#Foundation of Fire and Blood

[fromtheboundlesssea]

Valaena Targaryen was the only surviving child of her father Maegor the Cruel. Born only a year into his marriage to Ceryse Hightower, Valaena’s birth implied many more children to come—but no more would the seed of Maegor take root.

Regardless of the tenuous relationship between her parents, both doted on the young Valaena. While her father and grandmother raised her in the Old Ways of Valyria, her mother raised her in the ways of Westeros. Valaena was noted to pray to the Old Gods of Valyria as well as the Seven.

She was five when she claimed the young dragon Melyse, much to the joy of her Targaryen relatives and the shock of her mother as the girl was small enough to ride upon the unsaddled dragon. As her cousins all hat hatchlings, Valaena became the first of her generation to ride a dragon, despite her father not being a dragon rider himself, although he would later claim Balerion for himself after his father’s death.

She is often remembered as Valaena the Gentle.

[scpaesthetics]

SCP Aesthetics: 2527 (requested by @sleeping-raccoon, written by daveyoufool)

What do? (monochrome, computers, torture)

[unabashedfandreamland]

Various disability headcannons for various characters

Yoichi Shigaraki: Has several medical issues due to both having Twin to Twin Transference syndrome in the womb (being the donor twin), and just being genetically unlucky. He has chronic fatigue, as well as hEDS (hyper mobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome), which means it's doubly hard for him to move around on a day to day basis. His joints don't stay attached very well, and some days he literally can not get out of bed. He also has a minor heart defect, which sometimes causes high blood pressure and difficulty breathing as his heart did not develop properly due to AFO stealing all the nutrients in the womb, so it can not pump blood to the lungs effectively. TJ Bright (SCP 590): So much chronic pain holy shit- He's accumulated so many of other people's injuries over the course of his life that something somewhere is always flaring in pain. Most days he can move pretty normally despite this, since he has a very high pain tolerance from all these injuries, but there are days where the pain is simply too much.

Heleana Targaryen: She obviously autistic, but she also has selective mutism. It's hard for her to speak, especially to strangers. This was a lot more intense when she was a child, causing her to basically be unable to speak to anyone outside her siblings/cousins, and while she did get better while growing up, the death of her son caused this to get a lot worse, to the point where she struggled to speak to anyone. Dreamfyre, however, can still understand Heleana even when she doesn't feel well enough to talk, as they can understand each other based on nonverbal cues. (This headcannon is strictly book!Heleana, I have not seen the show.) Aventurine: This man has so much PTSD. It's primarily over the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event (the massacre of his clan), but there are also many triggers surrounding his time in slavery. He tries his best to hide this, since he doesn't want to appear weak in front of the other members of the IPC, especially since he knows that they're one hundred percent going to use this against him. But he has told Ratio, and the two of them are working together to help Aventurine improve his mental health.

[lovelyhan]

— starcrossed losers ⟢

at age fifteen, you’re betrothed to a prince named jeonghan. at age twenty-five, you’re set to marry him. so when your father gives you a chance to find love all on your own, you immediately take it. now if only jeonghan would stop fucking sabotaging every relationship you’re trying to get into.

★ FEATURING; jeonghan x reader

★ WORD COUNT; 21k words

★ TAGS; princess!reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, magic & fantasy, betrayal (not frm jh), angst, minor character death, blood and violence, smut (MINORS DNI)

★ NOTES; two years... it took me TWO YEARS to write this and post it AJAHDSFJSHFDGDF i am sorry? SO DEEPLY SORRY!?!?!? but that aside, this probably only starts to get more jeonghan-centric at the 10k word mark... OUGH..... i needed to do a lot of worldbuilding AHAHAHAHA BUT I PROMISEE it's for good reason!

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

★ SMUT TAGS; vaginal fingering, making out in places where you shouldn't, semi-public sex (that's it for this part unfortunately...)

Your life changed forever on a Tuesday morning.

As a princess, your days were dictated by a perfectly curated schedule. Every hour accounted for, every moment neatly placed in a grid of expectations and duty. It should have felt restrictive for most girls your age. But not for you. You liked the structure. The routine gave your life shape and purpose. You didn’t have to wonder what the day might hold or scramble to meet your obligations. All that was required of you was to show up, shoulders squared, chin high, and play your part in the ever-charming production of royal daughterhood.

Mondays and Wednesdays were for lessons with your private tutor—arithmetic, magical history, the foundations of politics and diplomacy. Tuesdays and Thursdays belonged to physical training. Fencing and archery were your common favorites. Fridays were reserved for etiquette, where you were taught about flawless posture, graceful curtsies, and a hundred ways to say no without ever using the word. Meanwhile, weekends were for socializing, when nobles from Ancarra and beyond paraded their heirs and fortunes before the court like trinkets at market.

On this particular Tuesday, Changkyun’s form was sloppy—left shoulder too low, footwork too eager—and you exploited it mercilessly, driving him back across the mat with a flurry of perfectly timed lunges. He faltered on his retreat, lost his balance, and went down with a sharp oof before the tip of your foil points just shy of his collarbone.

You didn’t smirk, but it took effort.

Flat on his back, your fencing partner let out a groan and flung an arm over his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Master Yesung. He’s turned you into a menace.”

“I’ve always been a menace,” you tell him, withdrawing your foil with a flick. “You’re just slow today.”

From the far end of the training hall, a low, throaty rumble of approval rolled across the floor like distant thunder. You glanced over your shoulder to find Reya lounging on the polished stone, tail twitching like he’s amused with your victory. The massive white tiger regarded you with half-lidded pride, resting his chin on his paws like the king he thinks he is.

Changkyun gave Reya a wary glance. “He still hates me.”

“He hates everyone,” you replied fondly. “Except me.”

You didn’t say the rest: that Reya is more than a pet. That you hadn’t tamed him—you found him, half-starved and snared by a hunter’s trap in the snowfields. That when your magic surfaced and it turned out you weren’t a fire-wielder, or a stormcaller like the other gifted scions of noble houses but simply a girl who could speak to animals: everyone acted like you’d been cursed with the art of babysitting.

That is not real magic, they said. It will never be useful in court.

So you honed your body instead. 

Foil. Footwork. Form. You mastered it all, until no one dared question your worth out loud. And maybe Changkyun is the only person who ever looked at you without that shadow of disappointment on everyone’s faces when they thought you wouldn’t notice.

Your fingers brushed as you help him to his feet, and your heart lifts—

—just as Royal Advisor Siwon clears his throat.

The sound snapped through the air like a blade cracking on steel. You and Changkyun jump apart.

“Your Grace,” Siwon said, bowing deeply. His silver-rimmed spectacles gleam in the sunlight. “The king requests your presence. Immediately.”

You blinked. “I’m in the middle of training.”

“I’m afraid this takes precedence, Princess,” he told you with the faintest edge of regret in his tone. He’s always been considerate of your feelings. “The matter is… personal.”

Your stomach twisted at that.

Moments later, you pulled off your gloves, tucking them under your arm beside your training foil. Reya got up from his corner with a huff as he padded silently toward you, his presence at your heel like a silent question.

“I’ll return,” you told Changkyun, though you’re not sure you will.

The halls of the Castle of Ancarra were quiet at this hour, but never truly still.

Morning sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, spilling pools of color across the floor dancing faintly over the stone as if the palace itself breathed. The scent of blooming flowers drifted in through open archways from the garden courtyards beyond, clinging to the walls like perfume. Somewhere distant, you heard the faint hum of magic wards being tuned by the royal mages, that soft shimmering sound like glass being struck gently by wind.

You, on the other hand, smelled like sweat.

Each step echoed a little too loudly as you padded down the eastern corridor. Beside you, Siwon walked with his usual glacial calm, every inch the model of a court advisor. Reya prowled silently behind you, massive white paws silent against marble. His fur rippled like snowdrifts in motion, and his blue eyes tracked every passing flicker of movement with the lazy wariness of a predator who knew he had nothing to fear.

You squinted up at Siwon, who maintained his pace without so much as glancing at you. “You know, if you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to assume I’m dying.”

“I assure you, Your Grace,” he replied without inflection, “you are not.”

“Then I’m being exiled.”

“Also incorrect.”

“Then what is it?”

He gave a patient sigh, the kind adults always gave when they thought you were being childish. (You were fifteen, not five, but that never seemed to matter.) “It is not my place to say.”

You groaned. “That’s what you always say.”

“Because it is always true.”

“Can you at least tell me if I’m going to like it?”

“Some might consider it an honor.”

“...Will you make me one of those snowman figures with your frost magic to shut me up?”

Siwon glanced at you, startled but amused. “I thought you already outgrew those, Princess.”

You huffed, and Reya let out a rumble behind you—his version of agreement, no doubt. You didn’t like the way this was heading. Siwon’s face gave nothing away, as usual, and there’s no way to break through his defenses.

Rounding the corner near the west wing stairwell, you nearly collided with one of the younger palace maids, who let out a startled yelp and nearly dropped her stack of linens.

“Oh! Princess!” she gasped, eyes wide as saucers. “You’re still in your fencing kit?”

You look at her bizarrely. “Yes? It’s fencing day?”

Regardless, she looked horrified. “Your hair is all—your tunic—oh dear, you’re soaked. I-I’ll have the other attendants prepare a bath immediately. Do you want rosewater or lavender? I can call for your blue silks, or maybe—”

“She won’t have time for that,” Siwon interrupted mildly, stepping forward. “Her Highness is expected in the king’s study at once.”

The maid faltered. “Oh. I see. O-Of course.”

You offered a weak smile. “It’s fine. My father’s seen worse. Remember when Reya broke into the aviary and I spent half a council meeting covered in goose feathers? This can’t be worse than that.”

Behind you, your tiger gave a low, pleased chuff. You could feel his smugness. The maid tried to laugh politely but gave up halfway through. She curtsied and retreated with all the urgency of someone fleeing a burning room.

You scratched behind Reya’s ear absently as you continued walking with Siwon. “You’d think they’ve never seen sweat before.”

“You are a princess, Your Grace,” Siwon said. “The ideal princess does not perspire. She glows.”

“I’ll be sure to glow after I’m dead.”

Siwon did not react.

Which, of course, was the worst reaction of all.

He reached the grand oak door at the end of the corridor and knocked twice with the back of his hand, the sound deep and final before opening the door.

“After you, Princess,” Siwon said, and you stepped across the threshold, sweat-streaked and bracing yourself for the sentence that would ruin the rest of your youth.

The scent of ink and parchment greeted you first.

Not the cloying perfume of court scrolls but something plainer. Vellum stacked in rows, ink dried in the well, candle wax crusted in yellow pools on the old wooden desk. A fire smoldered low in the hearth, casting long shadows over the high shelves. A half-eaten plate of bread and cheese sat untouched near the window, forgotten beside a ledger the size of a paving stone.

Your father sat behind the desk, hunched over a thick sheaf of correspondence, pen stilled in his hand.

The King of Ancarra was not a large man, not like the kings in your history books who towered over battlefields in gleaming armor. He was wiry, silver streaking his dark hair while the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened not by age but by long nights and hard decisions. He looked up when you entered, and the tiredness in his face softened.

“Bug,” he said, smiling gently. “You’re here.”

As Siwon left you two your own devices, you bowed because you were expected to. But when you straightened, you didn’t hide the concern in your face. Not even that old, endearing nickname could dispel your unease.

“You look awful.”

He barked a tired laugh and set the pen aside. “Thank you, sweetling. That’s what every man longs to hear from his daughter.”

You stepped forward, Reya padding behind you with the faintest growl of warning. He never liked this room. Maybe it reminded him of confinement, or maybe he just hated the smell of parchment.

“You’re still doing all the ledgers by hand,” you said, eyeing the mountain of work.

Your father didn’t deny it. “Who else would?” His smile was wry. “The ministers mean well, but they’d outsource my soul if I let them. I trust my own hand better.”

You bit your lip. He’d always been like this—stubborn in his solitude, steadfast in his refusal to lean on others. Ever since your mother died, he’d carried everything himself. That day was etched into your life, even though you weren’t old enough to remember it. You were told she passed giving birth to you. That her last words were your name. Your father never married again, never even considered it.

Part of you always wondered if that was loyalty, or guilt.

You moved to stand beside him, your sweat-streaked fencing gear looking very out of place in the quiet glow of his study. “You could have waited for me to change.”

He gave a soft hum. “Didn’t want to waste time. I know how long it takes for you to pick a ribbon for your hair.”

You gave him a playful glare.

And then, his expression changed—just slightly. The weariness didn’t fade, but something settled in beside it. A sort of gravity you’d seen only a handful of times in your life.

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. There’s something I need to tell you.”

The hairs at the back of your neck prickled, but you do as you’re told. Reya let out another disgruntled noise as he curled at your feet, frost blue eyes squared on your father. Shortly after sitting down, you folded your hands and straightened your spine like you’d been taught.

“Is something wrong?” you asked.

“...You’ve grown,” Your father’s fingers brushed across the parchment before him, as if searching for the words inside it instead of in his own mind. “Fifteen now. Three years left until you’re given the Dawning Crown.”

That doesn’t quite answer your question.

The Dawning Ceremony was a rite of passage for every member of Ancarran royalty. On your eighteenth birthday, the veil of childhood would be lifted. You’d stand before the court in ceremonial robes, swear your oaths beneath the kingdom’s banner, and receive the Dawning Crown—a silver circlet that marked your right to advise the throne, to lead, to inherit. 

But something told you that wasn’t what the king summoned you for today. 

“Yes,” you said warily. “What of it?” 

Your father looked up at you then. His eyes—tired, kind, and quietly burdened—searched your face as if trying to memorize it before he said something you wouldn’t forgive.

“I’ve arranged a betrothal for you.” 

Silence dropped between you like a stone into water, and it rippled in your chest. You blinked, as if you’d misheard. “What?”

“A betrothal,” he repeated gently. “To Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia. The engagement will be announced before the year’s end. You’ll be married once you both come of age.”

Your throat went dry as you sat there stiffly, the rest of your body frozen while your brain scrambled to catch up. Outside, you could hear the distant flutter of birdsong through the windows, absurdly cheerful for the moment. Reya stirred at your feet, sensing your shock.

“But…” You swallowed. “I thought I would— I thought I’d be able to choose.”

Your father’s face flickered with regret, but his voice was firm. “I did what I had to, bug. This alliance is necessary. Seraphia’s port routes feed half our inland trade. And their King trusts Jeonghan to succeed him one day. He’s… he’s a good boy.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried not to make a sound like a dying bird.

Jeonghan.

You remembered him only in flashes. A diplomatic visit when you were thirteen. A boy with moonlight hair and a smile made of silk and sunshine. All the noble daughters swooned while he bowed and kissed their hands like something out of a storybook.

But you saw it.

You saw the glint of amusement in his eyes when he flattered people just to watch them squirm. The flick of his wrist when he’d “accidentally” stepped on your dress train. The way he’d offered you a honeyed tart, only for you to discover it was filled with chili paste. Your lips had burned for hours.

You scowled. “I would’ve preferred his brother. Joshua at least has a soul.”

The king’s sigh was long and worn, as though he’d rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in his head and never found a version where it didn’t end with you furious.

“I know this isn’t what you wanted,” he said quietly. “But it’s what’s best. For the kingdom.”

You could feel the pressure in your chest start to swell—tight and hot and helpless. You shoved back from your chair, the legs scraping loudly against the polished floor. Reya’s ears flicked at the sound.

“So that’s it?” you demanded. “You marry me off to another kingdom and hope I forget everything I wanted? What about Ancarra? Who do you expect to rule when you’re gone, if I’m stuck in the next kingdom over with a husband I didn’t choose?”

Your voice rang louder than you meant it to, but once it started, it wouldn’t stop.

“Father, I’ve trained my whole life to help you. I’m learning about the laws, the politics, the treaties. I’ve fought and studied and bent over backwards to prove I’m not some fragile little girl just because my magic doesn’t shoot lightning out of my hands!” you sniffled, barely breathing with how much your throat feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. “And now you’re saying it’s all just... for decoration?”

Your father closed his eyes.

For a moment, the silence returned. Not heavy like before, but much more somber.

“You think I don’t want you here?” he asked, and your heart cracked at the roughness in his voice. “You think I haven’t dreamed of the day I’d see you on the throne beside me, crowned and proud, finally free to shape this kingdom with your own hands?”

The king stood behind his desk, and the gesture felt too slow for the weight of what he carried.

“You’ll still rule Ancarra in my place one day, bug,” he said, his voice low with weariness. “But I’ve seen the parts of you that mirror the worst of me. The way you shoulder everything on your own. The way you keep others at a distance, offering only what’s required and nothing more. I know that kind of loneliness. I’ve lived it. And I wouldn’t wish it on you.”

He looked at you then, and the weight behind his gaze was heavier than any crown.

“I’m not trying to chain you to another kingdom. I just want you to have someone by your side. Someone who sees you not as a sovereign, or a symbol, but as a woman. As a queen who doesn’t have to stand alone.”

You turned away, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the anger from spilling out again. Just minutes ago, you’d been silently fretting over your father’s terrible habit of grinding himself into the ground—and now he was saying you were the same. That you’d inherited his loneliness like it was part of your bloodline.

Reya brushed against your side, his fur warm and solid as a low huff vibrated in his chest. You’re not alone, he said. I’m still here.

But the comfort didn’t dull the sting. It didn’t make the room feel any less like a cage.

“Please, bug,” he said softly, reaching across the desk to take your hands in his. His grip was warm, steady, and just a little too gentle. “I need you to trust me. Just for now.”

You looked at him—at the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes, the ink smudged into the creases of his fingers, the quiet burden he carried alone because he never let anyone close enough to share it. Your chest ached.

You nodded, once. “Just for now.”

Life went on, as it always did.

Your schedule remained unchanged—lessons, training, etiquette, more training. The castle walls stayed the same shade of honeyed stone, and the banners still rippled with the wind in Ancarran silver. No one treated you differently, but that was the worst part. The servants still curtsied, the guards still bowed, and Siwon still handed you your briefing scrolls with quiet efficiency. As if nothing had changed. As if your future hadn’t just been carved into stone.

But when you walked through the halls, people looked at you a little longer. Nobles smiled a little too kindly. Maids paused mid-task to whisper behind their hands.

Reya sensed the shift, too. He stayed closer than usual, his great striped head brushing your elbow when you walked, his breath warm at your back when you slept. His presence grounded you, but not even he could quiet the nervous churn in your stomach as the ceremonial dinner approached.

The Seraphian royal family arrived two days after the harvest moon. Their procession was the usual fanfare—banners and courtiers, guards in gilded armor, a fleet of pearl-dappled carriages led by plumed steeds. You watched it unfold from the balcony with arms crossed, ignoring the way your heart drummed harder when you spotted Jeonghan stepping out in gold-trimmed robes, his hair ink-black and tied back with a silken cord. 

It used to be much lighter, didn’t it? Though there were always rumors about the eldest Seraphian prince—that he changed his hair as often as his wardrobe, either by spellcraft or cosmetics. You weren’t sure which unnerved you more. 

The ceremonial dinner was held that evening in the Grand Marbled Hall. Candles glittered in every chandelier. The finest cutlery had been polished to mirror-shine. You were seated at the right of your father; Jeonghan sat directly across from you, grinning like this was all terribly funny.

For the sake of appearances, you were perfect. Pleasant and regal as you should be. You smiled when prompted, clinked your glass when toasts were made, and managed not to stab anyone with your fork. But once dessert had been cleared and the nobles began drifting into smaller pockets of conversation, you stepped away from the main table. 

And, of course, Jeonghan followed.

“You’re brooding,” he said, appearing at your side like a shadow. “It’s a charming look on you, truly. Very mysterious, but also very tragic.”

“I’m resisting the urge to toss you into the fountain,” you said coolly, still upset over Reya being barred from the ceremonial dinner. Siwon claimed your tiger would terrify half the guests into fleeing back to their homelands, but honestly? That’s exactly where you want Jeonghan to be. 

All of a sudden, Joshua materialized behind him with a sigh. “Brother, maybe you shouldn’t antagonize your future wife during the first dinner.”

The older boy raised an innocent brow. “I’m simply trying to get to know her better. It’s called bonding.”

“It’s called being a smug little shit,” you muttered, turning to Joshua. “Remind me again why they didn’t marry you off instead?”

“Because I’m only thirteen, Princess,” Joshua said with a rueful smile. “And unlike Jeonghan, I can’t talk my way out of anything. Or into it.”

Jeonghan pressed a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

This was what your interactions looked like for the next few years. 

Time wore on in polished routines and reluctant familiarity. Your lessons deepened. You traded your fencing foil with a sword. Your council briefings grew longer. And through it all, the shape of your future loomed larger, carved into every careful glance from the court, every politely worded expectation.

Jeonghan visited often enough to fulfill duty, but never more than that. He was cordial in public, infuriating in private. He knew just how to smile at the other noble girls, how to offer a compliment sweet enough to make them blush. But never you.

You weren’t sure when it started to bother you.

He didn’t try to charm you. Didn’t send letters. Didn’t hover by your side during banquets or take your hand when music played. Instead, he teased you, irritated you, challenged you. When you dueled with the court trainers, he’d lean against a post with a smug grin and critique your footwork. When you won a mock debate in strategy lessons, he’d ask if you were aiming for tyrant or empress.

He wasn’t cruel. Just… completely uninterested.

And so, you mirrored him. Distant, cool, and unimpressed.

It was easier that way. You told yourself it didn’t matter, that you preferred it like this—that it was better if neither of you cared. That way, when the Dawning Ceremony finally arrived, and the court crowned you with silver and called you queen-to-be, you wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. You wouldn’t hope he was watching. Wouldn’t wonder if he saw more than just a political pawn.

You were eighteen now. The veil of childhood had been lifted. The Dawning Crown gleamed in your reflection like a weight you’d only begun to feel.

The door creaked open behind you. Your stylists fell silent at once—one still halfway through pinning the final clasp on your ceremonial mantle. When they turned and caught sight of who had entered, they dipped into low bows, murmuring deferentially before excusing themselves in a flurry of silks and whispered footsteps.

You met your father’s reflection in the mirror.

He looked tired. Always did, these days. The strain of kingship lived in the soft slump of his shoulders, in the silver threading through his dark hair. But tonight, he wore a quiet pride that almost softened it.

“I still remember when you used to run barefoot through the garden, covered in dirt and insisting you’d seen a dragon in the clouds,” he said, his voice low and fond. “And now look at you.”

You turned to face him fully. The ceremonial robes felt heavier under his gaze—woven from Ancarran silver and river-blue silk, embroidered with threads that shimmered like starlight. The Dawning Crown had been nestled into your hair not ten minutes ago, and already it felt like a permanent weight.

“You’ve grown into a fine heir,” he went on. “The court respects you. The people speak your name with hope. I have no doubt you’ll rule even better than I did.”

The words landed gently, like feathers instead of stones, but you only offered a small nod. “Is that all, or did you come to deliver another surprise engagement?”

He huffed a laugh. “Not today.”

A shape lingered in the hall behind him. You turned toward the figure, and felt your spine straighten when he stepped inside. You recognized him immediately. 

Lord Kwon Soonyoung of the River Quarter. Young for a noble, but sharp-tongued, quick-witted, and endlessly frustrating to the older lords who couldn’t keep up. He spoke boldly during court sessions, often to your quiet amusement. Not because he was reckless, but because his suggestions made sense. Because they weren’t rooted in pride or greed or tradition-for-tradition’s sake.

You could tolerate Soonyoung.

More importantly, Reya mirrored the same sentiment. Your beast stirred at your side but made no noise. His tail thumped once against the floor, and when Soonyoung reached out, Reya allowed him to touch his head—without biting or growling or snarling.

You blinked. “He never lets anyone do that. Not even the king.”

Soonyoung smiled faintly. “I bring very expensive jerky to council meetings.”

Your father gave a dry cough that might’ve been a laugh. “I thought it was time you had an advisor of your own,” he said, shifting his weight. “Someone who understands your vision. Who won’t cower, but won’t sabotage you either. You’ll still have access to the council, of course. But from now on, Lord Kwon will report directly to you.”

You glanced back at Soonyoung, one brow arching.

He inclined his head solemnly. “If you’ll have me.”

And despite the crown digging into your temples, despite the pressure mounting outside those palace doors, you found yourself almost relieved for once.

The kingdom held its breath as the sun dipped low behind the peaks of Ancarra, casting long shadows across the capital. From the grand plaza to the marble steps of the palace, thousands had gathered to watch you rise.

The Dawning Crown sat heavy atop your head—woven silver and moonstones, forged centuries ago for this moment. You wore it like you wore the future: unshaking, though it pressed against your every thought.

You stepped forward beneath the carved arch of the Grand Marbled Hall, every bell in the capital chiming at once. Your people stood below. Nobles flanked the raised pavilion. The wind caught your cape and made you look more like a figure from myth than flesh and blood.

Jeonghan, of course, was in the very front of the crowd, cloaked in Seraphian white and gold. His black hair fell loose tonight, ribbon tied lazily at the nape of his neck, and his expression is half amused, half something else. He didn’t look proud. He didn’t even look solemn. That damn prince simply looked like he was waiting for something only he knew the shape of.

You tore your gaze from him as the High Chancellor stepped forward.

His voice carried through the twilight air: blessing your name, your bloodline, your title. You bowed your head at the proper moment.

When it was your turn to speak, you found your voice more easily than expected. You spoke not just as a daughter, but as a queen-in-waiting. You spoke of duty, and legacy, and of your people—of Ancarra’s strength. The crowd answered with a roar.

And just like that, it was over. The stars blinked to life overhead. The music would begin soon. So would the toasts, the dancing, and the procession of noble flatterers lining up to be seen. But first—you slipped from the velvet crush of the crowd and found Soonyoung waiting just off the ceremonial steps, where the torchlight flickered low and Reya prowled like a sentinel in the dark.

He stiffened when he saw your expression. “Princess?”

You pulled him aside, away from the footmen and ladies-in-waiting, and met his eyes.

“You’re my advisor now,” you said, voice low but steady.

He nodded.

“Then this is your first task,” you whispered. “If you cannot stop my betrothal to Jeonghan… delay it. Months, years—I don’t care. Just buy me time. As much as you can.”

Soonyoung blinked. “And if they ask questions?”

“They won’t.” You stepped closer. “Because you’ll be clever. And because no one—not the council, not the court, not even my father—can know that it was me who told you.”

Your advisor hesitated only a moment longer.

Then he smiled, something sharp and wolfish. “Consider it done.”

Years passed like storms over open fields—loud, relentless, and gone before you could catch your breath.

Your title grew heavier with each passing season. Every month brought new scrolls to sign, new decisions to weigh, new nobles testing your patience and pretending not to. But by your side, always, was Soonyoung.

He proved himself more than just a quick wit and a clever tongue. He was tactful when you were tired, bold when you hesitated, and disarmingly good at navigating court politics without letting it twist him. Most importantly, he did as you asked: he stalled. And stalled. And stalled.

Soonyoung often cited economic instability. He sowed polite doubt about timing. He suggested further diplomatic exchanges. And every time the matter of the betrothal crept to the surface, he found a way to push it back under without leaving fingerprints. For that, you trusted him more than most.

Still, no amount of clever maneuvering could keep Jeonghan away.

The Seraphian prince was a constant thorn in your side. Not overtly cruel but sharp enough to get under your skin. He made biting comments over tea with the council. Danced merely once at galas, and always with just you, even if his smile never reached his eyes. He acted the perfect prince in public, all grace and golden formality, but in private he still found delight in teasing your temper and smirking when it frayed.

And you matched him, blow for blow. It was the only way you knew to survive it.

You tried everything else. You proposed policy changes that would jeopardize the alliance. You drafted appeals to dissolve the arrangement. You whispered to other members of court, trying to find a crack in the centuries-old yet unspoken agreement binding Ancarra and Seraphia. But the betrothal endured, untouched, like some ancient curse carved into stone. 

You were set to marry each other once you both turned twenty-five, and not even Soonyoung could circumvent the inevitable for longer than he already had.  

On the eve of your twenty-fourth name day, you couldn’t bear it any longer.

You found your father in the observatory, where he often retreated these days, away from court noise and council bickering. He looked older now—softer around the eyes, silver threading his entire beard—but still steady, still listening.

“I’ve done everything you asked,” you told him, voice low but urgent. “I’ve honored the engagement. I’ve strengthened our kingdom. I’ve waited. But please…” Your hands clenched at your sides. “Please let me find love on my own. Not in a treaty. Not in an obligation.”

The king looked up at you, quiet for a long moment. And in that silence, your heart thudded so loudly you feared he could hear the break in it.

Your father didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long time, like he was peering through the layers of duty you wore like armor—past the queen-in-waiting, down to the little girl who used to trail behind him with ink on her sleeves and admiration in her eyes.

Then finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair, wearier than you’d ever seen him.

“If you must,” he said softly. “Then choose. But do it wisely.”

And just like that, the floodgates opened.

Soonyoung, ever your loyal accomplice, was the first to act. But your father’s advisor, Siwon, was ten steps ahead. Between them a list was compiled: eligible bachelors from noble families across the continent. Men with good standing, decent lineage, tolerable personalities. A thick folder of names, portraits, court records, and correspondences appeared on your desk within the week.

“You asked for love,” Soonyoung reminded you, lifting an eyebrow. “Not obscurity. We still have to make it look… proper somehow.”

You stared down at the endless sea of faces, all of them smiling too politely. The illusion of choice wrapped in silk and gold. It wasn’t exactly what you’d hoped for, but it was something—a sliver of agency in a life that rarely allowed any.

Near the end of the list, a familiar face stopped you cold.

Im Changkyun.

The boy who used to spar with you in the training yard until both your arms gave out. The only one who never pulled his strikes. Who called you “lightfoot” just to get under your skin and laughed when you beat him anyway. He’d left court years ago to pursue something abroad for a few years—you hadn’t heard from him since.

You held his portrait a moment longer than the others.

He looked older now, jaw sharper, eyes steadier. But something in his expression was the same: direct, unafraid. You set the image aside, just slightly, like a card at the top of a deck.

“Considering him?” Soonyoung asked, not even trying to hide the curiosity.

You didn’t answer. Not really. Just tapped the edge of the page and muttered, “He’s not terrible.”

Several days later, you invited Changkyun to the castle.

The back gardens were quiet this time of day—just enough sunlight spilling through the high hedgerows to illuminate the walking path in pale gold. The magnolias were in bloom, their wide petals fluttering in the breeze like fallen silk. You waited near the old stone bench beneath the olive tree, Reya sprawled lazily in the grass at your feet like he didn’t weigh as much as a small carriage.

Siwon and Soonyoung lingered at the archway entrance, trying and failing not to look like posted guards. You’d already told them three times that Reya was protection enough—and given the way the striped beast flicked his tail with bored menace, you were fairly confident no one would get within lunging range without permission.

Still, you appreciated their presence. Just as you appreciated the way the household staff had been strictly instructed, sworn to silence, and double-compensated for their discretion.

No one from Seraphia could know. 

You heard footsteps before you saw him—light, careful, and familiar. When Changkyun emerged from the vine-draped path, the first thing you noticed was how tall he’d gotten. His frame was broader, shoulders squared. His hair was longer now too, tied back against his nape.

But then he grinned, and you knew it was still him.

