the gentle curve of her lips, in the way her gaze drifted past him, as if searching for a phantom. She missed you, that was clear. Her heart held a chamber of memories crafted from your offered comfort amidst the whispers of court intrigue, from the grace of your presence that had brightened the darker days.

The weight of five relentless years bore heavily upon Aemond Targaryen. Through trials of fire and blood, he had forged himself anew, emerging both mentally and physically formidable. He was now the most skilled swordsman within the keep’s sturdy walls, a warrior of such caliber that even the esteemed Ser Criston Cole would struggle to match his prowess. Secluded in the dim light of solitary training grounds, he immersed himself in the ancient tomes of philosophy and the illustrious history of House Targaryen, dedicated to honing his mind as keenly as his sword.

Yet in this relentless pursuit of strength and mastery, the warmth of his heart had withered, leaving behind only the chill of calculated ambition. His facade, meticulously crafted, rendered him cold and unyielding — a visage so fierce that even the bravest souls flinched at the thought of meeting his gaze directly.

Thus, it was with a jarring dissonance that Aemond entered his sister, Helaena's solar that day. It was a ritual he had come to cherish against the backdrop of his darkening spirit, visiting her and the twins for a fleeting moment of respite. However, as he stepped across the threshold, the air thickened and his breath caught in his throat.

Helaena sat with delicate artistry upon a chaise, embroidering threads of vibrant colors while keeping a watchful eye on her children. But it was not the familiar sight of his sister that seized him. No, there, in the heart of the chamber, stood his mother, Queen Alicent, holding the hands of a woman whose features were obscured from his view. However, even with your back turned, he recognized you and your unmistakable figure.

Alicent’s large, expressive eyes caught his, shimmering with an emotion he had not anticipated. “Aemond,” she uttered softly, the sound piercing through the tension-laden silence.

With the calling of his name, you turned, and the breath in his lungs faltered. The years stretched out like an endless tapestry between the two of you, but as he beheld you standing there after all this time, it felt as if no time had passed at all.

Five long years had passed, and in that span, Aemond had transformed. His once-boyish frame had hardened, each line of muscle now finely chiseled, his stature soaring to a height that eclipsed yours. He had shed the skin of youth and emerged a man forged by the fires of ambition and vengeance, yet he could feel a familiar tug at his heart as he stared at you.

But you… you had remained untouched by time’s relentless march. Your face, flawless and luminous, bore no marks of age; not a wrinkle nor blemish dared mar your smooth skin. Your form he remembered was preserved in perfection, your hair framing your figure in the same glorious waves that had enchanted him years ago.

You were the embodiment of memories he cherished, the same as ever.

For a fleeting heartbeat, Aemond dared to believe you were but a haunting mirage conjured by his yearning heart. If not for the watchful eyes of his mother and sister resting upon you, he would have thought himself lost to despair, ensnared by the fantasies of his own making.

An eternity seemed to stretch in the daunting silence that enveloped the two of you, the world around forgotten as each of you engaged in a quiet, yet profound examination. Your eyes sparkled like the night sky in the light of the day, and when you smiled—the same saccharine smile that had once filled his heart with joy during the innocence of his childhood—it left him breathless. “My prince,” you spoke softly, your voice dancing in the air, “how you’ve grown.”

In that moment, something within him shifted—a profound balm against the bitterness he had nurtured like a dark plant within his chest. All the resentment, the stinging remembrance of your abandonment, and the shadows of sadness that once clouded his thoughts dissipated at the mere sight of your smile. His throat was dry as a winter's night, thoughts scattered like ash on the wind, and yet, the corners of his mouth began to lift involuntarily, mirroring the warmth radiating from you.

Mikaelson.

A name that struck terror into the hearts of countless souls. Yet, here, in this strange realm of Westeros, where dragons soared and the icy dread of White Walkers loomed behind the walls, such fear was but a whisper lost to the winds. No, this land, though foreign and fierce, offered you sanctuary—not the kind woven from solace and warmth, but the kind fortified by distance and the absence of your cursed siblings.

Here, there were no vampires lurking in the cloaks of night, nor were there werewolves howling beneath the pale moonlight. Instead, there were dragons, fierce and resplendent, and direwolves, proud and wild. Most crucially, there was no Mikael—a freedom that tasted of hope amidst you heart's turmoil.

True, you thought often on whether you should have brought your siblings along, for Mikael would never find this place. Yet, a heavy foreboding gripped you; you understood all too well that the Mikaelsons (Niklaus) very presence would shatter the fragile peace you sought. Westeros was far from a land of plenty, riddled with poverty and further burdened by the cruel fate of women, yet in its chaos lay distance.

So, you fled, slipping away into the shrouded embrace of night, abandoning the only family you had known—or, more accurately, what was left of it. It was the sixteenth century, a time when hope flickered dimly in the eyes of men and women alike. You had not laid eyes upon Finn since Niklaus, in his relentless wrath, had condemned him to a tormented existence, and staked a dagger in his heart. Kol fared no better; his defiance had earned him Niklaus' ire, leaving him to face the very same fate that had befallen their eldest brother.

Months had slipped by as you braved the tempestuous seas, each wave an echo of your desperation, each gust of wind whispering promises of a new beginning. You had set sail toward the edge of the earth, guided by an insatiable yearning for freedom—until at last, you had discovered Westeros.

You had arrived in Westeros with an unyielding ambition, your ethereal beauty concealing a fierce determination that allowed you to easily compel your way into the court of Queen Alicent Hightower as one of her ladies-in-waiting. The smell of dragonfire and the whispers of civil war clung to the air, a distinct reminder of the foreign heritage of the Targaryens.

The first time you had seen one of the great beasts aloft, its shadow sweeping across the land, leaving you breathless and in awe. Dragons were an embodiment of the Targaryen power, but alongside that power lurked a shocking underbelly of normalized incestuous unions and the festering decay of traditional familial bonds. For a girl raised among the Mikaelsons, who had danced among the vices of immortality, this was both familiar and grotesque.

Your new world was laced with intrigue—rumors skittered through the halls like restless spirits. The whispers spoke of Princess Rhaenyra and the seed of doubt surrounding her claim to the Iron Throne, the barbs of scandal raised even higher by her many alleged bastards. These complexities intrigued you, compelling you to observe from the outside, where the machinations of power were far more amusing than any political play you had encountered in your old life.

Queen Alicent, though esteemed and regal, bore the weight of her flaws almost indiscernibly, like a cloak of gold marred by rust. From what you could tell, the Queen wielded herself like a pawn—her father being Otto Hightower, an unseen puppeteer, tugging at the strings of her choices. Maternal instinct flickered in Alicent like the candle flames that lit the chamber at night; she faltered and stumbled but made an earnest effort to nurture her children as best she could, though in your opinion she had failed miserably with Aegon. And yet, her fund of effort, a raw and poignant endeavor, resonated with you. The Queen was imperfect, yet within that human frailty lay a semblance of motherhood that Esther Mikaelson had failed to give you.

Thus, in your role as one of the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting, you discovered a sanctuary of sorts. The court became a twisted labyrinth of alliances and betrayals, yet amidst the swirling intrigue, you found comfort in Alicent’s earnest attempts at kindness towards you.

In the two years you had spent in Westeros, you had found solace in the delicate friendship you created with Princess Helaena—a rare gem among the Targaryens, whose sweet and gentle spirit seemed devoid of the cunning that defined her kin. Helaena's quiet understanding struck a chord deep within you, reminiscent of a time before death had twisted your mind. Once, you too had lived in a world that felt like a dream, until Niklaus tore down the veil of your innocence with his ruthless reality check. He had carved fear into your heart, reminding you of the darkness that lurked within the world.

But as you observed Helaena, an overwhelming sorrow enveloped you. The Queen's decree to betroth the princess to Prince Aegon sank like a stone in her gut. Aegon—a broken soul, defined by indulgence and ambition—was a force of chaos that echoed the wickedness of their own familial bond. In many ways, he reminded you of Kol, with his infectious charm and volatile spirit, yet where Kol harbored a flicker of love beneath layers of darkness, Aegon radiated a depravity that sent shivers down your spine.

Your heart ached at the thought of Helaena being shackled to a boy so unworthy of her light. The specter of Aegon’s reckless nature loomed large, and you feared for the princess's fate. You could see it clearly: with every passing day of their union, Helaena’s spirit would wither under the weight of neglect and cruelty, her gentle soul extinguished in the fires of a loveless bond.

And then there was Prince Aemond, the second youngest son of Alicent's brood—a striking boy marked by a fierce determination to embrace his responsibilities as a prince. You often felt a pang of sympathy when you witnessed the relentless taunts from Aegon and the scornful jeers of his nephews, sorrow swelling in your chest at the knowledge that he was the only Targaryen without a dragon to call his own. And it was hard to ignore the tender glances he cast your way, his violet eyes lingering on you whenever you graced a room.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the sight of Aemond standing at your door during the elusive hour of the wolf, his ethereal silver hair, tousled and framing a face streaked with tears, the light of hope dimmed in his now singular violet eye. Fury ignited in your core when he confided the harrowing tale of how Aegon had dragged him to the Street of Silk, that dark sanctuary of vice—your heart shattered for the innocence that had been ripped from him, for the heavy shame that now clung to him, marked by his brother who should have looked out and protected him. By now, Aegon was six-and-ten, he should have gleaned wisdom from his years, yet he chose the path of cruelty instead.

In an effort to soothe the wounded prince, you opened your heart and your arms to him. You conceded to his requests, bathing him with tender care, allowing him the sanctuary of your presence as he lay beside you. Your intentions were pure, untainted by anything but the desire to comfort a boy you had come to deeply care for.

And yet, with a heavy heart, you turned your back on Westeros, your mind haunted by the echoes of family. In that fleeting moment of vulnerability, you found yourself yearning for the bonds that had once defined you. The Targaryens, ensnared in their web of resentment and betrayal, made it clear that true loyalty and love were rare treasures. Their familial discord stood in stark contrast to the fierce devotion of your own bloodline. For all the chaos wrought by the Mikaelsons, love remained their unyielding anchor.

Niklaus, with his volatile nature, was both feared and revered by you; yet, beneath that fierce exterior lay a soul tormented by the shadows of his past, perpetually haunted by the specter of abandonment. Finn and Kol, locked in eternal slumber by Niklaus’s cruel whim, lay undisputed in their coffins, yet your brother stood sentinel over them, unwavering and steadfast. The thought of returning to him was chilling; the mere sight of you would surely earn a dagger in your own heart.

You resolved to escape, to steal away before Queen Alicent could impose a husband upon you like a gilded cage. It was meant to be a brief respite, a momentary retreat from your burdens. You had once believed that seamlessly integrating into the intricate tapestry of Westerosi society would be a simple endeavor. Yet, the relentless weight of expectations proved stifling. Each encounter demanded a dance of delicate grace, a façade meticulously curated to meet the desires of those around you, and in turn, it drained your very spirit.

Thus, you sought solace in the sun-drenched lands of Essos, a realm that defied the rigid conventions you had grown weary of. Essos was a land of vibrant colors and broken norms, where the sun shone unabated and the very air seemed to sing of possibility. Gone were the burdens of being gracious and demure, replacing those restraints with the intoxicating freedom to explore the wild tapestry of cultures sprawled before you. In a realm filled with mercenaries and traders, where the scent of spice mingled with the salty sea air, you couldn’t help but feel invigorated.

Shame washed over you like a cold wave, a sharp pang of regret settling in your chest as you sat in Princess Helaena's solar, surrounded by the laughter of her twins, Jahaerys and Jahaera. The children, mere five summers old, served as a vivid reminder of your absence; Helaena had brought them into the world at the tender age of fourteen, while you had been lost in the allure of Essos. Your own selfish pursuits had drawn you away from Westeros, leaving your dear friend to navigate the tides of motherhood without your companionship.

But now, fate had drawn you back to Westeros, though the reason for your return eluded you—perhaps it was mere curiosity, or a desire to witness the Targaryens as they embarked on a path toward their own ruin. Perhaps it was simply the lingering comfort of a maternal embrace that Queen Alicent had once offered you. One thing remained certain: you were back, unchanged yet bound by the curse that clung to the Mikaelsons. You still appeared as you had, forever encased at the tender age of six and ten, the same age at which you had died nearly six centuries ago.

The twins were a study in contrast. Jaehaerys, the young prince, was somber and introspective, casting shy glances your way from beneath the curtain of his silver hair. In contrast, Jaehaera exuded a lively spirit, her laughter as bright as the morning sun. She was a sweet girl, eager for your attention, her small hands clutching her beloved dolls as she beckoned you to join her in playful realms of castles and grand adventures. Every so often, Jaehaerys would join in, indulging his sister’s imagination by taking on the role of a fierce dragon, albeit with a reluctance that made his quiet demeanor all the more endearing.

“I have missed you,” Helaena said softly from her place on the chaise, delicate fingers working through the intricate patterns of her embroidery, her gaze never leaving the fabric.

You met her gaze, a frown momentarily shadowing your features, your heart tightening at the sight of her. A small, bittersweet smile tugged at your lips as you replied, "As I have missed you, princess. I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence."

“But you have returned, and that is what matters,” she replied with a tranquil certainty, her expression unwavering.

With a nod, you maintained your tight-lipped smile, the corners of your mouth struggling to lift fully. “Indeed, I have, and I hope to stay here for as long as fate allows.”

As you resumed your playful moments with the twins — Helaena’s voice broke through the lighthearted chaos as she called your name. “Pray tell, how old were you when you came to court?”

Your lips pursed gently as you recounted, your tone tense but soft, “I was but six and ten years, my dear princess.”

An oblivious smile spread across Helaena's face, illuminating her features. “And yet you appear unchanged, as if untouched by time’s passage. Like a Lepidoptera,” she remarked, her imagination weaving images as vivid as the embroidered fabrics around her.

Your brows knitted in puzzlement. "A what, my princess?"

"A Lepidoptera," she patiently repeated, her eyes shimmering with youthful curiosity. "It is a classification that encompasses butterflies, which remain breathtakingly lovely until the end of their days."

A bittersweet pang echoed within you at her words, for you were destined for a far different fate, cursed to wander the shadows as a creature of the night. Yet, you offered a slight nod, managing a soft, "Thank you, my princess," as you absorbed the weight of her innocent compliment.

“And yet, I cannot claim to have missed you as intensely as Aemond has,” Helaena mused, her gaze distant as you idly threaded your fingers through Jaehaera's shimmering locks of silver.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you mean,” you replied softly, masking your understanding with a facade of innocence.

“I believe you are quite aware,” Helaena said softly, a melodic note in her voice, her smile lingering with a teasing warmth, “Aemond has loved you since he was a mere boy.”

You cast her a sidelong glance before adopting an air of nonchalance. “Love is a weighty term for one so young, Princess. Surely, it was nothing more than a fleeting fancy.”

Helaena shook her head, her needlework a steady rhythm in her hands. “No, I do not believe so.”

Deep down, you didn't believe so either. Ever since your return to the depressive halls of King's Landing, a sensation had accompanied your every step—a watchful gaze lingering upon you. Aemond had worked to keep it hidden, but your heightened senses revealed the quiet intensity of his interest, as vivid as the summer sun.

There had been numerous revelations awaiting you upon your return to the Red Keep—the prideful births of young Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, the scandal of Rhaenyra and her uncle Daemon's elopement, and the grim decline of King Viserys's health, shadows stained upon the Iron Throne. Yet, the most haunting transformation was that of Prince Aemond.

Aegon had blossomed into the drunken sleaze you had always anticipated, a replica of the whims that dictated his every choice, but Aemond—oh, how he was the exact opposite of what you had envisioned. The youthful boy, once soft and unassuming, had unfurled into a striking figure, sharpened like the blade of a Targaryen sword, each line of his form etched with the harshness of time and expectation. His stature now towered over you, his presence immense, a tempest contained within the boundaries of a man’s body.

He seemed to carry within him a quiet fury, a storm beneath the surface, and it stirred something deep within you, a memory of that boy who had once been desperate for approval and had hope for a dragon. His boyish softness had been replaced by the resolute presence of a true dragon, a stark reminder of the power and peril that resided within his bloodline.

[onebadassunicorn]

All I Want Is You

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: SMUT (18+ only)

word count: 4k

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for this story! Feel free to re-blog if you choose!

Image owned by Velocity Visual Media.

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Chapter 1

Azriel POV

The sultry hum of music filled the air at Rita’s, the vibrant lounge in Velaris where fae of all walks of life gathered to dance, drink, and revel. Azriel, the enigmatic Shadowsinger of the Night Court, stepped inside. His dark wings—now folded tight—still drew attention, though he remained the embodiment of cool detachment.

He hadn’t intended to come tonight, but Cassian had insisted.

“Loosen up for once,” his brother had said, practically shoving him out the door.

Azriel scanned the room, his sharp eyes catching every detail.

Then he saw her.

In the center of the dance floor, illuminated by the dim glow of faelight, a stunning female danced. Her long black hair shimmered like a raven’s wing and her eyes, a piercing green that seemed to glow with their own light, caught his attention instantly.

But it was her dress that held his gaze longer than it should have. A low-cut, down to her navel green glittery gown that wrapped around her neck and left her back completely exposed.  The dress, barely more than a scrap of fabric, hugged her curves perfectly, the shimmering fabric catching the light with every movement. The hem barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, and a slit ran up one side of the dress, stopping high at the top of her leg. When she twirled just right, Azriel caught the briefest glimpse of a strap of lacy black panties, barely there and teasingly visible. His throat tightened, and he forced himself to look away—only to find his gaze drawn back to her like a moth to a flame.

Her laugh rang like a bell over the music, carefree and intoxicating. Azriel’s breath caught in his throat.

Who was she?

For a moment, he simply stood there, entranced. His shadows whispered in his ear, curious about this captivating female who moved with such grace, as though the music was hers to command.

“You’re staring,” Cassian teased, his voice cutting through the thrumming bass of Rita’s. “At least try to be subtle about it.”

Azriel didn’t bother to deny it. His hazel eyes were locked on her—the stunning woman across the room who moved like liquid fire under the flickering lights. Her long black hair cascaded down her back to her waist in waves, catching the gleam of the chandeliers as she swayed to the music. She was a masterpiece of temptation.

She was dancing with another man—a fae with golden hair and a cocky grin plastered across his face. Azriel’s jaw tightened as he watched the man’s hand slide too low on her waist.

Too familiar.

Something tightened in his chest when the golden-haired male wrapped an arm around her waist, spinning her closer.

“Who is she?” Azriel asked, his voice low but laced with something dangerous.

Cassian shrugged, taking a swig of his drink. “No idea. She’s not from around here, though. Definitely new to Velaris.” He smirked, leaning closer. “Why? You going to do something about it, or are you just going to stand there brooding?”

Azriel didn’t answer. He was already moving, weaving through the crowd with the predatory grace that came so naturally to him. His shadows trailed behind him like a silent warning, parting the dancers as he made his way to her.

The moment he stepped onto the dance floor, the energy shifted. People seemed to sense the intensity radiating off him and gave him space. But she—she didn’t notice him at first. She was too absorbed in the rhythm, her body moving with a natural sensuality that made his pulse quicken.

When he finally reached her, he tapped the other man on the shoulder. “Mind if I cut in?” His tone was polite, but there was an edge to it that left no room for argument.

The golden-haired male blinked, startled. He glanced at Azriel, his expression shifting into a wary smile as he sized up the Shadowsinger. The male hesitated, but the female smiled, her glowing eyes alight with intrigue.

And then it was just the two of them.

She turned to him, her green eyes locking with his. For a moment, everything else faded away—the music, the chatter, the crush of bodies around them. It was just her and him and the electric charge that crackled between them.

“Bold move,” she said, her voice warm and sultry. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Azriel,” he replied, stepping closer. His hand found the curve of her waist, the heat of her skin searing through the thin fabric of her dress. “And you are?”

“Y/n,” she said, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Don’t think this means you’ve won me over yet.”

Challenge accepted.

Azriel repeated her name, savoring it like the finest wine. “Y/n,” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the music.

She tilted her head slightly, her emerald eyes catching the dim faelight, making them seem to shimmer like jewels. “Do you always say names like they’re a secret worth keeping?” she teased, her lips curving in a playful smile.

Azriel didn’t respond, too captivated by her to think of a reply. Her name fit her perfectly - elegant, strong, and utterly enchanting. He drew her closer, their bodies moving as one to the sultry beat of the music. His hand rested lightly on the small of her back, but he could feel the heat of her skin through the thin, glittering fabric of her dress. It was intoxicating, almost overwhelming, but Azriel held himself together, keeping his emotions tightly reined, even as they swirled within him.

They moved in perfect synchronization, her lithe form fitting seamlessly against his solid frame. Every step, every turn, was effortless, as though they had been dancing together for years. She arched slightly as he guided her into a spin, the slit in her dress parting just enough to reveal a glimpse of her toned leg and that teasing strap of lace. Azriel’s wings twitched behind him, his sharp focus faltering for the briefest of moments.

When she returned to his arms, he steadied her, his hazel eyes locking onto hers. In those green depths, he saw more than beauty. Her gaze held him captive, refusing to let him look away.

“Careful,” she murmured, her voice low and inviting. “You might just fall under my spell.”

Azriel’s lips twitched into the faintest of smirks. “I don’t fall easily.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, tilting her head as though studying him. Her hair shifted, brushing against his arm like silk.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he dipped her low, his hand firm on her back as he leaned closer, his shadowed presence enveloping her. “I think it’s you who should be careful, Y/n,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. “I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Her green eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into him, her fingers curling lightly against his shoulder.

“And what makes you think I’m yours?” she asked, her voice still playful but softer now, almost daring.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, and his shadows swirled faintly at the edges of the dance floor, restless and intrigued by her. “Because I’ve already decided I won’t stop until you are.”

“Do you always take what you want?” she asked, teasing but curious.

“Not always,” he said, his gaze dropping to her lips. “But I’ve learned not to waste time when it matters.”

Her laughter was soft, but it sent a thrill through him. “And you’ve decided I matter?”

He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to. The way his hand tightened slightly on her waist, the way his wings flared ever so slightly, spoke volumes.

He pulled her closer, their bodies aligned as they began to move together. She fit against him perfectly, her curves molding to his hard planes as if they were made for each other. His hand slid lower, resting just above the dip of her ass, and he felt her shiver in response.

“You dance like you own the room,” he murmured, his breath grazing her ear.

She tilted her head back, her lips brushing his jaw. “Maybe I do.”

Her confidence was intoxicating. So was the way her hips rolled against his, every movement deliberate and maddeningly slow. He slid a knee between her legs, her hips gyrated, grinding on his thigh. He could feel the heat building between them, the tension coiling tighter with each passing second.