“Well,” he said, stepping into the clearing with a casual ease that made Reya lift his head. “Some things don’t change.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Your taste in terrifying pets.” He nodded at your tiger. “Still looks like he wants to eat me.”

Reya snorted through his nose. You weren’t entirely sure it wasn’t a laugh. “He does. But only a little.”

Changkyun bowed low, more mockery than formality, then straightened and met your eyes. “Your Highness.”

“Don’t,” you said, voice softer than you expected. “Not here.”

His expression eased. “Alright, Lightfoot then.”

You nodded despite the jab, the name fitting better in his mouth than you remembered. And for a moment, standing there in the hush of a secret meeting surrounded by the scent of olive and magnolia, you felt like a girl again. A little reckless. A little hopeful.

“So,” Changkyun said, glancing past you to where the advisors waited in careful silence. “Am I here for tea, or a political inquisition?”

You smirked. “That depends on whether you’re still terrible at fencing.”

“Oh no,” he groaned. “You’re going to beat me again, aren’t you?”

“If you’re lucky,” you said, turning to lead the way deeper into the garden. “If you’re not, Reya will.”

And Reya, as if understanding perfectly, bared his teeth in a lazy grin.

You walked side by side with Changkyun through the garden path, Reya ambling behind like a silent chaperone. The quiet between you wasn’t uncomfortable, just tentative. It had been years, after all. He’d grown into his frame the way trees settle into their roots—steady, grounded, and unpretentious.

You stopped at the far end of the gardens beneath a low-limbed willow, leaves swaying like curtains in the wind. When you turned to face him, the words tangled briefly on your tongue.

Changkyun tilted his head. “You’re fidgeting.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he said, grinning. “Same way you used to before you asked to borrow my practice foil. Or when you were about to do something reckless.”

You huffed, cheeks warming. “I’m not here to be reckless. I’m being strategic.”

“Same thing, in your case.”

You gave him a look, then sighed. “Fine. I’ll be frank with you.”

“That’s new.” He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise.

You ignored him. “You’re here because I’m… looking.”

His expression shifted—curious, but not alarmed. “Looking? For what?”

“A husband,” you said quickly, like yanking a bandage off. “Someone suitable enough that my council and court will approve. Someone who could make this kingdom feel less like a cage, and—” You stopped, biting the inside of your cheek. “Someone I could maybe stand.”

Changkyun blinked, taken aback for a moment, then leaned in slightly. “But… aren’t you already betrothed?”

You stilled before carefully saying, “It’s complicated.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not pressing, not even judging, but he did take a moment to read between the lines.

“Right,” he said finally, with a nod. “Complicated.”

You were grateful he didn’t pry further.

Hmph, you thought. If Jeonghan were this thoughtful, I wouldn’t have a problem with it.

You immediately wanted to punch yourself. What? No. No. Why in the world—? You shook the thought off like water from your hands. Ridiculous. Completely and utterly—

“I’m flattered,” Changkyun said gently, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. “Really. It means a lot that you’d even consider me.” His eyes dimmed just a little. “But I can’t.”

Your heart paused. “Can’t…?”

He nodded, almost apologetically. “There’s someone else. We’ve been together a while now. She’s not from a noble house, so it was never going to be public, but… we’re expecting a baby in the spring.”

It hit you like a brick wall of mortification. “Oh, gods—Changkyun, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put you in a—”

“No, no,” he said, holding up a hand. “I know you didn’t. You never would have tried if you did. I’m honored you thought of me, but I’ve already made my choice.”

You took a step back, mortified beyond belief. “I just tried to poach a taken man.”

“With a pregnant partner,” he added with a teasing grin. “A bold move, even for you.”

“Stop laughing,” you hissed, trying to suppress the heat crawling up your neck. “This is a diplomatic disaster.”

And of course, when you turned to stalk back to the garden entrance, you saw them—Soonyoung and Siwon, standing just where you left them, whispering like schoolboys and failing horribly at hiding their laughter.

“You both knew, didn’t you?” you growled.

Siwon cleared his throat and looked up at the sky. Soonyoung offered a helpful shrug. “We just wanted to see how long it would take for you to find out.”

“You’re both fired.” 

“You’ve said that four times this month,” Soonyoung said cheerfully.

“And it gets less believable every time,” Siwon added.

Behind you, Changkyun laughed again. Reya huffed. You tried very hard not to fling yourself into the hedge and disappear.

You went back to the drawing board with a vengeance.

The wall of your study, once reserved for regional maps and grain forecasts, was now a collage of organized chaos. Pinned parchments fluttered in the breeze from the open window—portraits, lineage charts, summaries of estates and personalities. It looked less like a matchmaking effort and more like a war room. Reya had taken to curling up just outside your door, wisely avoiding the flurry of thrown quills and muttered curses.

Siwon and Soonyoung stood to one side, arms crossed like generals surveying a battlefield. They were your most loyal—yet infuriatingly conniving—advisors, offering unfiltered commentary with the energy of drunk gossip mongers.

“Lord Hwan?” Siwon suggested, tapping one parchment with a silver quill.

“Too stiff,” you replied without a hitch. “He talks like he’s trying to sell me on an insurance scheme every time he opens his mouth.”

“What about the Crown Viscount’s second son?” Soonyoung asked. “Handsome. Educated. Keeps birds.”

“He also believes women shouldn’t sit in council chambers. Next.”

After a while, the portraits dwindled down to just a few names that hadn’t been immediately dismissed. Among them, a new face caught your eye—a boyish nobleman from the southern coast. You remembered him. Soft-eyed but sharp-tongued. He has an earring glinting in his official portrait, a reputation for charity work, and biting courtroom wit.

“Boo Seungkwan,” Siwon said, noticing your gaze. “Heir to the wine barons of Chasan.”

“Isn’t he the one who screamed at the High Treasurer for misappropriating village taxes last winter?” you asked, intrigued. “

Soonyoung grinned. “The very one. Rumor has it the Treasurer nearly cried.”

You plucked Seungkwan’s page from the wall. “I like him.”

“He’s a bit dramatic,” Siwon offered.

“He’s principled,” you corrected, pinning the portrait near the top of the selection board. “And I’ve had enough of spineless men. Give me someone who isn’t afraid to raise his voice when something’s wrong.”

“He also sings,” Soonyoung added helpfully.

“Even better.”

You three stood there a moment, gazing up at the organized chaos—your court of candidates, your silent rebellion. It could be the most brilliant plan in the world, or the one that precedes its impending doom, but you’re more than willing to take a gamble.

It didn’t take long for you to make the journey to Chasan.

You traveled in an unmarked carriage with Soonyoung at your side, no royal banners or official escorts. Siwon had protested—loudly, thoroughly, and with increasing despair—but your father, ever the silent observer of your misery, gave his blessing with one condition: Keep a low profile. 

Chasan was warm with early spring, the hills rolling green and gold beneath a sun that glinted off the distant sea. When your carriage pulled up to the modest but elegant estate of the Boo family, no one rushed to greet you. No horns. No footmen. Just a confused stable boy blinking at you like you’d ridden in on a cloud.

You glanced at Soonyoung, who raised an eyebrow.

“Guess no one told them the queen-to-be was dropping by.”

“I did write in the letter that I’d come in person,” you muttered.

One of the household servants scurried out after some frantic internal shouting. “Our deepest apologies, Your Highness, Sir Boo is in the lower vineyards at the moment. We… we weren’t expecting you so soon.”

“It’s fine,” you said, already stepping down from the carriage. “We’ll find him ourselves.”

Soonyoung caught up, eyes scanning the gentle sprawl of grapevines that stretched toward the southern slope. “Maybe you’ll get to see what he’s like in the wild,” he joked.

You shot him a look.

The two of you wandered down narrow earthen paths between sun-dappled vines, boots crunching softly over tilled soil. A few workers paused to bow, but no one made a fuss. Chasan was humble in the way that made you ache a little. No gold plating, no marble archways. Just earth, sky, and the scent of crushed grape skins in the wind.

“There,” Soonyoung whispered, grabbing your elbow and pulling you behind one of the taller vine trellises. You followed his gaze and stopped short.

Boo Seungkwan was farther down the row, partially shielded by the grapes, one hand still gloved in working leathers. He was laughing, light and warm, as he leaned close to the young servant boy in front of him. 

And then, without hesitation, he kissed him.

Not a scandalous kiss. Not a stolen one either. But soft, sure, and heartbreakingly tender.

You stared, your heart thudding with a strange sort of… sorrow. Or maybe guilt. You hadn’t meant to intrude. You hadn’t expected this.

Soonyoung gently nudged your arm. “Guess we’ll be checking him off the wall.”

You swallowed and turned away, careful not to make a sound as you whispered, “Let’s go. He deserves to enjoy this moment without a royal shadow looming over it.”

Neither of you spoke again until you were halfway back to the estate, the quiet breeze tugging gently at your cloak.

“…Siwon is never going to stop laughing about this,” Soonyoung said at last.

You sighed. “I know.”

That crushing defeat hit you harder than you thought.

You didn’t speak to anyone for days. Not after Seungkwan. Not after Soonyoung tactfully burned the last of the correspondence in your fireplace while Siwon wordlessly updated the registry of Unviable Matches with a heavy sigh.

Maybe this was your fate. Maybe it had always been. Maybe you were foolish to think you could outrun the gods' ink when the story had already been carved in gold. Betrothed at fifteen. Crowned at eighteen. Wed to Jeonghan by—

You didn’t let yourself think the year aloud.

Your advisors, mercifully, didn’t try to coax you out of your misery. No jokes. No teasing. No “we’ll find another” or “what about this one.” Just silence and quiet presence.

Siwon left your tea in the mornings and your scrolls at dusk. Soonyoung started keeping his sarcasm locked behind his teeth. Even Reya laid his massive head across your lap while you read, his usual restlessness tempered as if he, too, knew your storm was not one that could be barked away.

You went through the motions. Court duties. Decrees. Oversight reviews. But your spirit dragged its heels, worn and brittle. And after nearly a week of going nowhere, you couldn’t take the stillness anymore.

So you left.

No guards or carriages. Only a cloak over your shoulders and Reya at your side, his striped form padding silently beside you as you stepped out into the humming heart of the capital.

The city had always been your balm. Cobblestone streets. Songbirds in the eaves. Familiar chatter from vendors and weavers calling out their wares. The people greeted you with warmth, not fanfare. They knew Reya by sight now—knew his name, even—and parted for him without fear. Children ran up to scratch his ears. Old women offered you candied dates or weathered blessings.

You wandered further through the market square, slowing as a tapestry caught your eye. It looks new, strung between two wooden posts—its threads shimmering silver in the sunlight. A dragon this time, coiled mid-roar and stitched with care and pride.

Before you could move on, a small hand tugged at the hem of your cloak. You looked down to find a boy, no older than ten, staring up at you with wide, serious eyes. In his hands, he held a delicate ring of daisies and chamomile.

“It’s a crown, Your Highness,” he said shyly, holding it out like a secret. “Not the fancy kind, but it  feels nice to wear.”

You crouched to his height, gently taking the floral gift with both hands. “Then it’s perfect,” you whispered. “Thank you.”

Thank the stars you hadn’t worn your Dawning Crown. It would’ve felt like mockery now. You slipped the flower ring over your head and straightened. The child beamed. Reya gave a gentle huff of approval, as if to say: See? You still matter to the people.

You exhaled slowly and looked over the rooftops where the palace glittered far above the city.

You weren’t ready to give up yet.

After purchasing some trinkets to bring home to your father and your lousy advisors, your footsteps take you further beyond the market. The flower crown sat a little lopsided on your head, but you made no move to fix it as you settled onto the edge of the city square’s old stone fountain.

Reya laid down beside you with a content grunt, his chin resting on his massive paws as his tail flicked idly across the cobblestones. A warm breeze blew, catching the scent of fresh bread and sun-warmed stone. Pigeons cooed and strutted about the square like they owned it.

One of them hopped closer, cocking its head.

“Well?” you asked it. “I don’t have food but you get conversation. Fair trade?”

The pigeon blinked, unimpressed. You’re not who usually feeds us. Where’s that baker girl with a soft voice and flaky biscuits?

“Hm. She’s got better treats and a softer voice,” you laugh. “You birds have standards.”

Another pigeon joined the first, eyeing Reya suspiciously. Why do you always drag around that oversized tiger? He looks like he eats things like us for fun.

Reya rumbled low in his throat without lifting his head. Keep talking, feathers. I haven’t had lunch.

The pigeons flapped backward in alarm, cooing indignantly.

Savage! Barbarian! You wouldn’t dare—

“Ignore him,” you said, stifling a smile. “He likes pretending he’s scarier than he is.”

Reya huffed again, this time clearly offended.

One pigeon scoffed. He nearly ate one of us the last time you were here.

“And one of you tried to steal his jerky. Actions have consequences.”

You sat there for a few more minutes, chuckling quietly at the birds' gossip—half of it nonsense, half of it accurate enough to be alarming—until you heard a voice behind you. Gentle and familiar in a distant, unexpected way.

“May I join you, Your Highness?”

You turned your head, and nearly gasped.

Standing just beyond the sun-dappled edge of the fountain was a boy you hadn’t seen in years. No—not a boy anymore. He was taller now, broader at the shoulders, his dark hair falling just past his collar. Instead of court finery, he wore a pared-down version of Renxing armor: travel-worn, softened at the edges, the pauldrons stripped away and the gold embroidery dulled by dust and sunlight.

You blinked, almost laughing from the sheer surprise of it all. “Minghao! Stars, it is you.”

“It’s good to see you again, Princess.” He caught your hands when you reached out—steady and familiar. 

But before the moment could settle, Reya let out a low growl, rising onto all fours. His ears are pinned back, blue eyes locked on your old friend with unmistakable suspicion.

“Oh, stop that,” you said, stepping in to soothe him with a hand on his head. “Reya, Hao’s a friend. Not lunch.”

Something’s wrong, he growled, muscles coiled beneath your touch. He smells like fire and blood.

You hesitated, fingers buried in Reya’s thick ruff as his growl faded to a low, vibrating hum. His tail didn’t flick, his gaze didn’t waver.

Fire and blood…

Minghao probably did smell like both, even if you couldn’t catch the whiff. Maybe in the way old battlefields did. Burnt magic clung to his clothes like smoke. His hands bore the marks of sword work, knuckles darkened with bruises that hadn't fully healed. Still, he was a fire elemental. And the general of the Renxing army. What else was he supposed to smell like? Roses?

But hostile as he was, Reya had never reacted like this before.

You gave his ear a scratch, more for your comfort than his. “He’s just being dramatic,” you said lightly. “Doesn’t like surprises. Or anyone who’s taller than me.”

Minghao smiled. “I could kneel, if that helps.”

“Don’t tempt him.”

He chuckled, stepping closer with a graceful ease that didn’t match the war-weathered armor. “Did he say anything interesting?”

“No,” you lied smoothly, straightening up. “Just a lot of growling and wounded pride. Why? Worried he’s giving away secrets?”

“Only curious,” he said, voice soft. “It’s not every day a celestial tiger growls at me like I kicked his favorite moonstone.”

“You did once steal a peach tart from my plate. He never forgot.”

“I regret nothing.”

You looked him over, still stunned. The years had sculpted him into something sharp and striking. There’s a faint scar curving along his forearm, and the unmistakable presence of someone used to command. But his eyes… his eyes were exactly the same.

“I didn’t even know Renxing was sending delegates.” 

“Technically, soldiers,” Minghao amended. “My father offered support in fortifying your kingdom’s defenses. He sent me and a small contingent to assist in training.”

“That’s the official reason, isn’t it?” you teased.

He chuckled. “You’ve grown sharper.”

“And you haven’t changed at all,” you interject with a beaming smile. “Do you still carry that lopsided bow you used to train me with?”

Minghao grinned. “I retired it years ago. But I remember those lessons well. You nearly took out my eye once.”

“It was one time,” you said, rolling your eyes. “And you moved too close to the target!”

Reya, however, didn’t find this reunion nearly as delightful. He rose behind you, placing himself between Minghao and your side with a deliberate flick of his tail.

You gave him a dry look. “He taught me archery, Reya. If he meant to hurt me, he’s had a ten-year head start.”

“I must’ve offended him in a past life.” Minghao chuckled, giving a short, respectful bow towards the tiger. 

“He just doesn’t like being left out of things,” you said, motioning for Minghao to sit with you by the fountain again. Some of the pigeons scattered as Reya circled, settling beside you with an annoyed huff. You pretended not to notice the way he kept one sapphire eye trained squarely on your old friend.

“It’s strange,” you said, watching the breeze stir the trees across the square. “I feel like I should’ve known you were coming. Or that I would’ve felt it somehow. We used to be glued to the hip during all those summer visits.”

“We were children,” Minghao replied gently. “But I remember it, too. I was glad when my father chose me to come here. I hoped I’d see you again.”

You flushed, just a little. “Well… you have. And I’m glad. Really.”

“I’ll be staying at the castle with the soldiers,” he told you. “We begin drills in a few days. Until then, I thought I’d take a walk through the city. See what’s changed.”

You grinned, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Not much. The pigeons are still rude.”

A few feet away, one of them let out a coarse squawk. You’re the one talking to birds like a madwoman. Can’t even find a husband.

You lobbed a pebble at it. “You eat garbage.”

Minghao watched in silent amusement as you finished your not-so-private argument with the town’s most opinionated pigeons. When you finally noticed his expression, you offered a sheepish grin.

“I missed this,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You raised a brow. “The pigeons?”

“You,” he said, laughing softly. “You’ve always had a… unique way of handling the world.”

“You say that like it’s a flaw.”

“It’s not.” His gaze lingered, warm and thoughtful. “It’s just—very you.”

Reya let out another displeased noise. But you were too caught up in the moment to notice the way his muscles stayed coiled beneath his striped coat, the faint bristle in his fur. He didn’t like this reunion.

But you? You were just happy to see an old friend.

Back at the castle, preparations for your guest had moved quickly. One of the east-facing guest rooms—typically reserved for visiting dignitaries—was swept, polished, and perfumed with lavender water. Minghao’s soldiers were escorted to the royal barracks, where Ancarrian efficiency met them with warm cloaks, strong cider, and a welcome that was formal but kind.

By morning, the dining hall was bathed in golden light, sunlight spilling through the tall arched windows. The table had been set with a surprisingly casual spread: flaky breads still warm from the oven, crisp autumn pears, spiced porridge, and thick cream served in polished stoneware.

You were already there, hunched slightly over a steaming cup of tea, still groggy but determined not to show it. Reya was helping himself to whatever lavish breakfast the castle chefs had laid out for him, utterly absorbed in his bowl. From the way his ears twitched with contentment, your tiger was clearly pleased. You only looked up from your own food when you caught the quiet rhythm of approaching boots.

“Good morning, Your Highness,” Minghao said, bowing first to your father, then offering you a softer nod. “Princess.”

“You’re early,” you replied, smiling into your cup but it drops the moment Reya starts baring his teeth at your friend again. “Reya. Knock it off.” 

Your father chuckled. “He tells me his men were stretching at dawn on the south field. Quite the commander.”

“Discipline is second nature in Renxing,” Minghao said, lowering himself into the seat next to yours with smooth, princely ease. “Though I’ll admit—your lands make it easier. Crisp air. Clear skies. Even my men look taller here.”

“Flatterer,” your father said, grinning. “Careful, or you’ll find yourself a permanent guest.”

“That would be no punishment,” Minghao said, his eyes catching yours for the briefest moment, light with mischief.

You bit back a laugh and nudged the basket of pastries toward him. “Try the honeyed ones. They’re dangerous enough to make you not want to leave.”

He did, and the way his face lit up made you grin. “You weren’t exaggerating.”

Across the room, Soonyoung and Siwon stood with the servants near the door, their posture still and unreadable—save for the way Soonyoung’s brow lifted slightly when you leaned in, listening to something Minghao murmured beneath his breath.

You talked like it had been days, not years. He spoke of Renxing’s northern reaches—wild coasts and glass-shelled beetles that migrated through frozen rivers. Of teaching a recruit to read by bribing him with hawthorn sweets, only for the boy to repay him in river crabs. Your father listened with gentle amusement, but it was you who laughed the most

And then, without warning, the thought crept in like smoke curling under a door.

What if it were him?

The match with Jeonghan had been sealed long ago, your fate marked in ink and crown and ritual before you could even attend council meetings officially. But what if it hadn’t? What if you hadn’t spent your whole life dodging destiny like it was a creature waiting to pounce?

What if love was simple?

A shared pastry. A soft story. Warm hands over tea and morning sun.

You looked at Minghao again—his easy smile, the grace in his posture, the power quiet and controlled beneath the silks and steel. And in that stolen, treacherous heartbeat, you let yourself wonder.

What if it had been him instead?

Before your thoughts could wander dangerously, however, your quiet meal was interrupted.

You noticed the change before you heard it. A flicker of movement by the door. A servant, breathless and wide-eyed, darted toward Soonyoung and Siwon. She was whispering something too fast for you to catch. 

Minghao was still speaking beside you, animated as he described a night march through an ancient canyon in northern Renxing where their footsteps echoed like ghosts trapped in a glass cage. His voice was smooth and warm, and you wanted to listen, truly you did—but your gaze kept slipping back to the door.

Soonyoung’s arms were folded now. Siwon murmured something in return to the servant, nodded once, then approached the table with the quiet stride of someone who only ever brought important news. The king glanced up at the shift in mood, and you followed his gaze as Siwon stopped just behind your chair and bent slightly at the waist.

“Your Highness,” he said softly, his eyes flicking toward you, “Prince Jeonghan of Seraphia has just arrived. He’s asked to speak with the princess at her earliest convenience.”

There was a beat of stillness.

Minghao’s story paused mid-sentence. He looked toward Siwon with faint curiosity, but said nothing. Your father gave only a slight nod, an order to let him join breakfast, and returned to his tea as if this were a perfectly ordinary disruption. But your hand, still resting near the plate of fruit, curled into a quiet fist.

Moments later, the doors opened with their usual hush, but somehow it felt louder this time. Jeonghan stepped in, haloed in sunlight through the high windows. He was still draped in Seraphian silks, still unfairly beautiful. 

His hair was brown now, swept back with a soft curl falling over his brow in a way that seemed carefully unintentional. He moved with that same effortless poise you had grown up watching and (grudgingly) admiring.

Minghao, ever-so gracious, stood as Jeonghan approached, offering a nod before shifting seats to the other side of the long table. It left the space beside you open intentionally. 

Jeonghan slid into the empty chair like he’d belonged there all along. “Good morning,” he greeted, his voice dipped in velvet, his smile almost disarmingly warm. “I apologize for the surprise visit. I was in one of my moods and thought—why not go see my future wife?”

You gave him a withering look, but it faltered when he leaned in just slightly and added, “Joshua sends his regards. He’s recently been engaged himself, you know.”

“Oh?” the king said, lifting a brow. “Congratulations are in order.”

“Yes,” Jeonghan said with a calm nod. “The daughter of one of our royal mages. She isn’t of noble blood, but she’s well-versed in magic and negotiations. My brother’s always had a soft spot for strategists.”

“Sounds like he inherited that from someone,” Minghao said mildly.

You raised a brow. Jeonghan only smiled, utterly unbothered. “Hardly. I prefer my companions predictable. Less likely to start a war over breakfast.”

A chuckle moved around the table.

Then Minghao tilted his head and said, almost idly, “And he’s not using magic, still?”

Jeonghan blinked. “Pardon?”

“Joshua,” Minghao clarified with a small smile. “Both of you, actually. Last I heard, neither of the Seraphian princes had taken up their birthright. The royal bloodline in Seraphia is known for its strength in enchantment, no? And yet you keep it buried, still?”

You stiffened a little. Not in shock, but because the question came from nowhere. Your spoon hovered above your tea. Magic was always a strange subject between nations. But the abstention of Seraphia’s recent royalty was somewhat a hot topic among the surrounding kingdoms—Ancarra included. 

Minghao, for his part, was infamous across empires as a fire elemental prodigy. The youngest to command a regiment of war mages in Renxing’s history. His aura carried that same warmth now, flickering low like a hearth. Reya, beside your chair, shifted uneasily. His icy blue eyes fixed on the man across from him like a second set of judgment.

Jeonghan’s gaze didn’t waver. “Our magic is not the crown’s priority. Seraphia thrives through diplomacy, not flames.”

Minghao leaned back, folding his hands. “A shame, really. I always wondered what it would look like—royal Seraphian magic unleashed.”

You didn’t miss the slight tension in Jeonghan’s jaw.

And that, more than anything, gnawed at the back of your mind as Minghao took another sip of tea. You sat there in your seat with perfect posture and a polite smile, but the thought slipped into your skull like a splinter.

You’ve never seen Jeonghan use magic.

Never seen him spark even a flicker of it. Never caught a rumor, never heard a whisper. Not even from the palace gossip mill, which had happily speculated about the color of his undershirts once and still hadn’t shut up about the time he laughed too hard at a coronation toast.

And you would’ve asked. You should’ve asked.

But that would’ve required speaking to him longer than a required greeting, longer than the bare-minimum exchange you both had perfected over the years—smiles for the court, ice behind closed doors. You found out about Joshua’s affinity by accident, really. He’d once stopped to admire a hedge maze in your gardens, and when he touched a dying stalk, it bloomed again beneath his hand. Simple and gentle, much like the boy himself.

But Jeonghan?

Nothing.

No elemental surge. No runic marks. No rumors of illusions, or voicecraft, or even basic wards. Either he had nothing—or he was hiding something so carefully, so deliberately, that no one had been able to name it.

And now Minghao was here, a walking blaze of power, and Jeonghan was smiling like none of it even mattered. You reached for your teacup, mostly to keep your hands busy.

You didn’t like mysteries. Especially not when they sit beside you, pretending to be harmless.

The silence stretched just long enough to begin tasting uncomfortable. Minghao’s smile didn’t falter. Jeonghan’s posture remained infuriatingly elegant, but you could tell—if only because you’ve spent years learning how to read him—that he’s ready to change the subject. 

It’s your father who spared him the effort.

He cleared his throat and gently set his goblet down. “And how long will you be staying with us this time, Prince Jeonghan?”

You turned slightly toward the head of the table, grateful for the break in tension. Jeonghan flicked his eyes toward the king and answered smoothly, “Just a few days, Your Highness. I was passing through the border en-route from the east and thought it best to pay a visit.”

“An unannounced visit,” Soonyoung muttered under his breath from his post by the door. Siwon nudged him with an elbow.

The king chuckled, brushing past the remark. “It is always a pleasure, no matter how sudden.” Then he glanced toward you. “Perhaps you and my daughter might walk the gardens this afternoon? The roses have finally bloomed this year.”

You almost choked on your tea.

Jeonghan nodded with a faint, serene smile. “Of course. It would be an honor.”

Your spoon clinked against porcelain just a little too hard. Reya emitted a low growl from under the table, whether in protest of the plan or of Minghao’s lingering presence, you can’t tell.

Minghao, to his credit, simply sips his tea again. But his gaze flicks to you, then to Jeonghan, curious. Assessing.

And for the first time in a long while, you can’t tell which prince unsettles you more.

You didn’t get far from the dining hall before your hand shot out to catch Soonyoung by the sleeve, dragging him into the shadowed archway beside one of the tapestry alcoves. Siwon followed of his own accord, arms folded neatly behind his back, expression already knowing.

“I’m asking this plainly,” you whispered, eyes flicking back toward the corridor. “Are we absolutely certain Jeonghan doesn’t know what we’ve been up to?”

Soonyoung blinked. “As in the matchmaking campaign?”

You stared at him.

“Right, yes, that,” he amended. “Then no. I mean yes. As in, he doesn’t know. I’m almost sure of it.”

“Almost?”

Soonyoung’s smile twitched. “Prince Jeonghan is… difficult to read. Cheerful as he is, he doesn’t quite let anyone be privy to his intentions.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “What if he’s just biding his time? Waiting until I’m alone before springing some awful, ‘You’ve dishonored our families’ speech and demanding we set the wedding date?”

“Princess,” Siwon said gently, “he’s had nearly a decade to pull such a stunt. And he hasn’t. Don’t start doubting the quiet now.”

You glanced up at him, voice lower. “But what if Minghao's presence stirred something? What if he sensed it, somehow—that I’m searching for someone else?”

Siwon regarded you with the patience of a man who had outwaited a thousand royal tantrums and twice as many council disputes. “Prince Jeonghan is many things. But petty is not one of them. He’d confront you if he had suspicions, not toy with them.”

“Not petty, huh?” you muttered, “I’m not so sure about that…”

Soonyoung scratched the back of his neck. “We did keep the search quiet, Princess. Every servant sworn to secrecy, every meeting arranged through as discreetly as possible. If Prince Jeonghan knows, he’s clairvoyant. Or just very, very nosy.”

You sighed and pressed a hand to your forehead. “This whole morning felt cursed. Reya was uneasy the whole time. I—gods above, I liked being with Minghao again. That’s the worst of it. I liked it, and Jeonghan probably sensed that.”

“So?” Soonyoung said, baffled. “You’re allowed to entertain visiting nobility, especially if they’re your friends. Prince Jeonghan doesn’t own your breakfast companions.”

“But he’s my betrothed!”

“In title only.”

Your shoulders sagged, and you gripped the edge of the column beside you. ���I felt like I’d been playing a game I didn’t know the rules of. And everyone else was holding cards I’d never seen.”

Siwon’s gaze softened. “That is the nature of court.”

A sigh escaped your lips. “I’m supposed to walk the gardens with him soon.”

“Try not to trip into the koi pond again,” the older advisor added.

“That was once,” you scowled. “And it was raining.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Still your most graceful fall.”

You shook your head and pushed away from the column. “Pray for me.”

“I’ll light a candle,” Siwon said dryly.

“I’ll start digging a moat,” Soonyoung chirped.

You waved them off and stepped back into the corridor, spine straightening with every step. Whatever awaited you in the garden, you would meet it with dignity.

The royal gardens stretched out before you, awash in morning light where sunlight filtered through the trees that swayed with the breeze. You walked slowly along the mosaic path, hands clasped loosely before you, Reya trotting a few steps ahead. He hadn’t growled once—not even when Jeonghan fell into step beside you like a ghost slipping from a dream.

“It’s been some time since we walked here,” Jeonghan said plainly.

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Has it?”

“I suppose not that long,” he amended with a soft chuckle. “But long enough to miss the scent of the roses. Your gardeners have always done them justice.”

You glanced toward the flower bed just ahead—wide as a banquet table and brimming with tangled stems of roses. Their leaves are a lush, lacquered green, buds curled tightly on the branches like secrets not yet told. A few bold blooms had already unfurled—deep crimson, velvet-soft, catching the morning light like drops of spilled wine.

“They’re late in blooming this season,” you murmured.

“Maybe they’re waiting for a sign,” he said. “Something worth blooming for.”

You didn’t respond. There was always something slippery about him—how his compliments wore the face of riddles, how his tone was too gentle to grasp without suspicion. You didn’t trust softness when it came from him. Not when you’d spent half your life bracing against it.

Still, he continued beside you, hands tucked behind his back in perfect princely grace. His eyes scanned the gardens, the trees, the rooftops just beyond the horizon.

“I heard your father’s invited Renxing to join our military councils,” he mused.

You stiffened, just slightly. “He has. Their soldiers arrived yesterday.”

“And Minghao is their prince and general?” Jeonghan added lightly, almost amused.

That makes you pause. “You’ve met?”

“A long time ago,” he said. “I doubt he’d remember it, but he does seem aware enough of my existence to want to pick a fight with me .”

You huffed. “You make it easy for anyone to want to pick a fight with you.”

Jeonghan didn’t deny it—just offered a knowing smile, the kind that curled at one corner of his mouth and made you want to both slap it off and stare a little longer. You walked in silence for a few steps. The wind stirred the trees again, rustling petals onto the stone path, and somewhere nearby, water trickled over the lip of a marble fountain.

Then he said, almost offhandedly, “He likes to speak first. Draw lines before anyone else has a chance to set the terms.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You mean Minghao?”

Jeonghan nodded. “He’s clever. Knows exactly where to place a cut for the deepest bruise.”

“Well, he’s a general. He’s trained for that.”

“He’s also a prince,” your fiancé pointed out, tone light but edged. “Which makes it harder to tell when the blade’s diplomatic.”

You didn’t answer. Not because he was wrong, but because you were surprised he noticed. Still, Jeonghan wasn’t looking at you. His gaze wandered, serene and distant, as if this was just another quiet stroll instead of a conversation tensed on the knife-edge of politics.

“For what it’s worth,” he added after a moment, “I’ve never liked men who think precision is the same as power.”

That caught your attention.

You studied him for a beat longer. His posture, as always, was deceptively relaxed—too smooth, too practiced. But something had shifted. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the fact that Reya brushed gently against his side as he passed, tail flicking once before moving on. Jeonghan looked down at the beast, a faint smile twitching at his lips. 

“He’s warming up to me.”

You scoffed. “He’s tolerant, at best.”

He tilted his head with a lazy smile. “Still better than hostile.”

It was. You hated that you agreed.

Days drift by in a hush. You expect tension, expect something grand to stir. After all, two foreign princes now share your roof, both with their own legacies, their own shadows trailing behind them. And yet, the palace breathes as if nothing has changed. No great disruptions, no clashing tides. 

The soldiers in the barracks adjust to the presence of Renxing’s warriors with the wary politeness of men trained to kill side by side, and the kitchen staff still sends up too many pastries at tea. Minghao spends most of his days in the training yards or reviewing your kingdom’s defenses with the captains. He is gracious when he joins you at court, always with a smooth word or charming smile. Reya still watches him like a hawk from afar—but the tension has settled into a sort of cold awareness, like two great cats pacing the edge of each other’s territory.

Jeonghan, on the other hand, has made it his personal mission to haunt your every quiet moment.

He never speaks of the conversation in the garden again, but you can feel it hanging in the air whenever he appears. You pass him in the corridor, and he gives you a smile. You leave the solarium early, and he’s somehow in the hall just outside, pretending to admire a tapestry. You ask the cooks to surprise you with something new for breakfast, and he comments idly at the table that you’ve always liked tart things with honey.

It’s maddening.

By Thursday, you’ve had enough.

You marched down to the archery range before breakfast, bow in hand, and jaw set with razor-tight focus. You haven’t had time for this in weeks, and it shows in the tension of your shoulders, the crackle in your spine. You notch your arrow, draw back your arm, exhale—

“Good morning, Your Grace!”

You startled a little too dramatically. The arrow sailed in a wide arc and landed somewhere in the hedges with an unceremonious thwack.

You spun around to find Jeonghan standing at the edge of the range, hands clasped like he’s arrived for a morning stroll. Beside him was Soonyoung, who gave you a guilty, wide-eyed look before mouthing I’m sorry and quickly stepping out of the line of fire.

Your voice came low and clipped. “Are you following me?”

Jeonghan only lifted a brow. “Why, of course not. I was merely enjoying the views that the Ancarran castle has to offer. As your future consort in alliance, I should know the corners of your kingdom, don’t you think?”

Soonyoung took one careful step back, and from his perch under the nearby tree, Reya let out a snort that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Jeonghan didn’t even bother making himself look like he didn’t purposely startle you at all. 

You sighed and retrieved another arrow. Next time, you’ll aim for him.

You notched it, shoulders tight with barely restrained irritation. Behind you, Jeonghan and Soonyoung settled onto the bench near the range like they have every right to be there. Which, technically they do, but that didn’t stop your fingers from twitching with the urge to send an arrow through the wood beside Jeonghan’s ear.

Another shot—closer to the bullseye this time. Still not enough to stop your pulse from thrumming too fast.

“You’re good,” Jeonghan said, his tone easy and observational, like he’s commenting on the weather. “Shua and I weren’t trained like this in Seraphia. As you know, our court prefers diplomacy and dance over daggers and bows.” 

You didn’t turn, but you heard the amusement laced through his voice. Soonyoung gave a small, sympathetic shrug from beside him. “It’s true. I once saw him faint at the sight of blood.”

“Exaggeration,” Jeonghan replied airily. “I merely swooned with elegance.”

You let out a slow exhale, notched another arrow, and fired. This one landed square in the center of the target. You heard a low whistle from your advisor and—more infuriatingly—a small, approving hum from Jeonghan.

“It’s rather convenient,” the prince mused, crossing one ankle over the other. “My future queen being so fearsome with a bow. I daresay I won’t need to lift a finger. You’ll protect me, won’t you, Princess?”

The arrow you’d just pulled from the quiver snaps between your fingers.

“If I protect you,” you said coolly, “it’s only because I don’t trust anyone else to finish the job of ending your miserable existence cleanly.”

Soonyoung looked away, coughing suspiciously into his sleeve.

But Jeonghan? He beamed like you handed him a bouquet. “How romantic,” he sighed, resting his chin on his hand as if admiring a painting. “You do know how to make a consort feel cherished, after all.”

Your heart pounded, and it’s not from the archery.

The morning was clear the day Jeonghan left.

A soft breeze combed through the courtyard where his carriage waited, draped in the white-gold sigils of Seraphia. The horses pawed the cobblestones impatiently, as if mirroring the mood of the man they wait for—restless and infuriating to the very end.

You stood beside your father beneath the marble archway, cloaked in the formal grays of a diplomatic farewell. The king’s voice was kind when he spoke to Jeonghan, and your fiancé was all grace and bows and eloquent farewells. Even Minghao lingered beside you with an inscrutable smile, hands behind his back like a soldier at ease. You’re aware of the others watching too—Siwon and Soonyoung among the entourage, the guards, the servants—all witnesses to this perfectly polite departure.

It’s nearly done.

But then Jeonghan stepped forward to take your hand in his. He kissed it, gently and reverently, all according to protocol. And then he leaned in too close for comfort.

“I look forward,” the prince murmured into your ear, warm breath brushing your skin, “to the next time I get to ruin your aim.”

You jerked back before the blush could spread to your ears, willing your face into a mask of court-trained calm. Every lesson you endured under the glare of etiquette tutors saved you in that moment—your shoulders straight, your smile pleasant, your tone as composed as a glacier.

“Have a safe journey, Prince Jeonghan,” you said, eyes narrowed in the most ladylike way possible. “Do try not to miss me.”

His smile could set cities alight.

“Oh,” Jeonghan began, stepping back toward his carriage, “I intend to do exactly that.”

You resisted the violent urge to throw something at his head.

He’s gone before you could reply, the carriage wheels rolling across the stones like the closing of a storybook chapter. 

Only, you suspected—no, you knew—he’ll be back soon.

By the time Jeonghan vanished beyond the gates, you'd already gathered Siwon and Soonyoung in the war room—not for military strategy, but something far more treacherous: 

Court-approved matchmaking.

“We’re at a consensus then,” you said, tapping your finger once against the map of Ancarra. “Prince Minghao is not a viable option. Even if I wanted to—”

“Which you actually do,” Soonyoung cut in with a pointed look. 

“Even if I did,” you repeated with force, “it would be a diplomatic nightmare. Calling off an engagement with Seraphia for the prince of Renxing? We’d be lucky if we only lost trade ports and not entire border towns.”

Siwon chuckled. “I’m surprised you’re willing to pick the task up again, Princess. You looked… quite dejected after your trip to the Boo Estate.”

You had to pin Soonyoung down with a glare to keep your advisor from saying anything that will raise your blood pressure to dangerous levels. “Failure is part of the journey to true love. Hasn’t anyone told you that, Siwon?” 

Your father’s advisor hummed, his spectacled gaze skimming the interior list of nobility you’d had scribes compile over the past few weeks. “So the suitor needs to be from Ancarra. Someone who can cause enough gossip, enough scandal, enough public affection to make it plausible you fell wildly in love and couldn’t help yourself.”

Soonyoung grinned. “Which means we need a boy you could realistically kiss in public without gagging. Oh, and someone that won’t run when Reya so much as growls at them.”

You glared at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

Your advisor raised his hands in defense. “What? I’m just saying—you do tend to scowl at most men like they’ve insulted your bloodline. Same goes for your beast.”

Siwon, ever the calmer tactician, cleared his throat. “We’ll approach this with structure. Let’s narrow the list to eligible bachelors who meet the following criteria: loyal to the crown, reasonably attractive, tolerable by Reya, and—preferably—already a little in love with you.”

You tapped your fingers again, faster this time. “It doesn’t need to be a real romance. Just enough of a performance to convince Seraphia the engagement fell apart because of me, not them. If I’m the reckless one, Jeonghan saves face. Everyone’s happy.”

Soonyoung leaned back, arms behind his head. “You really think Prince Jeonghan cares about saving face?”

“…No,” you admitted, remembering the smirk he wore as his carriage departed. “But Seraphia might. And the court definitely will.”

“Then we manufacture a heartbreak,” Siwon said simply. “We choose someone charismatic, familiar, close to the palace—enough that no one questions why you spent time together. You’ll laugh too loud at the gardens. Leave flowers in his rooms. Maybe even—gods forgive us—write a poem.”

Soonyoung winced. “That’s low.”

“All is fair in love and politics,” you muttered. “Or at least, in fabricated love.”

You glanced out the window, where the sun slipped behind the edge of the tower, casting long shadows across the floor. Jeonghan was gone, and your future hung on the next name you circled with ink and lied through your teeth about.

War you could prepare for. But this? This was treasonous theater. And it didn’t help that the world kept sending you warning signs left and right.

It began with Lord Doyoung of the northern territories—a bookish type with a gentle voice and decent bone structure. You think, Yes, this one might do. But the very morning he’s due to arrive in the capital, his carriage overturned on a clear road with no other travelers. His horse? Spooked by a pigeon. A pigeon wearing what the guards swear was a tiny gold ribbon.

Suspicious.

Then there’s Jaehyun, a second-born noble who helped manage his family’s glasswork business. Intelligent, considerate, and crucially uninterested in politics. You traveled discreetly to a manor on the coast to meet him. However, the moment you arrived, he was gone. Apparently left the day before to pursue an urgent pilgrimage after receiving a mysterious letter from a "reputable Seraphian monastery" asking for his divine insight.

But the worst, the true collapse of your sanity, came when you tried to court a commoner. A sweet, curly-haired apprentice scribe from the capital. You met by accident—he dropped his stack of scrolls, Reya frightened the life out of him, and you ended up laughing like someone in a romance novel. You arranged to meet him again secretly by the statue of the winged lion after dusk.

And guess who’s already there?

Jeonghan leaned against the base of the winged lion like it was a throne carved just for him. The dusk painted him in gold and shadow, and he looked utterly at home—one ankle crossed over the other, arms folded loosely, a single wildflower tucked behind his ear like he’d stolen it from a love-sick dream.

“You’re early,” he said lazily, as if he’d been waiting minutes rather than hours. “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

You stopped dead. “You’re not him.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I’m certainly better-looking.”

“You—” You took a sharp breath, rage tightening behind your eyes. “Where is he?”

Jeonghan tilted his head. “The apprentice? I believe he’s having a lovely evening at home. His mother made delicious stew, and he felt it’d be rude to miss it. Or so the note said.”

You stared. “You intercepted him?”

Your fiancé smiled, all teeth and wicked charm. “Technically? I intercepted the opportunity. You never said this was an exclusive audition.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping into the moonlight, that damn wildflower still tucked behind his ear, “you keep trying to replace me with men who don’t know the difference between a sword hilt and a dinner spoon. Truly, you wound me, Your Grace”

You didn’t realize your fists were clenched until your nails dug crescent moons into your palms.

“This isn’t about you,” you hissed.

Jeonghan stepped closer, voice maddeningly gentle. “It always is.”

Your fists were clenched so tightly your arms shook, your breath short and ragged. The statue's winged shadow barely concealed you from the open square, where lanterns were being lit one by one, their warm glow spreading like a slow-burning fire.

And Jeonghan just stood there.

Mocking you with that unbearable calm, his eyes full of all the things you hadn’t said in ten years. The flower behind his ear was ridiculous. His shirt collar was crooked. His entire existence was meant to push you to the edge of insanity.

“You’re infuriating,” you snapped.

He smirked. “Then stop chasing ghosts and—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Your hand fisted his lapel and pulled hard, slamming your mouth against his before your brain caught up with your body. It wasn’t soft or sweet or measured, but raw, full of teeth and fury and years of words swallowed down in silence. You’d meant to shove him, maybe slap him. But somehow, your lips found his instead. 

And the worst part—the truly damning part—was how good it felt.

The warmth of his mouth. The way he froze for the barest second, then exhaled against you like he’d been holding his breath for a lifetime. And then he kissed you back.

Jeonghan didn’t just return it. He answered it.

His hands slipped to your waist, slow but sure, like he’d dreamed of this and was finally awake. He kissed like he knew every inch of your stubbornness, every sharp edge, and loved the way you cut him open. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your face, deepening the kiss—and it became something molten, dangerous, entirely public.

Somewhere behind you, Reya snarled like a warning. You weren’t alone. The statue’s shadow didn’t hide the way Jeonghan’s hand curved around your hip, the flush in your cheeks, the hunger in the space between your mouths.

You tore away first, panting and wide-eyed as your heart thundered in your ribcage. Jeonghan looked at you all while swiping that tongue of his across his bottom lip.

“Was that part of the act?” he asked softly, lips still red, voice dangerously close to tender.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because if you spoke, you might admit it wasn’t the kiss that terrified you.

It was how long you’d wanted it.

By unspoken agreement, neither of you addressed the kiss behind the statue. Not in words, anyway. But everything afterwards shifted.

Jeonghan began appearing in Ancarra with alarming regularity—always with a perfectly valid excuse. Delivering letters from Seraphia. Attending diplomatic luncheons. Touring agricultural reforms that absolutely did not require a prince’s attention. And every time he stepped through the gates with that lazy smile, your blood pressure spiked.

He was still insufferable. Still poking at you like a child with a stick and a beehive. 

“You missed me,” he’d say, voice low in the hallway.

“I was hoping you’d gotten arrested,” you’d reply without looking at him.

“You dreamed about me again.”

“Reya dreamed about biting you. I just watched.”

But no amount of sarcasm could undo the heat that had settled between you like a splinter you couldn’t dig out. And while your verbal battles raged on, your bodies fell into an entirely different rhythm—one of breathless tension and stolen moments.

A quick kiss when no one was looking. A lingering touch at your waist beneath the pretense of helping you onto a horse. A late-night visit to the library that ended with your back pressed against the cold wall of a forgotten corridor, his mouth hot against your throat.

You hated him.

You hated how good he was at knowing when to push you. You hated how you let him.

One day, Jeonghan found you in the west wing solarium—alone, for once, dressed in something plain for the heat. The moment he stepped through the arched doorway, you already knew he was going to do something reckless.

You tried to keep your tone sharp. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I wasn’t,” he said innocently, approaching anyway. “I was remembering how you kissed me first.”

“I kissed you to shut you up.”

“Well,” he murmured, stepping behind you, brushing your hair aside to press a kiss just below your ear, “it didn’t work.”

You didn’t stop him when his hand slid beneath the hem of your dress, fingers trailing up your thigh with infuriating patience. You should’ve. You always told yourself you should’ve. But instead, you exhaled through your teeth and leaned back into him, fists clenching the edge of the table as he teased his way higher—his touch maddeningly sure, maddeningly soft.

And when his fingers finally slid inside you, you didn’t even pretend to resist.

Because for all the years of distance, all the fire and anger and scarred memory between you, Jeonghan still knew exactly where to find the weak spot beneath your armor.

“You’re shaking,” the prince murmured against the shell of your ear, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “Didn't know you could be so delicate.”

“I will break your nose,” you hissed, breath catching as his fingers curled just right. “Shut up and get it over with.”

He chuckled. “You say that like I’m doing this for me.”

“Gods, I hate you.”

“You don’t sound very convincing.”

You bit down hard on your lip to stop the moan rising in your throat. His hand moved with a maddening rhythm—confident and precise, like he’d learned you in secret. Maybe he had. Maybe Jeonghan had always known how to find the cracks in your walls, the fault lines in your resolve.

Your knees nearly buckled when he dragged his thumb over your aching clit. The spot that made your vision flicker, made your breath stutter.

He caught you before you fell.

“Oh,” your fiancé said with mock sympathy. “Is this where the princess begs?”

You turned your head, eyes glittering with fury and heat. “You’re so lucky I’m unarmed.”

“Am I?” He dipped his head to kiss the corner of your jaw. “Because right now, I feel like the one being conquered.”

You made a sound—part growl, part gasp—as the pleasure crested higher. You hated how easy it was for him to pull you under, hated how your body betrayed you, trembling at his touch even as your mouth spat venom.

But gods, it felt good.

It felt like revenge, like surrender, like twelve years of wanting something you swore you’d never let yourself need. He played your body like an instrument only he knew how to tune—drawing out every gasp, every tremor, until the fire in your gut finally, finally broke.

You clutched the table edge like a lifeline, moaning his name as each wave of your orgasm shuddered through you. You felt sticky and unclean, and Jeonghan thought it to be a good idea to smear the mess he’s made of your cunt across your inner thighs.

As if to mock you even further, he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You’re going to think about this tonight. When you’re all alone.”

You whipped around and shoved him—half-heartedly, breathlessly. 

“Get out before I feed you to Reya.”

Jeonghan grinned, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your knuckles like a knight, of all things. “I’ll come back when you miss me.”

“I never do.”

He was already gone by the time you realized your legs still hadn’t stopped trembling.

Thankfully, Jeonghan left before lunch. That meant you could change your ruined dress and have a meal in the peace and quiet you deserved after that daunting encounter in the solarium.

You sat between your father and Minghao in the smaller sunlit dining chamber—the one reserved for informal meals and less scrutiny. Sunlight poured through the windows, glinting off the crystal decanters and catching in the honey glaze of the roast pheasant. The servants came and went like shadows. Minghao poured you some tea without asking, which you would have appreciated, if you weren’t so wrapped up in your own mind.

“So,” Minghao says casually, “how’s the treason?”

You glanced sideways at him. “Treason?”

He smiled. “You’ve had that look on your face since you walked in. Like someone who just burned a letter and buried the ashes under a rose bush.”

Before you can answer, it began.

The birds.

You heard them before you saw them—three magpies nestled like gossiping witches along the arched windowsill. One of them fluffed her feathers and gasped loud in your skull.

She was scandalous with a man just this morning!

Your eyes widened. No one else reacted. Of course they didn’t. Only you could hear them.

Back in that room again, another cooed. Pressed up to him like a heat-starved mare—

I told you, the third interrupted with a huff, she’s betrothed to him. It’s legal. The king said so. Even if she climbed that prince like a ladder, it would still be state-sanctioned.”

You nearly choked on your tea.

Your father paused mid-sentence. “Something wrong, bug?”

You covered your mouth with your napkin, glaring furiously at the birds. One of them winked.

“Just… feeling a little hot,” you muttered.

Oblivious to your internal unraveling, thye king picks up his fork and says, “We should start finalizing your name-day celebration soon. Twenty-five is a milestone.”

“I vote we skip it,” you said darkly, eyeing the window again. The birds have not left.

Minghao hummed. “You’ll have to get used to celebrations. Especially now that your wedding with Prince Jeonghan is not far behind.”

You hesitated just long enough for him to notice. 

“...Unless it’s not happening?” the general asked jokingly.

You didn’t know how to explain it. How every time Jeonghan visits, he kisses you like he wants to ruin you. How your body remembers the curve of his smile before your mind catches up. How you tell yourself it’s a temporary madness—just lust, just unfinished business, just war-born tension—but your hands keep betraying you anyway.

And now the damn magpies were singing it to the skies.

She moaned his name! one of them cackles, beak open wide. She gripped his hair like—

“Excuse me,” you said sharply, standing up so fast your chair skitters back. “I need some air.”

Your father looked mildly concerned. Minghao raised an eyebrow.

“Should I send someone with you?”

“Only if they can shoot birds,” you mutter, already turning toward the hall, cheeks blazing.

Behind you, you heard one final chirp:

Reckless princess. She’ll marry that boy or die trying.

The weeks leading up to your twenty-fifth name-day blur into a storm of brocade, guest lists, and mental breakdowns.

What was once meant to be a modest royal banquet has spiraled into a full-blown spectacle at your father’s behest. The ballroom has been draped in gold silks and strung with imported glass lanterns, and couriers from neighboring kingdoms have arrived daily, bearing gilded gifts and stomach-turning compliments. You’ve had to write nearly a hundred invitations by hand—because of course you did, since your father insisted that nothing but your own pen would do for a celebration of this scale.

Four gowns. Four. In one night. Each more elaborate than the last, all designed by different tailors to reflect “the four faces of the princess.” (Whatever that means.)

And looming behind the lace and laughter and godforsaken gemstone embroidery is the other event everyone is whispering about: your wedding.

To Jeonghan.

You tried to keep a mental list of reasons to loathe him, just to stay anchored. He’s insufferable. He flirts with everything that looks his way. He laughs when you’re mad. He kisses like he owns the air you breathe and gets away with everything because his face is tragically symmetrical.

And worst of all?

You’ve started to imagine what it would be like to marry him and not hate it.

The very thought sent you into a tailspin of self-loathing and denial. But no matter how many times you told yourself you didn’t want this, something traitorous inside you fluttered every time he looked at you with those unreadable eyes and said your name like he’s always known it.

By the time your name-day arrived, you’re equal parts exhausted and vibrating with tension. The maids were still pinning the final layers of your first gown—a deep rose silk trimmed with silver thread—when someone knocked at your chamber doors.

“Princess?” one of the guards called. “Prince Jeonghan and Prince Joshua request to see you.”

You nearly groaned aloud, but waved them in. “Fine. But if they mess up a single pin, I’m going to skewer them with it.”

The door opened, and the two Seraphian princes entered like they own the place—Jeonghan with his usual amused swagger, and Joshua with a more subdued grace you haven’t seen in months. 

You didn’t rise from your seat as your maids were still halfway through adjusting the fall of your sleeves. but you did narrow your eyes when Jeonghan swept in with a smirk and a flourish. The new color of his hair wasn’t lost on you either—deep burgundy red. You still had no idea how he changed its color like the seasons. 

“Happy birthday, Your Grace,” Joshua greeted warmly, offering a polite half-bow.

“Thank you,” you replied, eyes softening. “It’s good to see you again. I thought you’d be too busy planning your own wedding.”

Joshua’s smile flickered, but he was quick to recover. “Ah. Well. Some things are in motion, others… less so.”

You raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound ominous at all.”

“It’s complicated,” he said, then adds with a small laugh, “But I’ve learned from Jeonghan not to overshare.”

His brother leaned against the wall with a lazy smile. “I’m an excellent role model.”

You snorted. “You’re a warning sign carved into a cliff face.”

Before either man could reply, a footman appears in the doorway, whispering something in Joshua’s ear. The younger prince bowed again before excusing himself, promising to speak with you again before the night is over.

And then it’s just you and him.

Jeonghan eyed the gown you’re still being pinned into with a mock-solemn look. “Do I get to see all four today, or is this one the final form?”

“Don’t act like you care,” you quipped, trying very hard not to shift under his gaze.

“Oh, I care. I’ve always loved watching you suffer.”

“Wonderful. Then you’ll enjoy what happens next,” you told him coolly, gesturing for the maids to step back. “Because if you’re going to keep staring at me like that, I’m going to assume you came here to be mauled.”

As if on cue, Reya let out a rumble of noise from where he was being pampered by one of the braver palace maids. Ferocious as he was, he always did like getting his claws clipped, as well as wearing his favorite collar if the occasion permits. 

Jeonghan closed the distance between you with infuriating calm, eyes never leaving yours as he flashed a wicked grin. “You look beautiful when you threaten me.”

Your pulse did that annoying thing it always did when he looked at you like that—like you were something worth chasing, even when you were bristling with knives. You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly dislodged the Dawning Crown pinned into your hair. 

“And you look like a scandal waiting to happen.”

His grin widened. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Before you could come up with something scathing in return, Reya padded over, nails clicking softly on the polished floor, his gleaming coat freshly brushed, a ridiculous silk bow tied around his collar. He stopped beside Jeonghan and huffed, as if unimpressed with the theatrics.

Jeonghan crouched smoothly to scratch behind Reya’s ears. “Ah, my true supporter arrives. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from her wrath.”

Reya growled, just faintly.

You smirked. “He’s siding with me, clearly.”

“I’m wounded,” Jeonghan said, rising with mock offense. “Betrayed by beauty and beast alike.”

Then he extended his arm to you. “Shall we?”

You stared at it for a beat, suspicious. But Reya nudged your leg gently with his snout, and you sighed, slipping your hand into Jeonghan’s. “Fine. But if either of you embarrass me tonight, I’m feeding you to each other.”

“Romantic and resourceful,” Jeonghan said with a wink. “You’ll make an excellent queen.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. But as you walked down the corridor, Reya flanking your other side like a silent shadow, the three of you looked like a tableau of something unspoken and inevitable.

The ballroom was a gleaming vision of excess: golden drapes spilling from vaulted ceilings, glass lanterns casting slow-dancing light over a sea of jewel-toned silks and polished marble. An orchestra played on a raised dais, their melody light and sweet, but charged with the weight of spectacle. 

You stood beneath the tallest chandelier, Reya sitting loyally at your side despite the sea of legs and perfumes swirling around him. The first toast had long since passed. You’d curtsied, smiled, and performed your gracious-lady routine so many times your cheeks hurt. And then the master of ceremonies called your name.

A hush fell.

Your father approached with a dignity that made your throat tighten. He was dressed in deep blue, embroidered with your kingdom’s sigil, and he extended a gloved hand with gentle formality. You placed yours in it, and let him lead you into the center of the floor. The music swelled.

Your first dance had been rehearsed, of course—weeks of steps and spins and graceful nods. But when he whispered, “You’ve grown into someone I’m proud to call my heir,” you missed a beat. His voice was low, almost shy. “And I know… it’s time to let my little girl go.”

You blinked hard, eyes stinging. “Father…”

“I asked too much of you, bug. Pushing this match before you were ready.” He exhaled, voice heavy but warm. “But Jeonghan… for all his faults, he’s steady in the ways that matter. If you’ve come to accept him, then maybe I wasn’t entirely wrong to hope.”

You didn’t correct him. You couldn’t. Not when he was looking at you like that—like someone trying to make peace with the things he had broken, and still dared to believe he hadn’t ruined everything.

The dance ended in soft applause, and you embraced him tightly before slipping away into the crowd. You barely had time to exhale before another hand reached for yours.

Minghao.

He wore black trimmed with crimson thread, Renxing’s crest gleaming like bloodied gold on his shoulder. His touch was precise, his posture perfect, but his eyes held a steadiness that grounded you. Your heart warmed even further. 

“I’ve never liked these things,” he murmured as he led you into the dance. “The court politics. The pageantry. Celebrations of this caliber are rare in Renxing.”

You gave him a dry smile. “And yet you came anyway.”

“I came because I’m loyal to the alliance between our two kingdoms,” he said simply. “And to you.”

That steadiness—his quiet presence, his unwavering calm—had always comforted you. Minghao was the shield between Ancarra and the unknown. For months, his men had trained your country’s footsoldiers and honed them into formidable warriors. You felt safe with him, the way one does with stone walls and drawn blades.

But then he added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s a beautiful kingdom. Shame what war does to beautiful things.”

You glanced at Minghao, frowning faintly. “We’re not at war.”

“No,” the general said, still smiling. “Not yet.”

The song ended, and he bowed with courtly precision. You blinked after him uneasily. But there was no time to dwell—another partner was approaching.

Of course, it had to be him.

Jeonghan offered his hand with a dramatic flourish, his red hair far too striking to ignore. “May I steal the final dance of the night?”

“Only if you promise not to talk,” you muttered, taking it.

He did not promise. Of course not. He pulled you in with the confidence of a man who knew every beat of your rhythm, every angle of your resistance. His hand rested lightly on your waist, the other guiding you effortlessly into the waltz’s pattern.

“You cried,” he said smugly.

“I did not.”

“You almost cried.”

You glared up at him. “If I did, it was because I had to dance with you.”

His grin softened, just slightly, something real shining through the mischief. “You’re beautiful. Not just the dress. You. I thought you should hear that without a punchline attached.”

You blinked.

It unsettled you more than his teasing ever had.

The song slowed, spiraling toward its final note. For a moment, your fiancé held you still, one breath closer than necessary. The world spun in candlelight and cello strings around you, and you hated the way something in you leaned toward him instead of away.

“I won’t always be an enemy, you know,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you replied, just as quiet. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

After the dances, your stomach practically growled in protest.

Dinner was winding down into a soft haze of candlelight and velvet laughter. The tables glittered with the remains of a decadent feast—glazed meats, sugared fruits, wine-stained napkins folded like petals. Reya lay at your feet, gnawing contentedly on a thick strip of jerky, a gift from Soonyoung (via the royal kitchens, of course). Every so often, his tail thumped against the marble with a low rhythm, as if to remind the room that he was still on guard.

You barely had time to sit between greetings, pulled into conversations and compliments from all sides. There was Yeri, a childhood friend turned court mage, who gave you a vial of bottled starlight as a name-day gift. And Seulgi, the clever young ambassador from the coastal isles, who kept trying to guess which gown was your favorite. You laughed freely for the first time all night, warmed by the company, the flicker of candles, the slow-blooming sense that maybe everything might be all right.

Until it wasn’t.

Near the center of the ballroom, Jeonghan stood facing Minghao. It looked almost casual, but only on the surface.

Then Jeonghan said, loudly enough for the conversation to die around you, “Tell me something, General. How many times have you tried to kill your own father and emperor now? Was it three?”

Minghao’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a bold accusation to make in public, Seraphian.”

“And yet,” Jeonghan replied with unbearable calm, “you haven’t denied it.”

You stood up from your seat, heart jumping to your throat. Minghao stepped forward, his voice still even, but you could hear the warning beneath it. “I serve Renxing with my blood. My father knows this.”

“Does he?” Jeonghan tilted his head. “Or did you send his last stand-in home in pieces, too? Or was that an ‘accident’ like the rest?”

A cold, electric silence followed.

“I’ve seen the way you linger at the map of Ancarra when no one’s looking,” Jeonghan added. “The way your men move when no orders are given. You’re not here to serve the alliance. You’re here to watch it rot.”

Minghao’s hand twitched. Just a flicker. Just enough to make Reya growl.

You shoved back your chair and moved, fast. “Jeonghan, stop—”

Too late.

“I should’ve cut your tongue out the moment I knew what you were,” Minghao hissed.