“You are not from here, are you Y/n?” he asked, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her back.

“No,” she replied, her voice soft but steady. “But Velaris has a certain… charm to it. And now, it seems, so do you.”

He chuckled, the sound low and rich. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

Their conversation flowed easily, punctuated by stolen glances and lingering touches. He learned bits and pieces about her—her love of stars, her sharp wit, her unapologetic independence. But there was something guarded in her eyes, something she wasn’t saying. It only made him want to unravel her more.

The song slowed, the rhythm softening, and so did their movements. He guided her in a gentle sway, his hand sliding just slightly lower on her back, anchoring her to him. The faint glitter on her dress shimmered against the dim light, but it was her eyes—those radiant green eyes—that held all his attention.

As the night wore on, and the music continued to slow, the air between them grew heavier. The world had narrowed to just the two of them, and Azriel realized with startling clarity: she wasn’t just beautiful. She was magnetic, an irresistible force pulling him in. Sure, he’d been drawn to a pretty face and gorgeous body before, but this—this was something else entirely.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice low and rough, like the rumble of distant thunder. Her name on his lips felt intimate, like a promise. “Do you want to get out of here?”

Her brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering across her face, followed quickly by a playful smile. “Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes,” she teased, though her tone held none of the rejection her words implied.

Azriel’s lips quirked in a faint smirk, his confidence unwavering. “You don’t seem like someone who enjoys staying in one place too long,” he said, his hand brushing lightly against her waist. “And I’m not in the mood to share you with a room full of strangers.”

She tilted her head, studying him as though weighing her options. She wasn’t one to leave with someone she’d just met, but Azriel… he wasn’t like anyone else. His presence was magnetic, his touch addictive, and those shadows of his whispered promises of something far more enticing than a crowded dance floor.

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze searching his. Then she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes.”

They left Rita’s hand in hand, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat that burned between them.

His townhouse wasn’t far.

Thank the Gods.

******

Azriel POV

When they finally reached his home, he wasted no time. As soon as the door closed behind them, he pinned her against it, his mouth crashing down on hers. The kiss was hungry, desperate, as if they were both trying to consume each other. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, while his roamed her body, memorizing every curve.

“Upstairs,” he growled against her lips, his voice thick with need.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she pulled away, a flicker of surprise and amusement dancing in those emerald depths.

“Careful,” she murmured, her voice low and teasing. “You might just fall in love with me.”

Azriel tilted his head, his shadows curling around them like curious onlookers. “Is that a challenge?” he asked, his voice rough with desire.

Her lips curved into a sly smile, one that made his pulse quicken. “Only if you’re brave enough to take it.”

His response was swift as he crashed his mouth back against hers.

They stumbled up the stairs, shedding clothes as they went. By the time they reached his bedroom, she was down to nothing but that damn pair of black lace panties, and he was utterly undone by the sight of her.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her lips swollen from his kisses. Her eyes, now a hunter green, darkened with desire, locked with his, her cheeks flushed.

She was fucking breathtaking.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice rough with need.

“I want this,” she whispered, her hands reaching for him. “I want you, Azriel.”

That was all the confirmation he needed.

He claimed her lips again, his hands roaming over her body, memorizing every inch of her as if he could imprint her essence into his very soul. She arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips as his fingers found the sensitive peak of her nipple. He bent his head, kissing the valley between her breasts and nipping lightly at her skin.

“Azriel,” she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he moved lower, his lips following the path of his hands. His tongue traced the edge of her panties, teasing her until she was trembling with need. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way her breath quickened with every inch of bare skin revealed.

When she was finally free of the last barrier, Azriel knelt before her, his eyes devouring the sight of her. He kissed the inside of her thigh, his lips brushing against her heated skin as he moved closer to the apex of her thighs. Her hands clenched in his hair, her hips straining toward him, but he took his time, gently parting her folds with his fingers before finally tasting her.

Her moan filled the room, echoing off the walls as Azriel drank from her like a man starved. His tongue circled her clit, the pressure just enough to make her knees buckle. He dipped his tongue back inside of her, moaning at the taste of her.

Fuck, she was intoxicating and sweet.

Just like honey.

She steadied herself against the bedpost, her thighs quivering as he worked her with expert precision. Every flick of his tongue sent sparks shooting through her body, building the tension until she was gasping for release.

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking as she rocked against his mouth. “I need you.”

Azriel rose to his feet, lifting her effortlessly and carrying her to the bed. He laid her down on the bed, his weight pressing her into the soft mattress, hovering over her as he drank in the sight of her bare skin. “Gods, baby…you’re breathtaking,” he murmured and began trailing kisses down her neck.

She arched into him, her breath hitching as his hands explored her. As he trailed kisses back up to her mouth, he pulled away and gazed into her green eyes.

The firelight cast flickering shadows across the room, but all Azriel saw was her, radiant and beautiful beneath him, her raven-black hair fanned out on the pillows. Every touch, every kiss, ignited a fire in him that he hadn’t known was possible.

His gaze locked onto hers, their breaths mingling in the heat of the moment. He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly across her flushed cheeks.

And then it happened.

It was as if the world shattered and re-formed in an instant. The room, the firelight, the quiet city beyond his windows—all of it dimmed, leaving only her. Her piercing green eyes bore into his, and he felt the bond snap into place. It wasn’t a slow realization; it was sudden, overwhelming, and absolute.

The mating bond.

Azriel’s breath hitched as the weight of it settled over him. The intensity of her gaze softened, as though she could feel it too, though her expression held no recognition of what just happened. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he pressed his forehead against hers, his wings trembling as they flared slightly behind him.

“Y/n,” he whispered, his voice breaking with the raw emotion coursing through him.

She was his.

His mate.

She didn’t respond with words. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, pulling him closer as her lips met his in a kiss that felt like a promise.

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.

He could tell her later—when the moment was right, when he wasn’t so utterly undone by the magnitude of what she’d become to him.

As their lips met again, they became a hungry tangle of tongues and teeth as he positioned himself between her legs. She wrapped them around his waist, urging him closer, her nails digging into his shoulders as he entered her in one smooth thrust.

They moaned in unison, the sensation of being joined so completely overwhelming. Azriel paused, his forehead resting against hers as they adjusted to the feeling of each other. Then, slowly, he began to move, each stroke deep and deliberate, aimed to drive her wild.

Her hands roamed his body, her nails leaving trails of fire along his back. She arched into him, meeting each thrust with equal fervor, their bodies moving in perfect harmony. The bond between them sang, a melody of passion and connection that neither could ignore.

Their pace quickened, the bed rocking beneath them as they lost themselves in each other. Her cries grew louder, her nails raking down his back as she clawed him, getting closer to her release. Azriel’s name fell from her lips like a prayer, and he growled in response, burying himself deeper inside her, chasing the ecstasy they both craved.

Their bodies moved in perfect synchrony, the world narrowing to just the two of them. His shadows quieted, their usual restlessness replaced by a rare stillness, as though even they recognized the significance of the bond. Azriel’s hands roamed her body with a reverence he couldn’t put into words, every touch, every kiss an unspoken vow.

The room was filled with the sounds of their lovemaking—her gasps, his groans, the rhythmic creak of the bed. It was raw, primal, and utterly consuming. When Y/n came undone, her body spasming around his, Azriel followed her over the edge, his release crashing through him with the force of a tidal wave.

Azriel felt a swell of emotions so strong it nearly overwhelmed him.

He pressed his forehead against hers, his voice a rough whisper in the dark.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, his words raw and unguarded, a vow more than a statement.

He buried his face in the curve of her neck, whispering her name like a prayer, grounding himself in her warmth and the undeniable truth of their connection. Azriel pressed a kiss to her sweat-slicked temple, his arms tightening around her as they lay there, hearts pounding in sync.

They laid together, limbs tangled, their breathing ragged.

For a long while, neither spoke, simply content to share caresses and kisses.

Caresses and kisses that would result in Azriel making love to her again and again until the sun began to rise and sleep finally claimed him.

******

Azriel POV

When Azriel woke hours later, the warmth of the bond still thrummed faintly in his chest—but the bed beside him was cold. The absence of her body jolted him awake, his heart lurching as he sat up, his wings shifting with unease.

“Y/n?” he called softly, his voice hoarse.

His gaze fell to the pillow where she had lain, and his chest tightened when he saw the folded piece of parchment resting there. He reached for it, his hands trembling slightly as he unfolded the note.

Azriel,

Last night was unforgettable. You made me feel seen, cherished, and alive in a way I never thought possible. I will hold onto the memory of your touch, your voice, and the way you looked at me—as though I was the only thing that mattered.

When you wake, I will already be gone from Velaris. I am so thankful that I got to spend my last night on holiday with you. However, it is time for me to return home.

Let me live in your memory as the woman who shared this night with you, because you will always be in mine.

Forever yours,

Y/n

Azriel sat on the edge of the bed, the note still clutched tightly in his hand, its edges crumpling beneath his grip. The ache in his chest was unbearable, a raw, searing pain that only deepened as the bond thrummed within him, empty and yearning. His shadows swirled around him, their usual whispers quiet, as though they too mourned her absence.

She was his mate.

His.

And now that he had found her—now that he had tasted what it was like to hold her, to feel her warmth, to see himself reflected in her brilliant green eyes—he knew he could not live without her.

The memory of her filled every corner of his mind. The way her raven-black hair had shimmered in the firelight. The softness of her voice when she had whispered his name. The way her body had moved with his, fitting so perfectly it was as though the universe had crafted her just for him.

She had slipped into his life like a shadow and left as suddenly, but Azriel wasn’t a male who let shadows disappear without a trace.

“No,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his wings trembling as he stood. He crumpled the note in his fist, his hazel eyes blazing with determination. “You’re mine, Y/n. And I will find you.”

The room was suffocating now, filled with the scent of her that clung to the sheets and the ghost of her laughter that still echoed in his ears. He couldn’t stay here—not without her. The bond inside him thrummed insistently, tugging at his very soul, and he knew he couldn’t ignore it.

Azriel crossed to the window, staring out at the quiet streets of Velaris. She had said she would be gone from the city by the time he woke, but she hadn’t said where. He replayed her words in his mind, searching for any clue she might have left, any hint of where she was going. His shadows slithered around him, restless and eager, as though they too understood the task ahead.

He couldn’t live without her. The thought was as clear and unshakable as the bond itself. He had spent centuries guarding his heart, locking himself away in shadows and solitude, and now that he had found her—the one person who made him feel whole—he wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t.

His wings flared behind him, powerful and unyielding, as he turned from the window.

She had asked him to let her live in his memory, but he knew that was impossible. She wasn’t just a memory; she was a part of him now, bound to him in a way that no distance could sever. But she didn’t understand—she couldn’t understand. She wasn’t just a memory to him; she was his mate, the other half of his soul, and he would not let her slip away so easily.

Azriel grabbed his cloak, the shadows coiling tighter around him as he stepped out into the crisp morning air. The city was waking, but his mind was already far beyond Velaris, his thoughts focused solely on her. He didn’t know where to start, but he didn’t care. He had spent centuries unraveling secrets and tracking the impossible. This was no different—except that this time, the stakes were his very heart.

The bond in his chest pulsed faintly, a guiding thread that he knew would lead him to her if he listened closely enough. His shadows stirred, whispering promises of the hunt to come, and Azriel allowed a rare flicker of hope to bloom within him.

“You can’t hide from me, Y/n,” he murmured, his lips curving into a determined smirk as he took flight, his wings cutting through the morning sky. “You’re mine—and I’ll prove it to you.”

Chapter 2

[mossyivy]

An answered prayer || K. Wagner x Fem!Mutant!Reader

Content Warning: Christmas stuff, fluff and a sprinkle of jealous Kurt

Words: 1.2k

Authors Note: This is an anon request, I believe? Might have Lost a name on accident, oopsies... Enjoy <3 And Happy Holidays!!!

Christmas, what a wonderful time of year. The fire's lit, holiday music playing as the rest of the team enjoys the annual party and secret Santa exchange. Holding his own gift from his dear sister in his lap. Trying to focus on anything but the sight he's transfixed on.

He's supposed to be blue, feeling the sharp green of envy pulling at the edges of his being as he stares down their leader. Grinning wide as he hands over your gift. Watching you rip away at the shiny silver wrapping paper across the common room, hearing you loudly gasp.

Probably something practical and thoughtful... Typical Scott.

And now you're gushing over some stupid cable-knit sweater as you put it to your front. Pulling Scott into a tight embrace as he, albeit awkwardly, hugs you back with a tight smile. Kurt can feel his brows pin together, tail flicking against his own calves in irritation. He knows he has no real right to be jealous. You're not his. Not officially, at least.

You're aware of each other's feelings and have been on a few dates even. But with his duties to the council in Genosha, he hardly gets to see you unless it's fairly important or the occasional time off. Which, obviously, he hates, holding a candle for you for the longest time now.

Kurt sighs, turning his attention back to the fire, arms crossed over his chest as he takes in the dancing flames in the fireplace as everyone buzzes around him. The sound of the party makes it hard to think of anything but your smile crossing his mind.

Sighing, he stands from the couch, heading outside into the cold. Standing out on the back step of the mansion. Looking across the beautiful blanket of fresh white snow just fallen earlier that morning. The inky night sky filled with stars for once over the trees.

That feeling of jealousy still not leaving him. Heart beating against his chest as he takes a deep breath. Closing his eyes as his hands pressed together, a huff of cloudy air escaping him as he softly prayed to himself.

"Heavenly Father, give me the strength to resist the temptation of jealousy. Help me to trust in Your plan and to find contentment in Your provision... She knows not what she does to me, and I know a devil like me isn't supposed to ask for anything... But all I want is her... Bless my friends, bless my dear family, and please, Lord, bless mein Schatz. Amen."

The door creaks open behind him, yellow eyes cutting through the darkness as he looks back to see you standing at the door, arm behind your back with that sweet smile he's come to love.

"Am I interrupting something?" You ask softly, a half smile coming to his lips as he shakes his head, waving you to come outside.

Coming out, you close the door gently, stepping over to him with a quiet kind of grace. Silence filling the air as you both look out into the night sky. So close together, you can feel Kurt's body heat from just being next to him.

It's now or never...

Clearing your throat, you meet his eyes, moving your arm from behind your back. A cute little bag with two kids building a snowman together hanging off your fingers. Blue, sparkling tissue paper billowing from the top with a tiny tag hanging from the handle.

"Merry Christmas..." He looks a little dumbfounded, looking down at the bag before taking it in his palms.

"My sister, she... gave me a gift already?" You chuckle with a nod.

"I know, I got Remy for the Secret Santa. Gave him this really nice deck of cards I found when we had a mission overseas a few weeks ago, but I wanted to give you something too... Special people deserve special gifts." He thanked God in that moment; it was dark out, and you'd see his entire face turn purple as he blushed.

"I... didn't get you anything." You just shrug, not honestly caring about it in the long run.

"My gift can be the look on your face when you open yours. Come on." You nudge the side of the bag, making him look it over. Taking note of how you crossed out "from" on the attached card and wrote "love" instead. Making his stomach do an involuntary flip. Moving the tissue paper away, he pulls out a flat square box, glancing up at you with a small scoff.

"This isn't going to be dozens of tiny boxes, is it?" You tap his shoulder with a roll of your eyes.

"Just open it!" He smiles, pulling the lid away. Face falling as the dim light catches the shiny silver circle pendant. A piece of ivory in the middle with their initials engraved together. He feels his chest tighten, looking up into your eyes in shock.

"I thought it would look good next to your rosary... And you always talk about how we don't get enough time together... Now I can be with you all the time in some way." His eyes fall back to the box, quickly pulling out the necklace and inspecting it closer.

"This... This is beautiful. And so thoughtful..."

"Well, it's just something I thought you needed... Plus, I... I've been wanting to talk to you about something." His eyes shoot back up to you. Looking into your eyes with a hint of disbelief.

"About what?"

"Us." His eyes widen, mouth opening like a fish as you close the gap, pressing your hand to his cheek with an affectionate stroke of your thumb.

"You mean so much to me, Kurt, and it's been killing me to not... Be with you. I miss you constantly and can't stop thinking about you all the time." His free hand drifts over yours on his cheek with a content sigh.

"I can't stop thinking about you either... I don't want you to think that it's necessary for us to be together if we're—" You silence him, kissing him with a tender touch he's never felt before. His head tilts, pressing into you, hand traveling to snake his arm around your waist. Pulling you even closer to his warm frame with a fondness he could only hold for you.

Lips separate, the shared warmth between you almost suffocating to a degree.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you say that, mein Schatz... Merry Christmas." Leaning back in, your lips connect briefly before there's a bang at the door, making you both nearly jump out of your skin.

It's Gambit at the door with a grin on his face, Rogue behind him with a soft giggle as she covers her mouth with a gloved hand. Quickly you turn away from their prying eyes, feeling your face heat up as the thick Cajun drawl pours through the glass.

"Dinner's on the table, lovebirds! Time's ticking' before Cyclops has that aneurysm if you two don't move." He laughs before walking back towards the dining room, arm around Rogue as they disappear. You sigh, rubbing your cheeks to make the heat go away, Kurt only smiling wider as he slips his present box back in the bag. Holding up the necklace, he gives it one last look before turning your face back to look at his.

"Could you help me put this on so I can show my gift to everyone, mein Schatz?"

All content on this page is fictional and I do not condone the acts I enjoy in a fictional sense. I don't consent to my work being reposted or translated.

[targaryen-dynasty]

BETWEEN THE LINES.

Maegor Targaryen x female Harroway!Reader

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, doggy sex, power imbalance, size kink, degrading, idk.

WORDS: 2.4 K

NOTES: This has been rotting in my docs for so long, I had to finish and post it. It's missing big tiddy daddy hours, and I want you all to suffer with me. Thank you @thought--bubble for proofreading this! <3

The Red Keep is much more homely and friendly than your Houses’ seat, Harrenhal, that much is true. Yet you have never longed more to be back at that gloomy castle than you’ve done since your sister has taken you to court with her. 

Not that you’ll ever have the choice to stay or to leave. Not unless your sister, or rather the queen, says so. 

For one summer you’ve lived in the keep by now, summoned the moment your sister came back from Pentos to aid her husband after the demise of King Aenys Targaryen. The talks of Maegor taking Tyanna of the Tower as his third wife had arisen not long after, and did little to quell your jealousy. 

He's seen you before. You were at your sister’s side during their short courtship, their wedding, and had visited them regularly until she chose to accompany Maegor in his exile in Pentos. 

And yet he’s never paid any attention to you, has never even considered taking you to wife instead – rather opting to go for your dull sister and a sorceress from Pentos. 

Sitting on the chaise lounge in your chambers, flames crackling in the fireplace, you read over a book you’ve procured from the library on your stroll through the castle. It very much borders the Hour of the Owl, and you’ve yet to take the bath the maids have prepared for you quite some time ago. 

A knock on the door pulls you out of your reverie, and you’re quick to rise to your feet, covering the loose nightdress that clings to your curves with a plain robe. Caught off guard, you waste no thought on the fact that you don’t expect any visitors this late. 

“Yes?” you ask loudly. 

A gruff voice comes from behind the door, and, despite the impatience laced within, you know very well who it belongs to. “Open the door. I would like to have a word with you.”

His words make you frown, but you follow his orders, unlocking the door and opening it for him. Immediately craning your neck to meet his stern gaze, the eye contact ignites a fire within you. “Your Grace, I– what is the matter?” 

He shoulders his way past you into your chambers, briefly taking in your attire and loose hair. A small smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Reading, at this hour?” he asks, nodding towards the book still clutched in your hand. 

Warmth spreads to your cheeks at his question, intensified by his low and dangerous tone. You can feel his gaze despite your back still facing him, like a weight that has settled on your shoulders. “I could not sleep,” you answer simply, closing the door and turning around. “So I thought I’d read for a bit before I bathe and retire. But is that truly the matter you wish to talk to me about, Your Grace?”

He prowls closer to you, his steps slow and deliberate; a hunter closing in on its prey. “No, that’s not why I came here,” he says, his gaze never leaving yours. As he comes to a stop in front of you, his bulky frame towers over yours. Reaching a hand out, he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear – a gesture that makes you shiver. “It’s your behavior towards your sister… I shall not tolerate it any longer.”

A frisson of heat races down your spine at the touch, and you do not dare pull away from him. She must have obviously talked to him about you slowly removing yourself out of her life, getting out of her way and clearly avoiding her at times. “I… I do not know what you mean, Your Grace,” you stutter. “Alys… my sister… I have no quarrel with her.” Your eyes flicker to the ground, just briefly, but long enough for him to know that you’re not saying the truth. 

Taking another step closer, Maegor captures you between his body and the door, a sneer evident on his features. “Don’t insult my intelligence,” he growls. “I know of your jealousy. Your envy. You long for what she has, to be a queen at the side of a man of my power and strength, but that day shall never come.”

Your heart lurches at his words, hitting you like arrows, and striking a wound that you have refused to acknowledge. Your breath escapes in a sharp gasp. “That is not…” you deny weakly, but even to your own ears your voice lacks conviction. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze, but his mere proximity makes you feel hot all over. “You… You are misunderstanding my feelings, Your Grace.”

“Am I?” he asks, his voice a mocking drawl. He pinches your chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting your head back up and forcing you to look at him. “Then look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you don’t want what your sister has. Admit it.”

Gooseflesh ripples over your skin as his warm breath fans over it, your eyes fluttering. “I…” you begin, but your voice fails you as something dark and sinful stirs deep within you, dampening the linen of your smallclothes. You try to look away, but can’t. Instead, you find yourself reciprocating his intense stare, the words spilling out before you can stop them: “I loathe her.”

A cold triumph fills his features as you speak, giving him exactly what he wanted to hear. He lets out a low rumble of laughter, a mocking sound without any trace of humor that sends a shiver through your body. 

His other hand grips your hip, squeezing tightly. “Good,” he hums, leaning in close enough for his breath to fan over your face. “There is no need to hide your true feelings from me, sweetling. I see right through you. Your hate, your desire for power… your desire for me.”

Gasping softly at his words, your heart races in your chest. You’re trapped between his sturdy frame and the door, and his nearness causes heat to pool in your stomach. “That is… not true,” you deny weakly, although your voice lacks conviction. You can feel the heat emanating from him, the strength of his hands on your body – and yet, you do not pull away. “I… I don’t…”

The conflict that wars in your eyes is obvious, and he all but devours the fight your body puts up against the desire that’s slowly burning through your body. “You don’t?” he challenges, and your breath hitches in your throat the moment his lips find your exposed throat. The tip of his nose brushes your jaw as he pulls back, lips all but a whisper apart. “Lie to me again. The sight of these beautiful lips of yours speaking falsehoods is almost as arousing as the truth.”