“And I should’ve told her what you are days ago,” Jeonghan snarled, and without waiting for another word, he punched him. The impact rang through the ballroom like a crack of thunder.

Minghao didn’t fall. Of course he didn’t. But his head jerked back, his lip split—and when he turned back, he looked every bit the general people feared. Cold and murderous. You stepped between them before another blow could land.

“Enough!” you said, chest heaving. “This is a royal banquet. On my name-day. You will not spill blood here.”

Reya pressed his flank to yours, snarling low. Behind you, guards surged forward—but no one dared act before you gave permission. Jeonghan wiped his knuckles on a napkin. “You should tell your father. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. The truth always shows eventually.”

Minghao didn’t speak. But his silence was louder than anything. And just like that, the celebration fractured. Not with a scream, not with blood—but with the breaking of something deeper.

Trust.

It was several hours past midnight when you heard three gentle but firm knocks on the door to your bedchambers.

Annoyed, you stared at the collection of unopened gifts stacked high on your vanity. From delicacies imported from neighboring kingdoms to the most expensive cosmetics in all of Ancarra, your guests had certainly spared no expense in trying to curry your favor. But not even their lavish presents could dispel the pure vexation that had made your blood boil the entire evening.

You didn’t bother to answer the door. Instead, you swept yourself into the plush seat tucked beneath the dresser mirror. There was only one half wit currently residing in the castle brave enough to disturb you in the dead of night, and with how miserably tonight’s festivities had gone, you were in no mood to extend your hospitality to anyone—least of all Seraphia’s exasperating, insufferable, scheming—

“Isn’t it a little too late to be testing out swatches, Your Grace?”

You tried to ignore him. The way his silken dress shirt dangled half untucked from his trousers. The self-satisfied look on his face when he noticed you fumbling with the cherry red rouge you’d been applying to your lips.

But try as you might, you couldn’t ignore Jeonghan when he reached a hand in front of you, nimble fingers wiping off the excess color you’d accidentally tinted just a few millimeters past your lip line.

Not when his smoldering stare held yours captive in the image reflected in your gilded mirror. Not when you couldn’t even find it in yourself to resist when he gently grabbed your chin and forced your gaze to marvel at the man himself.

“Sulking again, Princess?” Jeonghan sneered, and you wanted to hate him for it, but you couldn’t. “I saved you from a man charged with treason three times in a single decade. Why are you pouting at me like I took away the love of your life?”

“Because you’ve made it your life’s purpose to make mine miserable,” you snapped, lacing each word with venom. “Minghao isn’t a traitor. If he was, he wouldn’t become the general of the Renxing army. He wouldn’t even be daring enough to live in our castle for months.”

He sighed, sounding almost sympathetic—but you’d long seen past the ruse. “Poor little thing, still being played like a fool all because you abhor the idea of one day becoming my wife. Tell me, didn’t you find it odd, how persistent he was in pursuing a woman who’s already spoken for?”

“Minghao is not pursuing me, and I am not spoken for,” you hissed, trying not to crumble from the way his thumb dabbed lightly at your lower lip. “Not by you. Not by anyone. Father gave me a choice—”

“Yes, of course. Everyone knows the story of the Ancarran Princess chained to a troublesome foreigner. So troublesome that she had to beg on her knees just to get the king to reconsider,” Jeonghan cooed, his face inching closer to yours.

“But as it turns out, all the other men you’re trying your damnedest to replace me with are even worse fiends than I.”

Your lungs burned as if they’d been set aflame, and Jeonghan was merely fanning the fire. “You’re despicable.”

“And you, Your Grace, are far too gullible,” he chuckled, each breath searing against your skin. “I’d say just give it up and surrender, but you’ve been fighting me since we were children. Ending our relationship in such a boring way wouldn’t make for a good story, now would it?”

You remembered something Soonyoung once told you in passing: how Jeonghan loved deeper than anyone expected. He loved his homeland. He loved his family. He loved his people. And with how tirelessly he kept pulling you back into this engagement, anyone would assume he loved you too.

But how were you supposed to believe that someone like him was capable of love when all he did was thrive off your misery?

“This new rouge you’re testing,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t just stomped on your last nerve. “It’s the kind that takes days to remove once it dries, isn’t it?”

“In what way does that concern you?” you gritted out.

The despicable prince simply hummed. “Oh, nothing. I’m just curious about its actual longevity.”

Your heart practically stuttered to a stop when he closed the distance between you—only a hair’s breadth separating your mouth from his. You didn’t know how it happened, but your fingers were suddenly coiled in the fabric of his shirt. Searching for purchase. For solid ground.

But you should have known better than to anchor yourself to someone as volatile as Jeonghan.

“If someone were to ruin it in the next ten seconds,” he whispered, his voice all heat and danger, “would you be even more furious than you are now? Or would it have the opposite effect? Would you finally melt into their arms? Would you let them tear all your defenses asunder?”

Your pulse roared in your ears, and suddenly, you couldn’t remember how to breathe. His intense gaze pinned you in place no matter how badly you wanted to flee. The scent of expensive champagne lingered on his lips, and to your horror, you found yourself craving a taste.

But you couldn’t. You couldn’t want that. You couldn’t want him.

This was the man who had made your life a waking nightmare for as long as you could remember. The man you’d be cursed to sit beside in the throne room if you didn’t act soon.

You knew these facts perfectly well, and yet…

A scream ripped through the corridor, sharp and blood-chilling.

Jeonghan snapped his head toward the door. The sound of shouts followed, heavy footsteps, the unmistakable ring of steel against steel.

“What was that?” you breathed, your voice brittle with disbelief.

Jeonghan was already on his feet, eyes narrowing as he reached for the dagger he always kept hidden inside his coat. “Trouble,” he said grimly. “Exactly the kind I warned your father about.”

Another cry echoed down the hall—this one closer.

Then the door burst open.

A castle guard staggered inside, crimson soaking the front of his uniform. His mouth opened, a desperate warning hanging on his tongue, but it was too late. A blade sliced across his back, and he fell with a gasp. Behind him came two men clad in obsidian armor trimmed in blood-red. Their faces were obscured by masks, but the crest etched into their chests was unmistakable.

Renxing.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Jeonghan swore violently and grabbed your wrist. “We have to go. Now.”

He yanked you into motion. Your bare feet slapped against the cold stone floor as he led you out the side passage and into the corridor beyond. Chaos bloomed all around you. Servants scattered, guards fell, and the dark-clad invaders moved with deadly precision through the castle.

“Jeonghan—what is happening?” you gasped, stumbling to keep up with him as he veered toward the grand stairwell. 

He didn’t look back. “The Renxing Empire. Minghao. He’s making his move.”

“No,” you said, heart lurching. “No, he wouldn’t—he’s still here, he’s been living here—”

“He’s been watching you. Learning the gives in your defenses. Counting how long it takes for your soldiers to mobilize.” Jeonghan’s voice was hard as steel. “And now he’s using it all against you.”

Around the corner, a blur of motion caught your eye.

Reya came barreling through the hall—his snow-white maw stained crimson. He pounced with his teeth bared, knocking one of the Renxing soldiers clean off his feet, and with a snarl, clamped his jaws around his neck.

You let out a cry. “Reya!”

The tiger lifted his head, ears twitching, and bounded back to you, fur bristling, blue eyes alight with fury. Jeonghan cursed under his breath.

“I knew it,” he spat. “I knew that bastard wasn’t here to play diplomat.”

He grabbed your hand, fingers firm and unyielding. “We have to find the king. Now.”

The three of you sprinted through the castle, Reya leading the charge with a guttural roar. The corridors grew slick with blood. Familiar faces—servants, guards, nobles—lay scattered and motionless. The once-gleaming halls of your home were being razed from the inside out. When you finally reached the king’s bedchambers, the massive oak doors were already ajar. The scent hit you first—metallic and thick. Then you saw him.

Your father lay slumped over the edge of his bed, blood soaking through his embroidered robes, pooling beneath his lifeless hand. And standing above him, eyes cool and unrepentant, was Minghao.

His sword dripped with red.

You stumbled backward in disbelief. “No…”

Jeonghan stepped in front of you, shielding you instinctively. “So this was your grand plan, was it?” he growled, tone deadly. “Cozy up to the Ancarran throne and strike the moment our backs are turned.”

Minghao didn’t even flinch. “You were never naïve, Jeonghan. That was always your problem. But the princess…” His gaze flicked to you, unreadable. “She wanted so badly to believe in goodness. It made her easy to control.”

Your heart shattered. “Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “Why do this?”

“Because peace is a lie,” Minghao said, voice cold and resolute. “Ancarra has grown weak. Soft. You live behind silk curtains and delude yourselves with choices you were never truly free to make.”

He stepped forward, sword still glinting in the torchlight. “I came to study my enemy. And now I’ve buried your king. The only thing left to do… is take the rest.”

Jeonghan snarled and drew his blade. And behind him, Reya let out a thunderous roar, low and full of rage. You stood paralyzed between the past and the future, your kingdom falling apart in front of you—betrayed by one you’d defended, protected by the one you’d hated. Your hands shook at your sides. Jeonghan wasn’t a warrior, he’d said it himself. You were unarmed too, but even with your weapons, your down spiral into grief would make it impossible to wield. 

A sudden blast of cold tore through the chamber—sharp as shattered glass, singing with elemental fury. The air cracked as a jagged beam of frost magic erupted from the doorway, striking toward Minghao with blistering speed.

He parried it without hesitation, raising his palm as searing fire spiraled out from his fingers. The two magics collided midair, frost and flame meeting in a violent, hissing explosion that shook the floor beneath your feet and bathed the room in blinding steam. You staggered back, stunned—not by the impact, but by the magic itself.

You knew that spell. You’d seen it only a handful of times, in hushed moments of practice behind closed doors. Only one person cast frost magic that way.

Siwon.

The king’s most trusted advisor, robes singed at the edges, his eyes blazing not with panic but with purpose. He emerged from the ruined entrance, frost still crackling at his fingertips.

“There’s no time,” Siwon said, voice hoarse but commanding. “You have to go. The southern gates have already been breached—Soonyoung and Prince Joshua are waiting with a carriage at the old postern tunnel.”

“No,” you gasped, still frozen in place. “I’m not leaving him. I can’t—”

“Princess,” Siwon cut in, harsher now. “The king is gone.”

You shook your head, the burn in your throat rising with each breath. Your eyes remained fixed on your father’s body—his crown toppled, his blood soaking the carpet your mother once chose. It felt impossible. It felt wrong to leave him here alone. But Reya had already made his decision. With a deep growl, your tiger stepped forward, nudging your side with his enormous head. His low whine was almost mournful as he lowered himself to the ground, offering you his back.

“Reya…” you whispered.

He growled again, firmer this time, nudging you harder. And then—miraculously—he allowed Jeonghan to climb on behind you, his tail lashing with urgency. Jeonghan didn’t question it.

“Let’s go,” he said, gripping your waist as Reya tensed beneath you, muscles bunching like coiled springs.

“Don’t let him take the throne,” you whispered to Siwon, your throat raw.

He gave a single nod, eyes heavy with something far more complicated than grief.

And then Reya bolted.

You clung to her as she raced down the blood-soaked halls of the royal wing, Jeonghan’s arms around you, the wind screaming in your ears. Behind you, the flames of Minghao’s betrayal burned hotter than ever, and you knew this was only the beginning.

The wind had long since dulled into a low, steady whistle as Reya carried you through the winding woods beyond the outer citadel. The scent of smoke clung to your skin. The copper taste of blood still lingered at the back of your throat. But you felt none of it. Not until his paws hit the forest floor and slowed, the ground beneath him trembling slightly with the echo of distant explosions. The rendezvous point was just ahead—a small ridge overlooking the secret passage that led to the waiting carriage below.

Reya knelt again.

You slid off his back slowly, your knees buckling the moment they touched the ground. You didn’t cry out. Didn’t speak. Just curled your fingers in the dirt and stared at them like they didn’t belong to you.  Jeonghan dismounted after you, quiet for once. He took a step forward, maybe to say something, maybe to steady you—but you turned away, shoulders trembling with the weight of everything you’d tried to keep inside.

The tears came then. Finally. Hot and merciless, carving tracks down your cheeks as a sob tore itself from your throat. “I should have known,” you whispered. “He was here for months. And I didn’t see it. I trusted him. I trusted—”

Your voice cracked, the image of your father’s lifeless body flashing in your mind’s eye again. “Father told me I had a choice. And I chose wrong.”

“You didn’t choose wrong.” Jeonghan knelt beside you, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His teasing smile was gone. All that remained in his eyes was something gentler. “You chose to believe someone could be better than the world made him. That’s not a flaw, Your Grace. That’s who you are. It’s why people love you.”

“But the kingdom... M-My father, Siwon—”

You shook your head, overwhelmed with memories of Siwon making ice sculptures for you in secret, of your father lifting you into the air when you were small, telling you that Ancarra would someday be yours. That all the land the sun could touch was worth protecting.

“I was supposed to protect them,” you said, voice raw. “But I couldn’t.”

A rustle in the trees cut the air like a blade. Then another. And another. Jeonghan rose to his feet instantly, hand going to his waist where his blade was sheathed. You scrambled up behind him, Reya growling low in his throat as shadows stepped out from the dark.

Renxing soldiers.

Half a dozen at least, clad in black and red, their armor glinting beneath the moonlight.

“Well, well,” one sneered. “The little princess, right where we want her.”

“You think you’re getting out of this alive?” another added. “You let your kingdom fall from within. You let us in. And now you want to run? After everything?”

Their words twisted in your gut like poison. You didn’t speak. But beside you, Jeonghan went terrifyingly still. And then—you saw it. A glint in his eyes, sharp and inhuman. Something reptilian. Slitted pupils. A golden gleam, cold and ancient. It vanished a second later, but it made your breath hitch.

Before you could question it, Reya stepped forward, positioning himself between you and the soldiers. His tail lashed. His fur bristled. But most startling of all—

Go.

Your eyes widened. Reya never spoke like this—rarely ever with such clarity. But his voice rang clearly in your head, steady and resolute. I’ll hold them off.

“No,” you gasped aloud. “Reya, no—”

He turned his massive head toward you briefly, his frost blue eyes impossibly calm.

Ancarra will never die as long as you live.

Then he charged.

“Reya!!” you cried, arm outstretched, but Jeonghan grabbed you from behind.

“We have to go,” he said firmly—though you knew he hadn’t heard a word your tiger said. Somehow, he still understood.

You stumbled after him, barely able to breathe, heart threatening to break clean in half—but you ran. You ran, tears blurring your vision, Reya’s roar behind you echoing in your bones as you and Jeonghan raced for the ridge where Soonyoung and Joshua were waiting.

You didn’t look back.

Because looking back would break you beyond repair.

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

⟢ end notes: oh mein gott... after two years, i finally put this baby out of my system and into existence. HELLOOOOO lovely people of caratblr, i missed you all so terribly!!!!! this story has been camping in the back of my mind the entire time i was gone, and i'm so happy to finally get to share it with you! the entire thing is 40k ish in total, and i've been told tumblr gets EXXXTRA cranky if i even dare to dump everything in one go, so here we are, chopped into two parts :( i will probablee have the next part up next week just to keep you guys on your toes heh. i hope you liked reading this as much as i loved writing it. i miss jeonghan so terribly, and this fic got me to blow off that steam SIGHHH.

this is part of the it’s complicated series.

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ falling action ] | sylus

— summary: he kissed you. you pretend it didn’t mean anything. sylus tries to show you it meant everything. — cw: reader is not mc, language, sexual tension, self-loathing, mutual pining, jealousy, blood & violence, self-deprecating thoughts, profanity, misunderstandings, romance, self-indulgent, wild caleb sighting, mdni — notes: thank you @subliminalwish for inspiring this part! and thank you all for reading! [ pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3 | pt. 4 | pt. 5 | pt. 7 ] — now playing: fuel to fire - agnes obel btbt - b.i

Their timing couldn’t be more impeccable—the twins. Your saving grace.

Sylus is a tempest. A storm ravaging the rickety foundation of your boat. He kisses greedy. Commanding, sipping from you like a fountain amid a desert. Swallowing the gruff little keens you make. You burn hot wherever he touches. His hands are like branding irons on your skin, amplified by the thin taffeta of your dress as they smooth up and down the curvature of your waist.

You’re dizzy when he snatches away, a growl in his throat. His lips are kiss-swollen. Burn a pretty red, stained by your lipstick. His eyes smolder like embers through the living room’s haze. Catch in the moonlight, gleaming a potent shade of scarlet. He reminds you of something beastly. Predatory. 

You did this to him?

In contrast, you’re sludge in his hands, swimming, blinking, drunk, and trying to remember how to breathe. For a moment, he appears hesitant. Gaze flits between your eyes and mouth as he holds you by your hips. Rubs reassuring circles into your hip bones with his thumbs. He’s so pretty like this. Inebriated by passion, silken white hair mussed from your greedy fingers. Expensive, pleated shirt all rumpled, bow tie loosened, composure thrown to hell.

But his phone keeps ringing. An obnoxious chime that makes your lips quirk despite the vertigo sweeping over you. It cuts through the wispy film of the night. Cleaves through the nebulous cloud of desire hanging between you, and with a bitten-off sound, he finally tugs his cell free of his pocket. 

He watches you as he brings it to his ear. Cups your cheek, brushing over your bottom lip with the worn pad of his thumb. Tugs it down, entranced by its elasticity. Its fullness. Your fingers clasp around his wrist. You nuzzle into the safety of his palm. Turn your mouth inward, blistering it with a kiss. Affection intermingled with amusement colors your eyes. He’s like a spoiled child, snatched off the playground before he was ready to leave.

“What,” he clips into the mic. 

A hesitant voice peers through the low static. Luke. “Mission accomplished, bossman.” You imagine Kieran peeking over his brother’s shoulder in the background, wariness hidden behind that gaudy bird mask. “All cleaned up over here.”

Sylus sighs something weighted. Shaky. Relieved. His shoulders drop with it, then tense again. The agitation doesn’t leave his face. Something’s on his mind. Something more pressing than a few ornery goons trying to hunt you down. You nip at his fingertips to assuage the divot forming between his brows. The taut pull of his lips. 

He hangs up without another word, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Draws you close, preparing to kiss you breathless once more. 

But it seems fate is a cruel, mischievous mistress, intervening when she deems it fit.

Because, this time, your phone rings. 

You stiffen. Sylus glowers at your—his—coat pocket. Studies you. He’s conflicted. Looks as if the world is descending into hell around him. Like he wants to take your phone and shatter it on the wall. You offer him a placating smile. Smooth a hand over his cheek before tugging your cell out. It’s only fair you leave him as on edge as he left you. 

He doesn’t let it deter him, pulling you impossibly closer. Peppers your neck with kisses, drawing a soft huff of laughter from your chest. Your head falls back, and he cradles it with his fingers, baring your throat to him. Groans something appreciative, writing the most beautiful compliments of all against your skin with his lips. 

You’re not thinking when you answer, too swept up in the moment. Dizzy from the needy drag of his lips over your carotid. Don’t think until a familiar lilt touches your ear, and a cold thrill shoots down your spine.

Little. Ms. Hunter. 

Fuck. 

Reality trickles in like the slow creep of a rainstorm, mooring you to the spot. You shove against Sylus’ chest. He ingests you with pinched brows, heavy lids, an open mouth. ‘What’s wrong?’ his expression reads. He’s desperate. Needy. Like you’re his lifeline, an IV drip.

You push against him again, chest so very hard and so wonderfully defined against the heel of your palm. You need space. You can’t breathe, but for an entirely different reason now. 

His hands reluctantly drop from your waist, falling listlessly at his sides. He turns away, rubbing the scruff of his neck with a sigh.

“What’s up?” you bite. Try to mask the waver of your voice, your quivering tendons. 

“Hey, how ya doin’?” She’s infuriatingly chipper. Happy for someone halfway across the world, as if she knows you’re up to no good. 

You don’t bother with pleasantries. You’re caught between wanting to laugh and cry. Damn the universe for spoiling your fun. “What do you need?”

The hunter’s hesitant for a beat. You envision her shifting her weight between her feet. Fiddling with her nails, her gaze cast to the floor. It’s not often you’re terse with her, at least not these days. You worked through those kinks of your relationship months back. But forgive you for being a little impatient. A little snippy when you finally satiated the ache between your teeth. 

“Sooo, I’m back earlier than expected. My ride cancelled on me. Would you mind picking me up from the airport? I’ll pay you back! Promise!” 

“You can’t catch a cab?” You push back your hair. Peer over your shoulder, hand cupped around the mic as if you’re whispering a secret. Sylus is behind you a little ways off, hand on hip; silhouette suffused in amber as he examines some picture frames on the sofa table, pretending not to eavesdrop.  

“Yeah, but it’s late! I don’t wanna get kidnapped, ya know?”

You suppress a frustrated sound, disbelieving. Not just of her, but the timing of everything. The reminder of what you’ve done and what you still want to do. One day, you’ll learn not to answer your phone. And one day, you’ll learn to tell your conscience to fuck right the hell off.

“Fine. Yeah, sure. Just…gimme a minute.”

“You’re the best! I don’t care what the twins say about you!” 

The call ends, and you sigh, leaning into your palm, propped against the frost-bitten windowpane. It grounds you in a way, its crispness a welcome contrast to your fevered skin. 

You jolt when Sylus emerges behind you in the form of artful hands melding to your waist. In the form of warm breath kissing the sensitive space behind your ear. His lips graze the shell of it. You snatch away as if scorched by fire, turning, spine acquainting itself with the window. Space. You need space. 

He gives you no time to breathe, spilling over you like liquid fire. Cages you in with his arms. Angles closer, swaddling you in the dangerous warmth of his body. Bathes you in the bewitching scent he carries, in the lazy, lust-laden stir of his eyes. You shirk away from his touch when his fingertips graze your cheek. He bristles.

Your heart pinches at the wounded look on his face. At how his fingers twitch before curling into a loose fist and falling back to his side. You duck away from him, a nervous smile dragging itself across your face. 

“She’s back,” you state plainly. It tastes bitter, acknowledging it aloud. Your belly swoops. You think you might be sick. “Asked if I could pick her up.”

His expression slackens. Gaze descends to the floor. “This late?”

You nod solemnly. 

Shouldn’t he be happy his Aphrodite has returned?

It’s unnervingly quiet between you now, making way for the whisper of the wind threading through the leaves outside where the sticky click of your lips and labored breaths once lived. 

Your throat clicks when you swallow. You want nothing more than to pull him against you again, to be wrapped in the possessive circle of his arms. To pick up where you left off before morality leaked in. But that call served as your reality check, and you’re both grateful and resentful it came when it did.

Sylus beholds you with beseeching eyes. Looks as if he might protest, lips quivering around an excuse to draw you back in. But he drops it. Instead, he opts for, “I’ll bring the car around,” sounding so uncharacteristically somber that you wince. 

He brushes past you through the front door, swallowed by the dust-speckled night. Leaves you to nurse the violent thrum of your heart and battle the maelstrom in your head. 

She’s back. Things will return to normal. This moment never happened. This night never happened. 

Still, your lips burn with the remnants of the kiss. You unconsciously touch the trembling, distended things, deciding to tuck the memory into the furthest hulls of your mind. 

He’s not yours, remember? Never will be. Never could be.

—

The ride to the airport was uncomfortably tense. 

Sylus tried vainly to reignite the flames sparked by the night—little displays of affection, possession. Spindly fingers curling around your thigh, a peek at you through the corner of his vision, knuckles deftly brushing your cheek to bring you back to the present. 

You inched away from his touch despite every synapse in your brain screaming for you to let it happen. He gave up after the third try. Gripped the gear stick, white-knuckled and radiating a silent dejectedness. 

You forced out a shaky breath when the overwhelmingly bright, fluorescent airport signs panned into view. 

“Heya!” chirped Ms. Hunter, pulling you into a tight hug once you dismounted the car. “You look all fancy. What have you been up to?”

You were stiff in her embrace, a tight smile pulling at your lips. She smelled of stale perfume and wet earth. Long hair tickled your neck. She radiated a warmth you envied as you rigidly returned the hug.

“Oh, you know. Nefarious things and all that.”

Ms. Hunter drew back, hands roosted on your shoulders. Her smile faltered when she got a good look at you. When the driver’s door slammed shut, and Sylus rounded the car to stand behind you, hands stuffed in his pockets. Her honey-dipped eyes flit over your face. She sensed something was up. Of course, she did. Anyone within a 50-mile radius could see the tension dangling off your shoulders. She looked like she wanted to interrogate you, but—

“Welcome back,” said Sylus, his tone easy. You were thankful for the save. Didn’t have to look back to know he was wearing that familiar cant to his lips. A look he, until tonight, only wore for her. “I take it your mission went well, given how early you returned.” 

You would've tasted the faint notes of indignation there had you not been so swept up in your head. 

“You have no idea,” she laughed, exhaustion lancing through her words. You pat her head, fondly ruffling her hair. 

He helped her put her suitcase in the trunk as she animatedly regaled the details of her mission. He smirked and nodded, listening intently. You tuned everything out in favor of listening to your pulse drum beneath your skin. 

Sylus held the passenger door open, watching you expectantly. Signaled for you to get in with his eyes as Ms. Hunter stood awkwardly behind you. The tension was tangible. Obvious. It made you sick.

He frowned when you forwent the passenger seat, sliding into the back. The front seat was always her place. You were merely squatting there, keeping the leather warm in her absence. You caught sight of the tense set of his jaw when he shut the door behind her. Your heart sank to your feet. 

As Sylus eased the car onto the highway, they filled the stiff, blue-light-tinged air with small talk. Their conversation was seamless as if no time had lapsed between them. You propped an elbow on the door, watching the scenery fly by in a blur beyond your window. 

And you shut your eyes against those scarlet irises occasionally observing you in the rearview mirror, a silent question brewing beneath bowed lashes.

‘Have I done something wrong?’

No. Never. It’s you who’s royally fucked up.

—

“Listen, sweetheart. You both seem like nice girls. But I ain’t budgin’.”

You roll your eyes for the umpteenth time. Scoff, a rigid set between your teeth. You’ve been like this for what feels like hours, propped against a wall, arms crossed, mind tumultuous. 

A few days after the hunter returned, Sylus sent his two gems to reclaim some of his property. Thelma and Louis at it again. 

You should be thrilled. You’ve been itching for a distraction since that night. When you let your emotions overwhelm you, and you gave into your selfish little whims. You can’t focus on much else, the pressure of Sylus’ lips still ingrained in your mind. The texture of his shirt sleeves between your fingers, the sound of his voice as he rasped his satisfaction into your skin. It replays like torn film reels in your mind, refusing to release you from its flimsy clutches. 

Since that night, he’s been uncharacteristically attentive. Filling the space with errant touches and lingering gazes. Rare quirks of his lips, an affectionate, secretive undernote to his timbre whenever he speaks to you. And his eyes. They bear more emotion than what you’re accustomed to seeing. 

It’s all been so very confusing, this new attitude of his. You don’t like it when things aren’t clear-cut and dry. Hate to beat around the bush.

You figured his attention would shift with the center of his universe back in rotation. 

To your chagrin and surprise, you’re wrong. You assume he’s only being so disarming because he needs you. Not just as his pretty little violent marionette. His honeypot. When Ms. Hunter inevitably leaves again—the life of a hunter must be so taxing—he’ll need someone to fall back on. A failsafe to keep his loneliness at bay. You just so happen to fit the bill.

The notion makes you scowl. The butcher’s voice isn’t helping curb your vexation, his laughter obnoxious and filled with phlegm. His fat ass isn’t taking either of you seriously. Of course, if you were him, you wouldn’t, either. 

Ms. Hunter’s been at this for a while, playing good cop to your bad. Trying to nice her way into getting him to sign the deed to his property back to Sylus. Really, it belongs to the latter man. He was just allowing the butcher to squat here while he carried out his work for Onychinus, slaughtering its opposition and packaging up their remains like fresh meat, shipping them off to anyone who dared utter the organization’s name in vain.

His use has run its course. He’s grown sloppy. Complacent. Disloyal. Been letting other faction leads buy him off, selling his knack of butchering to the highest bidder. He should be so lucky you’re not here to slit his throat.

Inwardly, you wonder if someday, you’ll suffer the same fate. If Ms. Hunter will be sent to snuff you out—your successor wiping you off the map like a blip on the radar. 

Until then, you’ll make yourself as indispensable as possible. Prove your worth. 

You push off the wall with a huff, face set with determination as adrenaline spumes through you. You close the distance between you and the hunter in four brisk strides. Snatch her pistol from the holster at her waist, barring her sentence in her throat. It’s weighted. Loaded. Good. 

You rack a round. Release the safety. The butcher barely has time to register anything before you aim. Inhale. Exhale. Pull the trigger at the lowest lull of your breath. And it’s so gratifying, the sound of a bullet whizzing past his ear and embedding itself in the plaster behind him. 

He’s petrified with fright behind his desk, mouth hinged open. Ms. Hunter blurs into focus beyond the front sight, turning incredulous eyes on you before narrowing them. The barrel’s still smoking, a satisfying, wispy cloud furling skyward. The leather grip squeaks in your hand, you’re holding it so tight. 

“Was that really necessary?” she berates. She’s doing that whisper-yelling thing. You’re in for an earful later. 

You shrug half-heartedly, reholstering her weapon. Push past, tugging the sleeves of your blazer up. “I’ve had enough of this,” you grate, snatching your leather gloves from your pocket and slipping them on with practiced precision. 

Neither of them knows what’s coming until you step behind the butcher. Until you’ve taken a fistful of sweaty, grease-slicked hair and acquainted his face with the bubbling finish of his desk with a loud thwack!

Ms. Hunter watches the scene unfold with horror twisting up her features. She’s rooted to the spot. Something plops on the desk. Evolves into a steady, sticky drip. Blood. Corrupted speckles of red staining the deed you’re meant to get signed. 

You lock eyes with your partner, bending at the waist over the butcher’s shoulder, grip unyielding on his hair. A show of power. Dominance, meant to convey, ‘This is how it’s done.’

A smirk twitches onto your lips. Your mouth brushes the outer shell of his ear, voice coming out deceptively doting. “Sign the fucking paper, or I’ll string you up like one of your little pigs and turn you into dog shit.”

His voice is wet. Strained, unflattering streaks of crimson leaking from his nose to puddle on the desk. “But—”

The hunter winces when you slam his face down again. He’s disoriented now. Swaying. If not for your iron grip on his hair, he’d fall into the arms of unconsciousness. 

“Okay, okay!” he relents, garbled and wet. 

You release his hair, shoving at his head none-too-gently, a facsimile of a smile rounding your lips. Perch a hand on his shoulder, squeezing with enough coercion to remind him of your potency. “Pleasure doing business with you, old man.”

The air thickens with fear. It’s quiet, save for the scratch of the butcher’s pen, as he shakily scrawls his signature on the deed, relinquishing his shop back to Sylus. You scrutinize the blood-flecked paper, satisfied. 

“I’ll give you until midnight to get the fuck out of here,” you casually say, snatching off your gloves to smooth out the lapels of your blazer. “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee your safety after.”

You leave the butcher to nurse a broken nose and a nasty headache, pushing past Ms. Hunter with a cocksure grin. 

“What the hell was that?!” she squeaks, rushing to keep pace with you as you step into the warm atmosphere outside, walking towards the sleek outline of your SUV.

“Business.”

“Yeah, but…did you have to threaten him like that? I mean, you could’ve killed the guy!”

With a scowl, you snatch the passenger door open for her to get in. “If you have a problem with how I do things, maybe you’re not cut out for this life, sweetheart.”

She scoffs disbelievingly. Haughty as she plops down on the passenger seat, crossing her arms. You’re being more venomous than usual. More pushy. You’re too far gone. You’ll apologize for making her your punching bag later. 

“What’s up with you?” she pressures once you’ve settled on the driver's side, discarding your gloves in the center console. Leans closer, squinting. You ease back. “You’ve been more bitchy than usual. You and Sylus have been acting weird.” 

She’s closer now, bursting your metaphorical bubble. Dangerously perceptive. You avoid eye contact as if doing so will reveal all the contents of your mind. Not that you have to. She’s alarmingly observant for someone who acts so naive. 

“Did something happen between you?”

You side-eye her as you start the engine, unknowingly confirming her suspicions. She quirks a brow, catching onto your game. Falls back against the leather of her seat to sulk over folded arms. “I knew it. Unbelievable. Didn’t I tell you to play nice while I was gone?!” 

“I’m always nice,” you counter under your breath, glaring at the console screen as you back up the SUV. 

The steering wheel scrubs between your hands after you shift to Drive, and as you slide the vehicle into the steady stream of traffic, you catch sight of the blood mottling the cuff of your sleeve, begging to differ. 

Maybe you’re being more ornery than you think.     

— 

The base is a network of paneled walls and glittering floors. Had you not been well-versed with its layout, you would surely get lost. But you’ve been here too many times. Once slept between these walls, laughed with the twins, and shared a glass of wine or two with your boss. 

Sometimes, he’d let you lie in his bed when your head was too fuzzy, and you couldn’t stop smiling after the wine left you tenuous and dazed. Nothing ever happened, much to your dismay. He was a gentleman through and through. And you never questioned him on why it was always his bed.

Things changed once Ms. Hunter entered the scene. 

This place used to be your asylum. Your respite from a world so vapid. For a moment, you could pretend the blood caked beneath your nails didn’t exist. And you could pretend you weren’t a weapon to be used at your employer’s disposal. But these days, you’ve avoided his mansion like a sickness, instead retreating to your own place in the city. You’re impeding. These walls no longer welcome you. 

You feel like a specter with unresolved conflict as you round the hall where Sylus’ study sits at its center. Your heart hurls itself against your rib cage. You’ve been distant since that night, shying away from his attempts to disarm you. All half-hearted ventures to keep you dangling on a frayed string until he next needs you to fill the void the hunter inevitably leaves. 

You tamp down your anxiety when the cool steel of the door handle bites into your palm. The voice inside is muffled. Deep. Resonant. Sylus is talking business. Orchestrating things that don’t concern you until he makes them your problem. You’ll be quick. Don’t want to stick around longer than necessary.  

Pushing open the heavy mahogany wood, you’re greeted by a shock of white nestled behind his desk. He’s on the phone. Looks up upon your entry, scarlet eyes narrowing, then softening with recognition. Your throat thickens.

You try to ignore how his look makes your stomach somersault. How every crevice of his office smells like him—bourbon, raw energy, and all things safe. You’re thrown back into the memory of that dusky night. The seal of his lips to yours, his fingers easing over the contours of your body like points on a star map.

Ignoring your thoughts, you conquer the distance between the door and his desk in measured strides, looking everywhere but at him. It’s too risky to maintain eye contact. He has a hold on you without trying. Without the straggly pull of his Evol, without the smoky compulsion of his voice. 

You plant the deed on the desk’s center with a muted thunk. His fingertips brush your knuckles, over the clutch of your hand. Static radiates between you. You reel back quicker than you mean to, bereft of the roughened slide of his fingers. Clear your throat, straighten your jacket. There’s a pinch between his brows, but it’s gone as quickly as it came. 

Sylus peers down at the paper, an inquisitive brow lifting at the oxidized brown dappling it. You give him a half-hearted shrug. You did your part. How you got there is a story for another day.

You don’t wait for him to dismiss you, wordlessly stepping away with a curt nod. He continues his conversation over your shoulder, and your body swells with relief. It’s short-lived when Ms. Hunter brushes past you on your way out of the door, tight-lipped and side-eyeing you with all the vexation of the world. 

Before you leave, you wait for the door to click shut behind you, catching wind of the hunter’s ire before thick layers of wood distort it. 

“Hang up the phone. We need to talk. Now.”

—

It’s a pleasure to dance. To forget yourself. 

Lux is lively tonight. Colored with mirth and strobing lights. Pounding music. You feel it in your chest as you move, a seductive, rehearsed smile crooking your lips. You rake your fingers through your hair. Drag your hands down the sweep of your waist, swiveling your hips, playing up your allure. You don’t have to do much to garner attention—it’s your job, remember?

You peacock about in the white metal birdcage you're housed in. Grab the bars, grinning down at the writhing crowd. It was your idea to give Lux a little umph, sweet-talking Sylus into having massive bird cages mounted from the ceiling. Fitting, given his obsession with pretty caged things.

Lux’s theme is ever-changing, courtesy of your eccentric mind. It keeps people coming in droves. Forces his enemies to rear their hideous mugs, lured to the nightclub by the promise of pretty women. 

The air between you was still dense. Rife with pheromones and unbidden feelings. But you were back donning your playful, arrogant mask as if the night you shared never existed. Back to flirting and giving Sylus the piss. 

The large faux wings you wear are surprisingly light. Stark, like the beautiful white tiger lounging on one side of the cage. The Bengal tiger yawns wide, giving you a show of pointed teeth. Teeth that could easily rip you asunder, yet he’s as docile as a house cat when you bend to pet through soft tufts of white. 

He slow-blinks at you, his gorgeous eyes shining like emeralds uncovered in a cave. You smile as you smooth your thumb over his nose. A pink tongue darts out to lick your palm. He reminds you of yourself—capable of extreme violence, yet docile in patient hands.

Your skin prickles. You notice you’re being watched, but not in a way you’re used to. A way that typically exudes desire. 

You turn to ingest a set of galaxy-infused eyes watching you intently through the throng of people. Youthful pockets of fat hang beneath his lower lids. A dark sweep of hair, thick brows. He towers over the crowd, a distinct cutout of virility and shrouded intentions. You don’t recall ever seeing him before. 

When your gazes intermingle, he smiles something corrupted. It doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re all too familiar with that look—one of a predator scoping out its next meal. Prey it intends to take its time eviscerating, licking its bones clean.

You smile all the more wider, and you smooth your hands over your body, maintaining eye contact as you play up the theatrics. It’s ritualistic in a way, how you move. Like you’re provoking him. You don’t know who this man is, but he’s ballsy, stepping into your den, challenging you.  

You tear your eyes away when the door to your cage swings open behind you, rocking it slightly on its hinges. A sizable hand peers in. You glance out, met with a riotous mop of white. Sylus. Gaze half-slit, relaxed. 

“Take five,” he says above the thumping music. 

You peer over your shoulder while taking his hand. The stranger you earlier locked eyes with has vanished, almost as if he were never there. You don’t pursue it. Not now at least. You allow Sylus to coax you down from the cage via hands at your waist. Stumble into him once on the ground, the air siphoned from your lungs. You're dizzy and breathless, being so close. He’s warm, smells divine, and you feel safe. Your palms press against his chest, his fingers wrapped about the crooks of your elbows to steady you.

He studies you with a reverent gleam to his irises as if he intends to kiss you, uncaring of any witnesses. Any questions. You shake away the thought, remembering yourself—your stance in his life. You offer him half a smile before retreating past him to the private bar for a drink. Something to ease your nerves, to cool your fevered skin.

Sylus’ expression hardens behind you as he scrutinizes the space you once stared at yourself. You don’t see the tenebrous threads of his Evol pouring from his body, licking the air. Don’t feel his aura bleeding a quieted malice, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. 

— tags: @unknown-ends, @viqlume, @nicohii, @beewilko, @lunebulous, @subliminalwish, @emneedshelp, @inkonparchment, @snowfall-jess, @bingbongchu, @greeenbeean, @shiorihoshino, @sillyfreakfanparty, @glamouroki, @midiplier, @kiri-tuk, @delulusimps, @moonlight-inthe-sea

climax 2.0 | masterlist | resolution

[realmsofdreams]

fire in my blood, steel in my spine.

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: in the harsh, frostbitten lands of the north, you, the fierce valyrian-blooded wife of cregan stark, find your world unraveling with the return of arra norrey. pregnant with your first child, your strength is tested as arra’s presence stirs doubt and jealousy, threatening your place as lady of winterfell.

warnings: angst, heartbreak, jealousy, pregnancy, emotional turmoil, mild suggestive themes.

author notes: hi! in this one-shot, i picture the reader as having valyrian blood running through their veins, but without the signature silver hair or purple/blue eyes like the targaryens. however, they do speak high valyrian and ride dragons just like them. of course, this is an imagine, so feel free to picture the reader with any appearance you like. as always, enjoy and happy reading!

“do you think the babe will have your eyes?”

cregan’s voice rumbled low, a rare softness threading through it as he rested a hand on the swell of your belly. the fire crackled in the hearth, his calloused fingers traced absent circles over your gown, and for a moment, the world felt warm, safe.

you tilted your head to meet his gaze, your dark hair spilling over your shoulder like ink against the pale furs.

“i hope they have yours,”

you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“grey like the north, steady and strong.”

he chuckled, a sound that vibrated through you, grounding you.

“strong, aye. but they’ll have your fire, i reckon. that valyrian blood of yours, it burns brighter than any hearth.”

you wanted to hold onto that moment, to bottle it and keep it close. your hand found his, pressing it tighter against your stomach, where the babe stirred faintly.

“a wolf with dragon’s blood,”

you said, your voice teasing but laced with pride.

“the north won’t know what to make of them.”

“nor will i,”

he admitted, his grey eyes softening as they held yours.

“but i’ll love them all the same. as i love you.”

the words wrapped around you like a cloak, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, a drumbeat against the howling wind outside.

but the peace shattered when the doors creaked open, a servant stepping in with a hesitant bow.

“my lord, my lady… arra norrey has arrived. she’s in the great hall.”

the name hit you like a gust of winter wind, sharp and unyielding. cregan’s hand stilled on your stomach, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. you watched him, searching his face for a crack in the mask he wore so well.

“arra?”

you asked, keeping your tone even despite the sudden knot in your chest.

“i thought she’d settled in the mountains.”

“so did i,” he said, rising to his feet.

his voice was clipped, not cold, but distant like he was already halfway out the door.

“i’ll see what she wants. rest, love. i won’t be long.”

he pressed a kiss to your forehead, firm and fleeting, before he left. and as the door shut behind him, you felt it, the first splinter in the foundation you’d built together.

arra norrey was no stranger to winterfell.

she was a ghost from cregan’s past, a woman of the north with wild auburn hair and a sharper tongue. she’d been his companion in youth, a friend, a whisper of something more before you’d swept into his life like a storm from the south. the youngest daughter of a valyrian line, your black hair and fierce spirit had captivated him, binding him to you in a way that felt unbreakable. or so you’d thought.

you didn’t mind her shadow at first. you were secure in your place, in the way cregan looked at you, in the child growing inside you. but when she swept into the great hall that day, her presence was a tempest you hadn’t braced for. she was all sharp edges and familiarity, her voice cutting through the air as she greeted cregan with a smile that lingered too long.

“it’s been years, cregan,”

she said, her tone warm, almost possessive.

“the north hasn’t changed, but you… you’ve grown into it.”

you stood at the edge of the hall, unnoticed at first, watching as he returned her smile, not the one he gave you, but something softer, older.

“you’ve not changed either, arra,”

he replied, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn’t name.

nostalgia?

affection? it clawed at you, that uncertainty.

she barely glanced your way, her focus locked on him. and as the days bled into weeks, it only grew worse. she found reasons to be near him, of bringing tales of the mountains, offering to scout with him, brushing his arm as she laughed at some shared memory from a time before you. you told yourself it was nothing. you were his wife, carrying his heir. but every touch, every glance she stole, chipped away at the steel you’d forged around your heart.

one afternoon, you watched from a window as they stood in the courtyard, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke animatedly. he didn’t pull away. he laughed, a sound that once belonged to you alone and the sight twisted something deep inside you. your hand pressed against your belly, where the babe kicked harder, as if sensing your turmoil.

“i don’t know what to do, sara,”

you confessed one evening, your voice trembling as you sat with sara snow in the quiet of the godswood, the air was bitter. sara, with her dark eyes and gentle demeanor, had become an unexpected anchor in the storm. she carried no judgment, only understanding.

she tilted her head, studying you.

“you’re his lady, his wife. she’s a memory, nothing more. why let her haunt you?”

you pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint kick of the life within.

“because he doesn’t see it, the way she looks at him, the way she tries to pull him back to what they had. and i… i feel like i’m fading. like i’m not enough.”

sara’s hand found yours, her grip firm.

“you’re more than enough. you’re valyrian steel in flesh, stronger than she’ll ever be. but you’ve got to tell him, not me. he’s a man, thick as they come sometimes. he won’t know unless you make him see.”

“i’ve tried,”

you whispered, your voice breaking.

“but every time i look at him, i see her shadow behind him. i see the way he softens when she speaks, and i wonder… did he settle for me? did he choose me because i was here, because i was convenient?”

sara frowned, shaking her head.

“you think cregan stark, lord of winterfell, would marry a woman out of convenience? he chose you because you’re a force, a flame in this frozen hell. arra’s a spark that’s long gone out. don’t let her make you doubt that.”

you wanted to believe her, but the doubt had taken root, spreading like frost over glass. that night, when cregan slipped into your chambers, his hands cold from the yard, you couldn’t meet his eyes. he sensed it, kneeling before you as you sat by the fire, your hands folded over your swollen belly.

“what’s wrong, love?”

his voice was gentle, but it broke something in you.

“arra,”

you said, the name tasting like ash.

“she’s everywhere, cregan. every time i turn, she’s there, pulling you away. and you let her.”

his brows furrowed, confusion etching his face.

“she’s an old friend. she means nothing—”

“don’t,”

you snapped, your voice rising despite the tears burning your eyes.

“don’t tell me it’s nothing when i see the way she looks at you, the way you smile at her. i’m your wife, cregan, carrying your child, and i feel like i’m losing you.”

the silence that followed was suffocating. he reached for you, but you pulled away, the ache in your chest too raw.

“i thought i was your fire,”

you whispered, your voice cracking.

“but maybe i’m just the shadow she’s casting.”

he stood then, his expression hardening not with anger, but with something deeper, something pained.

“you think i’d choose her over you? over our family?”

his voice was low, strained, each word deliberate.

“i’ve been a fool not to see it, how it’s hurt you. but you’re wrong, my love. you’re everything.”

you wanted to believe him, but the wound was too fresh, too deep.

“then why does it feel like i’m fighting for you?”

the words slipped out, fragile and broken.

“why does it feel like i’m begging for a place that should already be mine?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed in your bones. you sank into the chair, tears streaming down your face as the fire dwindled to embers. the babe kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed your hands to your stomach, whispering apologies to the life you carried, for the fear, for the doubt, for the cracks in the love you’d thought unbreakable.

the next morning, arra was gone.

you heard it from the servants first, she’d been sent back to the mountains, her horse saddled before dawn. the news came like a cold wind and unexpected, and you stood in the courtyard, watching the empty space where she’d last been. the snow crunched under your boots, your breath clouding in the frigid air.

when cregan found you, he looked weary, his eyes shadowed with something you hadn’t seen before, regret, perhaps, or resolve. he stopped a few paces away, his cloak dusted with snow.

“she’s gone,” he said simply, his voice rough.

“i told her to leave. for you.”

you stared at him, your heart pounding.

“why?”

“because i saw it, how she looked at me, how it tore at you. i’d never dishonor you, never let anyone come between us. arra… she was a piece of my past, a friend i thought i could keep at arm’s length. but i was wrong.”

he stepped closer, his hands reaching for yours, and this time you didn’t pull away.

“i should’ve sent her off the moment she arrived. i was blind, and i’m sorry.”

tears spilled down your cheeks, hot against the cold.

“i thought… i thought you regretted me,”

you admitted, your voice trembling.

“that i wasn’t enough. that she was the one you wanted, deep down.”

he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, his touch warm despite the chill.

“regret you? gods, no. you’re the fire in my blood, the steel in my spine. i’d burn the north to ashes before i let you doubt that. arra was a memory, a ghost i didn’t bury well enough. but you… you’re my life, my heart, the mother of my child.”

you broke then, a sob escaping as you fell into his arms. he held you tight, his warmth seeping into you, thawing the ice that had settled in your chest.

“i love you,”

he murmured against your hair, fierce and unwavering.

“only you. always you.”

you clung to him, the weight of your fears lifting, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against yours. the babe kicked between you, a reminder of the life you’d built, the love that held despite the cracks. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face as snowflakes caught in your dark hair.

“i’d fight the world for you,”

he said, his voice low but steady.

“every inch of it. you’re my lady, my wife, my flame. no one else.”

you reached up, your fingers curling into his cloak, pulling him down until his lips met yours. the kiss was desperate at first, all the pent-up fear and longing spilling out, but it softened into something tender, something sure. the cold faded, the shadows retreated, and all that remained was the heat of him, the strength of you, and the promise of what lay ahead.

as the snow fell silent around you, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the frozen air.

“i believe you,”

you whispered, and it felt like a release, a weight you hadn’t known you carried.

“i love you too.”

he smiled then, the one he saved for you alone, soft, unguarded, and full of the north’s quiet strength.

“good,”

he said, his hand slipping to your belly.

“because this little one needs us both.”

and in that moment, with the wind howling and the world vast and wild around you, you knew no shadow could dim the fire you shared.

[the end]

[hanafubukki]

Thinking about Malleus who has a lawyer or a politician for His Queen.

You have experience with law. You are well read when it comes to breaking apart passages of rules and regulations. But most importantly, you know how to deal with people and you know how to debate.

Malleus is the least temperamental Draconia, but that was fine. When you got ate determined and fierce, it was as if you were part of the Draconia bloodline and not Malleus from the way you held yourself and the fire in your eyes even with the lack of horns. (Sometimes, with the way you regarded some of the Senate or council, the implied, unspoken “fools/imbeciles” was clearly expressed through your body language alone.)

You had the ability to charm people and perceive what they want which helps you as a fellow ruler with Malleus. This is what led to more of the fae accepting you. You would know when someone would try to passively insult you and you would return it back at them. Malleus and Lilia especially enjoyed watching this.

You didn’t reform the kingdom in your lifetime, no, there’s only so much you can do after all. But, you expanded the foundations that were placed through the centuries.

Through your connections, the kingdom was able thrive and usher in change. It was at dial-up speed at times but change came forth nonetheless.

Briar Valley gradually opened to others, but it took time and effort. After all, the scars of the past was deeply ingrained in its’ soil.

You would go down in history as the one who brought change to the country. Not a dragon by blood or traits, but one by determination and ferocity.

[iydiamartinx]

THE ART OF RESTRAINT II

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 2.3k synopsis: At Gotham’s most exclusive gala, your calendar shoot with Bruce Wayne has made you the center of attention. But when admiration turns inappropriate, Bruce intervenes… and stakes a claim that ignites everything you’ve tried to bury. a/n: Due to popular demand here is part 2! Also I think I might make this a series, what do you all think?

A month later, Gotham’s elite gathered beneath chandeliers and champagne towers, draped in couture and cloaked in vanity. The Gotham Foundation Gala had always been an affair of power, legacy, and whispered deals between glasses of merlot.

You and Bruce were always considered the most powerful and wealthiest donors in attendance but this year, thanks to the calendar shoot, the two of you were the main attraction.

You in black silk, the fabric hugging just the right places and cut high all the way to the thigh. You in heels sharp enough to draw blood. You standing beneath towering canvases of the now-infamous calendar shoot—each photo blown up and framed like art, lit from below in gold.

There you were, pinning Bruce Wayne to a bed with a mouthful of fire and a stare that had made half of Gotham’s boardrooms sweat.

And beside it?

Another photo: Bruce above you, hand at your throat, the whisper of his lips nearly brushing yours, both of you suspended in a moment so thick with tension, it still made you hot under the collar.

Compliments followed you all night.

“You looked incredible in those shots—was it really staged?”

“Don’t you two have insane chemistry?”

“I’m shocked the sheets didn’t catch fire.”

You smiled politely. Nodded. Deflected.

You were swirling your drink near one of the gallery displays—your own photo looming behind you in all its controversial glory—when a man stepped into your periphery.

Tall. Well-dressed. Mid-forties, maybe. Clean-cut and confident in that way men get when they think their money makes them interesting.

“You know,” he began conversationally, his tone easy, “I don’t usually like these calendar stunts.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised.

“But this year?” His gaze flicked to the framed shot of you straddling Bruce, lips nearly touching. “I might frame that one for my office.”

You offered a tight smile, the kind that conveyed your disinterest with causing such a scandal you would be plastered over the front page of the news. 

“You’ve got half the room talking,” he continued, holding out a hand. “Daniel. I run acquisitions over at Monarch Holdings.”

You took his hand briefly. “Pleasure.”

“Is he here?” Daniel asked, nodding toward the photo. “Wayne.”

“He was as much a part of this as I was, so yes—he’s here.” Unfortunately. But you didn’t tack that part on. Instead, you simply nodded toward where he stood, surrounded by a cluster of socialites, all of them fawning as he gifted them one of his signature, devastatingly charming grins.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, the stem of your champagne flute pressing tighter between your fingers—just enough to betray the irritation you refused to show on your face.

“So,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly, “are you two…?”

You gave a bland smile. “Are we two what?”

He laughed like he hadn’t been fishing. “You know what I mean. That shoot didn’t look staged.”

“That’s the job,” you replied coolly. “To make it look real.”

“Right,” he said, eyes still on you. “Well, it worked. Hell of a performance. Intense. Sexy.” He took a sip of his drink, then leaned in just a little. “He’s a lucky man to have had this opportunity with a woman like you.” His eyes raked down your figure, slow and deliberate. “You belong on camera. Honestly, if you ever wanted to do something a little more… private, I know a few people who’d pay a fortune to see it and wouldn’t mind seeing you in something even racier. Hell, I’d fund the shoot myself. Bet you’ve got a few poses he couldn’t pull out of you.

You blinked once. Your eyes narrowing into slits.

The chill in your stare should’ve been enough.

The audacity of this man, propositioning you like you were some whore.

You were one of the richest, most powerful women in the city—your name carried more weight than some entire empires. You had more money than you knew what to do with—the only reason you agreed to the shoot and didn’t tear your assistant a new one was because the proceeds were being donated to the less fortunate. And yet, here he was. Looking at you like you were a toy he could buy. Like some bored little trophy to pose next to him at the next shareholders’ gala.

Your jaw tightened. The words burned behind your teeth, sharp and exact, already forming—

But before you could let them fly, you felt it.

A presence at your back.

Broad. Warm. Unmistakable.

A hand rested at the small of your back—large, steady, and maddeningly familiar. His palm pressed gently against the silk of your gown, anchoring you. Possessive in the subtlest way. Protective in the most public one.

You didn’t have to look.

You already knew who it was.

“I’ve always admired ambition,” Bruce said, stepping into view with a glass of champagne in hand and the kind of effortless grin that made people underestimate him.

His eyes met Daniel’s. Calm. Almost friendly.

“But approaching another man’s date in front of a twelve-foot photo of them practically making out?” Bruce tilted his head, faux-impressed. “That’s bold.”

Daniel blinked. “I didn’t realize—”

He stepped in a little closer, casual and unbothered. The warmth of his hand still lingered at your back.

“Oh, it’s alright,” he said with an airy wave of his glass. “You couldn’t have known. We’ve been keeping things quiet.”

You fought the urge to bristle.

The words we’ve been keeping things quiet scraped against every instinct you had. You wanted to cut in, to correct him, to remind everyone in earshot that there was no we.

But you didn’t.

Because as much as it made your blood simmer, Bruce was helping you—even if you hadn’t asked for it. Even if you didn’t need it. And calling him out now, in front of half the gala, would only turn eyes and whispering mouths on both of you and not in a good way.

“You know how it is—mixing business and pleasure,” he went on, voice dropping just enough to feel like a secret. He leaned in slightly, as if confiding something scandalous, though every word was meant to be overheard. “Gets messy. Especially when other people try to insert themselves where they don’t belong.”

“I do applaud the attempt, though,” Bruce said lightly. “but the truth is… most men wouldn’t know what to do with someone like her.”

Daniel opened his mouth, perhaps to disagree but Bruce didn’t give him a chance.

“Just friendly advice,” Bruce added, with a wink and a sip of his drink. “I’d hate to see you step into something you can’t afford.”

Dan’s smile froze.

For a moment, he just stood there, caught in the pause between realization and retreat. The veneer of confidence he wore so easily began to splinter, cracking beneath the weight of Bruce’s words—a quiet reminder of exactly who you were, and more importantly, who he wasn’t.

He shifted his drink, fingers tightening slightly around the glass. Cleared his throat. Laughed—too light, too forced.

His eyes flicked between you and Bruce, searching for a foothold, for some hint that he hadn’t just been publicly dressed down by Gotham’s most powerful man for daring to proposition a woman so clearly out of his reach.

Bruce didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give him an inch.

Eventually, Dan let out an awkward chuckle and took a careful step back. “Didn’t mean to step on toes.”

“You didn’t,” Bruce said, smooth as silk. “But it’s best to watch your footing anyway.”

Dan took the out and disappeared into the crowd, ego limping behind him.

The moment he was gone, you turned to him, jaw clenched.

“What the hell was that?”

He took a sip of his drink, looking far too pleased with himself. ““Just offering an innocent man a word of warning,” he said, his expression was all practiced innocence. “He seemed a little too eager to bring the devil into his bed.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to slap the glass out of his hand. “You were marking your territory like a dog in a tux.”

He smiled. “A charming dog in a very expensive tux.”

You grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the crowd, weaving between silken gowns and murmured gossip until you found a quiet corridor near the ballroom’s edge. You shoved him through the first unlocked door you found—an unused sitting room glittering with old portraits and low lighting. 

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, muffled by velvet walls and the hum of distant music. 

You turned on Bruce before he could say a word.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He stood there, cool and collected, the very image of effortless wealth and unbothered masculinity. The undone bow tie at his collar made him look almost disheveled. Almost. Just enough to make your jaw clench.

He set his glass down calmly, unbothered. “He was a jackass.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snapped, voice rising, heat flooding your cheeks. “We’re not together. You don’t get to claim me like that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t see you stopping me.”

You glared. “I was about to.”

You both knew that was a lie.

His smirk said it all.

He stepped closer, closing the space like it didn’t exist—until you could feel the heat of him again.

“So do it now,” he said softly, voice like smoke. “Tell me to stop.”

You stared up at him, fury and something else flickering behind your eyes.

“God, you’re insufferable,” you muttered, fists clenched. “You can—”

But the rest never came.

Because the next second, his mouth was on yours—hot, demanding, claiming.

It was months—no, years—of tension, weeks of silence, and one steamy photoshoot slamming into you like gravity. He kissed you like he’d been waiting—like he’d been starving—and you answered without hesitation, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket as your back hit the wall.

He tasted like champagne and fury. His mouth crashed against yours with months of tension behind it. His hands found your hips, your thigh, your waist—hoisting you up with barely a grunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair as he pressed you harder into the wall.

Your dress hitched up as one of his hands trailed dangerously high. His jacket slipped off his shoulders. The kiss deepened. Frantic. 

It was messy and heated. 

All the unspoken tension that had stretched between you for years—every boardroom standoff, every argument, every glare that lingered with too much heat—snapped in an instant, and now you were pouring it into each other like gasoline on a lit match.

If only the photographer could see you now.

“You’re impossible,” you gasped against his mouth, barely able to catch your breath between kisses.

“So are you,” he muttered, voice rough with want, dragging his mouth down the curve of your throat. “So damn impossible.”

Then he found it—your sweet spot—and latched on, sucking hard.

Your head tipped back against the wall with a quiet, broken whimper as pleasure bloomed hot and dizzy beneath your skin. Your nails scraped down his chest, dragging across fine fabric and hard muscle, just to ground yourself.

You were lost in it—In him, his mouth at your throat, your legs locked around his waist—when the door creaked open. 

Laughter spilled in.

“Oh—oh my God.”

Both of you froze.

And there they were: three socialites standing in the doorway with wide, sparkling eyes and champagne flutes frozen mid-air. One covered her mouth in dramatic glee. Another whipped out her phone. Behind them, of course, stood Dan, red-faced and horrified, looking like he wished the marble floor would swallow him whole.

Your legs were still locked around Bruce’s waist.

His hands were still on you—one gripping your thigh, the other splayed possessively against your lower back, as if even now, he had no intention of letting go.

Your lipstick was halfway to nonexistent, the rest smeared across his mouth.

And then there was the mark.

The very visible, unmistakable claim he’d left on your neck—dark, blooming, and already turning heads.

There was no hiding what you two were doing.

The girls giggled like it was the juiciest scandal they’d ever seen and pulled the door shut behind them, their laughter echoing off marble.

You exhaled sharply, head thudding back against the wall.

Bruce’s forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard—still tangled in the heat of what almost happened, and the reality of what did.

You shoved lightly at his chest.

He let you.

Then his hands slid to your waist, steadying you as he helped you down. His hands didn’t linger.

He fixed your hem without being asked, then straightened his jacket.

Then Bruce cleared his throat and brushed a thumb along your cheekbone. “So… dinner?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Just turned, reaching down to grab your fallen clutch. You swiped your thumb across your smeared lipstick, and headed for the door.

At the threshold, you paused.

“Pick me up at eight,” you said, trying—and failing—to hide the twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Saturday.”

Then you turned and walked out, heels clicking like a gavel against the marble floor.

Behind you, The Bruce Wayne stood grinning like he’d just closed the biggest deal of his life.

And maybe… he had.

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Tag List: @jeudieohvjdjtg

[another-lost-mc]

Welcome Home: When MC returns from the past.

Featuring: The Demon Brothers x gn!Reader

SFW // Content: Bittersweet angst with a happy ending. It's implied that MC has been gone for a significant amount of time and that the demon brothers spiraled after MC disappeared. Includes mentions of unhealthy coping mechanisms including: drinking; implied self-isolation, depression; destructive or violent behaviour; mention of blood/injuries; mentions of Lesson 16 events. 6.9k words.

Read The Worst Goodbye (part one) here.

LUCIFER

Lucifer glances at the clock on his desk and sighs wearily, rubbing the heel of his palms against his eyes.

He already knows it’s going to be another long night of forcing himself to focus on filling out paperwork, on preparing student council memos and the countless other tasks he’s taken upon himself since you disappeared.

A cursed record plays quietly and the fire in the hearth crackles each time a log shifts or splinters. 

A nearly-empty glass of Demonus leaves a rim of condensation on the dark wood desk. He used to keep track of the days that have passed in your absence, but now he counts the empty bottles of that bittersweet amber drink instead.