His words send a jolt of heat to your core, your body and skin growing hot while your pulse quickens. Fighting stubbornly against the urge to surrender to his touch, you take a shaky breath. “You… You’re wrong,” you whisper, your voice choked by your own traitorous arousal. 

“Then prove me wrong,” he laughs, low and dark, “push me away. Fight me.” Shame and excitement alike flood your veins at his words. Your hands come up to grip the front of his loose tunic as if you mean to push him away, but instead you pull him tightly against you. 

With a swift flick of his wrist, Maegor’s nimble fingers undo the tie in the front of your robe. 

You bite your lip, staring up at him with wide eyes. The robe comes loose against your body and falls partially open, exposing the skin of your chest and shoulders. Your body is responding to him in ways it shouldn’t, and you’re helpless to stop it. 

“I…” you pant, voice ragged, “I can’t…”

With his fingers tracing patterns on your body like a burning brand, you can’t bring yourself to push him away, and instead charge at him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck and connecting your lips in a passionate embrace.

Maegor grunts at the impact, but returns the kiss with equal fervor. His grip on you tightens even more, using it to push you back against the door. Breaking the kiss, he peels your arms off of him, which allows your robe to slide off your shoulders and fall to the ground, and flips you around, pressing your chest flush against the wood. 

Although you try to catch a glimpse of him from over your shoulder, you miss the dark, possessive look that’s etched onto his features, far too distracted by him easily ripping apart your nightdress from the collar to the hem. 

You can all but feel his dark blown eyes roam over your exposed skin, practically devouring the sight of you standing completely bare and pliant right in front of him. His fingers trail over your curves, gripping a fistful of your arse. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he mutters, voice guttural and possessive. He leans in to bury his face in the crook of your neck, nipping and sucking at your sensitive skin. 

The sensations have you arch your back against his sturdy frame while soft gasps and moans spill past your lips. You feel him shuffle slightly behind you, yet your mind is far too occupied by the weight of his body against yours, the heat from his lips on your neck, and the harshness of his one hand on your hip to notice what he’s doing. 

But then you feel something dragging through your soaked and swollen folds, and while you’re certain it’s two of his fingers, you’re quickly proved wrong as something even thicker breeches your tight cunt. The groan he releases is strained but loud, fanning right over your damp skin, and drowns out the moan that slips past your lips.

It’s not the first time you lay with a man, yet the last encounter took place quite some time ago, hence your need to adjust to the size of his cock. But Maegor is not in a generous mood this night, and hardly allows your body to accommodate him before he sets up a reckless pace that has you whining and whimpering. 

Maegor towers over your small frame, pushing you up against the door with every snap of his hips. One of his paw-like hands is still holding onto your hip, while the other has disappeared into your hair, tugging on it and forcing your head back against his shoulder to make sure you keep your back arched for him. 

He continues to lavish attention on your body with his lips and tongue, just barely pulling away to take a breath. “You shall never be queen like your dear sister is,” he groans in between some kisses, his voice ragged. Under different circumstances, his words would have made your stomach drop – but not when he’s fucking you so good, and speaking again after a short breather. “But she could never give me what you do. She could never make me feel the way you make me feel. You drive me mad with desire.”

You tremble under his frame, and pressure builds within you as he brings his hand between your legs. It seems as though he’s suddenly taken on an urgency he hasn’t displayed before, adamant to finish it quickly so that his disappearance does not attract any attention. 

“The… Then take what you want… Your Grace,” you stutter, words hiccuped by his harsh thrusts. He’s sent you into a frenzy by now. “Take me.”

The coil in your stomach is ready to snap at any given moment with how precisely his deft fingers rub your pearl, and your peak washes over you even before you can tell him. Your lips fall apart in a breathy whimper while you relish in the overwhelming pleasure of your peak coursing through your veins as Maegor chases his own.

Regardless of how badly you want to reach behind you to touch whatever part of him is within your reach, your hands have to be propped against the door to support your small frame, keeping you upright. 

His thrusts already have become more and more erratic at this point, and the tight clenching of your walls around his cock is the last bit that eventually triggers his own release. 

Shuddered breaths and strained groans topple over his parted lips, mixing with your whimpers and moans. His twitching cock spills his seed deep inside of your cunt, and you squeeze him ever so tightly in response, milking him for every drop. 

He doesn’t give himself much time to revel in the pure bliss before he lifts his head off of your shoulder and untangles himself from you. His breathing is ragged and his gaze still darkened with desire as he gazes down at your disheveled form, taking in the marks he’s left. He silently buckles his belt and adjusts his clothing, appearing as though nothing has happened while your mind and body are basically in shambles. 

There’s little time for you to come back to your senses after he’s pulled out, and even less time until he’s inconsiderately nudging you away from the door, taking the handle into one hand. 

“And sweetling,” he says, his brusque demeanor coming right back with a dangerous tone to his voice, “I will not tolerate any further interference from you in my affairs, and I will not tolerate any envy towards your sister. You ought best to remember your place. You are nothing but a toy for me, and I will not hesitate to put you in your place if you get in my way.”

The sharpness in his tone makes you shiver. You watch him silently, body still trembling with the aftershocks of your encounter. His words ring in your ears, and you swallow hard, the reality of your situation only now sinking in. 

As he turns away and opens the door, he throws one final look at you from over his shoulder. 

“Yes… Your Grace,” you mumble with a nod of your head, and only then does he take his leave, albeit it does not last for too long, because as the following day passes and the Hour of the Owl strikes, it’s him who’s knocking on your door again, coming to take what he’s successfully claimed.  

Maegor Taglist: @hypocritic-trash-baby @k4marina @foxyanon @nats-whore

@palmer-hjp @sinarainbows @luvdella

General Taglist: @watercolorskyy @darylandbethfanforever9 @croatianprincess @snowystark @moonlightfoxx

@melsunshine @urmomsgirlfriend1 @fan-goddess @at-a-rax-ia @tsujifreya

@bbgmonsay @doublesparrows @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101

@multyfangirl @dixie-elocin @zaldritzosrose @userhotd @delulumhaggy @urfavnoirette

@iloveallmyboys @beautbuck @rose-brulante @aerangi @aoi-targaryen

[dolcettamagica]

𐙚˙⋆.˚ 𝐒𝐚𝐥𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞

gangleader!sukuna x reader, modern au

tags: possessive & obsessive sukuna, choking, lowkey stalking translations: piccola - little one/baby notes: listen to "salvatore" by lana del rey wc: 1.7k

In the dimly lit underbelly of the city, where shadows whispered secrets and alleys told tales of violence, there existed a figure feared and revered in equal measure: Sukuna Ryomen, the enigmatic leader of the most dangerous gang. His name struck terror into the hearts of those who dared oppose him, while his charisma drew countless souls into his fold.

Sukuna was a man who commanded respect without uttering a word. His mere presence exuded power, his icy gaze capable of silencing even the boldest of adversaries. With a network spanning the city's underworld, he held dominion over illicit trades, clandestine operations, and the very pulse of criminal activity.

Yet, amidst the chaos and the conquests, there was one enigma that eluded Sukuna’s grasp: a woman whose allure ignited a fire within him. You, a mysterious beauty with a spirit as untamed as the flames dancing in the night. You moved with a grace that defied the chaos around you, a silent tempest in the midst of the storm.

From the moment Sukuna laid eyes on you, he knew you were unlike any other. You were not bound by the rules of his world, nor swayed by the promises of power and wealth. Instead, you remained an enigmatic force, unyielding and unattainable.

Driven by an insatiable desire, Sukuna sought to possess you, to unravel the mysteries that shrouded your existence. He offered you riches beyond measure, a throne by his side where you could rule the underworld together. Yet, each offer was met with a gentle refusal, as you remained steadfast in your independence.

Frustration festered within Sukuna's heart, a tempest of emotions that threatened to consume him whole. He was a man accustomed to getting what he desired, yet you remained beyond his reach, a tantalizing mirage in the desert of his ambitions.

Despite his best efforts to suppress the yearning that gnawed at his soul, Sukuna found himself inexorably drawn to you, like a moth to the flame. He watched from the shadows as you moved through the city, a silent guardian cloaked in mystery.

In the depths of the night, when the city slumbered and dreams took flight, Sukuna found himself haunted by visions of your captivating gaze. You were the one anomaly in his meticulously crafted world, the one puzzle he could not solve.

And so, amidst the chaos and the conquests, Sukuna Ryomen, a formidable leader, found himself ensnared by the one thing he could not possess: the heart of a woman who danced beyond his reach, a forbidden desire that burned brighter than any flame in the darkness.

In the depths of his lavish office, Sukuna sat with unwavering determination, his gaze fixed on the phone before him. His frustration simmered beneath the surface, a molten rage that threatened to erupt at any moment. With a swift motion, he seized the device, his fingers dancing across the screen with a commanding presence.

"Where are you, piccola?" he typed, each word a declaration of his unwavering dominance. "You cannot hide from me forever. I will find you, and when I do, you will answer to me."

There was no room for hesitation in Sukuna's messages, no trace of the desperation that had once plagued him. Instead, his words dripped with authority, each message a demand for her submission.

"Do not test my patience" he continued, his tone brooking no defiance. "You belong to me, and you will come to me willingly. There is no escape from my grasp."

With each message sent, Sukuna's resolve hardened, his determination driving him forward with unrelenting force. He would not be denied what was rightfully his, not by anyone, especially not by a woman who dared to defy him.

"Tell me where you are," he commanded, "I will not ask again."

But still, there was no response, no sign of surrender. Anger flared within Sukuna's chest, a wildfire of fury that threatened to consume him whole.

"If you think you can hide from me, you are sorely mistaken," his words a warning laced with venom. "I will tear this world apart to find you, and when I do, you will regret ever crossing me, piccola."

With a final message sent, Sukuna leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning with a fierce determination. He would not rest until you were in his grasp, until you bowed before him in submission. For in Sukuna Ryomen's world, there was no room for defiance, only dominance and control. And he would have it all, no matter the cost.

As Sukuna's fingers hovered over the screen, poised to send yet another commanding message, the door to his office swung open with a forceful creak. In strode one of his most trusted lieutenants, a figure cloaked in shadows and whispers, bearing news that ignited a spark of hope within Sukuna’s hardened heart.

"Boss," the subordinate – Toji – began, his voice low and deferential, "we've received word. She... she's in Miami."

The words hung heavy in the air, a tantalizing promise of victory amidst the tumultuous storm of Sukuna's emotions. Without a moment's hesitation, he rose from his seat, his movements swift and decisive.

"Prepare the jet," he commanded, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "We leave immediately."

There was a sense of urgency in Sukuna’s tone, a hunger that burned brighter with each passing second. Miami beckoned like a siren's call, its neon-lit – ruby, blue and green, neon too – streets promising the chance to reclaim what was rightfully his.

As his subordinates scrambled to fulfill his orders, Sukuna's mind raced with thoughts of the woman who had eluded him for far too long. He could almost taste the sweet victory that lay within his grasp, the moment when you would finally bend to his will.

With a steely resolve and a heart set ablaze with determination, Sukuna embarked on his journey to Miami, a man possessed by a singular purpose: to capture the one who dared to defy him and to assert his dominance once and for all.

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting its golden rays upon the pristine sands of the Miami beach. Among the throngs of sun-seekers, Sukuna strode with purpose, his eyes scanning the shoreline with a predatory intensity. And there, amidst the azure waves and the gentle sway of palm trees, he spotted you.

You laid upon the sand, a vision of beauty that stole the breath from Sukuna's lungs. Clad in a bikini that left little to the imagination, you exuded an aura of confidence that only served to fuel his desire. Your bronzed skin glowed beneath the sun's warm embrace, your tousled hair cascading like silk upon the sand.

With measured steps, Sukuna approached, his gaze never wavering from the woman who had haunted his every thought. He stood before you now, a towering figure clad in shadows and sinew, his presence commanding the attention of all who dared to gaze upon him.

"Piccola," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "You cannot hide from me forever."

There was a flicker of defiance in your eyes, a spark that ignited the flames of desire within Sukuna's chest. But he would not be deterred, not by your beauty nor by your resolve. He had come too far, fought too hard, to let you slip through his fingers once again.

"You belong to me," he declared, his words laced with a possessiveness that bordered on obsession. "And now, you will come with me."

But you remained unmoved, your gaze steady as you met his with a defiance that stirred something primal within him. You were a challenge, a tantalizing puzzle that begged to be solved, and Sukuna was more than willing to rise to the occasion.

“I was working on my tan, boss.”

"Working on your tan," he repeated, his voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within him. "In Miami, of all places."

There was a subtle tension in the air, a silent battle of wills as you and Sukuna locked gazes. Your defiance sparked a flicker of admiration within him, even as it fueled the flames of his frustration.

"Indeed," you replied, your tone cool and composed. "Is there a problem with that?"

Sukuna's jaw clenched, a silent testament to the storm of emotions swirling beneath his stoic facade. He had come too far, searched too long, to be met with such casual indifference.

"No problem," he finally replied, his voice a low growl. "But I must insist that you accompany me. We have unfinished business, you and I."

Your lips curved into a sardonic smile, a glimmer of amusement dancing in your eyes. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, boss. I have many businesses, all of them quite finished."

Sukuna's patience wore thin, his frustration bubbling to the surface like molten lava. He had pursued you across oceans and continents, faced down countless adversaries in his quest to claim you as his own. And yet, she remained as elusive as ever, a tantalizing enigma that refused to be solved.

"Enough games, piccola," he snapped, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. "You cannot hide from me forever. Sooner or later, you will bend to my will."

The tension crackled between you like electricity as Sukuna's hand shot out, seizing you by the throat with a force that bordered on violence. His grip was firm, unyielding, a silent declaration of dominance that sent a shiver down your spine.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to stand still as you stood locked in a primal embrace, your gazes locked in a fierce battle of wills. But beneath the surface, a different kind of energy simmered—a raw, unbridled desire that pulsed between you like a current of electricity.

Your breath came in ragged gasps as Sukuna's grip tightened, his fingers leaving imprints on your skin like branding marks. And yet, there was no fear in your eyes, only a smoldering heat that mirrored his own.

With a low growl, Sukuna leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear with a tantalizing promise. "You cannot resist me, piccola," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. "You were made for me, and you know it."

A shudder ran through your body as you felt the heat of Sukunas breath against your skin, your pulse racing with a heady mixture of fear and excitement. You knew that you were as drawn to him as he was to you—a dangerous truth that sent a thrill coursing through your veins.

“You will always belong to me.”

[doumadono]

Hii douma! May I request Shoto just in love? Just him being in love for the very first time and the concept of love just so foreign to him? Have a great day/night!

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

The cold spring air of U.A. High School's training grounds swept across Shoto Todoroki's face, his distinctive heterochromatic eyes glancing stoically at the horizon. As he approached the courtyard, the brisk wind tousled his dual-toned hair, and for the first time, a peculiar sensation stirred within him. It was an emotion he hadn't experienced before, a feeling that seemed to thaw the icy demeanor that usually defined him, yet he couldn't put a finger on what was it.

As the son of Endeavor, emotions had never been a territory he explored willingly. However, this day would mark a shift, an unexpected twist in the stoic narrative of Todoroki's life.

Shoto was no stranger to intense emotions. Anger, resentment, and the relentless pursuit of self-discovery had been his companions for as long as he could remember. But this was different – a foreign concept that had invaded the carefully constructed fortress around his heart.

As he walked past the cherry blossom trees, their delicate petals swirling in the air, his gaze landed on a figure standing by the fountain.

It was you, a fellow classmate whose presence had recently begun to captivate him. You were a presence in his life that had begun to defy categorization. You were just a person — a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit the mold he'd grown accustomed to. He admired you from afar, appreciating your strength and determination in both academics and combat.

It began innocently, Shoto noticed. A shared glance across the classroom, a casual comment during training, and the casual camaraderie of shared laughter. But as days unfolded, the puzzle piece shifted, creating a mosaic he hadn't anticipated. He was no stranger to intensity; after all, his own quirk bore the duality of fire and ice. Yet, this newfound sentiment was a flame of a different kind, uncharted and unsettling.

"Hey," he called out, his voice surprisingly steady despite the internal turmoil.

You turned towards him, a quizzical smile gracing your lips. "Todoroki, hey. Is everything okay?"

Shoto hesitated, his usual calm exterior cracking just a bit. "I… I wanted to talk."

Curiosity sparked in your eyes as you nodded, inviting him to continue.

"I've been thinking," Shoto began, his usually concise words replaced by a rare vulnerability. "About feelings. Emotions. And there's something I can't quite comprehend."

You listened intently, sensing the gravity of Shoto's words. "What is it?"

"I've always been driven by my goals, my desire to surpass my limits, and the need to prove my father wrong," he continued, "but lately, I find myself caught in a different struggle. It's like a flame inside me, burning with an intensity I can't control."

You tilted your head, intrigued. "Oh?"

Shoto nodded, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that surprised even himself. "It's a distraction, an enigma that I can't unravel. It's like standing at the edge of a precipice, uncertain of the fall," he admitted, a rare flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

Your lips curled into a gentle smile. "Love, Todoroki. It sounds like you're in love."

Todoroki's brows furrowed, the word foreign on his tongue. Love. A concept he'd analyzed in textbooks but never expected to encounter firsthand.

You smiled gently, understanding the conflict within him. "Love is complex, Shoto. It's not something you can control or quantify. It's a force that binds us together, that makes us vulnerable and strong at the same time."

Shoto absorbed your words, his internal battle slowly subsiding. "I don't know how to navigate this unfamiliar territory."

You reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay not to have all the answers. Love is a journey, not a destination. Take your time, Todoroki."

"I think… I might be in love with you," he confessed, the admission hanging in the air like the delicate petals of cherry blossoms.

Your eyes widened, a subtle blush adorning your features. "Todoroki, that's…" you began, but he silenced you with a tender touch as he placed his hand to your rosy cheek.

"Let me finish," he whispered, his breath mingling with the soft evening breeze. "I might not fully understand it, but I know that being around you feels just right. I love spending my time with you, it doesn't matter if we just chat or study together."

A heartbeat passed between you, the air charged with unspoken emotions. And then, in a moment both tender and profound, Shoto leaned in, placing a gentle kiss to your cheek. It was a sweet, hesitant kiss, a step into the uncharted territory of love.

As he looked at you, the world around seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in the quiet embrace newfound feelings. Shoto's stoic facade melted away, revealing a vulnerability.

A quiet moment passed before you chuckled, breaking the tension. "Well, that's unexpected. I never thought I'd be the one to thaw Todoroki's icy heart."

A small, hesitant smile tugged at Todoroki's lips. Embracing the vulnerability he rarely allowed himself to show, Shoto took a deep breath. "Would you mind if I… explore this feeling with you?"

"I'd like that, Shoto," you replied, reaching your hand out to intertwine your fingers with his.

[blasphemousclaw]

Are the omens and hornsent the same?

short answer: no

so to explain why the omen and the hornsent are different, we first have to understand what it means to be hornsent… the hornsent aren’t a species, they’re a civilization of humans defined by the horns that grow on their bodies:

“Hornsent view the Crucible as sacred for the refinement wrought through its evolutionary gifts. Most prominently, their tangled horns.”

“Horns are sublime artifacts to hornsent, and their presence confirms the belief that they are a chosen people. Only the repeated sprouting of fresh horns can create a tangled horn, which is viewed as an irrefutable symbol of primacy.”

“The Crucible has a particularly strong influence on the beasts of the realm of shadow, causing many to grow horns despite the characteristics of their species.”

the hornsent sprout horns because the Crucible has a strong presence in the land of shadow and causes horns to sprout on creatures who don’t normally have horns… the hornsent, who revere the Crucible and its “spiral current,” saw this as a blessing and as proof that they were “a chosen people,” so they cultivated this trait. in hornsent society, the larger and more tangled your horns are, the more awesome and cool and holy you are. this is why Jori, the leader of the theocratic hornsent inquisition, has the largest, most tangled horns of all:

however, hornsent can also be born with no horns at all. this means that they'd be seen as sad and cringe. you can find hornless hornsent bound in chains, which means they might have even been a sort of slave caste... which, given what their society is like, wouldn't surprise me if that were the case:

(source: Zullie the Witch)

the omen, on paper, are the same as the hornsent — humans who were influenced by the Crucible, which caused horns to grow on their bodies. but the reason why they aren’t actually the same is because simply having horns doesn't make you hornsent. again, the hornsent are not a species, and “hornsent” isn’t a generic term for people with horns… the hornsent are a culture, a culture which the omen were very much not born into! unlike the hornsent, the omen were born into a society that sees their horns as impurities:

"A vestige of the crucible of primordial life. Born partially of devolution, it was considered a signifier of the divine in ancient times, but is now increasingly disdained as an impurity as civilization has advanced."

traits associated with the Crucible, including horns, became less and less accepted under the Golden Order as time went on... basically, the omen were seen as impure and unclean, unfit for the Erdtree's grace and excluded from society.

but there's actually something else that makes the omen fundamentally different from the hornsent... they're referred to as having "accursed blood"?

"Warped blade of shifting hue used by Morgott, the Omen King. The accursed blood that Morgott recanted and sealed away reformed into this blade."

"The mother of truth craves wounds. When Mohg stood before her, deep underground, his accursed blood erupted with fire, and he was besotted with the defilement that he was born into."

"Trident of Mohg, Lord of Blood. A sacred spear that will come to symbolize his dynasty. As well as serving as a weapon, it is an instrument of communion with an outer god who bestows power upon accursed blood." 

it seems that there is something inherently different about omen blood that doesn't seem to be the case with the hornsent? omen can also innately produce a black-brown flame, which we never see any hornsent enemies do (pretty sure the inquisitors' fire is just normal fire from their candles). INTERESTINGLY, there's two items from the base game, the Omen Bairn and the Regal Omen Bairn, that produce these brown-flame wraiths... but a similar item from the DLC, the Horned Bairn, produces "vengeful spirits" that are pale and colorless!!

it's almost like the wraiths produced by the omen are "unclean" compared to the hornsent ones!

so I think this pretty definitively proves there's something more going on with the omen? but why is this the case?? Dung Eater's ending makes me think that the omen might be "cursed" simply because their existence is incompatible with the Order under the Erdtree...

"Curse grown on a corpse killed and defiled by the Dung Eater. A tender pox afflicted with omen horns. The Dung Eater cultivates the seedbed curse on corpses. By doing so he prevents dead souls returning to the Erdtree, leaving them forever cursed."

"Loathsome rune gestated by the Dung Eater. Used to restore the fractured Elden Ring when brandished by the Elden Lord. The reviled curse will last eternally, and the world's children, grandchildren, and every generation hence, will be its pustules. If Order is defiled entirely, defilement is defilement no more, and for every curse, a cursed blessing."

but there's also the theory that the omen curse was actually created by the dying hornsent as revenge upon their attackers... Hornsent Grandam says this when attacked:

"A curse upon thee, rotten miscreant. A curse upon the strumpet's progeny, upon Marika's children each and all. The curse of the omen shall strike thee down... In the form of the sacred beast's ire. May the curse strike thee… To the very last..."

she specifically calls it the "curse of the omen!" the one thing that makes me question this theory though is that she also says "in the form of the sacred beast's ire," and we know the divine beast's ire takes the form of storms... nothing like anything the omen do. an interesting theory nonetheless!

anyway TL;DR, the hornsent and the omen are different because 1. the hornsent are a culture (not a generic name for horned people), and the omen were specifically born under the Erdtree's Order, and 2. the omen are tangibly "cursed," but the hornsent are not

[lestatdelivncvurt]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Even for someone like him, love is inevitable. When night fell, he seeks you out as he always does.

fanfiction | House of the Dragon

In the hushed corridors of the castle, where shadows danced with the cold embrace of night, only the flickering torches dared to defy the darkness, casting a warm glow upon the stone walls and his embrace.

As the night descended into a tranquil stillness, free from prying eyes and whispered rumors, he sought you out in your chamber, a ritual unchanged.

Seated upon a chair, you traced the silver strands cascading over your shoulders, the fabric of your gown draped loosely around your delicate form. The touch of those strands between your fingers felt as soft as a whispered promise. The creak of the door announced his arrival, and without needing to turn, you knew it was him.

"I see you adorn the necklace I had given to you," he murmured, closing the door with a gentle hand before drawing near, his presence a comforting weight behind you. Leaning in, he rested his chin upon your shoulder, breathing in deeply the intoxicating fragrance that stirred his desires. His hands found solace at your waist.

Gazing at him through the looking glass, a soft smile graced your lips. "Why would I not wear such a precious gift from you?" you replied with a warmth that matched the flickering torchlight. His gifts were treasures you held dear, symbols of his affection that you cherished. Your eyes met his reflection in the mirror, admiring the striking beauty illuminated by the dancing flames. He was beautiful.

Daemon pressed a tender kiss upon your shoulder, a silent claim of ownership. A moment of silence enveloped you both before he broke the silence with words. "You remain as resplendent as ever, my beloved," he whispered, planting a gentle kiss upon your cheek as his gaze lingered on your reflection.

A goddess in his eyes.

"Your father is a fool for not wedding us together," he says softly, a hint of annoyance coloring his voice. "I would shower you with adoration and love you beyond measure, far more than any lord could. He is blind to not notice it." He clicked his tongue, and the fire inside him stirred. "Nonetheless, you are mine, are you not?" With a tender touch, he lifted your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his own. "Are you?"

In that moment, your gaze ablaze with the fervor of love, you answered, "I am yours."

[svearehnn]

sunlight in burgundy pt.2 | azriel x reader

Summary: Azriel recommends you another book and in return you read with him in the library.

a/n: I didn't mean for it to be this much of a slow burn but here we are lol. Hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t long before you finished the book that Azriel’s shadows had found for you. Another venture outside your room had not happened–rather, you stayed in, afraid to come across someone else, someone new. Madja had made you privy to the knowledge that only three fae lived in the House of Wind, yet, your first adventure within the large castle had proved futile to your desire to stay hidden.

You huffed, turning over in your bed as you pulled the covers up until darkness encased your vision. You didn’t want to leave, but you were bored. There was nothing to do except stare at the dark blue walls and shut the curtains tight when the House opened them. You needed to go get another book or you would go insane. 

With a sigh, you took slow maneuvers out of your bed, shuffling into your slippers that were far more exquisite than anything you had ever owned before. You pulled a cream-colored sweater on over your head and a pair of leggings that held tight to your legs before you opened the door a crack with taut lungs. Your eyes flitted this way and that, ears straining for any presence of another, but you came up empty. With that comforting knowledge, you stepped out of your safe place and hid in the shadows when you could as you made your way back to the library.

The mahogany doors greeted you with the same menacing smile, causing a knot to form in your throat. You gulp it down and, with shaking hands, push the doors open. A crackling fire greets you rather than the chilled breeze, filling the room with a fond comfort. You take in the familiar walls of books, the floor to ceiling windows, and the luxurious furniture that held the same shadowed figure as last time. His hazel eyes were on you, a soft smile gracing his features, casting him in a heavenly glow that you were afraid you imagined. 

“Hello,” he greeted, reining in his shadows as they began to float toward you with intrigue. You took a step towards him, eyes downcast yet nervously meeting his every couple of seconds.

“Hi.” You answered, fingers twiddling with rings behind your back as you tried to keep your nerves under wraps.

“Did you come back for another book?” You nodded, another step forward as though your feet were acting without your brain’s permission.

“I enjoyed the one you gave me.” You muttered, voice softer than the crack and pop of wood beneath orange flames. Azriel’s smile widened at that, his shadows seeming to dance around him.

“I’m glad to hear that. Would you like another recommendation?” You met his eyes again with another nod, breath held as you finally took notice of the male through the veil of fear that rattled your bones. He was rather lovely with his tanned skin and sparkling eyes, the freckles adorning his nose and cheeks giving him a charming glean. His features were sharp and defined, lips falling in a natural pout with a defined cupid’s bow. Azriel was gorgeous, far more so than the other fae males that you had met.

“You still there?” You blinked and pulled yourself out of your thoughts and back into the present conversation. His lips were still stretched in that gentle smile, his thumb once again marking a page in his book. Heat bloomed in your cheeks as you nodded.

“Sorry,” you murmured sheepishly, glancing down and then back at him, sensing a tad bit of amusement coming from those gleaming eyes of his.

“I asked if you had any preferences.” Azriel stated, his voice a lulling purr that calmed your racing heart. 

“Um…” After a moment of contemplation, you shook your head, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “Sorry, I don’t know. I liked the last one.”

He chuckled and slowly stood, stretching his wings with a shake. “You have nothing to apologize for. I think I have one in mind for you.” A shadow flew to his ear before roaming down the shelves, multiple others trailing after it. He took a tentative step toward you and you didn’t back away even though your mind was screaming at you to run. Something in your chest was blooming–it was warm and bright and it wanted you to stay. So you would listen, for now. At least, until flight overcame the newfound strength that had begun to fill you.

“How has your stay in Velaris been so far?” He asked, a hand snaking through his dark locks and mussing them up even further. You let out a slow breath, eyes locked on his mesmerizing ones.

“It’s been alright. I haven’t left my room much.” Azriel nodded and took another miniscule step, one that you barely noticed.

“You should come have breakfast with Nesta, Cassian, and I tomorrow. I can promise you that they are both great fae. Nesta’s a bit sharp around the edges, but once you break down her walls she’s a rather good friend.” A hum buzzed from your lips, mind lost in thought as you weighed the pros and cons. His shadows came back then with a leather bound book in hand, their wisps darkening the hallway of shelves for a split second before reaching their master’s side. He was close enough now that his shadows washed over you, cooling your clammy skin as a few began to traipse along it. 

“Sorry about them,” Azriel muttered as he scratched the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning a light shade of red. “They’re curious about you.” Shadows slithered up your legs and arms, the sensation similar to being submerged in water. You smiled softly as you admired them.

“It’s alright.” He took the book from his remaining shadows and handed it to you, his gloved fingers grazing yours for a split second before he dropped them down to his side. You ran your fingertips down the spine of the burgundy book, feeling the softness of the worn down leather as if the spine had been cracked a hundred times.

“Through the Wilderness,” Azriel blurted out, startling you for a moment. “The title. Through the Wilderness.”

“Oh.”

“It’s fiction about wolf pups surviving after their mother is shot and killed with an arrow. It’s quite good.” You nodded, lips pressed tight as you noticed a swirling in his eyes that resembled the darkness of his shadows. Pain of some sort, you could tell.

“Thank you.” His shadows floated back to him as he smiled, that look in his eyes gone with only two words. You clutched the book in your hands and held it to your chest, glancing to the doors behind you before focusing back on him, knowing your safety was beyond those doors. Yet, this male that you had met only once before was beginning to resemble those satin sheets and velvet curtains that you coveted so much.

“If you want to stay here and read, you are more than welcome to. I can step out so you’re comfortable.” It was as though he were talking to one of the frightened wolf pups in the book with his head bowed and his voice softened. Your eyes widened, taking in his words with a lick of anxiety.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to kick you out.” 

“I don’t mind–”

“What if we read together?” The words fell from your lips before you could stop them and you winced. You didn’t know where this was coming from. A week ago you were scared of this male, and now you were asking to read with him? You were starting to think you were losing your mind from locking yourself away in that room for so long.

“I would be happy to, as long as you’re okay with that.” You nodded hesitantly and swallowed the knot that had formed in your throat. Azriel smiled and took back over his assumed position on the couch. He opened his book without another word and began reading, his eyes roving over the words thoughtfully and swiftly. You observed him for a moment, noting his subtle movements like the way he flipped the pages with just his thumb, or the way he would gently blow that one lock of hair that kept slipping into his view. 

You closed your eyes and took a steadying breath before timidly advancing to the couch, taking a seat on the side farthest away from him. Azriel didn’t comment on it; he continued to read, his shadows looming over his shoulders as if they were studying the page too. A shaky sigh left your lips, and you pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them and opening the book. There you immersed yourself in the book, surrounded by the fire crackling within the hearth, the winter sun hidden beneath light gray clouds, and the scent of mist and cedar.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part vii)

a/n: today on the fluffiest of Stark fluff, Claere goes on a vacation, Cregan rides a sky-cat of a dragon and nearly dies

The brisk winds howled through the open window like a mournful cry, and outside, from the distant courtyard, the sound of Luna's thunderous roar cut through it all—less of a roar to strike fear and more of a longing cry for her rider. It was a sound that used to evoke awe and power toward the open skies; now, it only underscored the emptiness extending between the Lord and Lady of Winterfell, and everything else.

Claere sat by the ledge, uncaring of the chill that bit through her thin gown, her chin resting on her arms. She watched Luna far away, the great white dragon shifting, discontented, wings twitching with the desire to take flight. Her violet eyes shimmered, tears welling at the corners, though none fell. Being a Targaryen meant that a dragon was more than a mere beast. To her, Luna was everything—a best friend, a daughter, a sister, a mother, a reflection of her soul in flesh and flame. Blood from her blood, fire from her fire, they were bound in a way that no human could ever understand.

The ache inside her mirrored that of her dragon. They were both grounded now, for nigh on a week, bound by the silence and influence of Cregan’s absolute command.

Cregan noticed her before he spoke, lingering in the doorway, watching as her delicate frame seemed even smaller against the vastness of the window. She was morning mist, exquisite and evasive, even in her sorrow—more so, perhaps, for the sadness that clung to her like a delicate veil. The faint sunrise caught the tear-stained glint in her eyes, the pale sheen of her skin, her braided silver hair framing her face like a crown of misery.

His heart wrested into itself. He had seen her like this once before—when she had been a stranger to him, when he first tried to coax her to eat, to bring her into the warmth of his home. It felt like a lifetime ago, though the same sadness hung over her now, albeit for different reasons.

Silently, he approached, his footsteps careful on the stone floor. He didn’t announce himself; he knew she’d sensed him long before he arrived.

"Good morrow, love," he greeted her softly, voice low, though he received no answer at first. He undid his cloak to lay it behind a chair. "Slept well?"

She didn’t turn, didn’t flinch, as per usual, her focus fixed on restless Luna below. The chill seemed not to touch her.

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the tray laid out nearby, a modest feast meant for two. He had hoped to tempt her with familiar comforts, a simple offering to break the silence between them.

“I thought we could break our fast together,” he ventured, a hint of hope in his tone.

"I’m not feeling up to it." Her voice was quiet, a mere breath against the wind, but there was no malice in it—only exhaustion.

"Don't punish your appetite for your temper with me," he advised, reaching across the table to caress the back of her head. "Dreamy girl."

She leaned her head away. "I do not have a temper."

He chuckled. "Very well, your grace."

He moved beside her, unbothered by the refusal, his eyes drifting to the spread of food laid out. A variety of her favourites: ruby apples from the capital, freshly churned butter spread over oat bread, honey and blackberry jam, all carefully selected for her. He gave a slight smile and plucked a little lemon posset from the tray, a rare luxury, one of the few delicacies he knew she held fondly from her days in King’s Landing.

“Do you remember this?” he asked, placing the pastry near her. “I had it recreated by the cooks—increasingly annoyed them until they got it right.”

For the first time, Claere turned her head, her eyes falling on the delicacy before flicking to him. The vaguest spark of something—amusement, maybe—crossed her features, but her words were far from sweet.

“Sweetsleep this time, my lord?” she asked, her tone laced with the sharp edge of memory.

The barb of her accusation cut deep, reminding him of the last time—of how he’d slipped the essence of nightshade into her drink to help her sleep, of the guilt that had haunted him since.

But he indulged her grudge, forcing a wry smile to his lips. “I'm afraid it's only lemon and cream, some sugar,” he said lightly, leaning into her. “I have learned better than to drug a dragon to sleep.”

"You're a funny man," she said, surly.

"I try my best."

She said nothing more, but to his relief, she reached for the candied slice of lemon over the posset, without hesitation, and scooped a small serving into her mouth. She chewed slowly, turning back to the window, still impassive, though her silence felt less hostile than it had in days.

Delighted, he plucked a few cranberries and placed them on her plate, slathered a thick layer of jam over the bread and urged it to her mouth.

She squinched, turning away. "I'm no whingeing babe."

“There are worse fates than having me as your meal steward,” he teased, bringing the bread closer.

“Eat it yourself, if you’re so proud of it,” she muttered, pushing the bread back to him.

Cregan dropped the bread onto her plate with a quiet huff and brushed the crumbs off his hands with exaggerated impatience. She gave him a sidelong glance as he walked to the chair beside her, pushing his own plate away.

"I won't eat either then," he declared, settling into his seat with a resolute frown.

Claere sighed, casting him a brief stare, her sweetly obvious annoyance softening, though just barely.

“Stubborn northerner,” she mumbled under her breath, her fingers resuming their idle tracing of the stone ledge.

Cregan leaned back, arms crossed, watching her with wary purpose, a flicker of a smile barely contained at the edges of his lips. “If we both waste away, who’ll keep the lords at bay? Or shall we leave Winterfell to your dragon's mercy?”

Her eyes flicked to his, a fleeting vulnerability cracking through her cold demeanour. She said nothing, but after a lengthy pause, she reached for the jam bread, biting into it without looking at him. Bite after bite until it disappeared.

Stifling his laughter, Cregan joined her side by the window, his arms resting on the ledge beside hers, though his gaze remained fixed on her rather than the courtyard below. He couldn’t help but observe her closely—the delicate lines of her face, the way the sun caught in the silver strands of her hair, the way her lips pressed together, lost in thought. She looked better, eyes alive with violet lustre, healthier now that she was sleeping again, but the distance between them had only grown.

Cregan’s gaze drifted down, his hand instinctively reaching for her side, a gentle brush of fingers over the fabric where he knew the wound lay beneath. He lifted her tunic just enough to check the bandage, his fingers ghosting over the bare skin, where pale scars were knitting around the bruised edges. She barely flinched, but he felt her inhale, the subtle tension rippling through her at the touch. He could see the bruises fading, the wound healing, yet something in her still seemed fragile to him—like glass forged too thin.

For a long moment, he simply rested his hand there, his warmth seeping through to her skin. Soon, he replaced his touch with his lips, pressing it there, as if chasing away the pain.

“It’s mending well,” he murmured, more to himself than to her, though his gaze never left her face.

He reached out, almost hesitant, brushing a loose curl from her temple. That distracting, unfamiliar, sweet perfume wafted from it; he always wondered what it was. No flowers or fruits of Westeros had borne that scent.

“You know,” he began, his voice gentle, “I only forbade you from flying north of the Wall. The skies beyond Winterfell are still yours.”

She remained quiet, her fingers tracing the rim of the weathered stone beneath her arm, but her eyes stayed on the horizon. The thought of Luna still lingered in her mind, but so did the fear—the fear of what would happen if she gave in if she let herself ride again, let herself be consumed by the thoughts of what lay beyond the Wall.

She let out a sigh. “What good is flying if it only starves her more?”

“We have an abundance of harvest. Luna’s hunger won’t tear this place apart,” he countered softly. “But your silence might.”

Claere’s lips parted, a breath of disbelief escaping her. She glanced at him momentarily, the softness in her gaze returning—wounded but filled with love she couldn’t voice.

Her slender hand lifted, fingers spreading open as if cupping something fragile, something long gone.

“When Luna hatched,” she began, her voice distant, “she was small enough to rest in my palm. I used to carry her with me, perched on my shoulder like my little protector, curled into my hair while I slept, watching over me.”

Claere’s eyes shifted to the woods beyond, where Luna prowled like a moving mountain, her growls echoing to the castle. She extended her arm toward the dragon, her fingers curling slightly as if trying to hold that immense creature from afar, to fit her once more into her hand. A wistful smile ghosted across her lips, barely there.

“But she grew… and too fast. By the time I was six, she was larger than Syrax, with white wings wide enough to block out the sun. I never spent a day apart from her. Not once.” Her voice lowered, and she dropped her hand. “And now…”

She trailed off, unable to finish the thought. It hung between them, the significance of their distance bearing down on Cregan.

He watched her, his brow furrowed, discomfort knotting in his chest, wishing for an answer he could not seem to give. There was a pain in her words, a longing he couldn’t soothe with talk of duty or love. She had always been more than a wife or a lady to him; she was fire itself, unbound and untamed. But that fire was darkening, flickering behind her impassive mask.

He could not tell her what he had seen in her sleepless nights—the agonies that had hollowed her, leaving her a shell of the woman he once knew. The hysterical way she used to tear at her hair, crying out in the darkness for things she would not speak of in the light. No, he couldn’t bear to tell her those things. Not now, when she was finally starting to pull herself back from that abyss. It was better she stayed in the dark about his fears.

Cregan straightened, unwilling to let this silence continue. He needed to act; to pull her from the depths she seemed to be sinking into once again. He had been a Lord long enough to know that sometimes it was better to take action when words failed.

“I think…” His voice was measured as if considering his words carefully. “I think perhaps Winterfell has kept you in its guard for too long. A change of scenery might be what you need.”

Claere glanced at him. “A change of scenery?”

He nodded, meeting her gaze with quiet resolve. “Castle Cerwyn. It’s only a few hours on horseback. The old Lord Cerwyn was a second father to me, and his son—well, he’s closer to a brother. It’s a smaller hold, warmer, quieter. We could ride there. Bring Luna with us. Let her stretch her wings over something other than these walls.”

There was a pause, and then, in a softer tone, he added, “And it might help you find some peace… beyond what the Wall takes from you.”

Her lips thinned, not quite a smile, but there was no outright refusal in her eyes. She turned back to the horizon, watching Luna flap her mighty wings below. They could nearly feel the snow and winds she buffeted out from so far off.

“Castle Cerwyn,” she repeated, the name sounding foreign on her tongue. “I wonder what awaits me. More Northern lords suspicious of my sanity and dragon?”

“A kind hearth,” he said simply, his tone warm but insistent. “A quieter place to breathe, to think. And Wolfswood meadows wide enough for you to fly as high as you wish, without fear of where you’ll land.”

At the mention of flying, Claere’s eyes sparkled. He saw it—the briefest spark of yearning. She still longed for the wind, for the liberation that came with it, but it was evident something plagued her, something more than just Luna’s hunger.

Cregan’s hand lingered on her arm, his thumb grazing the edge of her sleeve, and though she didn’t turn toward him, she didn’t pull away either. Her gaze remained fixed on the distant horizon.

“Luna’s not the only one who’s gone too long without a proper meal,” Cregan rasped, his voice low and wanting, fingers gently sliding down to capture hers. His grip was firm but familiar, and his thumb stroked over her palm.

Claere let out a soft sigh, her brow furrowing as if she wanted to resist him, but her grip instinctually softened.

“You’ve gone past bearing, husband,” she muttered, trying to conceal the betrayal in her own hand that curled around his fingers.

Cregan leaned in closer, pressing his shoulder to hers, nudging softly. “A few leagues southwest of Castle Cerwyn,” he murmured, “is the Bay of Ice.”

Claere’s brow quirked ever so slightly, but she said nothing.

He continued, undeterred, his thumb still tracing circles on the back of her hand. “The waters are full of sealife… the kind Luna would love.” His voice was tempting, playful even. “I’d wager she’s never tasted anything quite like it.”

“She likes her meals well-cooked,” Claere replied, still distant, though her lips twitched upward. “She’s no sea dragon of Driftmark.”

“A dragon’s appetite has more range than we think, my princess. Fish, seals; they’ll do for a feast. You need only give her the chance.”

Claere turned to him, raising her brow. “You mean to tempt me with seafood, Lord Stark?”

Cregan grinned wide, his hand leaving hers to brush against her cheek, gently tucking it around her waist. “I mean to tempt you with the skies. And perhaps a bit of seal for Luna. The fresh air might do more than you know, then perhaps you’ll remember why you belong in the sky, not grounded here.”

Claere’s lips tensed, torn between her anger and the pull he had over her. “You’re more unreasonable than I imagined.”

“Possibly,” Cregan murmured, brushing a kiss to her temple, “but you’re still here.”

Claere exhaled, her resistance weakening as her fingers brushed the edge of his leather armour, her head leaning into his touch. She didn’t want to give in, but his warmth had a way of unravelling her walls. The thought of Luna and the open skies tugged at her, the hunger of her dragon like a quiet whisper in the back of her mind.

She finally turned her head, her gaze locking with his. “You’d risk the wrath of my dragon for a taste of the sea?”

Cregan smiled. “I’d risk far worse for you.”

X

Or perhaps he had spoken too soon.

The King in the North had faced many fears in his life, but nothing quite like the trepidation that settled in his gut now. He had vanquished his foes and withstood the bitterest winters, but the thought of mounting Luna—akin to her ancestor, Balerion the Black Dread—wore at his composure. He had never been afraid of beasts, direwolves or bears, yet here he was, feeling less a man and more prey in her amber gaze.

Luna was massive, far larger than he had truly reckoned. From a distance, Luna seemed a marvel; up close, she was a force of nature, a leviathan of Valyrian legend, a living mountain. Her scales glimmered pearlescent, like snow itself, but the beauty of her glistening hide belied the danger in every shift of her sinewy muscles, every glint of her amber eyes. Her wings were half-furled, like banners of war, and her teeth—gods, her longsword-like teeth—could rend the gates of Winterfell if she chose.