It’s not only his own vices that weigh heavily on his mind; his brothers aren’t faring any better without you. Their behaviour swings wildly from bored indifference to reckless abandon. He’s not sure what’s worse: forcing them from their rooms when some of them refuse to go to class or work (or eat and bathe or shower), or dealing with their chaos when they decide to replace grief and misery with the wicked temptations and misdeeds of their sins.

You would be disappointed in them, he thinks. You would be disappointed in them all.

But what else can they possibly do while they wait for some glimmer of hope that you’ll come home again?

He remembers the tense conversation he had with Diavolo about your situation after you disappeared with barely a hint of warning. All he had were Solomon’s vague assurances of your eventual return to comfort him.

Lucifer listened to Diavolo’s insufficient apologies and condolences, but he couldn’t help but glance at Barbatos whose sharp gaze was at odds with the neutral expression on his face. He wondered how much the butler knew about your misfortune, and he’s wondered since then if he should’ve fought harder to force him to bring you back from wherever you were.

Now he passes his time with busywork because he has no one to remind him not to work. He drinks too much to dull the pain in his head and his heart. He sleeps on the couch in his office, or sometimes he slumps on his desk when exhaustion consumes him, because it’s better than lying in his large, empty bed alone.

It shouldn’t have surprised Lucifer that Cerberus eventually realized you were gone too. He went to the family tomb one evening, startled awake by three mournful howls that shook the foundations of the house. He used the bit of magic that gave Cerberus a manageable house-friendly size and without warning, the dog ran past him up the stairs. When Lucifer found him again, the three-headed dog was whining pitifully and pawing at your bedroom door. 

Lucifer hadn’t entered your room since you left, but he had to prove that you weren’t there. That didn’t stop his hound from searching the rest of the house before returning to Lucifer’s side, ears drooping and each head whining in confusion as they bumped against his legs.

Cerberus has barely left his side since, trailing after him and sleeping in front of the fire while Lucifer’s pen scratches quietly across the papers on his desk.

Lucifer contemplates giving up on his work for the night and resting on the sofa, but he frowns when Cerberus stands up suddenly and trots across the room. The door must not have been closed tight because he nudges the door open with one of his snouts. All three heads tilt curiously and he sniffs noisily. Lucifer rises from his chair with a curse when the hound bolts out of the room, howling as he runs out of the library and into the dark hallway past.

Lucifer’s steps are slow and clumsy at first as he shakes off his desperate need for sleep, but he needs to catch the noisy creature first. The last thing he wants to deal with right now is his brothers waking up in the middle of the night in foul moods and causing even more of a ruckus.

The dog’s strange howling stops somewhere near the front of the house, and Lucifer freezes when he turns the corner just in time to see Cerberus knock someone to the floor.

You.

He knocked you to the floor so each of his heads could yip excitedly and lick at your face. When you laugh and try to push the animal away, Cerberus plops down on your legs and seems content to keep you trapped there.

Lucifer, staring wide-eyed and speechless, takes a hesitant step, and then another, before breaking into a run.

It’s not long after that when each of his brothers each stumble drowsily into the hallway, grumbling and snarling and glaring because of the loud disturbance that woke them from their sleep.

Their tempers die down and it's utter chaos when they process the sight in front of them: Lucifer chuckling while you hold each other in the middle of the hallway floor near your bedroom, the Avatar of Pride wearing a rare smile and with even rarer tears shining in his eyes, and Cerberus panting happily nearby as if he was the one who brought you home for his grumpy master to find.

MAMMON

Mammon spins in a slow circle where he dangles from the dining room ceiling. The rope binding his hands behind his back doesn't budge no matter how hard he tries to rip it apart and set himself free.

"Yo, someone get me down from here, will ya? All this spinning's makin' me dizzy!"

But he knows it's useless. None of his brothers will test Lucifer's short fuse by setting Mammon free, and there aren't any brave humans around to help him anymore.

"It wasn't even that bad. I swear I was gonna return it..." Mammon grumbles to himself. So what if he's gotten a little reckless lately? He's no worse than his brothers are, but that arrogant prat Lucifer doesn't tie them up like this.

He braces himself for a long, boring day, spinning for hell knows how long, until Lucifer remembers to set him free.

"Oh no. Mammon. What did you do to upset him this time?"

His body jerks when he hears—thinks he hears a familiar voice. He recognizes the silhouette of the shadow that stands in the doorway briefly before stepping towards him, but he shakes his head like it’ll make the illusion fade away.

That's gotta be his imagination, right?

"You son of a—this is a cheap shot, even for you," Mammon snarls, cursing Lucifer for teasing him with an illusion of all things. Why else would you suddenly appear before him like a dream - or a nightmare - except to taunt him?

Isn't suffering without you punishment enough?

“Here, let me help you…” The voice is quieter now, but close. Gentle hands tug uselessly at the cursed rope holding him in place and he clenches his eyes shut tight and reminds himself that you’re not here.

But then he recognizes the sound of a tongue clicking in frustration, the barely-audible murmurs about Lucifer needing to loosen up, and he crumples in a heap on the floor when a spell he doesn’t recognize causes the ropes to vanish without a trace.

He bumps into someone’s legs when he rolls over, but he doesn’t get up. He throws an arm over his eyes instead.

It's not you, it's not you, it's not you—

But he grunts when a heavy weight suddenly plops down on top of him and he can’t help but breathe deep when a familiar scent tickles his nose. It makes him shiver, gives him hope, and he whimpers.

You nudge his arm aside so you can cup his cheeks in your palms and force him to look at you. Your thumbs swipe away the tears that slip from the corner of his eyes; you're not sure if the sound that rips from his throat is a sob or a laugh.

He stares at you for a long time before he speaks again, and for the first time in ages, he feels something other than pain.

"Don't you dare think of leavin' me behind the next time you decide to disappear like that," he threatens. There's no heat in his voice, only slow acceptance and relief that you're finally back where you belong—with him.

He crushes you against his chest in a tight hug while you whisper apologies into the crook of his neck, and you stay that way - curled together in the middle of the dining room floor - until the others find you later.

LEVIATHAN

Thump-thump-thump.

Levi's TV across the room drones on quietly, a random anime DVD playing on repeat for the dozenth time, but he doesn't pay attention to it.

Thump-thump-thump.

Levi's computer pings faintly, barely audible over the hum of Henry's aquarium. He hasn't sat at his desk in ages, he hasn't logged in for any of his gaming events or guild raids and he stopped keeping track of what his favourite idols are up to. Notifications on his social media accounts and emails are ignored and left unread.

Thump-thump-thump.

His D.D.D. vibrates somewhere in the tangled mess of blankets and pillows underneath him but he ignores that too. It's probably Lucifer reminding him that he needs to go to class sometime this week.

Unlike his brothers, Levi's not going to pretend he's fine.

He hasn't been fine for a long time.

Thump-thump-

A knock on his door startles him and his tail stops thrumming against the side of his porcelain tub. He pokes his head out from the nest of blankets he buried himself in and glares at the door across the room. The orange of his irises flare in a menacing glow from underneath the hood pulled over his head, the drawstrings chewed and frayed ages ago.

Everyone knows not to bother him. It was a very simple request.

Are they stupid?

He pulls himself out of the tub with his teeth bared. Maybe a little scuffle with one of his nosy siblings will make him feel better—will make him feel something.

He yanks the door open but freezes when he recognizes you, standing in front of him as if you didn't vanish from his life without a trace. Your knuckles are raised like you were about to knock again, and you rock back and forth on your heels as you lower your hand in embarrassment.

Levi's mouth flaps open and shut, but before you can say anything, he lets out a high-pitched squeak and slams the door shut in your face.

That's not the worst reaction you imagined, so you consider it a win.

You press your ear against the door. There's shuffling inside his room, the faint sounds of something hitting the sides of his tub. You knock again softly to warn him before you push the door open and let yourself inside.

Aside from the glow from the aquarium, his room is dark and suffocating. You step gingerly over the piles of books and movies strewn haphazardly across the floor; he never used to be so careless with his collections. An empty food wrapper crinkles under your foot and you hope he hasn't been surviving only on his private stash of imported candy.

There's a familiar lumpy shape laying across the bottom of the tub when you peer over the edge. His sniffles are muffled by the blankets and pillows he's hiding under. The only part of him you can see is his tail that dangles limply over the side.

You sit down next to his tail, careful not to touch it in case he doesn't want you to. It was always a sensitive part of himself and he didn't like others touching it so freely; you're not sure he'll grant you that privilege again anytime soon.

"Levi?"

His tail twitches at the sound of your voice. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes peer out from a gap in his little hideaway. There's a lot of emotion swirling in the gaze that narrows at you suspiciously: pain, confusion, anger—all tempered with the tiniest bit of hope.

You lean forward and press your hand against him where you think the curve of his shoulder is. You're gentle enough that he can ignore it or shake you off if he wants. His body deflates under your hesitant touch like he finally let go of the breath he's been holding for so long. He blinks at you, eyes widening as he dares himself to believe you're actually there. More of his face peeks out at you when he slowly peels the blanket away.

"I'm back." The words croak out of you, and your voice is watery like the tears that sting your eyes. His only response is a wounded noise he makes at the back of his throat. You recognize it instantly—you made sounds just like it when you were first torn away from here. Away from him.

You know you have so much to explain and apologize for, and you don't even know where to start, but before you can say anything else, his tail coils around your wrist. You tumble forward when he pulls you down into the tub with him. His arms and legs and tail curl themselves around you, and if you didn't miss him as much as you did, you might complain about how uncomfortable it is.

He mumbles apologies into your chest because he was convinced that whatever happened to you was his fault somehow.

You spend a long time trying to reassure him it wasn't his fault at all.

SATAN

As soon as you get your bearings, stumbling in your room where the portal suddenly dropped you, you want to see Satan. You need to see him.

You love him. You missed him. You worried about him, and you worried for him. He might not always show his rage or act on his violent impulses with you anymore, but you can only imagine what he must've felt when you disappeared.

You saw what he was like before—young, lost, bewildered and so unspeakably angry—and you need to see for yourself what's happened since your untimely absence.

It's disorienting trying to make your way out of your bedroom. It's dark and a bit dusty, and the furniture isn't quite where you left it. You bump your knee and trip more than once making your way to the door. The knob sticks as if it hasn't been opened in ages.

Part of you pushes down the sting that maybe the brothers abandoned your room completely and tried to pretend you didn't exist since you’ve been gone.

(If you could see better in the near darkness, you'd know that most of your bookshelves and drawers are almost empty, picked clean by each of the siblings who took your belongings to keep in their rooms instead.)

Nothing can prepare you for what you find when you head up the stairs to the second floor and stop in front of Satan’s door, or what's left of it. There's giant gashes in the wood and you're careful not to scratch your arm on the sharp splinters where claws (or perhaps his tail) broke through it.

You used to tease Satan about the stacks of books he kept on the floor, organized chaos to anyone but him because he could tell you exactly where each and every book was kept. There's no wobbly piles of books on the floor to stumble into now. Broken book spines and torn pages litter the ground beneath your feet, and you can feel the crunch of glass that you assume are the remains of his old lanterns. Even his bed is barely recognizable—the mattress is ripped to shreds and the frame is bent and disjointed.

His bedroom is the embodiment of the fury deep inside him when he realized you were gone. Missing. Taken. And for all his power and his intelligence and wit, even he couldn't find a way to bring you back.

It wasn't your fault either, but faced with the evidence of his misery, you can't help but feel guilty.

You leave his room and in your daze, your feet lead you to the library next. There's a small part of you that fears Satan might've laid waste to another precious room in the house, but there's a flickering light underneath the doorway and you're hopeful it might be intact after all.

Like your room, the library's not quite the same as it was before. The shelves aren't as orderly, as if whoever's been reading the books and ancient tomes couldn't be bothered to put them back properly. There's a small stack of dishes piled on the table near the sofa—a strange sight because everyone knows it bothers Satan if they eat or drink in here. He hated the idea of spills or greasy fingerprints ruining the books by accident. Next to the sofa, a pile of books catches your eye because they're yours, taken from the bookshelves in your room. The spines are creased as if they've been read over and over again, acting as a poor replacement for your company.

There's a soft groan and you suddenly notice the figure laid back on the sofa. A familiar tuft of Satan's blonde hair rests on your pillow and your blanket spills over his legs and waist and onto the floor. The library is his temporary room, the sofa a makeshift bed where he keeps reminders of you close by, and he breathes deeply while he sleeps. His brow is creased as if he's unhappy even in his dreams.

You take a step forward and debate whether you should wake him up or not when the air shifts around you.

He moves faster than you can track with your eyes, launching himself off the couch and pinning you to the floor before you can even stutter out his name. His emerald gaze flickers with fiery rage, his hot breath fanning across your face, and his chest rumbles with a deep, predatory warning. His tail rises menacingly behind him and your throat runs dry at the very real threat hovering over you.

"S-Satan..."

It's almost comical, the way his eyes widen with recognition when you stutter out his name. He drinks in your appearance and by the time he scrambles off you and his demon form is gone. When he was confident in his anger moments ago, now he hesitates when he reaches out to you. He's not sure if you're really there or simply a mirage, the remnants of a dream he wishes he didn't have to wake up from.

As soon as you open your arms to him, he's in your embrace and nearly topples you both over in his haste to be close to you. His hands smooth up your arms and he cradles your jaw, tilting your head slowly as he checks for any sign of injury. He bumps his nose against yours when he's satisfied that you're unharmed, whether by his own hand or from someone else's, and he smiles a bit sheepishly when you do.

"I'm sorry I scared you."

"I'm sorry I left you."

He seems content holding you on the library floor, nuzzling against your temple and inhaling the familiar scent of your skin. It's such a simple thing, but he enjoys it.

He hasn't felt this relaxed in ages.

"I saw your room." You're not sure why you blurt that out of all the things you could talk about instead. "I went there first to find you."

He clears his throat and turns away as pink dusts his cheeks. "Ah, well...I might've gone overboard." He's quiet for a moment before he looks at you, feigning a look of innocence that poorly masks the amusement underneath. "If I told you it was Lucifer's fault, would you believe me?"

Laughter bubbles out of you and he chuckles too. "Not a chance! But I'll help you no matter whose fault it was. There's nothing we can't fix together, right?"

"I'd like that," he murmurs against your cheek. 

ASMODEUS

Asmo was heading to the kitchen when he crashed into someone coming out of your bedroom. His arms flailed wildly at his sides while he tried to keep his balance and stop himself from toppling over. He ran his fingers through the curtain of hair that fell into his eyes, and the venomous anger pouring from his mouth came to a screeching halt when he realized the person he bumped into was you.

Your eyes were wide with shock, but you couldn't decide what surprised you more: colliding with your beloved demon after so many dreary days forced apart, or the anger that poured from him in waves.

"I'm back," you explained dumbly. Obviously. But he blinked his eyes rapidly like he wouldn't believe it.

"How?! I mean, when did you—?"

Whatever he was going to say next caught in his throat as his eyes flitted over your appearance. His gaze was critical, honing in on the smallest little details, the things that are different from the way you looked when he last saw you. Something about your hands gets his attention, and he holds them both gently in his palms.

"Oh, hon, who's been helping you with your nails? The polish is chipped."

His mood shifts so rapidly that it gives you whiplash, and you glance down at your fingers. Maybe it has been a few days, and sure, they might look a little worse for wear, but you're baffled that he noticed that of all things.

"Well, technically, you've been doing them for me." You smile gently at the joke because his past self was just as attentive to your needs and loved taking care of you in the simplest ways.

It might be the wrong thing to admit out loud, though. The guarded look Asmo gives you is so cold, so detached that the amusement fades from your expression.

"The least I can do is help clean these up for you now that you're back, hmm?" His voice is loud and a bit shrill, cracking on some of the words. He spins on his heel and tugs on your hand as he heads towards the staircase.

He doesn't notice - or maybe he just doesn't care - that the commotion reached the dining room. His brothers stumble into the hallway and you can't make out anything they're saying as they all rush towards you and try to talk over each other.

A terrifying growl rips through the hallway and startles them all into silence. it makes your skin crawl because you know the sound came from Asmo. His brothers don't seem impressed by him attempting to keep you to himself when you've just returned, but his aura crackles with something menacing and even Lucifer thinks twice about trying to stop him.

"We'll talk to you after you've had a moment to catch up in private," he suggests loudly. Asmo huffs in annoyance but his pace doesn't falter. He holds your hand tightly in his grip and you have little choice but to follow him up the steps towards his room. You shoot Lucifer and his brothers an apologetic glance before they disappear from view.

You're nearly at the top of the steps when a flurry of movement on the ground startles you. Familiar black shapes weave between your legs and snap teasingly at your ankles. You curl against Asmo's back with a nervous little yelp.

"They won't hurt you, you know that," he reminds you with a coo, and there's a gentle cadence to his voice that reminds you so much of the demon you missed all this time. He winks at you over his shoulder before he looks down at the scorpion familiars skittering on the floor, each of them radiating the faint pink glow of his power. "They'll make sure my brothers don't bother us."

As soon as Asmo ushers you into his room, he steers you gently towards his bed. The smile curling his lips looks strained. "Wait for a moment, darling, I'm going to—"

You reach for the sleeve of his dressing gown and stop him from leaving to do whatever he had planned. "Asmo, wait." You pat the bed. "I don't care about that right now. My nails can wait until later."

He bites his lip and his eyes are glassy as they fill with tears. He sniffles a little under his breath and wipes his face with his sleeve. "But I'm the one who's supposed to take care of you, not—" he looks away as his cheeks turn splotchy. "It's not fair that he was there for you when you belong here with me." He bites his bottom lip when it starts to quiver and he chokes out a sob. "I missed you so much."

You glance around his bedroom and his strange behaviour starts to make sense when you notice all the small things he's changed while you've been gone.

His vanity and closets are cluttered and not organized flawlessly like usual.

Your eyes pause on a strange, heart-shaped stain on his vanity mirror that you’re too nervous to ask about right now.

(In a moment of frustration, he smashed his fist into the glass the first night you disappeared. He repaired it with magic but smears of blood remained even when the cracks in the mirror vanished. He drew the little heart with his fingertip while he whispered your name like he thought it might summon you back to him, and he cried when it didn’t.)

His bed smells like the fragrance you normally wear, something you brought with you from the human world and he claimed he didn't like very much.

He removed his pillow cases and slipped some of your shirts over his pillows instead.

You wonder how you didn't realize sooner that the dressing gown he's wearing is yours, one of many gifts he gave you after you started dating.

His room is filled with your belongings, things he clung desperately to while he hoped and begged for you to come back to him.

"I think tonight we should take care of each other then, don't you?"

You hold your hand out to him, and it only takes a moment for him to stumble over to the bed. He gathers you in his arms and holds you so tightly that it's hard to breathe, like he's scared to let you go. You tangle your fingers in his clothes because you're just as needy as he is.

He whimpers your name against your neck,  interspersed with little kisses that are featherlight but still enough to make your head spin; your tears roll down your cheeks and mix with his, and they're wet and salty on his lips. He murmurs an inaudible mantra as he drags his mouth over your jaw so he can kiss you properly, and it leaves you both breathless.

—I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you—

The others aren't surprised at all when you and Asmo lock yourselves away in his room 'til morning. 

BEELZEBUB

The joy of returning home turns bitter in your heart when you realize Beel isn't there. His brothers are in the dining room and hear the noise when the portal unceremoniously drops you in the middle of your bedroom floor. They hear a thump and a soft oof! and by the time they scramble out of their seats and into the hall, you're already stumbling through the door and rubbing the soreness from your back.

The weight of six demons attempting to hug you drags you back down to the floor, but this time you're cushioned in someone's lap and suddenly the floor doesn't seem all that bad. Even though you're being squeezed within an inch of your life and they're all talking (and crying and stuttering) over each other, their voices are similar yet so different from the ones you heard in the past, you can't bring yourself to care.

By the time they quiet down to give you a chance to get a word in, you're hugged and warmed and loved like you haven't been in a long time.

The only thing that's bittersweet about your long-awaited reunion is Beel's absence.

"He's at Fangol practice," Belphie says. His voice is slightly muffled since he can't seem to stop nuzzling your shoulder. "He should be home soon."

Asmo's fingers are already tapping quickly across his D.D.D. "I tried calling already but he didn't answer. He'll want to know you're back."

"He might not see the message in the middle of practice," Lucifer warns him from somewhere at your back. "Perhaps one of us should go get him?"

There's a tinkling ping not long after and Asmo waves his phone in your face, but you can't possibly read it.

"Ha! And you thought it would be a waste of time, hmm? Well, I'll have you know that Beel said...'ok'? Huh." Asmo winces when disappointment flickers across your face at Beel's lack-of response. "I'm sure he's excited to see you! You know he's not very fond of texting."

"I think I'll wait for him in his room." The brothers slowly detangle themselves from you and return to the dining room to give you some privacy. They might not like it, but they know that something happened between you and Beel before you disappeared.

You turn around at the sound of footsteps jogging behind you and see Belphie trying to catch up. "I didn't want to say anything with the others around," he says quietly, "but you don't have anything to worry about. I already know he's rushing home to see you even if he didn't say he was."

"How can you be so sure?" You sniffle quietly and stare at your feet. "We had the worst fight before I—before what happened, and he was so angry."

Belphie glances at you over his shoulder as he pushes open the door to the bedroom he shares with his twin. “Trust me when I say that he’s not angry anymore, alright?”

You step into the room behind Belphie and instantly glance at the side of the room where Beel sleeps. You didn’t realize that your bed was stripped before but your pillows and blankets ended up on his bed. There are framed photos of you and Beel on his bedside table, and the sign you made for his last Fangol game - the one you missed when you disappeared - is hanging on the wall. 

“I can’t believe he kept that,” you whisper. The bright, sparkly paint spells out Beel’s name and jersey number in large, bubbly writing. The edges of the poster board are frayed and bent, but it’s obvious he tried to preserve it.

Maybe he missed you as much as you missed him after all.

Thundering steps outside catch your attention and you turn around in time to see Beel lean against the doorway like he sprinted home.

There are bags from Hell’s Kitchen hanging from Beel’s arm but Belphie hops off his bed and plucks the bags from his brother with a hum. “I’ll put these in the kitchen for later.” He pauses and gives his brother a pointed look, nodding not-too-discreetly in your direction, before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

You’re not sure how long you stare at each other. His eyes take greedily over your face and body and he frowns like he’s scrutinizing your appearance, trying to see how—if—you’ve changed, searching out any potential injuries you might be hiding and how he can punish those responsible.

Likewise, you take in his field-worn appearance, the grass stains and dirt that clings to his uniform and skin. His hair is matted down and he smells strongly of evening dew and sweat. 

He’s filthy and grimy but you’ve never wanted him more in your life.

He grunts when you nearly launch yourself into his arms. Maybe later he’ll feel guilty about ruining your clothes with mud from the Fangol pitch, but when he breathes in deep and soaks in the familiar scent of your skin, all those insignificant problems melt away.

“I brought dinner for us,” he murmurs quietly as his cheek nuzzles against you. “If you don’t mind putting up with seeing me like this a little bit longer, I’d like to eat with you before I shower.” His chapped lips brush over your brow. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” You cup his cheek and offer him a bright and teary-eyed smile. “And you know what? I think I’m starving.”

It’s not long after that containers of your favorite takeout are spread out on the dining room table. The others have vanished, probably at Belphie’s insistence, and you’re grateful to have this quiet time together.

If you end up in his lap while he practically feeds you, sneaking little tastes for himself with lingering kisses he presses gently to your mouth, that’s no one else’s business but yours and his.

BELPHEGOR

Belphie can't remember the last time he's gone this long without a proper night's sleep. When his brothers have trouble sleeping, plagued by haunted memories and their most insidious fears, he can put their minds at ease.

He tells himself it's a selfish gesture, because if his brothers' dreams are too vivid or too disturbing or too terrible for him to ignore, he can't sleep either.

The truth is, he doesn't want them to suffer.

Unfortunately, the Avatar of Sloth has no such saviour to save him from his own bad dreams. He can't call them nightmares because that's not what they are. They're fragments of memory and echoes of his deepest desires that plague him every time he closes his eyes.

More often than not, his brothers’ dreams are haunted by the ghost of you that disappeared without a trace. Every night when someone dreams of you, Belphie dreams of you too.

It reminds him of the cold, slippery sensation the night that your consciousness was dragged away into the unknown. The place in his dreamscape where your little pond of dreams and nightmares used to be is a black void in his subconscious, a gaping wound in his mind that rivals the empty spot in his bed where you used to sleep. Your warmth is gone and it leaves his sheets and heart bitter-cold.

Today, Belphie wakes up from a rowdy disturbance coming from somewhere else in the house.

His brothers can be so loud sometimes.

The voices downstairs that wake him quiet into an excited hush when they notice his arrival.

"Belphie!" Asmo cries happily when he reaches the bottom of the attic stairs and steps out into the hallway. "We were about to come wake you—look who's finally come back to us!"

Whatever his brother yammers on about next is drowned out by the static ringing in his ears; Belphie stares at the awkward group hug on the floor in front of him and has no idea what to say.

You looked a little embarrassed sitting in Lucifer's lap while Mammon clings to one arm and Levi holds the other. Your eyes are bright and watery with tears and a wobbly smile tugging at the corner of your lips when you realize he was there.

A trembling hand reaches out to him, uncertain but inviting. A hopeful gesture.

Countless times, Belphie imagined what he might do or say if–when–you finally came home. He was ready to spill his guts at your feet and beg you not to leave him like that ever again. He would apologize over and over again for all the terrible things he’s said and done before because he couldn't help thinking this was somehow his fault.

For reasons he can’t explain, unexplainable anger rises inside him and smothers the impulse to celebrate your return. The desperate urge to crawl into your lap and cling to you fizzles into nothing the longer he stares at you.

You know how badly he sleeps when you're not cuddled in bed next to him. It’s your fault he feels so awful, isn’t it?

He can only imagine what he looks like now, with his bedhead hair and pouty lips and the flaky crust of dried tears still clinging to the corners of his eyes. He rubs his face to wipe away the remnants with sleep, but he feels the familiar sting of hot tears building up instead.

Your love has made a terrible mess of him, and he’s not ready for this after all.

Someone shouts after him when he turns on his heel and heads back up the attic stairs without a word. He keeps walking and ignores the soft, wounded noise behind him; his brothers were quick to try and comfort you where he cannot.

"Let's give him a bit of space," someone suggests quietly. 

Slamming the attic door doesn’t feel as satisfying as Belphie hoped it would. He collapses back onto the bed and throws the blanket over his head. He tosses and turns and by the time he falls into another restless sleep, he still can't decide whether he's relieved or devastated that you didn't follow him.

It's deep in the twilight hours when Belphie senses a familiar dip of the mattress when someone slips into bed beside him. He tries to stay submerged in the weightless realm of sleep, but the sudden warmth of a hand resting hesitantly on his back ruins that plan.

"Isn't there someone else you can bother?" he grumbles into the pillow. He fell asleep face down and he stubbornly refuses to look at you. “Go away.”

"I’m sorry.” A heavy pause. “I couldn't sleep." Your voice is quiet but it shakes with something vulnerable that catches Belphie's attention.

With an indignant huff, he turns his head and pries an eye open and glances your way. The attic is shrouded in darkness but he can still see the downturned frown of your lips. When he rolls onto his side and leans closer, he looks past the watery film that makes your eyes shimmer and notices the dark shadows underneath them that he didn’t notice before.

Exhaustion radiates off you and he can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since you had a proper night’s sleep too.

He doesn’t ask about the things you did while you were gone or the things you saw. He remembers well enough what his own heart was like back then in that murky stretch of time when he clung to rage and hatred to soothe his own despair.

He doesn’t ask if you still have bad dreams about death or monsters that wear his face and sneer as you struggle against the bruising grip around your throat. He feels guilty that maybe he wasn’t there to save you from the version of himself that lurks in your memory.

The stiffness in his bones deflates as the chill from the attic subsides, replaced by the warmth of your body lying close to his. He places his hand tentatively on your waist and when you don’t flinch or move away, he urges you closer.

"I can help if you want," he offers hesitantly, a feeble apology to start to make amends.

But you understand the meaning behind the gesture for what it is: a peace offering for now until you can talk properly later. Considering his reaction earlier, this is more than you could've hoped for.

“I was scared to ask for help at first," you admit quietly when you rest your ear over his heart and sigh as the soft, familiar rhythm thumps deep in his chest. “You were angry earlier and I didn’t want to upset you even more if you weren’t ready to see me yet.”

Belphie ducks his head low and rubs your back as he buries his nose in the crook of your neck. The vibration of his noncommittal hum tickles your skin. “I’ll help you sleep tonight so you can make it up to me tomorrow.”

Tomorrow and the day after that, and the day after that–

Convinced that he isn’t going to push you away and judging the coy grip of his tail that’s suddenly found itself wrapped around one of your legs, you let yourself lean against him fully with a long, weary sigh. It doesn't take long for your eyes to slip closed or for your breathing to sync with his as he lulls you gently into a peaceful state of rest.

Belphie feels his eyes grow heavy once he’s certain that you’re dreaming peacefully. He does sleep better when you’re here, after all. He’s held you in his arms like this before, far too many times for him to count, but it feels different than he remembers.

Has holding you like this always felt this satisfying, or did he take for granted all those times he dragged you to bed and assumed you'd still be there when he woke up?

He won’t make that mistake again.

"I missed this, you know," he whispers against the soft spot on your throat where your heart beat is strongest, pressing lazy kisses against your skin. He closes his eyes with a satisfied smile even though you don’t respond; the way your body melts against his is proof enough that you missed him too.

Read More: Obey Me Masterlist

[riddlemelater]

Ruin Me - T.N

masterlist | nav

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

summary: Theo's struggling with the weight of his duty, lucky for him, you aren't ready to give up on him— No matter what he's done.

wordcount: 4.6k

warnings: Death Eater!Theo X fem!reader, mentions of blood/murder, alcohol use, smut, p in v, slight nipple play if you squint, mild pain kink, rough sex, emotional repression, implied trauma/war, established relationship.

a/n: My humblest apologies for not updating my Mattheo fic. I’ve just lost a very dear family member this week, and I'm struggling with the motivation to write. In the meantime, please accept this Theo draft that’s been gathering dust for months. Take care of yourselves, lovelies <3

The first indication that all was not well was the front door slamming shut with a resounding thud. One that echoed through the dark halls of his family's property and lingered in the air like a bad smell. The sheer force of it had the supporting walls trembling from the impact as it settled into place, as though it had shaken the very foundations on which the manor was built.

Then, it was the heavy drag of dragon-skin boots across the hardwood floors, careless and scuffing at every surface that dared get in their way. Loud, thudding footsteps that resounded through the corridors, causing you to bristle with anticipation. No doubt that Theo was trailing dirt, blood, and Merlin knows what else across the fitted carpets and polished halls. Even worse, you doubted he cared at all, too focused on whatever he'd been cajoled into doing tonight.

He often got like this after a mission, as if he’d lost all ability to think. His usual dry humour and composure replaced by a sort of tunnel vision focus, bordering on obsession. Whenever Theo was like this, he had no regard for anyone or anything— he was volatile, cold, unpredictable.

And there was nothing that could fix that. Not even you.

The poor elves would be appalled when they saw him, his blatant disregard for their strenuous upkeep of Nott Manor an unthinkable sin. You could picture them now, begrudgingly cleaning up the offending footprints while muttering sourly about the reckless heir they were bound to serve. You made a mental note to apologise profusely on his behalf in the morning, already thinking about what baked treats would best appease two scorned house-elves.

Before Theo’s return, all had been well - or, at least — as well as it could be when your boyfriend was in the presence of the Dark Lord.

The soft crackling of the fire in the far corner of the bedroom cast a flickering glow across the room, like the fleeting light of the setting sun on a summers evening. And as the flames burned out to embers you sat tight jawed, fidgety, and trying to distract yourself with one of the books that rested on Theo's bedside.

As one hand flicked through pages you weren't really reading, the other rested in the fur of the purring feline in your lap. The small creature, curled up and warm against your cool skin, soothed the restlessness you fought halfheartedly. You fell into a rhythm, stroking his fur in time with the gentle rise and fall of his tiny frame, biting at the dry skin of your bottom lip.

You hated when Theo was away.

He had been out for hours. So long in fact that you'd abandoned any hope of fulfilling your dinner plans, and instead settled into the plush - but empty - four poster bed. Armed with a book and the cat, who'd soon taken to sprawling out on Theo’s side of the mattress, and you waited apprehensively.

Time twisted in on itself — hours slipping by in a slow, aching crawl. You'd learned not to keep an eye on the clock nowadays, and so you continued to scratch behind the cat's ears, smiling as he purred every so often. You were almost envious of how ignorant the small animal was, sleeping soundly through the heavy thud of boots just down the hall, the footsteps heading to ruin what looked like a perfectly good nap wrapped up in Theo's expensive sheets.

Down the hall, the familiar sound of a cupboard opening, then a glass being firmly sat down on the table echoed through the corridors. Your mind's eye pictured Theo, reaching for one of the many bar cabinets, pouring a healthy glass of whiskey then dispersing of it in one, large gulp.

Not a good night, then. You thought absently and continued your pets, turning a page of the book propped up against the pillow, halfheartedly trying to feign interest. It was best not to pry on nights like this, he'd tell you in his own way once he was ready. Or maybe he wouldn't, and you'd just have to accept that there were some things best left unsaid. Some sins that were best left unconfessed.

You listened to the soft purr of the sleeping animal beside you and waited, anxious.

Eventually, Theo appeared—sullen, quiet. As expected, he said nothing, and so you said nothing either. You stole a glance at him and regretted it instantly: gaunt lines carved into his face, flecks of what you could only assume was blood scattered across his skin. The dark circles beneath his eyes had become a near-constant feature, and his hair stuck out in every direction, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for hours.

He looked so different now from the fourteen-year-old boy you'd fallen in love with. Back then, his dark circles were from staying up too late in the library, his dishevelled hair from falling asleep on his notes while he tried to practice a particularly difficult spell. Now his late nights were filled with fear, spurred on not by academic success, but by dark magic and a burning mark on his left forearm.

Through your thick lashes, you watched his robes fall unceremoniously from his body, piling in a discarded heap by the ottoman. He kicked them away from his feet, and his boots clattered against the floor a moment later, with the same careless disregard for where they landed. You said nothing, only watched the dull expression on his face— lifeless and miserable— and waited for him to speak.

Theo sighed and huffed as though something was weighing heavily on his mind, yet he didn't speak, only stripped down to his boxers and disappeared into the en-suite. The shower began to run and your eyes flitted up to meet the ajar door he'd just slid behind, tentatively listening to his movements until he settled underneath the stream of water.

Definitely not a good night.

Wordlessly, you rose from the bed and lifted his robes, dropping them into the washing basket without taking a look at them - you didn't want to know what, or who, was staining them. On nights like this, it was best not to ask because you’d never like the answer, and Theo would struggle to meet your gaze.

The water still ran in the bathroom, falling harshly against the tiled floor as Theo scrubbed at his skin with fervour, a ritual neither of you had entirely come to terms with. Your teeth bit at the dry skin of your lips, the air thick with tension, and you returned his boots to the shoe rack, murmuring a quick cleaning spell and hiding them from sight. As if hiding the evidence he'd ever left the house might help him forget.

Whether that was for your benefit or Theo’s was unclear.

In the bathroom, Theo was muttering, not loud enough for you to make out details, but enough that you were aware of it. Whatever had happened tonight was playing on his mind. You knew it was bad, but Theo had come home in one piece - and that? Well, that was good enough for you.

Was it selfish of you? Perhaps. But Theo was alive, and really, that's all that mattered.

In recent years, you'd seen how ruthless Voldemort could be, you'd watched when the lifeless body of Cedric Diggory had appeared before the student body, pale and lifeless, whilst his father wailed at his side. When Harry Potter had fought him in the Department of Mysteries, you’d all seen the news coverage. You could still picture the Daily Prophet's front page announcing his return, clear as day. And when things had begun to change at Hogwarts, you'd only held onto Theo tighter, promised that no matter what, you were there for him.

A promise you would honour to the grave.

Theo was no stranger to the cruelty of the Dark Lord. His mother’s death had marked him, twisted him into something darker even as a child, but it was his father’s loyalty to the cause that had nearly destroyed him. You still remember the look on his face when he received that letter in your sixth year—that letter.

It was December. You’d just finished your winter exams. Theo had decided to stay at Hogwarts over the break, just to be with you, to escape whatever darkness called to him. But that evening, as he sat beside you on the couch, his fingers trembling as he hesitated, something in him was cracked open. He’d been terrified to show you what he’d received in the morning post—a letter that wasn’t just words on parchment, but a death warrant. A promise. One that sealed his future as a servant of the Dark Lord.

The moment he handed it to you, his eyes wide, he looked to you as if you might be his salvation — or his undoing. But before you could say a word, before you could reach for him, he crumpled the letter back in his hand and whispered, "I have to go."

And Theo went home for Christmas that year.

It took him nearly twenty minutes to get clean enough that his hushed murmurs had fallen quiet, and another ten until the water finally shut off entirely. You weren’t sure what version of Theo you’d get.

Some nights he’d come in without a word, he’d shower and scrub at his skin— scrub at that mark until he felt better— then he’d collapse into bed beside you, wrap his arms around your waist and tug you close, whisper sweet nothings into your ear till you fell asleep tangled up together. You wouldn’t speak, but you’d burrow closer, let his tight grip squeeze the breath from your lungs if it meant he could rest easier.

“Still here, then." He said flatly, his tone laced with a bitter sharpness. You looked up at him cautiously, studying him. "Thought maybe you'd have finally grown a spine and left."

The towel around his waist dropped, and he tugged on a fresh shirt and clean boxer shorts, not glancing at you once.

So it was that version of Theo tonight.

You said nothing, your fingers still stroking the cat lying beside you. The small creature stirred a little, then sat up quickly as Theo scoffed. Its eyes narrowed as it stretched out, as if limbering up for an attack— the sweet thing had always preferred you, much to Theo’s amusement, and clung to your side whenever he had the chance. Your gaze flitted from the cat to Theo, concern etched into your features.

"Don't look at me like that. I don't want your pity." He spat, instinctively tucking his left arm from sight, pulling a jumper over his head a moment later. You knew he hated when you saw his mark.

The cat sprang off the bed and scuttled out the door quickly, Theo's words clearly agitating the small beast. You frowned, watching the end of his bushy tail slipping out of sight, leaving the two of you alone.

"You scared him." You murmured softly, your eyes lingering on the slightly ajar door. Then, as if you'd drifted off briefly, your head turned back towards Theo, taking in the sight of him as he dried his hair with the towel, his dark locks tousled and damp from the shower

"Theo baby, I-" You tried, voice tender and careful. Using that word— that name that was only ever his— hoping it might jolt him out of his spiral. Comfort him, ground him.

But he flinched like the word burned him.

"Don't."

It came out like a snarl, cutting through your hesitant words. So unlike your Theo, it was almost unrecognisable. He spun sharply, eyes wide. Wild.

"Don't fucking 'baby' me." His voice was low and cruel. Mocking.

You bristled, swallowing back the sting. Fighting every instinct to physically recoil from his words. He didn’t mean it. You knew that, even if it hurt to hear. Your nails dug into your palms, crescents pressing deep into skin. Every breath felt brittle, like it might shatter in your throat. You wanted to move—reach for him—but your limbs felt like they’d been filled with lead. If you could just get to him, take his hand, press kisses to his bruised knuckles and red skin, maybe he’d see. Maybe then he’d realise you were in this for keeps.

Maybe if you just—

"I killed a boy with eyes the same shade as yours tonight."

He didn’t look for your reaction — didn’t need to. He could feel it in the silence. He didn't need to see your wide eyes or parted lips to know. He just started to pace, hands dug into his hair and tugging angrily, as if he could tear the image of their lifeless faces from his mind if he pulled hard enough.

You swallowed the lump beginning to form, crawling across the bed till you were sat at the edge. Waiting for the right moment to interrupt, but he was talking now, and he needed to talk about it. You needed him to talk.

“A kid. Younger than me.” He muttered, not looking at you, just pacing angrily. As if he were at war with himself. "I didn't flinch."

“What kind of person doesn’t flinch?” He scoffed, a bitter, breathless sound that didn’t quite reach a laugh. “I looked him in the eyes. Held my wand steady as he begged. Do you know how easy it was?”

You couldn’t tear your eyes off him, uncontrollable tears welling up and threatening to spill. He stopped pacing for a moment, just long enough to look at you— and Merlin, there was something fractured in his stare. Like he wanted you to see him as a monster, that cruel snarl on his face as if he wanted you to look away in shame.

“Like breathing. That easy.” He snapped his fingers and you flinched, your whole body jerking like a puppet on a string.

Theo's chest heaved, as though the act had knocked the wind out of him. His shoulders collapsed inward, jaw slack, fingers twitching faintly like they hadn’t gotten the message that the moment had passed.

His eyes fluttered shut, as if he couldn't bear to even look at you. His tongue ran across the inside of his cheek, and he exhaled a bitter sigh, one that was loaded with self-loathing and spite. Your heart broke for him.

"Theo, baby. You had no choice." You murmured weakly, pleading. It wasn't enough, but what else could you say— I'm sorry your father signed you up for a war you didn't want to be a part of?

"I killed someone tonight. Do you even get that?" He snapped incredulously, taking a step closer to you. And it was like that flicker of softness from just a moment ago had vanished, replaced by the hardened composure that had been drilled into him.

Your lip trembled, mouth opening and closing, useless, as you tried to speak. Tears pricked in your eyes, blurring your vision as you stared back at him, speechless.

"Dead. Gone. Just like that. Do you really think you understand how I feel at all?"

He took another step toward you, less than a meter from the edge of the bed where you sat. The same bed that you'd held him in as he cried, sobbed till his voice died out about the things he was terrified to have to do. Things he could now do, as easily as breathing, apparently.

You shook your head in quiet defeat. He scoffed once more.

"Exactly. So don't sit here with your little book and your— your fucking cat and act like everything is fine."

His voice raised louder, crueller, and you forced yourself to look away and exhale shakily. Theo hadn't taken his eyes off you since his outburst; he just stood and watched, chest heaving up and down in ragged breaths.

"Theo..." You said softly, rising from the mattress and reaching out to cup his cheek, holding his face in your much smaller hand like he was made of glass. "You didn’t have a choice. It's not your fault."

He opened his mouth, another argument on the tip of his tongue, and your head shook gently. He blinked, as if he was about to ignore you, but then he pressed his lips together and his eyes softened.

"It's not your fault, baby." You said again, stronger this time. Less like you were trying to convince him, and more like you were telling the truth. Your thumb stroking over his cheek in tender, repetitive swipes. He didn't flinch under your touch, but he didn't lean into it either. Just stared down at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

"You can't forget it, I know." You soothed, "But you don't need to deal with it on your own either. You can talk to me."

Theo's head shook just slightly. "You don't know what you're saying." He swallowed, his familiar blue eyes staring down at you.

"Yes, I do."

He shook his head again, firmer. "I can't. I'll only hurt you. I'll destroy everything good in you just by being with you."

Your hand slid down his cheek, skimmed down past the tender skin of his neck, and paused as it reached his chest. You could feel the quick, uneven thrum of his heart, pulsing in his chest like a trapped bird.

"Then ruin me." You murmured.

It came out soft, but sure—like you meant it. Like it wasn’t some reckless offer made out of pity or panic, but a choice. A deliberate invitation to be broken, that you’d do anything if it meant that he wouldn’t have to break alone.

Theo froze. His chest stopped its ragged rise and fall. His eyes dropped to where your hand pressed flat against his chest, to the place where you could feel the wild, desperate flutter of his heart. And then he looked back at you.

Your breath hitched as he surged forward, lips pressing against your own in a bruising kiss that made you stagger back a step. He was unrelenting, however, and his strong hands only wrapped around you, pulling you back to him.

One hand tangled in your hair, messy and desperate, pressing your head closer to his and chasing your lips hungrily. The other rested on the small of your back, his fingers grasping at your clothes like you'd slip away otherwise.

You let your fingers slide up his chest, over the taut muscles of his shoulders, feeling the harsh beat of his heart under your fingertips, mirroring the frantic rhythm in your own chest.

The kiss was heated, raw, and filled with unspoken words. Theo's grip tightened, the tips of his fingers digging in enough that you winced, and a quiet groan fell from your lips. His breath was hot against your skin as he pulled away just enough to press his forehead to yours. His hand drifted to your face, cupping it like you were the most precious thing on earth.

His eyes searched yours — torn, conflicted, filled with a mixture of guilt and something deeper. His lips parted as if he was going to say something, but he didn't. Instead, he closed the space between you once more, his kiss rough. Stripped of all restraint and filled only with desire.

His hands roamed again, pulling at your clothes with a sense of urgency that matched the frantic pulse of your heartbeat. There was no hesitation in how he moved, only the fierce need to feel something other than the heaviness inside him. To feel you, real and tangible, here with him.

Your back hit the mattress before you could even register moving, and Theo was climbing on top of you in an instant, caging you in between his arms. His lips found yours quickly, pressing desperate kisses across your lips, nose brushing against yours as he moved.

It didn’t feel like his usual tender kisses. It felt like there was something more, as if he was pouring all of the hurt and anger that had boiled up inside him into the kiss, and you were all too eager to take it.

Theo growled low in his throat as he tore his mouth from yours, only to bury it in the soft curve of your neck. His teeth sank into your skin, rough and unrelenting, leaving behind an angry, pulsing bruise.

“Theo—” you gasped, fingers digging into his shoulder as a sharp ache bloomed beneath his bite. But he didn’t respond— didn’t even seem to hear you. He was lost, wholly consumed by the feel of your body, by the desperate need to drown in something that wasn’t blood or guilt.

Your spine arched instinctively, pressing closer as he ravaged your neck with hungry, possessive nips. His hands moved blindly, tugging at your clothes with a desperation that bordered on frantic— stripping you like he couldn’t bear even an inch of fabric between you.

“So fucking gorgeous…” he breathed against your skin, voice gravelly and low. His hand snaked down to grasp at your chest, kneading roughly at your tits.

Your head tilted back as a moan tore from your throat, and Theo groaned at the sound— low and wrecked— like it shattered something within him.

“Fuck— do that again,” he muttered, his mouth hot and desperate against your collarbone. His fingers grasping at your nipple and pinching, rolling it between his fingers.

You writhed underneath him, moaning softly, and Theo swore under his breath— something guttural and half-feral. Something that only made you want to moan louder, to give him that satisfaction.

“Drives me fucking mad…” he rasped, lips trailing down your chest. “You don’t even know.”

His mouth wrapped around your nipple without warning, sucking hard enough to make you jolt, his teeth grazing at the sensitive flesh just shy of too rough. His hand slipped between your thighs, forcing them apart with a bruising grip.

“All I think about—” he muttered into your skin, voice breaking. “All fucking day.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his own dark and glazed over with need. “You make it stop.” He breathed, pressing a soft kiss to your skin, “The only time I can breathe is when I’m inside you.”

You barely had time to process his words before his fingers slid underneath the waistband of your panties, dragging them down with a rough urgency that made your breath catch. He didn’t wait for your permission, pressing two fingers against your heat, swearing under his breath as he felt how wet you already were.

“Fuck,” he muttered as if it hurt, “you’re soaked for me— always are, aren’t you?”

Your hips bucked into his touch and his eyes snapped up to meet yours, tearing away from between your thighs as if it pained him to look away. “You love this, don’t you?” He growled, “Letting me ruin you like this.”

He pressed inside quickly, thick fingers filling you, and your cry only encouraged him to work quicker, pushing in and out of you with ease.

“That’s it,” Theo murmured, eyes mesmerised by the way his fingers disappeared inside of you. “Taking it so well, good girl.”

“T-Theo!” You gasped, eyes screwing shut as he continued his ministrations.

At the sound of your voice he smirked, dragging his thumb to your clit and drew small circles, working you open quickly. His mouth still panting against your throat, watching the way you writhed and moaned, “Gonna fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name.”

Your thighs trembled as he pumped his fingers into you, whispering filthy words of praise as you whimpered and writhed beneath him. Each thrust felt precise and punishing, his palm grinding against your clit in the most delicious way.

Theo’s mouth was everywhere— biting at your throat, licking over bruises he’d just made, his tongue catching on your pulse point like he needed to taste how alive you were beneath him. Like that alone was enough to keep him grounded.

“God,” he rasped, pulling his hand back to strip the rest of his clothes from his body, barely breaking contact with your sensitive skin. “Gonna lose my fucking mind.” He groaned.

Your legs parted instinctively as he adjusted, and he caught your thighs in his palms, humming approvingly as you opened yourself up to him. His cock was rock hard, the tip glistening with pre cum as he lined himself up, then paused, his eyes meeting yours.

“This what you wanted?” He asked roughly, unable to stop himself from pressing forward just slightly. “Say it. Tell me.” He urged.

“Yes,” you panted, “Theo, please—”

He didn’t let you finish.

He pushed in with a hard thrust, one that knocked the air from your lungs as he buried himself to the hilt in one desperate motion. Your walls clenching around him, causing his body to shudder above you and a strangled sound breaking in his throat.

“Fuck, baby. So tight.” He gritted out, head falling against your shoulder as he started to move. “So perfect for me.”

Every thrust was hard, deliberate— like if he buried himself deep enough he could fuck the memories out of his head. You could feel it in the way his hands gripped your body, the way his rhythm faltered every time you gasped his name.

Your back arched as he drove into you, unrelenting, each thrust dragging little gasps from your throat. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, wet and filthy and desperate, and the broken moans he drew from you only matched the obscene sounds.

“Fuck, you feel—” he choked out, voice raw with need, “—so fucking good. Can’t think— can’t fucking breathe.”

His fingers bruised your hips, dragging you back onto him as if he needed you closer. His mouth finding yours in a kiss that was all heat, and teeth, and breathless groans. You whimpered into his mouth, nails clawing at his back and he only hissed through his teeth, the pain spurring him on.

“Theo— fuck— Theo,” you gasped, head tipping back as your body began to tremble beneath him, your orgasm fast approaching.

He snapped his hips harder, faster, his thrusts turning punishing as he chased both your pleasure and his own oblivion. His face burried in your neck, breath ragged and uneven as he panted against your skin.

“Gonna cum,” he groaned, biting down hard on your shoulder. “Gonna come inside you— fuck— can’t stop—can’t—”

You cried out as your orgasm hit, clenching around him like a vice, your whole body seizing from the sheer force of it. Your orgasm triggered Theo’s and he tipped over the edge just after you. His thrusts faltered as he spilled into you with a low, guttural sound, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself, still clutching onto you tightly.

You were still catching your breath when his body finally stilled, the frantic pace giving way to a trembling stillness as he collapsed on top of you. His hands, once gripping onto your hips harder enough to bruise, loosened quickly— like he was suddenly now aware of how lost in the moment he had been.

His forehead dropped once more, pushing against your shoulder as his damp curls brushed against your skin and he exhaled shakily. For a long moment he didn’t move, just breathed, shallow, broken breaths against your collarbone.

“Shit— I’m sorry,” he mumbled, barely audible. “I didn’t mean to— fuck. I just… I didn’t know where else to put it.”

Your hand rose instinctively, fingers threading through his curls, massaging lightly.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you murmured against his hair, “You’re allowed to let it out.”

He hummed absently, and his arms tightened around you. Clutching on like you were the only thing keeping him afloat. “I love you so much.” He mumbled in an exhausted voice.

“I love you too, Theo.” You replied, and you squeezed him tighter. “Get some sleep now, baby.”

[sanakiras]

LIAR, LIAR!

PAIRING — kim mingyu x fem!reader

❝ AND THE DANCE FLOOR IS FILLING UP WITH BLOOD, BUT OH LORD, YOU’VE NEVER BEEN SO IN LOVE! ❞

WORD COUNT — 17k

SYNOPSIS — in a dramatic turn of events, a rich businessman is found dead in his lavish estate, and the authorities believe it was no accident. as the detectives dig deeper, they ultimately end up with two key suspects: you, the businessman’s very own daughter, and your sworn enemy, kim mingyu. as the time progresses, tensions rise and secrets spill — and the truth has the power to either bring you closer together or tear you apart.

TAGS — murder mystery, rich rivals to partners in crime to lovers, whole lotta plot, explicit sexual content, somewhat graphic depictions of death, everyone and everything is dysfunctional™, mentions of suicide, unrealistic circumstances, moral compass is nowhere to be found, angst, medium long hair!gyu bc self-indulgence, tsundere-ish reader again guys sorry i love her so bad, mentions of parental neglect, this ended up so long help

♪ verydeadly - wolves (kanye west cover),, low - dancing and blood,, vessel - red sex,, florence + the machine - mermaids,, zayn - bordersz,, mikky ekko - who are you, really?,, q - alone,, danna paola - tenemos que hablar,, blue foundation - eyes on fire (4 ave version),, summer camp - i want you

NOTE — one of my favorite episodes of going seventeen remains bad clue 2020, i loved mingyu’s role in it and i could totally see him portraying darker/morally grey characters and rock tf out of it so. i wrote this solely based on that idea. the music recs above are also really nice to get into the vibe! enjoyyyy :D

[ ONE ] ✧˚ · .⋆ ★ [ JUMP TO PART TWO ]

i. ASK ME THE TRUTH AND I’LL TELL YOU A LIE

the interrogation room is unnecessarily bright, the noise of the water dispenser in the corner and the flickering led light above you running through your ears. the chair you’re seated on is uncomfortable, though it’s nothing compared to the tension you feel as the man in front of you treats you like you’re guilty of something.

“on september 2nd, around six o’clock, your father reportedly got unwell, so he left his office early, choosing to do the rest of his paperwork at home. according to the information we got from the gps tracker in his car, he went straight home, took no detours. he arrived at your family estate thirty minutes later. then at eight o’clock, the police receives a call from you, saying your father hung himself.”

you stare at the the inspector — whose name you did not bother remembering — before waving with your hand. “i’m aware. i’ve heard the recap of events many times at this point. this isn’t the first time i’m being interrogated, surprisingly enough.”

with a puzzled look, he raises his brow at you. “you don’t think you should be a suspect?”

“no, i don’t.”

“at the time of the incident, you were home, as well as two members of the staff. since the staff were on their dinner break and you were apparently in your room, it’s hard to say what exactly happened, since there were no witnesses.”

“do you mind me asking why you think it’s murder and not just a suicide?”

he’s intrigued by the way you discuss the topic so casually. “your father was an important man. wouldn’t you want to know who killed him if that were the case?”

“sure. i’d thank them.” you smile at him, the hatred for your father shining through. “believe me, inspector — my father was a miserable man who surrounded himself with miserable people. i wasn’t there by choice.”

“did he treat you badly, then?” he continues, trying to pry any information out of you.

all you can do is sigh. “i was his daughter in blood and name only. nothing more.”

with your demeanor softening into something sadder, the inspector’s tone changes into something different. “aside from you, and the staff, of course, we do have another suspect who we think could have something to do with your father’s death.”

that sparks your interest. “who?”

the inspector grabs his small pile of documents to pull a printed photo out of it, putting it before you. you visibly frown, because the person on the photo is someone you’re unfortunately awfully familiar with.

“kim mingyu is a suspect? seriously?” you ask, completely in shock. ironically, he’s the last person you’d suspect in a scenario like the one you currently find yourself in.

“what can you tell me about him?”

leaning back in your chair, you list a few things. “he’s a year younger than me. we went to the same high school, same university, have some of the same friends. though all of that is relatively common in our social circle.”

“anything else?”

keeping the insults to yourself for now, you press your lips together. “our parents are good friends. well, were, now that my father’s gone. mingyu and i hate eachother to the bone, though.”

“any particular reason why?”

“i’m not sure where it started… there’s just something off about him. it’s always been there. he’s—beyond arrogant. always showing off his looks, his wealth, his charm, his intelligence. everything. he insults me, i insult him. we simply don’t get along, never have. nothing you haven’t seen before, i’m sure.”

the inspector raises his brow. “i think you may have left something out.”

“such as?”

his hand moves into the blue folder sitting on the table, taking another photo out of it, holding it up before you. “your father was often spotted with him. at events, business meetings — you name it. matter of fact, your father seemed to be accompanied by kim mingyu more than anyone else. which is interesting, considering you are his only child.”

your gaze turns sour, voice softer yet more hateful than before. “don’t tell me this is the reason i’m a suspect.”

“let’s just say it doesn’t make you look good.”

“you really believe i murdered my own father in cold blood because he cared more about kim mingyu than he ever did about me? that’s pathetic and ridiculous.”

“you wouldn’t be the first. it’s a plausible story.”

scoffing at the accusation, you shake your head. “we’re done here. the moment you have an actual lead, i’ll talk, but not like this. i’m still here grieving and you’re accusing me of being the culprit.” you get up in anger, taking your bag with you before slamming the door shut, not bothering to listen to what the man is trying to tell you to make you stay.

this whole shit-train started two weeks ago. your father was found dead in your childhood home, hung by a rope around his neck. instead of calling it a death by suicide, the police apparently have enough reason to suspect it was a homicide.

you’ve been questioned several times in the past few weeks, but there’s been a gradual shift in the behavior of the inspector and his handimen — they’re treating you like a suspect now.

which you are, for whatever reason. they have yet to come up with any actual evidence.

your contact in the police force mentioned to you that you’re not just any suspect — you’re one of the two main suspects.

and that is unsettling, especially when you discovered who else is.

as you go down the hall, you suddenly lock eyes with kim mingyu himself, who’s leaning against the wall with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. a few strands of hair hover by his cheeks, framing his strong features.

“what the fuck are you doing here?” you ask in a rather hostile manner, the scowl on your face deepening.

his lips part before he starts explaining. “they wanted to talk to me. again.”

“haven’t you heard the rumors, gyu?” you mockingly use the nickname, taking a step closer to him, “they’re saying there’s a possibility you killed him.”

your arch-nemesis looks back at you with a furrowed brow. “that’s ridiculous.”

“is it? you were always with him… it’s perhaps the only thing that makes sense in all of this.”

he seems offended you’d even insinuate something like that. “it’s really the other way around, though. you’re the one who hated him. i had nothing against the man.”

it’s true that you and your father didn’t exactly get along, especially the past few years, to put it lightly. you always considered him to be greedy, cold and unforgiving, and you certainly didn’t cry the moment they told you he had passed away.

“no, we all know how much you liked him,” you hardly make an effort to hide your disdain, “but they must not believe that, considering you’re just as much of a suspect as i am.”

he clenches his jaw. “i’m not guilty.”

“neither am i.” you state. like always, there’s a tangible coldness to your voice, which he finds soothing, for whatever reason.

it’s quiet for a moment as you’re both unsure of what to say next, a rarity between you.

a few years ago, your father mentioned you and mingyu could make a good pair.

you proceeded to laugh in his face.

mingyu is a constant reminder of what you could be, and that’s the last thing you need in your life.

“if i find out you’re somehow involved in this—”

instead of immediately refuting the statement, he narrows his eyes at you. “then what?”

you realize you need to be careful with your words here — you can’t throw around threats to kill people as the top suspect in a murder investigation. “i’ll make sure you pay for it. they might buy your little golden-boy act, but i sure as shit don’t. i never have.”

a smirk subtly tugs at his lips as he leans more down, eyes flicking lower before they meet yours again. “i’d be careful with my words if i were you,” he firmly tells you, his lashes fluttering, “there’s always someone watching.”

only now do you take notice of how close you’re standing to him, and you look behind you, seeing the inspector that just interrogated you observing you and mingyu from a distance.

so you push yourself away from him, giving him a last glare before walking away.

mingyu only moves from his spot once you’re gone from his field of view, greeting the inspector with a kind smile.

ii. THE HATRED WE BEAR

you find yourself staring at your father’s tombstone with a numb face and the wind breezing through your hair. your makeup is slightly smudged under your eyes from the tears you shed just an hour before, while you were giving the public a final speech regarding his passing.

the funeral was long — too long.

at a certain point, once the whole thing was done and everyone left, you decided to take a quiet moment for yourself in the graveyard to let everything sink in.

you made the mistake of thinking you’d left alone.

a voice you’re too familiar with speaks up behind you. “i’m sorry for your loss.”

of course it’s kim mingyu out of all people who’s still here, sneaking up on you.

you don’t have the energy to make a snarky comment this time. “i’d ask why you’re still here, but it’s a question i already know the answer to.”

he still offers you his answer. “i’m here to check up on you.”

well, that takes you by surprise. “why?”

“you lost the one parent you had left. i don’t want you to be alone.”

something about that sentence fuels a sudden anger in you. he’s got some fucking nerve, saying that to you. “maybe you should’ve considered that a couple years ago. you know, before you decided to become my dad’s little protege.”

even as a little girl, your bond with your father was a shitty one. your mother passed when you were young, so you barely have any memories left of her.

in an attempt to win his love and affection, you always did everything your father asked of you, yet your efforts were hardly acknowledged. you found him to be a harsh and cruel man, but surely with you being his daughter, his only child, he must’ve cared for you. or so you always told yourself.

something about your yearning for his approval and support changed for the worse when mingyu’s mother became a prominent business partner to your father, about nine years ago. it made him spend more time with the kim family, and you have no idea how or why it happened, but mingyu became like a son for him.

you saw how well your dad treated him, and you cried for a long, long time as you compared it to his neglect towards you. for every pat on mingyu’s back, you got scolded for not being good enough. whenever he got praised, you got discarded. it’s no miracle that you came to be the way that you are. detached, perceptive, appearing to be just as unfeeling as the man who raised you.

you hated your father. with all your heart.

but you grew to hate kim mingyu more.

so to hear him say that he doesn’t want you to be alone — that takes the goddamn cake.

he lowers his head at your words. “it wasn’t like that.”

“right. of course it wasn’t.” your voice is painfully spiteful.

“i wouldn’t have done it if i knew it was at your expense. i’m sorry.”

he’s trying to be nice to you, not understanding yet that it’s actually doing more damage, making you angrier. “the last thing i want is your fucking pity.”

“then what do you want?”

“nothing you can give me.” it’s a subtle final warning coming from you, because you’re actually about to explode at him. “just leave me be.”

“please, just... i wanna help you.”

like a ticking time bomb, you suddenly hit your limit. finally, you turn around, facing him, and it’s only then that he truly sees how upset you are, like a storm suddenly changing its direction, and he’s in the way.