Cregan had seen Claere mount the beast with the same effortless grace as a songbird landing on a familiar branch, but now, standing before her, the very idea seemed mad. When he had agreed to ride on Luna to Castle Cerwyn, he had imagined it to be a piece of piss. But such was the conceit of Northmen; if he backed away or failed, he would never let himself live it down.

"Lykiri," he rasped under his breath with a palm stretched out, the one word of Valyrian he had committed to memory, praying it held the same calming power as when Claere said it. Perhaps Luna would smell her rider on him and go easy.

The dragon rose to her lasting glories, a low, thundering growl vibrating through her chest, and Cregan felt it in the marrow of his bones. She lowered her mighty head towards him, her crown of spikes and horns juddering, her jaws unhinging just enough to reveal rows of gleaming, deadly teeth. An inferno awakened from within her throat, ready to engulf him.

He could nearly hear his instincts begging him to turn and flee, sprint for the cover of the trees, and curse himself for ever stepping near this thing.

But he stood rooted in place, blood rushing wildly in his veins. Whether it was his pride or his love for Claere that anchored him, he wasn’t certain.

And then, from behind him, that voice—gentle but commanding, laced with a soft, knowing giggle.

“Lykiri, Luna. Laehossa ynot,” Claere said, the sound flowing from her lips in flawless Valyrian, like an old cradlesong soothing an anxious child. Be calm, Luna. Eyes on me.

The influence was instantaneous. Luna’s growl ceased, her jaws closing with a quiet snap, and her massive form seemed to settle into the ground, though her beady eyes still lingered on Cregan with wary regard.

“Bisa daor sagon ēza,” she murmured. This is not your enemy.

Claere approached her dragon with graceful ease, stepping in front of Cregan as if to shield him from any lingering suspicion Luna might harbour. Her dragon-riding leathers, much like the ones he had seen on her queen mother, were regal and sleek—grey furs and blue, tailored to fit her form, with high collars and silver fastenings that gleamed in the cold light. The cloak billowed behind like her own wings, a living emblem of her Targaryen bloodline.

"Gōntan ao bōsa syt nyke tolī, gevie Luna? Ēza ñuha valzȳrys ivestragī ao merbugon?" Her voice was soft, the words lilting and musical, almost tender. It was as though she spoke not to a beast but to a dear friend, a sister. Did you miss me too, beautiful Luna? Has my husband let you starve?

Luna’s growls turned into gentle rumblings, deep in her chest, as she drooped her massive head toward Claere. The dragon’s enraged eyes quieted, and her nostrils flared in recognition as she nudged her rider, a deep, affectionate sound escaping her throat.

"Issi ao sȳrkta sir," she whispered. You are healing well.

Claere raised her hand to Luna’s snout, fingers tracing the sharp ridges of her scales, and in response, Luna’s wings fluttered, that sent a ripping tide through the air.

Cregan stood there, awestruck. His wife, no taller than one of Luna’s fangs, looked like a mere speck of snow in front of the dragon’s mountainous form. Yet, in Claere’s presence, Luna preened like a giant kitten under her mistress’s touch. As Claere’s fingers journeyed down the spikes along the dragon’s throat, inspecting the long scarring wounds, Luna roared in what Cregan could only describe as bliss. He had never seen such a creature so utterly tamed, so devoted.

"Ssh," she shushed, giggling. She rested her forehead against the dragon's hide, breathing slowly. "Ivestragī īlva sōvegon arlī, ñuha riña." Let us fly again, my girl.

That smile Claere wore—for all his jokes and sarcasm, she had never smiled at him like that. Not before the Wall's shadow had held her prisoner or the morning after they'd made love. It was especially for her pet. He found himself growing jealous of that beast.

“She won’t bite,” Claere called out to him over her shoulder, amusement bright in her eyes. “Unless you give her reason to.”

“You don’t inspire much confidence, love,” Cregan grumbled, eyeing the dragon’s teeth again.

Claere tilted her head, the corners of her mouth lifting in that happier smile. “She knows you. She just doesn’t understand why you’re still standing there like a frightened little doe.”

“I'm no doe or little,” Cregan countered, though the firmness in his voice faltered under the pressure of Luna’s stare.

“You seem like a man who wants to run away,” Claere teased and held out a hand to beckon him. “Come close, wolf. She won’t let you mount her from there.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed as he stepped cautiously toward Luna’s side. The dragon shifted, her enormous wings stretching slightly, causing a gust of wind to blow through the woods. Her amber eyes locked onto him, and Cregan could swear they were measuring his worth.

“You are certain she won’t eat me?” he asked dryly, not quite hiding the edge in his voice. “She’s been starving for a week, and I’m just the right size for supper.”

Claere laughed, palming her mouth, a sweet dulcet that was full of life, he swore a winter rose stood to bloom by her feet.

Cregan eventually stood beside her, too late to question his choices, and the towering beast dwarfed him entirely. Claere had already started to climb up the ropes and nets affixed to the saddle on Luna’s back with the practised grace of someone who had done this a thousand times.

He, on the other hand, felt immobilised, staring at the sheer size of the creature he was about to mount. If the gods were real, now would be the time to give him hope.

“Do you need a hand, Lord Stark?” Claere called down, her voice still holding that sweet laugh.

“I can manage,” Cregan replied sternly, though as his hand grasped the first rope, he doubted his words. The first Stark to ride a dragon, he thought. He would not make a fool of himself.

It took every bit of his strength to pull himself up the ropes, feeling Luna’s immense heat and powerful muscles shift beneath him. The dragon made a thrumming sound—half-growl, half-sigh—and Claere stroked her, speaking softly.

“Luna, jaelagon,�� she nearly sang out. Luna, wait.

Finally settling behind her on the saddle, Cregan exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I didn’t think I’d survive long enough to make it up here,” he muttered, his voice thick with relief.

Claere turned about to face him, her silver hair catching the sunlight. “She likes you, though I’m not sure why.”

“Perhaps because I’m keeping her friend well-fed,” he quipped, his arms instinctively wrapping around her waist as Luna began to rise, wings readying for flight.

She laughed softly, a sound he didn’t often hear from her. “Maybe. Or perhaps because she knows I’d never let her eat you.”

Cregan’s grip tightened as Luna crouched, her wings stretching wide in preparation, leathern scales creaking like taut sails. The ground seemed to tremble beneath them, but Claere was unfazed, completely at ease atop the creature that could so easily rain ruin and destruction over cities. Cregan, meanwhile, could only marvel at her fearlessness, this strange and beautiful woman who, for all her quiet rage and somber smiles, steered a force of nature with nothing more than a whisper.

“You look as though you’re debating jumping off,” Claere teased again, turning her head slightly to catch a glimpse of his tensed face. “Still uncertain?”

“Aye,” he muttered, not entirely making a jest. “But I trust you.”

Her violet eyes softened, and the distance between them bridged for a brief moment. He pressed his lips over her ear, kissing her deeply.

And with a sharp Valyrian command—"Sōvēs, Luna!"—Luna leapt into the sky, her wings beating against the cold air. Fly, Luna!

They scaled up higher and higher, the icy winds biting at Cregan's face as the ground became a distant blur below. The sheer speed, the strength in every beat of Luna’s wings, made his heart thunder. He understood in that moment what it truly meant to ride a dragon. It was more than flight—it was dominion, unchallenged and absolute. The Targaryens didn’t just ride beasts—they commanded the very essence of freedom itself.

Beyond him, Luna let out an explosive roar that echoed into the heavens, a cry not of fury but of pure exhilaration. It reverberated through his chest, drowning out everything but the sound of the wind tearing past them.

And in front of him, Claere—his ever-composed, lady wife—was not the woman bound to Winterfell or its solemn halls. She became unrecognizable. Wild, untamed, she moved with Luna as if they were one. He could see the sheer ecstasy in her, an exuberance that was unburdened by duty, unchained from her past.

Claere twisted her head back to him with a grin, her silver hair whipping across her face. “Still believe you can handle it?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, she twisted a rein around her wrist and leaned forward, and Luna suddenly plummeted. The world spun in a violent spiral, clouds swivelling as they dived. His grip tautened, and a growl escaped his throat—half terror, half awe.

“Claere!” he roared, though the rush of air stole his voice.

But there was no fear in her. She simply laughed along, steering Luna suavely.

His stomach lurched as they hurtled toward the earth, but just as quickly, Luna swooped, her massive wings spreading to catch the wind and slow them to a smooth glide. Cregan couldn’t stop himself. The shout of fear turned into something else—an uncontrollable whoop of excitement that burst from his lips. This was living, this was it. He threw back his head, letting out a deep, throaty laugh, adrenalin flooding his veins.

Still breathless, Luna glided the clouds at a leisurely pace, and Cregan curved his arms around Claere's midsection, holding her closer.

"I think I’d rather be on a horse next time,” he breathed into her hair, though the gleam in his eyes betrayed his words.

Claere twisted in the saddle, her smirk full of mischief. “You sound much braver with both feet planted, my lord.”

He barked a laugh, despite himself. “You scared the sense out of me.”

Her smile only widened, and for a moment, as they drifted across the sky, she seemed like the girl she might’ve been if things had been different—before duty, loss, and impressions. It struck him, how young she truly was, how young they both were. Six and ten, nine and ten. Merely children who had grown too fast for expectations. But that was the way of their world—of power, of society, of tradition, of ambition, of titles—that weighed heavy long before they could even begin to understand them.

Luna tilted her wings gently, and they coasted toward the golden horizon, irrevocable souls entwined with the wind.

X

The snow had melted by the time they neared Castle Cerwyn, the old stone fortress standing strong against the sprawling landscape. The castle, though smaller than Winterfell, carried the same powerful significance—an imposing sight against the bare, snow-swept hills. The black-and-silver banner of House Cerwyn—a crowned sword on a dark field—flapped fiercely in the wind.

Cregan’s eyes darted to the men waiting in the courtyard, their breath misting in the frigid air, and at the forefront stood Lonnel Cerwyn, tall, dark and broad, his thick furs making him look even more massive. His pale eyes, like chips of ice, were locked on them, his bearded face twisted into what looked like a permanent scowl.

As they dismounted, Luna’s massive form cast a shadow across the courtyard, her silver-and-pearl scales glinting against the sky. The dragon huffed, her breath steaming as she lowered her head, watching the newcomers with predatory eyes. Lord Cerwyn, his gaze moving from the dragon to Claere and then back to Cregan, strode forward with conscious steps, not wanting to agitate the beast.

“You’re late, Stark,” Cerwyn barked, his voice booming across the courtyard, rough as the northern cold itself. "Thought you’d flown off south, or maybe you’ve forgotten how to ride anything with four legs."

Cregan smirked as he helped Claere down from Luna’s saddle, although she didn't need it, his hand briefly resting on her lower back. She lingered near the dragon, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar surroundings as she edged closer to Luna’s side for comfort.

"No dragon's taken my wits yet, Cerwyn," Cregan said, unable to suppress a laugh. "I had half a mind to see if your lot’s finally learned what manners look like."

Cerwyn’s scowl deepened for a heartbeat, then cracked as he let out a deep laugh that could have shaken the very walls. He seized Cregan in a bear hug, slapping his back with enough force to knock the wind from his lungs.

"Manners, eh? If you’ve brought them with you, they’ll freeze before they reach the hall!"

Cregan chuckled, pulling back. "Some things never change. You’re still uglier than pig shit."

"Aye, but at least I’m not riding dragons, you mad cunt." Cerwyn’s grin widened as he looked past Cregan to Claere, his gaze gentling a fraction.

Turning his attention to her, Cerwyn’s mirth faded into something more respectful, though his northern bluntness remained. He bowed before her and shot her an exaggerated wink.

"You’ve made quite the entrance, Your Grace. No Targaryen has set foot in these halls—until today. Castle Cerwyn is all yours."

Claere, standing beside a rumbling Luna, felt the weight of his gaze. She inclined her head, her fingers briefly grazing the dragon's hide for comfort.

"Lord Cerwyn," she greeted quietly, her voice even, but there was a reluctance in her stance. "It’s an honour."

Cerwyn’s eyes flicked to Luna, the massive beast dwarfing the entire castle, and then back to Claere. “An honour? No, my lady, the honour is mine.” He took a step closer, his tone shifting to high earnest. “And I thank you for the Glass Gardens. Your gift will feed not only Winterfell but all of us in the hard seasons to come.”

Claere dipped her head in a bare curtsey, her eyes flickering with uncertainty, though she spoke evenly. "The North will need all its strength, Lord Cerwyn. Winter is coming."

Lonnel regarded her for a moment longer before turning back to Cregan with a knowing grin. “You never cease to surprise me, you gruff bastard. So how did you manage to charm the princess with all your brooding?”

Cregan crossed his arms, raising a brow. "Hardly a charm—more like persistence."

Lonnel snorted, amused. “Wore her down, did you? Poor lass.” He glanced at Claere, who gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.

Cregan chuckled, but his gaze drifted briefly to Claere, sensing her unease in the bustling courtyard. She stood poised but quiet, her hands occasionally brushing Luna’s scales as though seeking solace from the dragon’s proximity.

“Come on, then,” Lonnel waved them toward the castle gates, his grin widening as he added in a low tone, “before the snow buries us all.”

As they moved forward, the men of Cerwyn’s hall bowed deeply to Cregan, murmuring their respects with “Lord Stark,” while their gazes flickered in curiosity toward Claere. She received more nods and soft murmurs of “my princess” and “my lady” than she ever had at Winterfell, though the gestures only seemed to accentuate how out of place she still felt. She bowed her head in return, her hands folding neatly at her waist, but her silence remained. Cregan kept her by his side, not pressing her to speak, knowing well enough that she would adjust on her own time. For now, she was still the strange Valyrian witch of the North, standing tall and composed despite the swirl of hesitation beneath.

“We’ve plenty of meat and wine,” Lonnel added, clapping Cregan on the shoulder once more. “Though if you’re lucky, Stark, I’ll keep the jests about you riding the White Dread to a minimum.”

X

As the sky darkened above the Wolfswood, Cregan and Lonnel sat beneath the shelter of towering pines, just at the edge of a wide valley. Their breath misted in the cold air, and the sounds of the night around them blended into a quiet symphony of rustling branches and distant wolf howls. The hunting had long been set aside, and now they sat by the fire, its flickering light casting shifting shadows against the trees as they lifted their horns of ale, hands near-freezing in the brisk night.

Lonnel took another swig, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze shifting to the horizon beyond. He shook his head, casting a sly glance at Cregan, his mouth tugging into a smirk.

"By the gods, Stark, you’ve gone and done it. Brought dragon's blood into your hearth. Tell me—what’s the princess like when that fire isn’t blazing for the rest of us to see?” He leaned in, his grin turning wicked. “Or does it blaze on, even in the dark?”

Cregan chuckled, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. "You’ve always had a filthy mouth, Lonnel. But she’s more than what you’d imagine."

"Oh, I’m imagining plenty." Lonnel laughed, his voice rich with mischief. "I see her there in Winterfell, all young and radiant. You’re telling me that’s what you bed at night? No wonder you’ve got that weary look in your eyes. Must take all the strength you’ve got, mounting a dragon till the dawn.”

Cregan shot him a playful glare. "Weary? I could still break you in half before you took a step. And I’d gladly do it too if you keep going."

Lonnel grinned, shrugging as he raised his horn of ale. "It’s her that keeps you on your toes, eh? Taming a woman with Old Valyrian fire in her veins… Gods, I can’t even get my own wife to listen to me, and Arelle's nought but Northborn. What chance do you have against dragon’s blood?”

Cregan shook his head, his expression softening. "There’s no taming her, and I’d be a fool to try. She’s wilder than the wind… and I wouldn’t want it any other way."

"Wild like the wind,” Lonnel mused, scratching his chin with a grin. “Or a storm? What’s it like, then? When it’s just the two of you?”

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the flames, reflective, an unknowing smile growing on his lips. Any mention of her only expanded his chest three times its size. "It’s quieter than you’d think. In those moments, it’s as if everything falls away. The world itself. She’s entirely… Claere. And she’s mine."

Lonnel raised an eyebrow, his grin easing to something softer, more genuine. "So the wolf’s got a heart, then, under all that steel and duty."

"Mind your tongue before I remember we’re only friends."

Lonnel snorted, draining his horn with a nostalgic shake of his head. “Friends, aye. But I remember when we were hardly more than lads. Drunk on bad ale and worse decisions. Gods, do you remember that girl?” He leaned in, smirking. “The one in Torrhen’s Square? Tall as a sapling, golden hair?”

Cregan laughed, rubbing his face, caught off guard. “Alannys.” He shook his head with a groan. “She took one look at us, decided I was the taller one, and sent you packing.”

“How tragic for Alannys,” Lonnel quipped, a wry grin forming. “She wouldn’t have handled both a Stark and Cerwyn in one night, I tell you that. Good thing I saved that coin for... Malia? Mylla? Fuck if I know.”

Cregan chuckled, raising his horn in a mock toast. “To bad ale and worse decisions.”

"And those poor girls who survived us." Lonnel laughed, clinking his horn against Cregan's. They let out a deep sigh in unison, leaning back. “Look at us now—wives, babes, duties. Gods, we’ve come far, Stark.”

"Too far, some would say.” Cregan’s smile faded, a sense of gravity settling in. “You took us in without question, Lonnel. For that, I owe you.”

Lonnel waved a dismissive hand. “You’re a brother to me. The gates of Castle Cerwyn open for you, whether you come with a pack of direwolves or a damned dragon. You know that.” He paused, his gaze falling on Cregan, more intense. “But you must also know why the whispers reached me before you did. The North listens, Cregan. And it’s hearing a lot more than just the flapping of dragon wings.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he stayed silent, letting Lonnel continue.

“They say she’s been to the Wall more times than any crow has seen. They say she’s witnessed what no man should and kept it all to herself. Dark things, ancient things. And if it all comes back for her…” He let the words hang, heavy between them. “What will you do?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “I’ll do what I’ve always done.”

Lonnel chuckled, shaking his head. “Stand and fight, aye. It’s what we were raised to do. But this storm you’ve brought to your door, Stark… it doesn’t just take the one who called it. It takes everything in its path.”

Cregan stared into the flames, thinking about all that had passed in the recent weeks. “She hasn’t told me all of what she’s seen,” he admitted, his voice lower. “But it haunts her. It pains me to see her like that, Lonnel. That’s why I brought her here—to find some measure of peace.”

Lonnel eyed him, more serious now, then took a long drink, the mood sinking as the fire crackled between them. “She’s not just Lady Stark, Cregan—not just your wife. And you’ve more than love at stake. If whatever comes for her… you’ll fight back, I know it. But she’s a crown. And crowns bring war.”

Cregan’s eyes flickered, his face hardening as he looked into the fire. “The North has always known war. It's nothing new.”

Lonnel exhaled a bitter laugh, though his gaze didn’t soften. “Not this kind of war, my friend. Not one that comes from the dark beyond the Wall… or from the throats of ten grown dragons beyond the Reach.”

Cregan’s gaze hardened, resolute. He would not yield his wife for anyone or anything, kin or foe.

“Then let them all come.”

X

The sunlight felt like a rare gift upon Cregan's skin, the warmth cajoling him into a state of near-sleep as he lay across the tough leather rug, between the tall grass, his head pillowed on Claere’s lap, a contented smile playing on his lips as her fingers worked through his hair, weaving small braids with deft movements. Beneath his closed eyelids, the sun burned faint patterns, flickering with each shift of the sparse clouds above. Her voice wafted over him, soft but clear, painting tales of the Bay of Ice, of the frigid, salt-bitten wind, and of Luna hunting seals over those frozen waters.

"They think she swallowed a star," she told him, laughing, a fingertip tracing the length of his nose.

This was paradise. Perhaps it had found him before his deathbed. He hummed along, not truly listening.

He caught faint fragments of her words, the sweet dulcet of her voice rising and falling like a ballad, as she described House Wull’s hardy folk, their eagerness for Luna’s fire to melt the icebergs so they could fish the rich waters beneath. He felt half-lost in the weave of her tale, lulled by the warmth of the sun, the distant clicks of insects, and her fingers threading through his hair like strands of silk.

In a flash, his head slipped from her lap, his neck cricking at an awkward angle. He straightened, rubbing at the spot with a hiss, only to catch sight of her, already cradling a small brown hare, her touch gentle as she brushed its ears and stroked its belly. The sight of her, intent on the little creature, was enough to coax a grin from him.

“Another one for the cookpot then, my lady?” he teased, his voice low and affectionate.

Claere barely spared him a glance, scowling. “Don't be daft.”

Cregan chuckled, leaning back on his elbows as she continued fussing over the hare, her fingers tracing its paws as if in reverence.

“Strange, though,” he said after a moment, his tone more curious than jesting. “What exactly turns you from meat?”

She looked down, her expression thoughtful. “I realized very young that all the world is a balance. Give and take,” she replied with quiet conviction. “My dear dragon's appetite is ample enough; I’d rather give back than take more myself. With her takings are my denials.” Her eyes softened, a shadow of memory flickering there. “I’ve stayed away from it ever since.”

He tilted his head, struck by the dignity and care in her words, considering her. “And what of your tourneys, then? The royal hunts on your namedays? A fine feast without a kill—well, some would call it unseemly for a princess.”

She gave a light shrug, almost nonchalant. “I never had any such thing.”

The words hung there, simple but sharp. She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the playful hare. And he knew better than to pry—the silences of her brothers in her presence, absence of her queen mother's well-wishings, the vacant gestures from her kin, all spoke of a girl with Targaryen blood, Valyrian heritage, truest claim left with the least, yet no more than a shadow in her family’s regard. She’d been raised like an instrument, a spare, the uncelebrated princess, a piece on a board she was never meant to play.

Breaking the silence, Claere spoke, her voice barely above a murmur. “Your namedays must’ve been different.”

Cregan felt a bittersweet smile tug at his lips. Anything to divert his pity. He let the memories flood back, the good ones.

“Different, aye," he sighed.

Claere let the hare hop off her lap, which then refused to run off, waiting on its hind paws by the edge of the mat.

“I was gifted a direwolf pup once, all fur and bluster. Only two weeks in, it was off like the wind. Ran as far as its legs would carry it the first time I made it wear a collar.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It never came back.”

She laughed under her breath, a soft sound like water slipping over stone. “I should have guessed. But I could find you one if you wish it,” she offered, almost teasing. “The kennel master’s raising a whole pack of them now. They’re all tremendous, close to soldiers.”

He tilted his head back, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Another collar and another beast bound to run?” he teased, the light in his eyes warm. “Or perhaps I’ll forego wolves and settle for that dragon I was promised.”

“If you dare to face it,” she said, eyes narrowing with playful challenge. “The next clutch is yours for the choosing.”

His laughter rolled through the quiet woods, deep and warm. “So, you’d spoil me not just with Winterfell’s fiercest fire, but with her hatchlings too? You know, I think this northern air has made you a touch reckless.”

Her eyes glinted, playful, leaning closer as she matched his tone. “It’s only fair that I spoil you in turn,” she whispered, her voice silken, carrying through the hushed trees like a spell.

"Oh, my love, you've spoiled me very much."

He hummed, pleased, and then, without warning, pulled her close and rolled her beneath him on the soft leather rug. The breath left her in a misty gasp, her gaze meeting his—startled, but not resisting. His weight was grounding, solid and warm, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them, the drift of his breath, the quiet crackle of the leaves around them.

Her gaze flitted as his hand moved to the hilt of the Valyrian dagger he carried, her gift to him from the time before, offered with silent promises of protection. He unsheathed it slowly, the blade glinting, and her eyes traced its movement, following as he held it between them.

“With this. A rare gift,” he murmured, “from a rare woman.”

His words were low, each syllable drawn out as he slid the dagger to the bow at her bodice, poised at the silk ribbon’s edge. With a slow, deliberate twist, he dragged the blade down, the tip of it sharp but light against her skin as the fabric came undone. Her breath hitched as she felt the cool brush of metal taunting her, each tug loosening her defences. The fabric loosened and gave way under his touch, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that matched his own.

“And now, sweetling,” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear, voice rough, yet unhurried, “how would you rescue yourself from me?”

He moved the knife lower, its edge trailing over the delicate fabric, a promise and a threat wrapped in tenderness. "Hmm?"

She gave a shiver, yet her eyes held his, and there was no fear there, only a steady defiance. His breath was warm against her ear, his voice a low rumble as he traced the knife along her bodice, a feather’s weight skimming her skin. But her gaze never wavered, the faintest glint of mischief sparking in her eyes.

In one swift motion, Claere twisted beneath him, and with a deft manoeuvre, caught him off balance. She rose, bashing the knife from his grip and flipping him onto his back with a victorious grin, sitting astride him.

Cregan gave a low laugh, a touch winded, staring up at her in bemusement. “You think to best me?”

Her mouth curled, fierce and gleeful. “Seems I already have.”

His hands slid up to cradle her face, and then he drew her into a gruff, enticing kiss, all hasty lips, quiet moans, his warmth a balm against the long palls she bore. She softened in his arms that scuffed into her back eagerly, her fingers trailing down his jaw, meeting his fervour with her own, as though she could draw every bit of the strength and surety he offered.

He paused, breathless, the dominating weight of her against him stirring him upright. With a steadying exhale, he pulled back, eyes still locked on hers, and reached to loosen his cuffs, the sound of each metal clasp a whirr of intent as he shrugged off the coat of plates, carelessly letting it slide off.

But when he looked up, it was her watching him, her loosened bodice held against her chest. Her gaze was calm, unguarded, a touch of wonder damping her expression as if she were seeing him in a new light, yet holding some invisible line between them. Cregan let his hands fall to his sides, sensing her hesitation, yet unmoving in his resolve.

“You think to leave me bested, then, after all this?” he murmured, his voice a teasing rumble that chased away the last shadows between them.

She raised a brow, lips curving. Her arms dropped, letting her bodice fall loose from her chest.

“Consider it a reminder of who you are dealing with.”

He laughed and leaned back on his palms, his candid gaze holding hers. “Then come closer, and let me be reminded once more.”

X

Even with the amicable airs of Castle Cerwyn, sleep evaded Claere like a wary shadow. She would lay awake, eyes tracing patterns from the night sky in the darkened ceiling, her mind tangled in dark memories and half-formed fears. More than once, Cregan stirred beside her, sensing her wakefulness. He’d gather her close, his hand soothing circles along her back, murmuring in that low voice of his.

“Sleep, love,” he’d say and kiss her hair. “It's all gone. You're far beyond it. I have you now.”

She’d push her face into the crook of his neck, his heartbeat steady under her cheek, grounding her, though the shadows still lingered.

Another night, he left and returned with a fur-lined blanket warmed by the fire, wrapping it snugly around her. He traced a thumb along her temple and cheek, eyes full of a patience that was, to her, an astonishment. Be it anyone else, they would have left her to find her own peace.

“I’ll stay awake for you, keep the shadows at bay,” he promised, half in jest, half earnest.

She reached out, her fingertips brushing the curve of his lips, a gesture that was as much for him as it was for herself. "Thank you."

A small smile lifted her lips, shy but true, feeling for once as if the weight on her shoulders had lessened, just a touch. In this moment, she knew she loved him—loved him with a depth that ran deeper than duty or bond. His patience was a balm, his nearness an anchor; it healed wounds she’d long since stopped tending to. And though she rarely gave voice to the feeling, it surged within her now, filling the cracks she had long since accepted.

In his presence, she realized, she was safe.

By the fourth morning, a softened tranquillity had woven through her—delicate, a return to herself. Breathing in the cool air of Castle Cerwyn, letting the scents of moss and pine fill her lungs, she felt her apprehension slip further away here, watching Cregan exult with his old friend Lonnel. She saw a side of him she’d never truly seen—unburdened, joyful—as if the duties that weighed him down in Winterfell had been cast aside, lightened in this place.

The aviary, her newfound haven, beckoned to her like a sanctuary of life and song. She spent hours among the birds, marvelling at the late Lord Cerwyn’s collection: songbirds that trilled melodies, fierce hawks, regal eagles, white doves, and her favourite—a grey parrot that greeted her with a soft hum whenever she hummed first. It was the gentlest of welcomes, and for a while, she felt just a nobody wandering among the trees.

"A lovely voice, Your Grace. I've only ever heard tell of it,” came a voice from behind her.

She turned, startled, to find Lonnel Cerwyn leaning against the aviary gate, a faint smile playing on his lips. She dipped her head in acknowledgement, still unused to strangers’ easy familiarity, and now hesitantly drifted along the cages, learning the birds.

As Claere continued to walk beside the cages, she sensed Lonnel’s presence still at her side, solid and patient. His eyes followed her gaze across the rows of birds, some chirping softly, others watching her back with colourful, attentive eyes.

“So,” he said, breaking the silence, “you’ve taken to our feathered friends, then? I wouldn’t have taken a Targaryen to like things caged. Would’ve thought you preferred creatures of… larger wingspans.”

Claere smiled, her gaze lingering on the hawk perched within, its fierce stare mirroring her own restraint.

“You’re not wrong, my lord. I believe they belong to the skies.” She paused, turning to look at him. “They’re creatures of flight; seeing them locked away feels strange. Wouldn’t they serve better if trained?”

Lonnel hummed, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Ah, but trust’s a hard thing in the North, my lady. We cage what we cannot lose. They might turn loyal, but even a hawk can strike when cornered.”

Claere’s gaze drifted to a small thrush flitting nervously in its cage, and her voice softened. “Even so. Let a creature soar; you might find it follows because it chooses to. Lock it away, and all you see is its shadow.” Her fingers grazed the bars thoughtfully. "It's why Luna never lived in the dingy lairs of Dragonmont. I left her to fly free wherever she wanted."

Lonnel studied her, a flash of understanding passing between them. “Perhaps we Northerners hold onto things too tightly,” he said.

Lonnel hummed thoughtfully, reaching into a cage to coax a hawk onto his glove. "And one of those beautiful things is Violet. Violet's been a hunting guide of mine for years."

She watched as he gently lifted Violet, her wings extending wide.

But as they unfurled, a sudden vision struck her: flashes of white feathers shifting into silver scales, the hawk’s call blurring into Luna’s roar. She could see it: a thousand wildlings pouring over the Wall, spears in hand, flames burning, their faces darkened under the thick coats. Another flash—the great walls of Winterfell loomed over her, blood staining the stones, and in the fray stood Cerwyn, his hands red and his pace relentless, sword in hand, facing a shadowed foe.

She blinked hard, the vision dissipating as quickly as it had come. Lonnel was watching her, the hawk calm in his grip.

"My lady?" he called, a tension lacing his tone.

Claere steadied her breath and lifted her gaze to him, her hand immediately reaching up to press against his cheek, her fingers cool against his warm skin, as if she were grounding herself. She didn’t know what part of the future she’d seen, if it was his, his children’s, or some fate destined for the next generation. But her heart trembled with the significance of it.

“Keep your heart steady, Lord Cerwyn,” she said as if speaking to him across time itself.

Lonnel’s face flickered with surprise, but he didn’t pull away. He only held her gaze, a silent promise passing between them, however one-sided it was, a confused understanding.

And then, with that quiet exchange lingering like the last note of a song, she withdrew, leaving him with the young hawk in hand, her footsteps retreating along the path of the aviary.

X

The grand hall of Castle Cerwyn was smaller than Winterfell’s, yet it brimmed with warmth, a soft familiarity that softened the edges of the North’s rugged chill. The hearth crackled with thick logs, filling the space with a heat that seeped into the bones, banishing the crisp cold outside. Long trestle tables bore the evening’s fare—a hearty venison roast glazed with honey and herbs, cheese pies, oatcakes with dried fruits, dark bread still steaming, and pitchers of spiced ale that filled the air with a fragrant bite. The scents were rich and earthy, consorting with the soft murmur of voices and laughter that filled the space.

Arelle, Lonnel’s wife, was glowing despite her swelling belly. Her hand rested protectively over her babe, the big smile on her lips a mere instinct. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders loosely, framing a face alight with contentment as she looked to Lonnel, who seemed unable to take his eyes off her. Their gazes would meet across the table, exchanging silent fondness, and Cregan found himself observing them with a stifled smile, reminded of his and Claere’s own shared moments. He had been fortunate enough to find something like that in his own time. Patience truly was a virtue.

Cregan reached for Claere’s hand beneath the table, a gentle squeeze. She bent her fingers between his, holding him tighter, squeezing back.

For the first time in weeks, they were somewhere uncomplicated, unburdened by towering walls and solemn silences.

Conversation flowed as if from a babbling brook, Lonnel regaling them with tales of old hunts and mishaps, each story coaxing a rare smile from Claere. Then, Arelle leaned forward, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“My lady,” she said, almost shyly. “Lonnel mentioned you were… quite exceptional with the harp. I’ve longed to hear you play ever since.”

Cregan felt his chest tighten, a flicker of worry crossing his face. He knew Claere’s songs were steeped in her visions and dreams, dark prophecies veiled in melody. But before he could speak, Claere interfered.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said, her voice gentle yet trusting.

Cregan’s worry ebbed as quickly as it came, replaced by admiration. She always surprised him. He’d seen her hands coax Luna's fires to life, and wield the delicate tools of her garden, and, now, he was about to see them breathe life into a song.

A harp was brought forward on the dais, its golden strings gleaming in the firelight, and Claere’s long, delicate fingers traced over them with an intimacy born of instinct. She began to play a soft tune, one that filled the hall like a lullaby, each note like a petal floating through the air, softening the stillness. Her melody was warm and peaceful—a rare sound from her, as though she was offering a glimpse of a world unburdened.

Her sweet voice, smooth as silk, joined the harp, and the words she sang wove into the room like a spell:

"In fields of frost and towering trees, a heart’s true kin awaits in peace..."

As her voice wove through the hall, soft and lilting, Cregan felt the world fade around them. Each note hung in the air, heavy with a sweetness he recognized as his own. Her words fell like secrets meant only for him, and as her gaze met his, a smile played at his lips, slow and sure. She was singing for him, he realized, in this open hall, like an unspoken vow carved into the heart of the North.

His chest swelled, a fierce, undeniable warmth sweeping through him. Every hardship, every moment they had faced together—the bitter nights, the bone-chilling dawns, the weariness—all of it had led to this calm, boundless love. Here she was, with a song that spoke of him, binding his heart to hers before the world as if none but they two could hear it.

Cregan held onto this moment with almost reverent care, a part of him feeling almost foolishly lucky. She was his, this woman of fire and prophecy, and though she bore shadows in her past, here and now, her voice was for him. And he knew, with all the steel and sinew of his being, that he loved her more deeply than he could ever say.

And he should've known, what he had been conditioned to consider beyond all this newfound devotion, that not all good things last very long.

As Claere's song drifted in the air, the hall doors opened, and the castle's maester entered, his face grave beneath the dim candlelights. He crossed the floor to Cregan, extending a parchment sealed with the unmistakable black wax of the Night’s Watch.

“Dire straits, Lord Stark,” he intoned, his voice respectful but heavy with urgency.

Cregan’s hand tightened around the parchment, breaking the seal as he read its contents. As he did, the lightness in the hall seemed to drain.

When he looked up, a murmur passed through the hall as all eyes fixed on him. He hesitated, then addressed his audience, his voice collected but cold. “A word from the Wall.”

Lonnel, his face creased with confusion, asked, “Wildling attack?”

“Worse.” Cregan’s voice was sombre, his face darkening. “They’ve overrun the garrison at Queensgate. A chieftain who calls himself Sylas the Grim led a force of three thousand through the breach.”

There was a ripple of reaction in the room. Claere’s hands stilled on her harp, her gaze intent. She’d heard stories of wildlings crossing the Wall, of skirmishes and raids, but this was different. This was an army. And this Sylas—a man none of them had known even existed—had crushed a garrison with ease and marched past the castles.

The maester’s voice interrupted Cregan’s grim revelation. “Sylas is bound southward, with his war band tearing through the lands of the Gift.” He paused, glancing at Claere. “They say he’s sworn himself to find the one who rides the snow dragon.”

Silence filled the hall, as heavy as iron.

“He rides,” Cregan declared, almost as if the words could summon the reality, “for the Dragon Queen of the North.”

A silence fell over the room, tense and laden with foreboding. Cregan stared at Claere, her face unreadable, yet he knew her mind was already spinning, parsing every implication, every thread of what this could mean. Lonnel’s earlier warning hung between them, and it felt as though every word had foreshadowed this moment. That grim prophecy that now took shape before them all. You’ve brought the storm to your door, Stark. It'll take everything in its path.

The carefree laughter, the warmth of the hearth, the taste of ale—all felt painfully distant now. War had reached their doorstep, a shadow from beyond the Wall. She had brought her dragon, and the storm had followed. And with it, the delicate peace they’d found here, so fragile, slipped through their fingers like the last light of day.

X

*gasp* storm's a-comin'... and it's coming for our girl. only a few chapters left! thank you for reading and keeping up!

a question for my loveliest people: what do you think is Claere's sun sign or moon sign? What about Cregan's?

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[novaursa]

The Blackwood Flame

- Summary: You saved his life and won his heart.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Davos Blackwood

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The crackle of flames and the heavy scent of burning timber fill the air as you descend on the battlefield, Sheepstealer’s mighty wings blotting out the sky above. Below, the chaos of the Battle of the Burning Mill plays out, iron and steel clashing against the smoldering earth. But even amidst the din of war, a strange, tense silence falls as your dragon's shadow sweeps across the soldiers, both Blackwood and Bracken alike, turning their gaze upwards in a mixture of awe and terror.

With a signal, you command Sheepstealer lower, his form casting an intimidating silhouette as he glides down with an almost predatory grace. As you prepare to strike, you catch sight of the Blackwood forces struggling against Bracken forces along the tree line, each side locked in fierce combat. Sheepstealer releases a roar that splits the heavens, and the men below freeze, eyes widening as they realize the sheer destructive force looming above them.

"Dracarys," you whisper, the word slipping from your lips like a prayer. Fire pours from Sheepstealer's maw, engulfing the enemy lines in blazing flame. The Bracken men scatter in terror, leaving behind smoldering ash and broken steel, their will shattered by the fury of dragonfire. Those who don’t fall immediately are cut down by the reinvigorated Blackwood forces, who rally around the sight of you, their silent ally from above.

The battle is won, and as Sheepstealer circles the battlefield, his flight low and slow, you survey the scorched ground below. The once fertile valley has become a field of death, bodies strewn across the smoldering remnants of what was once a mill and its surrounding woods. A grim sight, yet necessary.

But it’s then that your eyes land on a familiar figure sprawled amidst the dead. A streak of raven hair, dark armor, and the unmistakable sigil of House Blackwood upon his breastplate: Davos.

Your heart seizes in your chest. No, it couldn’t be… But the pang of fear pushes you to guide Sheepstealer down to the earth, sliding off his rough hide before running across the bloody terrain, weaving between fallen men and discarded weapons. You find him lying on his back, eyes half-lidded, face pale beneath streaks of grime and blood. His breaths are shallow but steady, a faint tremor in his body as you kneel beside him.

His eyes flicker open, a small, pained smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he meets your gaze. "Am I dead, then?" he murmurs, his voice weak but laced with a soft wonder. "Because I see a Stranger… or maybe just a ghost."

You let out a shaky laugh, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. "A ghost wouldn’t bother risking her life to bring you back to Raventree Hall."

He chuckles, though it quickly turns into a wince as he attempts to move. "Careful there, princess. I might just believe you."

“Stay still,” you murmur, inspecting his wounds. Blood seeps from a nasty gash along his side, and several bruises bloom across his skin, yet none appear fatal. Relief washes over you, mingling with a bitter anger at the state he’s in.

“Why did you do something so foolish, Davos?” you ask, your voice quiet but charged. “Riding to the front lines as if you were invincible…”

"Couldn’t let my men fight alone," he replies, managing a smile that’s both proud and defiant, even as the pain etches deeper into his features. “We all play our parts in war, don't we?”

You don’t answer, only lift him gently, securing an arm around his shoulders. "Come, let’s get you out of here."

He blinks, startled, as you half-carry, half-drag him toward Sheepstealer, whose immense form waits patiently. Davos’s gaze remains fixed on you, a bewildered look in his eyes as if he’s seeing you anew.

“Still lookin’ at me as if I were some apparition?” you tease, though there’s a softness in your voice that betrays your own worry.

His hand finds yours, grasping it weakly but with surprising warmth. “It’s hard to believe you’re real, here with me. You look like something out of a song, Y/N.”

Despite the grim setting, his words stir a warmth within you, one you suppress with effort. “Hold tight,” you say as you help him onto Sheepstealer, securing him behind you. He gasps, though whether from pain or awe, you can’t tell. He clutches you as the dragon lifts into the air, his grip growing tighter as the ground falls away below.

The flight is short, yet every moment feels stretched as the wind carries you swiftly to Raventree Hall. The sun begins to set, casting the land in hues of gold and amber, and as you feel Davos’s head rest against your shoulder, a strange, aching tenderness blooms within you. He’s quiet, barely moving, and you worry he’s slipped into unconsciousness until his voice murmurs in your ear, barely above a whisper.

"Thank you, Y/N… I thought I was lost… until I saw you."

His words linger, carried away on the wind as you hold him close, focusing only on the steady rhythm of his breaths as Sheepstealer descends toward the courtyard of Raventree Hall.

The smoky light of early dawn spills across the training yard of Raventree Hall. Davos swings his sword in practiced arcs, letting the rhythm and heft of the blade chase away lingering aches. It’s been weeks since that fateful battle, but a faint stiffness still lingers in his side, a constant reminder of how close he’d come to joining his ancestors.

A deep, booming laugh pulls him from his thoughts, and Davos glances over to see his friends, Gawen Rivers, Orwen Blackwood, and young Tomm Casker, approaching with wide grins and a glint of mischief in their eyes. Davos sighs, already suspecting where this is heading. Gawen, the bastard cousin of the Blackwoods and an incorrigible tease, leads the pack, his bulk casting a shadow over Davos as he claps a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Look at him, lads,” Gawen says, his voice thick with amusement. “Our own brave Blackwood knight, nearly taken by the Stranger himself—only to be saved by a Velaryon princess on a dragon. Doesn’t it sound like a tale for the bards?”

Orwen, the quiet but sharp-eyed archer of their group, smirks, shaking his head. “I don’t think the bards would be telling it right. They’d have to add in how he looked at her after, like some lovesick calf.”

Tomm snorts, barely able to keep a straight face. "He was probably half-dead, thought she was the Maiden come to sweep him off. Ain't that right, Davos?"

Davos feels the heat rising in his cheeks, and he scowls, pushing Gawen’s hand off with a grunt. “I thought she was a ghost or worse, if you must know. And I didn’t look at her like a lovesick anything,” he adds, though the denial feels weak even to his own ears.

“Oh, but you did!” Gawen presses, grinning like a wolf. “Orwen’s right, you were gazing at her like she was a fine Dornish wine on a cold night.”

Davos sighs, rolling his eyes but unable to stop the small smile creeping at the edges of his mouth. “I’ll have you know, my first thought was that I’d finally gone to the afterlife, because no living woman should look like that.”

Orwen chuckles, shaking his head. “You might be the only man who’d say he’d prefer death over looking at a woman like her.”

Davos shrugs, sheathing his sword. “I was half-conscious, in case you lot have forgotten. But you should have seen her…a dragon behind her, flames and smoke around her. It felt more like something out of a nightmare than a dream.”

“A nightmare you wouldn’t mind falling back into, though,” Gawen jests, winking as he leans in closer. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’ve been wandering around in your own mind ever since that day. Sighing at the moon, staring off into the distance—never seen you so quiet.”

Davos’s face grows hotter under their laughter. “It’s not like that,” he protests, though the words sound feeble. “She’s… She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever known. Strong, fearless. And she saved my life when she had no reason to.”

Tomm snorts, giving Davos a knowing smirk. “I think you’d like to give her a reason, though, eh?”

Orwen arches an eyebrow, his expression one of playful seriousness. “Davos, mate, be honest with us. Are you planning to write a love song about the dragon-riding princess who swept you off the battlefield? Because if you are, we’ll help you rhyme it up right.”

Davos groans, running a hand over his face. “Enough of this,” he says, though there’s no bite to his tone. "The lady’s got her own path to walk, and it's a thousand leagues above us. You think someone like her would give any thought to the likes of me?"

The three men exchange looks, Gawen shaking his head with a grin. “Oh, I don’t know about that. From what I heard, she risked quite a bit to drag you back here. Seems to me she might just have noticed you.”

“Aye, seems to me she noticed,” Orwen agrees, his voice softer now. “But even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t change how she’s got her hooks in you. I don’t think you’d stop thinking about her even if she never came back here.”

Davos lets the words settle in, staring out over the training yard, watching as the first of the sun’s light crests the rooftops of Raventree Hall. It’s true, he hasn’t been able to get her out of his mind—the sight of her standing amidst the battlefield, like some fierce warrior queen from the old tales, her hair wild, her armor stained with ash, and her dragon looming over them all.

There was something in that moment, something that went beyond the blood and smoke. It was a feeling he couldn’t quite name, but it had taken root in him, stubborn as any Blackwood loyalty. He hadn’t admitted it to himself fully, but he couldn’t shake the memory of her or the way his heart had raced when she looked at him.

“Aye,” he says at last, voice barely above a murmur. “Maybe she has her hooks in me. But whatever she may be to me, I’m nothing to her. And that’s enough, lads.”

“Is it, though?” Gawen challenges, crossing his arms with a knowing smirk. “Is it really enough?”

Davos chuckles, his face softening. “Maybe not. But it’ll have to be.” He pauses, a smile tugging at his lips. “For now.”

The others let out a collective groan of disappointment, but he only laughs, feeling, perhaps for the first time since the battle, that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

The winding corridors of Harrenhal cast long shadows that seem to cling to every corner, giving the ancient fortress an almost ghostly air. Davos Blackwood feels each step echoing in the vast, hollow halls, his nerves a raw and pulsing thing within him. Lord Samwell Blackwood had been unable to come to the meeting, so the task fell upon him, a chance to prove himself to Prince Daemon and House Targaryen. A chance he knew he couldn’t afford to waste.

The doors to the hall creak open, and Davos enters, straightening his shoulders, trying to summon every bit of confidence he can muster. Prince Daemon sits at the head of the table, clad in dark leathers and fine cloth, his silver hair catching what little light seeps through the high windows. And beside him, with an almost ethereal glow, sit you, Y/N Velaryon, your gaze falling on him with a quiet intensity that steals his breath.

Swallowing hard, he tries to focus, feeling the weight of your stare, aware of every inch of distance—and the faintest, foolish hope that it might someday be closed.

“Lord Davos,” Daemon greets him, his voice a smooth rumble, almost amused. “I trust the journey here was not too troublesome?”

Davos bows, hoping his words come out steady. “A bit long, Your Grace, but… well, I mean, not that long, of course, just… a journey.” He falters, feeling his cheeks redden as he realizes how utterly inane he sounds.

Daemon’s mouth twitches with the faintest hint of a smile, his gaze flicking briefly to you before returning to Davos. “A journey, yes. Much like the one we are on today,” Daemon replies, a glint in his eyes as if finding this moment far more entertaining than he should.

“Yes… precisely, Your Grace. We—uh, I mean, House Blackwood… we look forward to working with you. I mean, your family,” Davos stammers, mentally cursing himself with every garbled word. He tries desperately not to look at you, who sit beside Daemon with your hands folded, a serene expression on your face, though he catches a faint glimmer of amusement in your eyes as well.

“Good to hear,” Daemon says, leaning back, his gaze sharp. “Lord Blackwood has long been a staunch ally to House Targaryen. We have need of such loyalty—something… binding.”

Davos nods vigorously, hardly trusting himself to speak but feeling compelled to respond. “We’d be honored, Your Grace. To bind our houses, in… well, in whatever way you see fit.”

At that, Daemon exchanges a glance with you, and a smirk edges across his lips. “Very good, Lord Davos. I think you and my companion here would… complement each other well.”

Davos’s mind blanks momentarily, his cheeks reddening again as he tries to decipher the meaning behind Daemon’s words. “Yes… well, yes, indeed. Complement… Yes, Your Grace.”

Daemon inclines his head, his gaze piercing. “Then it’s settled. House Targaryen and House Blackwood will be bound, and I’m certain you’ll both find your paths much improved.” He rises, nodding to you, and you stand beside him gracefully. You send Davos a lingering look, and he feels his pulse quicken, though he dares not meet your gaze too fully.

“Until next time, Lord Davos,” Daemon says, voice almost lilting. He and you make your way out of the hall, leaving Davos standing there, his thoughts a chaotic whirl of half-formed ideas and inexplicable emotions.

Lord Simon Strong, a shrewd man with a knowing glint in his eye, approaches him, clapping Davos on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Lord Davos,” he says with a broad smile. “I can only imagine the festivities your family will prepare for such an occasion.”

Davos blinks, still a bit dazed. “Festivities? I don’t… I don’t follow, Lord Simon.”

Simon chuckles, shaking his head. “For the union, of course! You’ve just accepted the alliance with House Targaryen. I’d say a marriage to a Velaryon princess is something well worth celebrating, wouldn’t you?”

The words crash over him like a tidal wave, and Davos stares at Simon, his mouth slightly open as realization dawns. “Wait… A marriage?”

Simon only laughs, giving him a hearty slap on the back. “Yes, a marriage, my lord. I suggest you start rehearsing how to speak to her without turning as red as a beetroot.”

Davos’s face burns as the truth settles in. He had just—unknowingly—agreed to marry you, the woman who’d haunted his thoughts since that fateful day on the battlefield. He felt both mortified and strangely exhilarated, his heart racing as he replayed the scene in his mind, Daemon’s knowing smile and your quiet amusement.

All he could manage was a faint, “Seven hells…” as Simon roared with laughter beside him.

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again - Part Thirteen

Summary: With Y/n reunited with her family, her and Az must face their inevitable fate, the exact reason Azriel hid the mating bond in the first place, their ending.

Warnings: ANGST!!!!! Light smut, and more angst

Series Masterlist

-Part Thirteen-

With a sword pressed to his back, dangerously close to his wings, he really should have listened. Azriel did the opposite, holding Y/n tighter to his chest, the words not quite registering, only the immediate danger to him, to his mate. Shadows swarmed around them, ready to defend, to kill.

“Gods,” Y/n groans, harshly pulling away, glaring over his shoulder, “Could you not?”

Azriel didn’t let her go far, instinct screaming to protect her from whatever dangers were behind him. His hand firmly holds hers as he turns to look over his shoulder, finding that sword still leveled at him, and a large fae male behind it. If Azriel wasn’t so concerned with protecting his mate, he’d be more than a little nervous of the foreboding male.

White hair, braided back from his face, sprawling tattoos going down one side, continuing to his neck, and onto the arm holding his weapon, in a language Azriel couldn’t read. The male was large, he could put even Cassian to shame in sheer size, daggers strapped to every part of his body, clad in fighting leathers. His green eyes were narrowed, lethal focus on Azriel, on the hand holding Y/n’s. Azriel almost snarled that attention, Y/n beat him to it.

Teeth bared at the male, she growls, “Put your sword down.”

Azriel’s shadows were frantically swirling around and around, trying to hide her from the male’s view. She hisses at them, and as if they answered to her, they backed off.

“I’ll kill him,” the male replies coldly, voice like the harshest winter.

“Now is not the time for you to go over protective dad mode,” she snaps at the male, “Put the sword down.”

And just like, the words finally register in Azriel’s mind. Take your hands off my daughter. Mother spare him, this was Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, one of the most powerful fae males in her world, her father, here, in his home, speaking his language.

That revelation left him reeling. They’d opened a gate, she’d reunited with her family, and she was still here. Still with him.

“Threatening lover boy without me?”

He didn’t need to be told who the female was, Y/n had inherited the very cadence of her voice, that confidence, that soft, swirling accent. Queen Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, gods killer, his mate’s mother. From the stories she’d told him of both her parents, he wasn’t sure which one to be more terrified of. Perhaps the father who had just caught him thoroughly kissing his daughter.

“Mom please,” Y/n sighs, “He just woke up from almost dying. He doesn’t need you two threatening his life.”

“He seems fine,” the golden queen shrugs, turquoise eyes examining him intently, “Fine enough to be pawing after you like a dog.”

“Gods spare me,” Y/n groans beside him, resigned to whatever was about to happen.

Aelin stalks closer, Azriel felt like he was being hunted, maybe he should be more concerned about her. She moves with grace, surpassing that of usual fae stillness, an assassin, a warrior, a queen. There’s a brilliant blade in her hands, an ancient presence, something made like his dagger, like Gwydion. It has an intricate golden hilt, a large ruby set into the pommel, when she raises the sword, level with Azriel’s throat, golden flames coat the blade, hot enough to bring sweat to his brow in seconds.

Y/n hisses, shoving herself between Azriel and that sword of fire. Despite knowing that she was essentially fire proof, and that her mother would never willingly harm her, Azriel wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her to his chest, shadows tightening around them, ready to shield them.

Aelin’s eyes sparkle with amusement, practically twinkling in the light of her flames, “Don’t get all huffy, I only want to offer him some advice.”

“Is Goldryn necessary for that?” Y/n snaps, gripping onto Azriel’s arm.

Aelin ignores her daughter, looking directly into Azriel’s eyes, “I know what you did for her, all of it, the weight you shouldered alone.”

Azriel doesn’t miss the flash of emotion in Rowan’s face, that look of old pain. It echoes in Aelin’s, tinged with guilt. There was a story there, and it wasn’t a happy one.

“I know you took that arrow for her gladly,” the queen continues, “That you would do it again, my advice is simple, dying for her is easy, getting yourself killed in some heroic need to protect her, is easy, but in the end she’s the one who truly gets hurt, having to watch you die, having to live with that hole in her chest where you used to be.

“Live for her, fight for her, and know, that if you ever hurt her.” The fire on that ancient powerful blade burns brighter, hotter. “If she doesn’t do it for me first, I will kill you, and I know a thousand ways to do it, each more painful than the last.”

Azriel simply nods once, holding Y/n to him, she didn’t need to warn him, he would sooner die on his own blade than hurt the female in his arms. Aelin, seemingly satisfied, lowers that flaming sword, Rowan stepping to her side, that harsh glare, cold, promising a slow painful death, Aelin smiles warmly at her mate, a vicious gleam in her eye.

They made a menacing image, Azriel remembers teasing Y/n when she’d first arrived, of how it must have been to bring partners home, he understood why some ran screaming. He prayed they hadn’t brought the Witch Queen with them.

“As much as I love Azriel getting threatened by the in-laws.” Rhys casually strolls around the corner, hands in his pockets, “Would you all care for breakfast?”

Azriel gave his brother a scathing glare, opening his mind, you couldn’t have come to my rescue sooner?

You’re the one who shoved your tongue down their daughter’s throat, where we could all hear you might I add, Rhys grins, gesturing to the dining room behind him, “Shall we.”

Y/n had nervously placed herself between her mate and her parents, her mother by her side, unbelievably grateful for Cassian who had taken up the empty seat on Azriel’s right, Nesta beside him, taking up the rest of their side of the table.

There were to many glaring sets of eyes on Azriel to count, to his credit, he didn’t back down from any of them, that calm mask firmly in place as he met every single one.

“Well this is just wonderful isn’t it?” Rhys grins from ear to ear, fighting back a laugh when Feyre smacks his arm. “We’ve been getting acquainted with your new extended family, Az.”

Across from her sat her uncles, all glaring and sizing up Azriel like they were ready to leap across the table and tear him to shreds, all but Fenrys who was grinning just as devilishly as Rhys.

“You disappear for nearly two months and come back with a guy with wings,” he laughs, it seems almost threatening, “At least he’s pretty.”

“Debatable,” her father says quietly, stabing his fork into a poor unsuspecting strawberry on his plate.

Beside Fenrys, Lorcan looks almost as murderous as her father, glaring past her at her mate. Y/n doesn’t miss the way Cassian sizes her uncle up from Azriel’s side. Even sitting, Lorcan towers over everyone around him.

Aedion sat to his right, the wolf practically snarling. He might have been one of the most protective of her uncles, he’d had more than his fair share of scaring off her past partner’s. Lysandra beside him eyes narrowed as if she’d shift into an actual wolf, together they’d had boys screaming as they ran from her home.

“Hands off,” Y/n halfheartedly snaps at Fenrys, fighting to break some tension, “He’s mine.”

She can feel a ripple of satisfaction from Azriel. Again, Y/n sends the word down that bridge, mine. He entwines his hand with hers, squeezing once in response, mine.

On Fenrys’s other side sat Chaol and Yrene, Dorian at her side, they were the only ones not seemingly premeditating murder, but her uncle Dorian was a master of hiding his true thoughts. He could easily smile at someones face, and send a shard of ice into their back. Y/n thanked any god or mystical force, the mother, the cauldron, the Wyrd, that Manon was not with him.

The witch would never admit it, had only let Y/n call her aunt once in her life, but she was sure Manon had hunted down one of her poor exes. There was no tears shed when the male had wound up missing.

Beside Dorian sat Rhys, separate she wouldn’t have necessarily made the connection, but side by side, they look eerily similar. Raven black hair, sharp jawlines, the only major difference was the eyes, blue to violet.

“I recognize you,” her mother says from her side, eyes trained on the Lord and Lady down the long table, “This place.”

“I’d had a theory,” Rhys says, “When dear Y/n had described your journey through worlds.”

Y/n feels the dots connect, she’s surprised she hadn’t done it before. Her mother had told her of the world of stars she’d fallen through, the male who’d slowed her down enough so that she could go home. The wings, the heavily pregnant female, the night kissed power that had slammed into her.

“You’re the one who slowed me down,” Aelin says, leaning back in her seat at the revelation, “Thank you for that, if it wasn’t for you, I might have never made it home.”

Her father takes her hand in his, pausing his glaring at Azriel long enough to nod his thanks to Rhys, turning back to her mother, the tell tale sign of a silent conversation passing between them.

“You were that red star?” Nesta asks, leaning forward to peer around Cassian at Aelin, “But that was only a few years ago. That happened many many years ago according to Y/n.”

“Time was strange when I was falling,” Aelin explains, “I fell through worlds, moving forward and backward in time and place. I fell into your future, twenty odd years seemingly.”

There was a brief pause as everyone takes in the information. Only a few years ago, her mother had been here, falling through the sky like a red falling star, Y/n hadn’t even been born and yet she fell into this word only a few years later. It was hard to wrap her mind around.

Cassian seems to finally finish his thorough examination, breaking the silence that had fallen, “How tall are you really?”

Lorcan simply gave the male a incredulous look, “Tall.”

Cassian sighs, “Why is there another one, we’ve already got a tall dark broody with Az.”

Azriel glares at him, “Really?”

Y/n grins, chuckling under her breath as he gives her a near perfect match of her uncle’s look. His eyes light with amusement, lips twitching like he was fighting a grin.

Cassian leans his elbows one the table, with a feral grin, “I bet I could-“

“Don’t make bets you can’t win,” Lorcan interrupts.

“I could definitely win,” Cassian scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest, perhaps to look threatening.

“No,” Lorcan says simply, “You couldn’t.”

“Don’t mind him,” Aelin waves off Lorcan, “He’s just grouchy because his wife had to stay home to watch over things.”

Lorcan turns his glare on Aelin, she only gives him a sweet smile. It instantly gets beneath his skin, his hands clenching into fist on the table. No matter the years they’ve spent as friends, Aelin never failed to annoy the male.

Azriel gently squeezes her hand, saying down that bond, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, exact same infuriating smile.

Y/n simply gives him one of her own, turning to look at the room full of her family and his, who slowly open up into uneasy conversation.

Nesta looks half ready to corner Lysandra to wring her for shifting stories. Dorian and Rhys look like mirrors talking, Feyre, Chaol, and Yrene talking beside them, glancing between the two with similar expressions of confusion. Poor Lorcan was not getting away from Cassian, with the help of Fenrys and Aelin.

The only one still silent, still paying attention to their hands entwined between them, her father. Rowan glares intently at the connection between them, Y/n was half tempted to hide her hand below the table, Azriel wasn’t having any of it. He held her firmly in place, scars fully on display, shadows gently twining over her wrist, caressing her skin in comfort. He held her father’s ice cold glare, met it with one of his own, the shadowsinger’s like the cold of darkness.

“He’s had enough, buzzard,” Aelin says quietly, her mother putting herself into Rowan’s view, “Save some of the threatening for later, you can sit by the door, sharpening your sword when he can come to visit.”

“Visit?” Azriel asks, a brow raised at Y/n.

“I was hoping to have this conversation later,” she glares at her mother who simply shrugs.

“What do you mean?” Azriel holds her hand tightly, like he was coming to his own conclusions, none of them good.

Y/n didn’t want this to happen now, for anyone else to be the one to tell him. She was still reeling from the pain of being told herself.

“We waited for you to wake up,” Rowan says, an edge to his voice, “For her sake.”

There were to many risks, to many long lost enemies that would be drawn. To go between worlds frequently, to open and close those gates to many times. They’d already opened so many, already tested their fate. So she had to make a choice, she had begged to wait for him before she made it.

“Wait to do what?”

Y/n could feel his panic down the bond, and she hates the words as they come from her mouth, “To go home.”

He knew it was coming, had known it from the moment Rhys told him she was his mate. It was the reason he didn’t tell her, the reason he’d fallen apart so spectacularly. Despite everything, of course she would still go home, still leave him, she was a princess, she had a destiny, a crown, a kingdom, and he, he was nothing.

He was a bastard nobody of a long dead lord. In what world would this female, this princess, stoop so low to be with him, to give up her crown?

“Az.”

Gentle, oh so gentle, as if she spoke softly it would keep him from shattering.

“Excuse me.”

Azriel stood, ignoring the eyes from every angle, concerned gazes, glares, all of it. He walked away, he didn’t break, didn’t fall apart, didn’t cry, didn’t scream, he just left. Put distance between him and the knowledge that he found this beautiful female, his mate, and fate would rip her away from him just like that.

“Az,” her voice almost broke him, “Hold on, stop for a second.”

He couldn’t, if he stopped he was scared he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up anymore, he would fall apart and he would never be able to put himself back together again.

“Az,” she pleads, running to catch up, “just hold on.”

Shadows screaming in his ears, stop, listen to her, stop, don’t let her go. He forces them away, forces his legs to keep moving, to find his room, to hide, hide, hide.

“Damnit, shadowsinger.” A hand wraps around his arm, nails digging into his skin to simply hold him in place, “Will you just listen to me.”

Azriel whirls around, and he does the one thing he could do without breaking completely, the only selfish thing he’d allow himself. He kisses her, putting every raging emotion he was feeling into his lips on hers, into his hands on either side of her face. She gasps and his tongue sweeps into her mouth, fighting, claiming, begging.

“Stay.”

One word, whispered against her lips, one word, one selfish selfish word. Azriel would never ask for anything else, would never need anything else, as long as she stayed.

“Az, I-“

He couldn’t do it, couldn’t listen to her say no, because she would, and he didn’t blame her for it, didn’t hate her for it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

He pulls her to him, lips crashing in desperation and despair. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t continue to say those words, doesn’t break him. Azriel drops his hold on her face, reaching down to her thighs to lift her, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist when her legs wrap around him. He carries her, blindly finding his way to his room several doors down, closing them into the space, lips never parting from hers, never allowing those words to come.

Azriel pulls away, only long enough to find the bed, to gently lay her down atop it, settling above her. Her hands caressing his face, brushing through his hair, dragging her nails over his shoulders and chest as they undress each other. He takes his time, ignoring the ticking clock in his head that counts down to the inevitable end.

She’s just as beautiful as the first time he saw her, soft skin beneath his palms as he holds her, admires her. Undoing each lace of her leathers, watching the way she writhes beneath him, listening to the whines and pleas.

“Az,” she gasps, “please I-“

He tugs the material down, taking the small lace beneath with it until she’s completely bare beneath him.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, not trusting his voice as the emotions rise in his throat, as words beg to be let out.

She can feel it, feel everything, the tears he bites back, her eyes fill with them, quiet silver tears that roll down her cheeks. Azriel takes her in his arms, kissing away the hurt as best he could, their naked chest pressed against each other. He could feel her shaking, Azriel wasn’t sure if that was just him.

“Az,” she begs softly.

Azriel knew what she was pleading for, and he wouldn’t deny her, wouldn’t deny himself. They were both selfish, they both needed this, needed each other, even if it was the one and only time. They would take everything they could before it was taken from them.

He lays her down, softly kissing her cheeks, right over those tears, before sitting back, scarred hands undoing his own laces, quickly, desperately. There’s immense relief when he pulls the pants down his thighs, a strike of pure lust through him, from that bond, from her when she sees him standing naked before her.

“Please,” she begs again, hooking her legs around him to pull him close.

The briefest touch has him gasping, and when she lifts her hips, pressing her center to him, he groans. Dropping down to capture her lips again, tasting her moans as he slowly guides himself into her. Slow, he would need to be so slow, she’d been tight around just his fingers, he didn’t want to hurt her, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.

“I’m not going to break,” she whispers against him, “Please, Az.”

Any control snaps when her voice wavers with the weight of her emotions, when she wraps her legs tightly around his waist and pulls, taking his breath away from him. Azriel had never felt anything like her, like their bodies along with their souls had been made for each other.

The sound she makes, the high breathy moan almost has him coming undone. He waits, letting her get used to the feeling, to the stretch, he kisses each of her cheeks, tasting the salt of her tears, and then he claims her lips, claims all of her, all that she can give, and he gives himself in return.

She writhes beneath him, silently begging him to move, he does, slowly dragging his length out, groaning against her lips, perfect, absolutely perfect. He rolls his hips, drawing sharp gasps from both of them, slow delicate movements to draw out their pleasure.

“Az, I-“ She gasps as he hits that spot deep inside her. “I-“

Azriel felt the words she tried to say, felt the emotion mirroring his own, felt his heart heal and break at the same time.

“I love you, Princess,” he whispers against her lips, his pace quickening, “I love you, I will love you even with a million stars between us.”

She cries, arching into him, matching each of his strokes. Bodies, minds, hearts, and souls completely intertwined, everything she felt, so did he, every emotion, every stroke, everything. He felt the tightening band in her core, threatening to snap and send them both over the edge.

“I love you,” she gasps out the words, struggling to speak around the pleasure and the pain, “I love you.”

And when she can’t speak it anymore, she chants it down that bond, I love you, I love you, I love you, my mate, those words are Azriel’s undoing. The band snaps, and both of them are thrown over the edge.

I love you too, Princess, he can’t find his voice, My beautiful mate.

She clings to him, like she’s terrified he will disappear at any moment, Azriel finds that’s exactly why he holds her just as tightly, sitting back, lifting her into his lap with his arms around her waist to have her as close as he physically can. Her arms wrap around his neck, nails digging into his skin like she could anchor herself to him.

In all their time together, he’d never actually heard her cry, not until now, the smallest, most heartbreaking noise, a whimper of pain. He can only hold her tighter as that small sound turns to a sob.

“It’s not fair,” she cries, burying her face into his neck, “None of this is fair. How could fate be so cruel, so gods damned cruel to gift me a mate, all the way across the stars, to bring me here, bring me you, just to rip us apart.”

Azriel wants to be strong, to just hold her, stay put together for her, but he can’t. The tears he desperately wanted to hide, to hold back, flood his eyes. And all either of them can do is cry, and hold onto each other.

They gave them time, time to be together, to cry, to feel everything they could offer each other.

Y/n had cried until she had nothing left to give. Azriel holding her through it all, listening when she’d finally gotten herself together to explain, to tell him what she’d been told.

That there were gates opening to worlds that should be long gone, that the threat of enemies like the valg, enemies stirring in this world even, was enough to keep them from coming and going from each others worlds, that it wasn’t forever, just long enough to find a solution, one they would work on in both worlds.

It was nearly nightfall by the time someone came knocking for them. Whoever was on the otherside waited patiently for them to dress, to have those last few moments together.

When Y/n finally had the courage to open the door, she’d been met by her mother’s turquoise eyes filled with love and understanding. She didn’t miss anything, the joined scents between them, the puffy red eyes, the hands that refused to let go.

“Everyone is waiting at the gate,” Aelin says gently, “We figured you would want to say goodbye.”

Azriel is a silent figure behind her, his hand never letting go of her own shaking one. They walk down those familiar halls, the house’s presence beside them, sad to see her go.

Y/n bows her head, a gesture of thanks to the first being in this world that had reached out a friendly hand and kept reaching despite her own protests.

Voices travel on a stray breeze, and Azriel’s hand shakes, that panic flowing like a river down the bridge of shadow between them. She never thought she would dread hearing her family.

“We’ll see each other again,” Dorian’s voice sounds, “We’ve had our best scholars looking into the gates while Y/n had been missing, we’ll continue searching for a solution.”

“As will we,” Feyre promises.

Y/n feels the tears welling up in her eyes again as they pass through the door way. Even in the large space, the sheer amount of bodies crowds the room. Her family, the one she’d been born with, had been surrounded by her entire life, and the family she was slowly growing into. Even Amren had shown up, the small female offering her a solemn bow of her head.

The gate was already open, and through it she could see Orynth, the setting Sun lighting the sky in brilliant colors, bright oranges and pinks slowly fading to deep purples and blues. And there, starting to faintly glow in the sky, the bright flame between his antlers, the Lord of the North, shining down on her, welcoming her home.

There were many eyes on her as the tears began to fall down her cheeks. The only thing keeping her from collapsing completely was Azriel by her side, his arm coming to wrap around her waist.

Azriel leans down to whisper in her ear, “He found you.”

She wasn’t lost anymore.

Her family said their goodbyes to the Inner Court, slowly filing through that gate until only her and her parents remained. Rowan still glares at that arm around her waist, but he raises his hand to Azriel’s free one. They shake once, and Y/n knows that her father was not holding back his strength in that grip.

“Take care of her,” Rowan says, and there’s a hard look in his eye, “I don’t care what hell it would bring down on us. If you ever hurt her, know that I will hunt you down through gates and worlds and I will kill you.”

Confusion lights her eyes, Azriel’s too, “I would never dream of hurting her.”

“What is this?” Y/n asks, searching her parent’s faces for an answer.

There’s a broken look in her mother’s eyes as she says, “Stay.”

Behind her, through that gate, her family stands united, sad smiles on their faces. It takes a moment for Y/n to understand, to grasp the words, the warning from her father, the gentle command from her mother.

“What? I- I don’t,” she struggles to find the words.

She staggers forward on shaking legs, Azriel letting her go. Her mother grabs her hands, steadying Y/n, she felt like she would fall apart at anymoment.

Aelin smiles, holding tightly to Y/n’s hands, “Stay, it won’t be forever, we will see you again.”

Her father stood beside them, a small heartbroken smile on his face. Y/n felt like the world was tipping beneath her feet.

“But,” Y/n felt like her throat was closing around the words, “I want to go home, that’s what I’ve been fighting for this whole time, to find my way home.”

And it was Rowan who said, looking over her shoulder, “You are home.”

Y/n follows his gaze, finding Azriel, a shattered expression on his face as he nods at her father. He’d made a promise to Rowan, and he would keep it.

“Stay,” Aelin says again, one hand lifting to Y/n’s cheek, swiping at the tears streaming down her face, “Live, be happy, love fiercely with everything in your heart, and know, that no matter how far away you are, the stag will always be there to watch over you.”

Y/n looks at that constellation through the gate, saw that brilliant stag watching her, watching the sky above like he could see all the way to the world she stood on now.

“We will always find you,” Rowan says, and she can hear the pain in her father’s voice, “I promise.”

“I’ll miss you every moment,” Aelin says, drawing Y/n into her arms, “But I will sleep peacefully knowing you’re here, safe, with him.”

She felt her legs give out, felt her father’s arms wrap around her and her mother as they all sank to the stone floors. Rowan held them all together, like he had always done. She felt like she was a child again, so small, so breakable, but with her family around her, she would always be safe.

“I love you both,” Y/n cries, “I will see you again.”

Aelin was the first to pull away, “We will see you again, my Fireheart.”

Rowan held on a moment longer, kissing that invisible mark on her brow like he’d done since she was a child. When he rose, taking Aelin’s hand, he looked past Y/n, to her mate standing behind her, Rowan bows his head just barely, a thank you. And her parents turned, and walked through that gate.

Y/n could only watch and cry as her family waved their finally goodbyes, as that gate closed between them, as the Lord of the North smiled down on her one last time.

He stayed with her, well after that gate had closed, her family behind it. His own had left, giving her the privacy to grieve. Y/n simply knelt there, staring at that empty arch on the wall, silent tears still streaming down her face.

Azriel was a selfish male, the relief he’d felt when Aelin told her to stay had almost taken him to his knees. But when he’d seen the broken look in his mates eyes, felt her heart shatter beside his own, he felt the guilt eating him alive.

So he stayed with her, sat down beside her, not touching, but close enough that she could reach out whenever she was ready.

Hours passed, and finally she leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. Azriel sighs at the contact, wrapping his arm around her to pull her closer. She finally looks away from that blank wall, only to bury her face in his chest.

Azriel holds her tighter, lifting a hand to her chin, tilting her face towards his. He searches her eyes, the tears are long gone but the redness remains, and in them he doesn’t find the lost and broken pieces he expected, that he prepared himself to help put back together.

He tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear, resting his palm on her cheek. She leans into that touch, nuzzling into his palm.

“Where’d you go, Princess?”

For a moment he doesn’t think she’ll respond, she only stares up at him. And then she’s capturing his lips with her own in a soft, gentle kiss. Azriel runs his thumb over her cheek, admiring the feeling of her lips against his own. Here, she was still here, with him, in his arms.

She pulls back, only just far enough, lips still brushing against his own as she says, “Home, I’m finally home.”

Tag list-

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[guilty-pleasures21]

Dragon!Miguel

@captain-liminal it took me a while, but I did it! I also have to credit @exhaslo on this for supporting me and answering my dragon questions and giving me a foundation to build on. I hope it's all right and I look forward to any future requests!

Based on this request.

BONUS:

Side story: Kidnapped!

Warnings: none. Just grumpy and whipped Miguel 😉.

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     “Miguel!” Gabriel yelled, chasing his brother down the palace hallway. “It will be good for both our kingdoms-”

     “It will be good for her kingdom,” Miguel interrupted, refusing to slow down his unrelenting pace. “What do we need an alliance for?” Of course they didn’t need an alliance: not when he was the most powerful fire dragon to be born in five centuries!

     Gabriel rolled his eyes at the haughty implication of his brother's question. “Well, number one: you need an heir, obviously, and combined with her powers, your children would be the most powerful beings to have ever graced this earth!”

     Miguel let out a snort as he pushed open the double doors, unconvinced by his brother’s argument. “I'm only twenty-three, Gabriel. What do I need heirs for?”

     He finally stopped, arms folded across his chest and brow furrowed stubbornly as he turned around to face his brother. Gabriel clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, trying to hold onto his patience. Dios, his brother was annoying. “For when you make stupid, reckless decisions that cut your lifespan by half, hermano.” 

     “Hmph.” Miguel sniffed as he glanced away, not wanting to admit that his brother maybe possibly could have been a little bit right. But that didn’t mean that he needed kids; it just meant that he had to be a little more … thoughtful. 

     His heart thudded in his chest as his brother’s expression turned pensive and Gabriel jumped on the opportunity to change his mind. 

     “Look, just … just be a little open to the idea when you meet her tomorrow,” he suggested cautiously. “I'm not saying you have to fall head over heels in love with her immediately, but just … be nice, Miguel.”

     Miguel narrowed his eyes at the plea in his brother’s voice, but continued to avoid his gaze. “I can be nice.”

     Gabriel raised his eyebrows, fixing Miguel with a knowing look. Miguel slid his gaze over to him and huffed when he saw his expression. 

     “Whatever. I’m going to take a flight.” And before Gabe could stop him, Miguel had turned around and leapt into the air, his body lengthening into his dragon form as he flew away.

     He clenched his fists as he strolled around the edge of the village, his thoughts still focused on his earlier conversation with his brother. How dare his ministers arrange an alliance on his behalf?! Without even consulting him about it first?! Of course, if they had consulted him about it, then he'd immediately have disagreed. Which was probably why they hadn't asked him in the first place. But to marry a woman he'd never met?! To give himself over to her and have children with her?! The thought lit his insides on fire. He stopped suddenly as an unfamiliar scent wafted through the air towards him: warm, slightly spicy, like a good soup being cooked atop a strong flame. He looked up and his heart stopped when his eyes landed upon the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. Her hair was dark, the silky strands cascading down her delicate shoulders as she moved gracefully along the path; her skin was golden, like she'd been left in the fire for the perfect amount of time and would be comfortingly warm to the touch; and her eyes were round and dazzling, framed perfectly by long, curly lashes that brushed her cheeks everytime she blinked. She was perfect. Miguel rushed over to her, desperate to make her his, but he stopped abruptly when he reached her, his mind going blank as he got close enough to see the shards of gold scattered around her irises. “Hi.”

     She raised an eyebrow, amused by the handsome stranger who had approached her without a plan in mind. 

     “Hello,” she greeted him calmly, her voice as melodious as a nightingale’s. “Nice to meet you, sir. May I know your name?”

     She held a hand out to him, but he watched it carefully, hesitating. Finally, he took a step back from her, afraid that he might accidentally burn her with his flames - there were a few downsides to being the most powerful fire dragon to be born in five centuries. “Miguel.”

     “Miguel …” she repeated carefully. His heart pounded in his chest at the sound of his name in her sweet voice; at the sight of her rosy lips puckering to form the letters. Dios, she was beautiful. 

     “And yours?” Miguel asked, his features melting into a dazed smile as he continued to gaze at her. 

     “X,” she replied, her heart fluttering at the look he gave her. He really was handsome, this tall stranger, especially when he smiled like that. 

     Miguel felt his insides start to heat up at the wide grin on her pretty face and he took another step away from her for good measure. X raised an eyebrow, confused, but Miguel refused to provide her with an explanation, embarrassed by his lack of control over his own emotions and powers. 

     “I … I don't recall having ever seen you here before, my lady,” Miguel said, wanting to carry on the conversation and spend more time in the company of this exquisite creature. X’s eyes widened in surprise. 

     “Oh!” she gasped, suddenly looking a little nervous as she stammered out an explanation. “I … I have come to visit some distant relatives of mine.”

     Miguel nodded slowly, filing the information away for later: if he was able to find out which family she belonged to, then he’d have a definitive way of finding her when they eventually parted ways later that day. “And how long are you planning on staying for?”

     X pursed her lips in thought and Miguel felt the saliva begin to pool in his mouth as he wondered what they would taste like against his. “It depends.”

     “On what?”

     Her smile turned mischievous and she took a moment to let her gaze travel over his broad and muscular form. “On if I find a good enough reason to stay.”

     She glanced up at him from beneath her dark and curly lashes and Miguel reflected her thrilled expression as they two of them gazed at each other in silence, the both of them studying and admiring the other shyly. Finally, Miguel cleared his throat and straightened. 

     “Well, perhaps I can help you with that,” he suggested, gesturing to the path in front of them. “If you would join me for a tour, my lady?” A soft giggle escaped X’s lips as she took a step forward and Miguel swore his heart melted in his chest as he followed beside her. 

     Gabriel tugged on the collar of his shirt, trying to dissipate some of the heat that had gathered around his neck. His brother was furious - he could feel it in the stifling heat that radiated off of him and engulfed the entire room. But he refused to give in to his brother's temper - someone had to make sure he didn't blow up all their diplomatic relations when he became king and if Gabriel was the only one unafraid of him enough to do it, then do it he would. “Calmate, hermano.”

     Miguel continued to glare out the window, arms folded across his chest as he refused to look at his brother. He grunted in response and a puff of smoke blew out of his nose. 

     “Presenting Princess (your full name) of Risendelle,” the steward announced, stepping aside to allow their esteemed guest to make her way into the room. Miguel turned to face the princess, the irritated scowl still spread across his face: he didn’t want some spoiled princess he’d never even seen before. He wanted the lady he'd met yesterday - the most perfect treasure he'd ever laid his eyes on. But then X walked into the room and Miguel’s heart stopped in his chest.

     She paused, startled to see the handsome stranger she’d met yesterday waiting for her. He looked especially impressive in his princely outfit, his dark blue tailcoat perfectly matching the black collar and trousers he’d been fitted in. She dropped into a curtsey, then flashed him a smile when she straightened, her heart fluttering at the dazed grin stretched across his lips. 

     “Thank you for journeying all this way, Princess,” Gabriel began, sweeping into a low bow in greeting. “We are grateful to finally be able to make your acquaintance.” He straightened and slid his gaze over to Miguel, still frozen in place, stupidly wide smile fixed on his face as he gazed at the princess. Gabe frowned and elbowed his brother’s side, finally pulling him out of his reverie. 

     “Uh, yes! My lady!” Miguel exclaimed, giving a bow as well. “I mean, my princess! I mean, uh, not my, but … um … hi?” 

     X giggled at his flustered demeanour before straightening her expression once again. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Your Highnesses. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance as well.”

     Gabe glanced between his brother and the princess, the both of them smiling shyly at one another in silence. Then he let out a sigh of relief: thankfully, his brother seemed enamoured enough with the princess to have not tried to set her on fire immediately. Not that it would have mattered anyway considering that she was a phoenix - another reason he’d been so desperate to make this alliance work. 

     “Right! Well! Miguel?” Gabe turned to him, clapping his hands together to grab his brother’s attention. “Why don't you take the princess on a tour of the Royal Gardens?”

     “Huh? Oh! Yes! Would you like to see the gardens, princess? They are especially lovely this time of the year,” Miguel agreed, gesturing to the doors. X gave him a sweet smile as she passed him and he felt his heart start racing in his chest. They strolled together quietly for a while, the both of them flashing each other the occasional thrilled smile. Then finally, Miguel broke the silence. “So, about yesterday …”

     “Oh! Right! I came to your kingdom a day earlier so I could get a more accurate sense of what it would be like,” she explained, her expression turning sheepish for a moment. “I didn't expect to get a more accurate sense of what you would be like too.”

     Miguel let out a huff of amusement at that and X tried to take a step closer to him, but he moved away, maintaining that bit of distance between them. 

     “Miguel,” she began, stopping in her tracks so he’d be forced to turn around and face her. He fixed her with a quizzical look and she gave him a little pout. “Why won't you let me touch you?”

     His eyes widened, taken aback by her bluntness. 

     “I-I … I just …” He lowered his head, embarrassed, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don't want to hurt you, princesa.”

     She swallowed hard as her heart fluttered at the nickname. “Then don't.”

     Miguel glanced up at her again, surprised by her response. “It's … not as easy as that.”

     She tilted her head, waiting for an explanation. Dios, she was cute. Miguel slid his gaze away from hers, embarrassed. “I … I tend to … lose control of my powers … when I get too … ‘emotional’.”

     She took a step closer to him causing him to panic and take a step back. 

     “Miguel …” She raised her eyebrows at him. “I'm a phoenix. We don't burn in the flame; we rise from it.” Her eyes flashed golden, fire dancing around her irises, and Miguel sucked in a breath at the captivating sight. X quickly took advantage of the distraction to step forward and place her hand on his forearm, letting him know that she wasn’t afraid. Miguel swallowed hard at the rare moment of physical contact, but didn’t pull away, allowing her instead to move even closer to him. X stretched onto her toes and leaned over to murmur in his ear. 

     “If you can become this shy from me just touching your arm, oh great and fearsome dragon prince, however are you going to make love to me on our wedding night?” She lowered herself back to the ground and grinned as he lit up in embarrassment, swallowing the both of them with his fierce and beautiful flames. 

     He clenched his fists, trying to tamp down his fire, but then she dropped her hand to his side and took hold of his, twining their fingers together. Miguel relaxed at the encouraging smile on her face and allowed his fire to take over the both of them. 

     He studied her carefully where she sat at her dresser, fully made up for the ball that night. He pointed at one of the many piles of jewellery around the room, gesturing for her lady’s maids to hurry over to it. “Put that on, too; the head thing. The one that clips into her hair and hangs over her forehead.”

     X flashed Miguel an amused look. “Querido. Any more jewellery and I won't be able to walk!”

     “I’ll carry you,” he replied immediately. X let out a soft snicker, amused by how much he doted on her: he was almost like a child sometimes, chasing after her with whatever new treasure he’d found and then insisting she carry it around for at least a week to show it off to everyone. But she’d have to draw a line eventually considering the rapidly growing hoard accumulating in their shared bedroom. 

     “That wouldn’t be a very good first impression, mi amor,” she pointed out, not wanting to let down her new people at her introductory ball that night. 

     His jaw tightened, annoyed by the knowledge that she was right. But then she flashed him one of her soft smiles and he felt some of the tension leave his body. “But … But …”

     “How about this,” X suggested calmly. “I'll wear the maang tikka if you let me remove one of these necklaces.”

     Miguel growled as she pointed to one of the many shiny necklaces layered elegantly across her neck. She was his wife - his most precious treasure of all - and he always felt a surge of pride whenever he saw her decked out in whatever finery he’d collected. Everything was just so much more beautiful when it was on her, so much shinier and so much more irresistible. But she was his wife and he never wanted her to be upset or uncomfortable.

     “Fine,” he grunted, folding his arms across his chest.

     X stood up when she saw the steam start wafting off of him. She sank down onto the bed beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, rubbing him soothingly. Miguel glanced away from her, not wanting to give in so easily, but then she pressed a kiss to the side of his head and he melted instantly. 

     She stood up and held her hands out to him, waiting for him to get up. “Vamos, querido. We’re going to be late otherwise.”

     Her husband smiled up at her as he took her hands and stood up too. He rubbed his thumbs across her skin, then guided her hands to his shoulders before sliding his around her waist. X giggled as he wrapped her up in his arms and Miguel felt his heart turn into a puddle before he leaned over and pressed his lips to hers. “Vamos, querida.”

     Her lady’s maid knocked on the door, waiting for a response before entering. But no reply came through. 

     “Ma’am? May I come in?” she called through the door. Silence. She opened the door a crack and tried again. “Ma’am? Are you a-”

     She gasped loudly when she saw a mound of blankets, pillows and hot water bottles piled on the bed. “Your majesty!”

     “I’m here!” X’s muffled voice broke through together with her hand, sticking out of the middle of the pile. “A little help, please?”

     The maid rushed over and started digging through the pile, tossing some items aside to clear a space for the queen. Finally, there was enough of a gap for her to sit up. She sucked in a deep breath of air as she stroked her swollen stomach. Then she turned to her maid with an amused smile. “I knew that dragons built nests too, but I didn’t know that they'd be this obsessive about it!”

     The maid held onto her arm as she stood up, helping her maintain her balance. “Yes, well, the King is … especially in touch with his dragon side.”

     X straightened her dress around her baby bump once she’d steadied herself. “Indeed. Well, while he is still out, perhaps I should seize the opportunity to take a turn about the gardens?”

     His claws maintained their firm grip on the crown the elves had gifted him at their meeting. He couldn’t wait to show it to his beautiful wife, his most glorious treasure of all. She’d make it look so much more dazzling, the intricately crafted golden vines sitting perfectly atop her tumbling dark curls. He spread his wings as he approached the Royal Gardens, the sudden resistance slowing him enough for him to transform back into his human form and land gracefully on his feet. He smiled smugly at the way the crown glimmered in the sunlight as he made his way towards the palace - to the nest he’d so lovingly built for his pregnant little wife. But then her smoky scent wafted through the air and into his nose and he froze in his tracks. He spun around in the direction of the scent and his eyes narrowed into reptilian slits as the fury took over him. His wings popped out of his back and he sped off towards the Royal Gardens.

     She bent over to take a whiff of one of the many exquisite roses thoughtfully planted around the gardens. Then she caught the scent of her husband and turned around to greet him with a delighted smile on her face. Miguel stormed over to her in a cloud of smoke, the air around him radiating with heat. He swept her into his arms as soon as he reached her, holding her firmly against him and refusing to let her go. 

     “What are you doing out here, mi reina?!” he exclaimed, glancing around until his gaze landed on one of the guards unlucky enough to be situated nearby. “You! How dare you let the Queen leave her nest in her current state! I should have you-”

     "Querido." X slid her fingers up her husband’s broad shoulders and into his hair, tilting his head down to hers. She glided her fingers along his scalp, calming him down until he was no longer on fire. “Calmate, mi amor. I was the one who chose to leave my nest. You can’t keep me locked up at all hours of the day, mi vida. I’m a bird, remember?”

     A plume of smoke escaped Miguel’s nostrils as he huffed in frustration. “But you need to rest, mi reina!”

     X retained the amused smile on her face: she always knew exactly how to deal with his temper. “Any more resting and I’ll forget how to walk, mi querido!”

     Miguel grunted at her response. But, as always, he ended up giving in to his wife. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then turned to walk with her as she continued around the gardens. 

     The midwife gave a victorious smile as she held the screeching baby in her arms. “It’s a girl!” 

     She handed the baby to Miguel who gazed down at her adoringly as he cuddled her against his chest. She was so pretty with her wide eyes that roamed around the room and her rosy lips that were pursed in curiosity and her tiny fingers that reached up to her father. He held a finger out to her and she grabbed it quickly before giving a little yawn that expelled a stream of flames. Miguel laughed at the display of power, delighted, then sank down onto the bed beside his wife. “¡Mira, querida! It’s our baby! Isn’t she such a treasure?!”

     X gave him a tired smile as he carefully transferred their daughter to her arms. She stroked the little wisps of their baby’s hair, then turned to smile at her husband. Her chest filled with warmth as she watched him play with their baby, tickling her gently as he made funny faces to try to get her to laugh. Their daughter sneezed, letting out another puff of flame, and X’s heart swelled as her husband laughed again. 

     “Yes,” she agreed softly. “The most precious treasure of all.”