“help me? you’d help me by getting the fuck out of my face. you wanna know what i want, mingyu? i want to know what in god’s name everyone loves so much about you, what it is that made my father shut me out completely and replace me with you. he gave you more love than he ever gave me. just looking at you makes me sick. what the fuck did he see in you that he didn’t see in me?” you ask, unable to stop yourself from pouring your emotions out to the guy in front of you. “why did he hate me so much? even in death, he favors you over me. he left you... everything. a final ‘fuck you’ to his own child. and for what? for you?”

the fact that you got word from your father’s lawyer that your father chose to leave everything he had to mingyu instead of you was like the straw that broke the camel’s back.

throughout your life, you always did what was expected of you. you were the perfect daughter.

and for what?

the fact that your father grew to hate you and love this asshole so much that he left you not a single penny to your name — that is your tipping point.

and mingyu just wordlessly allows you to continue ranting, almost as if he deserves it.

“what the fuck is so special about you, huh? because i don’t get it. sure, you’ve got a nice face and you’re a smart guy, but i don’t believe you actually give a shit about others. i bet you came here today to rub my dad’s inheritance in my face — you fucking pretentious douchebag.”

“i’m sorry. i never meant—” he stumbles, nearly falling over as he backs away while you keep stepping forward, feeling surprisingly small in front of you, in spite of his tall frame.

“i don’t give a shit if this is what you intended to happen or not! i’m all alone.” you show your sadness right between the anger and hostility, vulnerable in front of him. “no family like everyone else, no money, no house, nothing. abandoned by the one person i had left.”

he looks at you as if you’ve just slapped him across the face. he’s never even shown you a hint of vulnerability — nor have you for that matter — so why is he showing it now?

you’re too deep into your breakdown to think rationally about it. “you took literally everything that i had. and i’ll never forgive you for that.”

“please, let me—let me fix it.” he chokes out, as overwhelmed by your strong emotions as you are yourself.

the harshness of your words makes him feel like he’s crumbling in your presence. “talk to me like you care about me one more goddamn time, and i’ll make you regret ever meeting me in the first place.”

in all the years that you’ve known him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him flinch — you doubt any of your words have ever hurt him.

until this moment, it seems. but why is he even hurt? you don’t care about him and he doesn’t care about you. it’s always been that way, and you have a hard time believing it’ll ever change.

the moment you walk away from him with a sharp pain in your chest, pushing him to the side by his shoulder, he’s left behind in a shocked and bewildered state, neither of you aware that a pair of curious eyes witnessed the whole exchange.

iii. ULTERIOR MOTIVES

“the full inheritance of your father has been transferred over to you.”

the cup of tea you were raising stills with your hand. your eyes narrow at your lawyer as you’re seated in the garden of your father’s estate. “what—how? why? it wasn’t passed down to me.”

“no, but the person it was passed down to can always make the decision to pass it on. and he did — surprisingly with no strings attached,” he tells you, putting the document from the notary in front of you, “i had it all double-checked. everything’s there, the documents signed by kim mingyu himself.”

just hearing the name makes you grimace, putting you off your tea. “and there’s absolutely nothing he wants from me?”

“nothing was mentioned, no. he did, however, leave you a note.”

“what does it say?”

your lawyer raises his brow as he reads it, handing it to you instead of reading it out loud, which makes you give him a puzzled look before casting your eyes downwards to the piece of paper.

tomorrow, 4:30, my apartment. all you have to do is sign the papers. i look forward to the day you’ll make me regret meeting you.

“that asshole.” you mutter to yourself, not loud enough for your lawyer to hear it, but he’s certainly got an idea of how you feel about the whole situation.

“you do, of course, always have the option to reject the inheritance, but i would highly recommend not to. frankly, in all of my years of experience in this field, i’ve never felt a bigger need to encourage a client to take a deal.”

once you’ve picked up the documents and skimmed over the words, you look back at him. “and if i did accept it, it wouldn’t contain any possible implications for me in the long term?”

“none. it is... fairly remarkable he’s willing to give you the full inheritance for nothing in return, even if he and his family are known for their wealth. but it wouldn’t be a significant loss for him, considering the capital he already has to his name.” the man explains, not needing to spell it out for you.

you put down your cup. “knowing him, i’m not so sure he doesn’t want anything. i suppose i’ll have to talk to him about it myself, tomorrow.”

your lawyer highly encourages you to do so, leaving you to spend the rest of the day wondering what he could possibly want from you.

and so the following day, at 4:30 sharp, you step into his apartment — penthouse is the more fitting term. you’ll admit, though, that he’s got style.

it’s dead silent in his place, save for the metronome in the background and the slow brew of his coffee machine. he’s wearing a white long-sleeved shirt with black trousers as he approaches you. “glad you could make it. coffee?”

“why are you willing to give me the inheritance?” you ask directly, not feeling up for the unnecessary chitchat. you’ve always hated small talk. “if it was just a set-up, i’m leaving.”

he doesn’t seem to be even the slightest bit surprised by your forwardness. “i’m willing to give it to you because a) i don’t need it, and b) i don’t want it. i think it’s ridiculous your dad set up his will like this.”

“well, that makes two of us.” you fake a polite smile, clearly very sarcastically, putting your hand on your hip. “you asked me to come sign the papers, but i have yet to see them.”

mingyu smiles a little at you. of course you’d skip straight to business — you never were a girl of many words. he walks over to a cupboard and takes a sealed folder with the documents out of a drawer, handing it to you.

when you attempt to take the folder from him, he swiftly retracts his hand like the asshole he is. “it’s not completely free, though.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “of course. i should’ve known better than to believe you were willing to do something out of the kindness of your own heart.”

he just keeps going as if he didn’t hear you, very much used to the little quips you throw at him by now. “don’t worry, i think you can manage this very small task for me.”

“just tell me what you want already—”

“my family’s hosting a gala next week, on friday. i’d like you to be my date.”

you’re baffled. this is what he wants in return for the inheritance worth millions of dollars? to have you on his arm for a single night?

oh, hell no. you’re not falling for it.

“why? you wanna publicly humiliate me or something?” you question, a deep frown settled in your forehead.

he huffs, annoyed that you’d think that low of him. “i know we’ve always hated eachother, but, maybe, during a hard time… it would be nice to have one relaxed night. and yeah, i wouldn’t mind doing that with a pretty girl to keep me company. what do you say? deal?”

not once in all the years you’ve known him has he ever called you pretty.

“fine. but don’t think about pulling any stunts.”

“wouldn’t dare.” his smile sits somewhere beween teasing and serious when he finally hands you the papers.

you sit down and briefly scan the documents, not signing them right away to have them checked by your lawyer first. “if everything in this is according to the plan, you’ll have them signed by tomorrow morning.”

“okay. see you friday.” he winks at you, escorting you to his front door, a subtle grin on his face that gives off the impression he’s planning something, and you can only imagine what it might be.

there is one good thing about having to spend time in his family home, though — and that’s to search his rooms to find anything that might implicate him having something to do with your father’s murder.

since there’s still a culprit to be named.

with your own agenda in mind, you walk out of his apartment, searching for the name of your stylist in your contacts.

you’re going to need a dress, after all.

iv. A PROPOSAL

with a stern look on your face, you look at the entrance of the gala from the tinted window of your car. it’s all bright lights and colorful decorations, candles, flowers — the kim family is well known for their luxurious and memorable parties. you’ve attended plenty of them. while you and mingyu may not get along, his sister and mother are genuine sweethearts, some of the kindest and most welcoming people you know.

if only you could say the same for the asshole you’re about to spend the evening with.

after checking your makeup in the pocket-sized mirror for a final time, your driver opens your door so you can step out of the car, which leaves you on your own in front of the stairs.

mingyu originally mentioned he wanted to pick you up at your home like the gentleman he very much claims to be, but you very quickly shut the idea down and told him you’d just meet him at his family’s mansion.

so here you are.

attending a gala only a month after your father’s funeral must seem like an… interesting choice, to say the least. the people you come across express their condolences and ask if you’re doing well — you wonder if the sentiment is real or not — and you tell them you’re here because it serves well as a distraction.

you’ve become an excellent liar over the years.

as you’re standing at the top of the stairs, leaning on the railing, you observe the people on the dance floor below. those who aren’t dancing are chattering, the noises of clinking glasses and laughter filling your ears.

most of the time, you’re able to somewhat enjoy this life. but the truth is that it can be as exhausting as it is glamorous.

but with your last living parent gone, you do feel a sense of freedom, even if it is lonely at times.

not like you didn’t feel lonely when he was still alive.

you didn’t love him or care for your father. you cared for the hope that someday he would change. that he would show you he did care for you, even a little bit.

but that day never came.

he was primarily an investor, so at least you haven’t been burdened with having to take over a business or anything like it. having no siblings either, you feel like you should take this opportunity to start fresh; focus on building your own career and use your father’s money for things he’d never approve of.

suddenly, you spot your date in the midst of the crowd, breaking you out of your train of thoughts. his half-long hair looks pretty on him, you have to admit, the few strands in front of his face paired with the tailored, navy suit giving him the appearance of a model.

he’s currently talking to an older woman who clearly seems to adore him, the smile he puts up making her give him a gentle, loving squeeze on his upper arms. like always, no one is able to read the bitterness you feel as your face remains neutral.

growing up in your restricted social circle of the country’s wealthiest families, your group of peers wasn’t extremely big. you all went to the same primary school, same private high school. mingyu was always one of if not the most popular kid at school. an effortless ace at every fucking thing. everyone loved him, be it your peers or their parents.

you wouldn’t say you weren’t popular. quite the opposite, actually. your best friend was the queen bee of the school, as she was always striving to be the best in everything. top of the class, highest achievements, a true perfectionist at heart. bold, definitely a bit judgemental and classist too, but once she’s your friend, she’s the sweetest girl in the world. she did like to dabble in some drama with others if it came onto her path.

and you were the opposite. you preferred to steer clear of any drama, much preferring to watch it unfold from the sidelines — as you usually just didn’t care enough to interfere with it — and you were never quite as talkative as your best friend.

the sentences leaving your mouth are always quick, direct, sharp and without stutter. you’re masterful at small talk, even though you hate it. you know how to play people like a fiddle. your father made you use your manipulation skills to good use rather frequently.

many consider you cold and calculated.

which is true, of course. but you still have a heart, even if it barely beats.

the outburst you gave mingyu after your father’s funeral must’ve come as a shock to him. no one has ever seen you in such a vulnerable and weak state, and out of all the people who could’ve seen it, it naturally had to be him — and that makes you uncomfortable.

once he’s finished his conversation, he looks in front of him, then up at the balcony — and he locks eyes with you.

you give him a look of acknowledgment, but that’s it. he doesn’t seem to mind, though, still shining as brightly as ever, making his way up the stairs as fast as he can. “i’m sorry i wasn’t at the entrance to greet you, i didn’t think you’d be here so soon.”

“it’s fine.”

he glances up and down, admiring the dress you chose. “you look gorgeous.”

the deeply dark green dress with its boat neckline, long and fitted sleeves and intricate gold embroidery makes you look elegant. with the dress itself already being quite the statement piece, you chose to pair it with dainty earrings, your hair half-up and curled.

“thank you.” you don’t bother saying anything about his appearance. he must be used to it at this point.

“can i get you something to drink?”

you test the waters by throwing in a joke. “what, planning on poisoning me?”

his eyes flicker for a moment, stricken by something you can’t quite place, which makes you blink at him. his flirtatious and charming self returns within a mere second, and he proceeds to snicker at your joke. “i could, but where’d be the fun in that?”

rolling your eyes at him, you take his arm once he’s offered it, keeping in mind you’re doing this for the inheritance.

the time goes by quicker than expected. he introduces you to some of the people he’s close with, tells you stories you’ve never heard before, even asks you about yours.

a few of his friends come by as well, surprised to see you by mingyu’s side. most people your age here know that you and him have never quite gotten along, to put it lightly.

when they subtly ask about it, mingyu tells them he insisted you came to distract yourself from the death of your father, and that you could probably use a party.

it raises more question marks as to what his motive is for asking you to be here tonight. what is he gaining from this? he hasn’t humiliated you yet. if anything, he’s only spoken of you highly, save for the little snark he keeps between the two of you.

it’s strange. really strange.

after a while, once all the guests have been drinking a bit, you decide to set your own plan in motion. this might be your only chance to snoop around here, as you doubt you’ll find yourself in here again anytime soon.

you’re literally invited in his home — you’d be a fool not to check his room.

unfortunately, just as you try to disappear from the crowd, mingyu extends his hand to you. “dance with me?”

just as you’re about to refuse him, you remember that this is the one night you have to be nice to him, all so he can give you the inheritance that was meant to be yours in the first place.

with a small sigh, you slide your hand in his, at which he grins triumphantly.

before you know it, you’re in the middle of the room together, and he has his one hand on your lower back, the other hand intertwined with yours. he’s smooth with his moves, you have to admit.

the question has already left your mouth when you process it. “why am i here? i’m sure there’s a reason i needed to be your date tonight.”

mingyu cocks his head at you. “i think you’ve had to endure a lot the past couple weeks. the incident, the interrogations, the press, the shit with the inheritance — i’m impressed you haven’t lost your mind yet.”

“how do you know i haven’t?” you ask, and he twirls you around, his hands feeling like they’re burning on your skin. “wasn’t my breakdown after the funeral enough to prove you otherwise?”

“well, looking back, i should’ve probably left you alone in that moment. but i did think about what you said, and you can correct me if i’m wrong, but i feel like your father and our ties to him were what made us hate eachother so much. now that he’s gone, maybe we can… i don’t know. tolerate one another.”

you make sure to hide your confusion from him. does he really not see it? sure, the main reason you’ve always despised mingyu was because of his relationship with your father, but you weren’t exactly best friends before that either.

even putting it like that would still make it the understatement of the year.

if he actually pictures the two of you becoming friends, though, he’s lost it.

unsure of what to tell him, you give him a shitty excuse to escape the conversation. “i’m just gonna use the ladies’ room, if you don’t mind.” you let mingyu know, and he nods at you in acknowledgement, caught off guard by you leaving so suddenly.

so you walk off, the voices of the people and the music in the hall fading into the background as you trail off.

now that you’re alone, you can finally go check his room.

it’s harder to navigate the mansion than you thought. hallways that all look similar, god knows how many rooms — you hope you won’t get lost here.

one of your best friends is good friends with mingyu’s sister, and so she knows the place like the back of her hand. when you asked her for the layout of the place, she did think it strange, but you told her she had nothing to worry about.

mingyu’s bedroom and study are supposedly on the third floor of the east wing, and the party takes place in the west wing.

so that’s just fucking great.

your best friend did warn you that he most often keeps his doors locked whenever visitors are present, so to ensure you could get in, you snatched the key from his pocket when he was dancing with you earlier.

it almost makes you chuckle when you think about how easy it was.

when you’ve finally arrived at what seems to be the door to mingyu’s room, you double-check the environment around you to see whether anyone’s following you, and when it appears to be safe, you shove the key into the lock, twisting it.

you exhale when realizing it’s the right key.

entering the room, you quickly shut it behind you, taking in the sight.

it’s raining outside, which you take notice of through the large windows. several paintings adorn the walls — you didn’t know he was a lover of art — as well as some photos of him with his family.

the room is surprisingly tidy, his clothes all neatly folded on the wooden planks in his closet and the drawers underneath. the few books he has sitting on top of the cupboard are gathering dust — you suppose he doesn’t like to read all that much.

of course he doesn’t.

his king-sized bed seems soft and comfortable, and the room smells of the cologne and perfume he always wears.

you blink a few times, realizing you’re dwelling too much on details that are not a priority right now.

which is enough to snap you awake, a rush of adrenaline moving through your veins as you look for anything interesting. files, documents, notebooks — anything.

you find his agenda in a drawer of his desk. with slightly trembling fingers, you move the pages back to the date of your father’s death, as well as the days before that.

as you’re caught up with doing so, you momentarily forget the first rule of breaking into a forbidden space: never turn your back to a door when you should be watching it.

“you know, i’m starting to think you agreeing to be my date came with ulterior motives on your side.” you suddenly hear mingyu’s voice behind you, at which you turn around, looking a bit too guilty for comfort.

your voice almost gets caught up in your throat, but you keep your composure. “if it makes you feel any better, i didn’t plan this.”

“it’s alright.” he responds, closing the door behind him smoothly, as if he doesn’t want you to see it. “you still think i had something to do with your father’s death, don’t you?”

“i’m not sure. i don’t see why you would, now that you’ve given me the inheritance. what other motive could you have?”

all mingyu does is clench his jaw at the rhetorical question. then he snaps out of it, his eyes trailing to the desk you’re currently leaning on. he takes a few steps closer to you, and you raise a brow, waiting in anticipation what he’ll do.

his face is suddenly very close to yours, and you’re almost convinced he’s leaning in to touch you when he reaches for the drawer behind you instead. “well, as a matter of fact, i did have something to show you.”

that surprises you.

“your father always carried a little red notebook with him. it’s the only part of the inheritance i didn’t give you, solely because i wanted to show you myself. there’s a few strange scribblings in it, with locations and numbers, and look at this—” he opens it up in front of you, pointing at the paper with his index finger, “apparently he felt like he was being followed just days before he died. maybe the police is right and he did get murdered.”

“yeah, i already figured he probably pissed off the wrong guy.” when he looks at you hopefully, you shrug. “what?”

“we should check it out, right? find out who killed him.”

you immediately shake your head at his suggestion. “no.”

mingyu’s whole body language changes, genuine confusion overtaking his features. “what do you mean, no?”

“he was caught up in all kinds of shit, things i never wanted to be a part of. that’s no different now that he’s six feet under.”

“are you not the slightest bit curious who killed him?”

“frankly, no, i’m not. i’d say whoever is guilty did me a favor.”

despite your valid point, he persists. “okay, then how about this — what if this person would come after you for whatever reason? don’t you want to know who you’re dealing with?”

you narrow your eyes at him. “why do you care so much, mingyu? i’m sure this is something you could manage on your own.”

the sudden question surprises him, so he shrugs. “maybe i’m not sure why. but i do. and you know i did care for him.”

“why don’t you just let the police handle it?”

“because they don’t know this world — and we have access to places, people they wouldn’t even know where to find or how to deal with. have you talked to the detectives? they’re amateurs.” he answers, pausing before taking a step closer to you. “he’s dead either way, doing a small bit of research might be interesting. who knows what you might find.”

“and you wanna do this with me of all people because...?”

he rolls his eyes at the question. “you were the only other person directly affected by it. c’mon, am i really so bad that you can’t even deal with me for a little while?”

the fact that you just give him a deadpan stare tells him all he needs to know.

it makes you bite your lip. you don’t feel like doing this at all, certainly not with mingyu of all people, but he appears to be ready to do this with or without you.

besides, you do feel up for a little adventure.

“fine, i’ll bite. hypothetically, what if i were interested in finding out who killed him?”

the young man in front of you tilts his head. “then i’d suggest we work together and do some digging.”

pursing your lips, you watch his pleased expression when he notices you’re actually considering it. “why do i feel like i’m gonna regret this?”

“maybe you will. maybe you won’t. we can go right back to hating eachother after this, but for now, we’ll be partners. deal?”

your eyes linger on the hand he’s stretched out to you, and even as you’re hesitant to take it, he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

with a sigh, you shake his hand. “okay. deal.”

v. PARTNERS IN CRIME

“for someone so organized, he sure as hell has a lot of unnecessary shit lying around here.” mingyu mutters, searching through the drawers of the cupboard.

you scoff in agreement. “tell me about it.”

the two of you are rummaging through your father’s study in your home in an attempt to find anything interesting as to what he might’ve been up to the past few years.

so far, you’ve had zero luck with it.

you already figured there’d probably be nothing of interest here, but mingyu insisted, said it would be stupid not to. so here you are.

“you know, i’m pretty sure my dad wouldn’t be as stupid as to just leave traces of his criminal affiliations lying around in his study.”

mingyu shrugs while simultaneously looking into a drawer. “you never know.”

“he may have been an asshole, but he was a smart one.” you mumble to yourself as you go through the little notebook mingyu just handed you a few minutes ago.

he watches you with curiosity. “can i ask you something?”

without looking up at him, you give him a rather direct response. “i’m sure you’ll ask me regardless of my answer to that question.”

ever so indifferent, he thinks. if anything, one thing about you he is actually fond of is your unfiltered attitude. more people should be like that. “you said you’d never forgive me for what i did to you."

hearing those words makes you look up at him. you’re surprised he’s taking an approach this straightforward with you. “i know what i said.”

“is there nothing i can do to at least make things more civil between us?”

god, you’re sick of him already.

instead of outright telling him you hate him more than anyone else you know, you cross your arms over your chest and fire a question right back at him. “why do you want things to be different between us? don’t tell me you’re losing sleep over it, now.”

mingyu pauses a moment before he answers you. “i thought about the things you said, when you were upset with me, and i realized i’ve made your life harder without having intended to do so. and yeah, i am losing sleep over it.”

while he does appear earnest, you don’t exactly trust him, so all you do is shrug your shoulders.

he wants to say something right when his phone rings. once he picks up, you figure it must be something business-related, judging by the tone of his voice and formal language.

an apology directed at you leaves his mouth as soon as he’s hit the red button on his screen. “i’m sorry. an important business meeting was moved and i promised my mom i’d be there.”

you’ve met mingyu’s mother a few times, at events. she’s the ceo of a very prominent hotel business. many of the highest ranked hotels around the world are under her care, and she clearly knows what she’s doing, since her business has been thriving for many years at this point. you remember it was her who took over as ceo after mingyu’s father passed in a car accident when he was younger.

“then you better get going.” you tell him, your face not pulling a single muscle. you hope he didn’t think you were going to ask him to stay.

he nods at your words, taking the jacket with his initials embroidered in the tag and slinging it over his arm. “yeah. i’ll call you.” he says, going out the doorway, yet your voice makes him halt in his tracks.

“mingyu.” you say his name to him, an unfamiliar feeling on your tongue, and he turns to look back at you.

he awaits your words, catching the subtle warning in your eyes as you refer back to the question of his you had yet to answer.

“we may be working together now — call us associates, or even partners in crime — but once this is over, we’ll go right back to strangers. let’s just keep this… somewhat professional.”

you find he can be surprisingly hard to read from time to time, for a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve. after blankly staring at you for a few seconds, processing the words, he just offers you a little smile and a gentle response. “okay.”

and he walks off, only leaving you more intrigued than before.

for two days, it’s complete radio silence from mingyu. all he asked you over text was if you’d been able to find anything in the study, to which you replied with a simple no. he didn’t say anything else.

you sincerely thought this whole investigation of yours wasn’t actually gonna lead to anything, that it was useless — until now.

it’s eleven o’clock, dark outside, the metronome ticking in the background of your living room as your eyes are glued to the screen of your laptop.

you just got a notification from the bank that someone made a significant withdrawal from one of your father’s bank accounts, one that still needs to be signed over to your name.

question is, who the fuck has access to your father’s bank account besides you?

no one. supposedly.

staring at mingyu’s contact in your phone, you twist your lips, unsure of whether to call him about this or not.

going against your gut, you press on his phone number and wait for him to answer the call.

nothing.

for good measure, you call him a second time. same result.

then it hits you. you spoke to wonwoo last night — he mentioned something about him and mingyu going out together this evening.

wonwoo, thankfully, does pick up his phone. “hey. what’s up?”

“hey. are you with mingyu right now?”

“yeah, why?”

“where are you?”

“uh—” he stutters out an address in the middle of the city, clearly confused by the urgency in your voice. “what’s going on? what do you need mingyu for?”

“well, it’s hard to explain. anyway, i’m coming over.”

“he’s kind of—”

you quickly interrupt him by hanging up. taking your wallet and car keys, you head out. the address wonwoo’s given you is located in the club scene downtown, and you make it there in no-time with the navigation on your phone.

parking your car across the block, you get out and check your phone, heading to wherever wonwoo and mingyu currently are. you usually tend to go for the clubs at the other side of the city, as the vibe feels a little different here, but you’ve been around the neighborhood a couple times, so it’s not entirely unfamiliar to you.

when you arrive at the club, you catch the sight of your friend leaning against the stone wall outside.

jeon wonwoo, all handsome in his expensive jacket and sleek shoes, looks surprised when he notices you of all people coming up to him, even though you told him you were coming. his voice is soft when he greets you. “hey. you gonna tell me what exactly you’re doing here?”

shrugging your shoulders, you put your hands in the pockets of your black coat. “you said you were here with mingyu. i gotta talk to him.”

“right now?”

taking note of his baffled reaction, you tilt your head to the side. “yes, right now. i don’t care if he’s occupied.”

wonwoo brings a cigarette to his lips, pushing the pair of dark-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. “what’s going on with you and him, anyway? i thought you hated each other.”

“we still do.”

“well, something’s changed.”

“believe me, wonwoo, i don’t like him any more than he likes me.”

all he does is narrow his dark eyes at you.

just when you want to open the backdoor to the club, wonwoo stops you. “you do know what kind of establishment this place is, right?”

frowning at him, you open the door just the slightest bit to check whatever he’s getting at, and once you catch sight of the pink and red lights, sensual music and metal poles attached to the ceiling, you momentarily close the door again.

right. this must be one of those clubs that are hidden from the prying eyes of non-customers, to give the illusion there’s nothing going on behind these walls, giving the rich clients some privacy in their activities.

you roll your eyes. “when you said you were going to the club, i didn’t think you meant a strip club.”

“i was about to tell you when you hung up on me.”

“so why are you out here and not in there with him?”

“because i wanted to smoke and he felt like heading into a more secluded space. with company, no doubt.”

oh, this is gonna be fun. since kim mingyu pretty much ruined your life, the very least you can do in return is ruin his night. you briefly chuckle to yourself. “alright. well, have fun smoking.”

“you’re still going in?” he calls after you, and all you can do is scoff.

“you think i care whether kim mingyu’s gonna have a good time or not?”

“forget i asked.” he responds, the hint of a smile tugging at his facial features. “i’ll wait here ‘til you get back.”

you shoot him a knowing smirk before stepping into the club. remaining in the background, you scan the area to see if there’s a glimpse of him somewhere.

at the other side of the bar, a man seems to be on watch in front of a separate hallway, so you figure that’s where the jackpot is.

not bothering to look back at the bartender, whose gaze trails after you, you head over to where you need to be, which is where you’re stopped in your path, as expected.

“these are occupied private rooms, ma’am.” a bouncer tells you.

“look, sir, i…” you begin, coming up with some bullshit excuse to get past him, “i’m pretty sure i saw my boyfriend just go in here with a dancer. all i want is a confirmation, i’m not looking to start drama.”

before the man can respond, you wordlessly hold up a small stack of hundred dollar bills between your index and middle finger, waiting for him to take the bribe.

works like a charm wherever you go.

his demeanor changes once he sees the money. “what’s he look like?”

“tall, dark medium-long hair, brown eyes, pretty handsome — though that’s probably subjective.” you shrug, adding a little fake smile to it. you can get far in life with a little charm and money.

the few generic features seem to be enough for the bouncer to know who you’re talking about. he takes the money from your hand, pointing his finger at one of the more secluded rooms in the back.

“go for room number six.” he says, stepping to the side so you can pass him.

thanking him, you head into the back, the heels of your ankle boots clicking against the floor.

the rooms have their matching numbers on neon signs above them. your eyes curiously take in everything they see, but all rooms grant the people in them privacy with the use of frosted glass.

once you’ve made it to the room with the number six on the sign, you take a breath while your hand rests on the handle.

you enter the room soundlessly. the broad space is dimly lit with its soft lights, a mixture of yellow, pink and red almost convincing you that this place is a mere fever dream.

mingyu is seated on the velvet red couch, his legs spread with a girl in skimpy lingerie dancing between them.

yet his eyes are on you.

with his head tilted down, he looks up at you from beneath his lowered brows, peering right past the bare hips of the girl as if she’s not dancing in front of him at all.

you catch a hint of intrigue in his features. he reaches inside his pocket to hand a small stack of money to the dancer in the exact same way you did with the bouncer only a minute before, and the girl leaves you to your privacy.

“hello to you, too.” he says, not bothering to move a single muscle as he remains on the soft couch.

“next time, answer your damn phone.” you scold him, staring him down with the coldest glare you can muster, and mingyu’s not sure why, but he relishes in it. it doesn’t happen often that someone treats him like this.

“i was occupied.” he casually answers, his hand running through his dark locks.

“well, not anymore.” you grin, handing him your phone to show the photo of the bank transcripts. “apparently, my dead father just took fifty grand out of his account.”

mingyu furrows his brows at the screen. “where?”

“all the way at the other side of the city. question is, who else has access to his account, aside from me?”

“we should go and check the footage.” he says, shrugging his shoulders, and he finally gets up, towering over you again. “i know someone who’s with the municipal authorities, i’ll make the call.”

“right now?” you ask, referring to how deep into the night it is, at which he raises his brow.

“yes, right now. this is the best clue we’ve come across so far. don’t you agree?”

“i do. i just thought you cared more about, y’know, being occupied.” you emphasise the last words with a waving hand, gesturing to the girl that was previously dancing on him, and his flirtatious nature comes right back to him as if it never left.

“why? wanna give me a show before we leave?” he smirks, getting closer, hoping to get some kind of reaction out of you, to see what’s lurking underneath your closed-off persona.

fine. both of you can play this game, you think to yourself. “what, are the girls here not enough to get you off?”

“is that a yes?”

“why would you want a lap dance from a girl you can’t stand? i may not like you, mingyu, but i didn’t think you’d stoop so low to go after any woman with a pulse.”

“i feel flattered,” he smiles, eyes trailing down to your exposed collarbones, finding it ridiculously hot in here, “and i don’t particularly like you, either, but we both know you’re gorgeous. besides, i’ve seen you dance at chan’s club. you looked good.”

his honesty almost stuns you in your place. you didn’t think he held that kind of physical attraction towards you, yet it makes you feel good — because you think he’s fucking hot, too.

such a shame that he’s an asshole.

but still, there’s no time to dwell on his words. you have a reputation to uphold and a murder to solve, after all.

so you lean in, whispering your decision. “in your dreams.”

jesus, mingyu thinks, do you even remotely know how much sex appeal you have? it makes him beyond impulsive. “did you know studies have shown that sleeping with someone you can’t stand is arguably the best thing ever?”

you sarcastically reply to him with the exact same tone. “did you know you’d be so much more bearable if you just kept your mouth shut?”

“what? it’s part of my charm.” is all he says in return, snickering a little over your response, and you merely roll your eyes.

“we’ve got a different idea of charm, then.”

“okay, fair enough.” he shrugs, still maintaining the minimal distance between your bodies. “so what do you find charming? i’m dying to know, really.”

“i like men who don’t feel the need to pay for a woman’s touch.” the reply comes fast and sharp as a blade. “i hope you pay them generously, since they have to put up with you out of all people.”

“she didn’t touch me, though. it’s a strip club, not a brothel.”

“how noble of you.” you humorlessly chuckle at him, attitude turning more playful.

“mhm.” mingyu nods his head, the rest of his words sounding lower and suave. “tell me more. c’mon, i’m curious. i gotta know my partner’s preferences, right?”

the look you give your current partner is something. you decide to indulge him this once, face inching closer to his, just to keep things interesting. “i want someone who won’t hold me back. someone who will accept me for who i am — uninhibited.”

there’s something you can’t quite place flashing behind his eyes. it’s close to intrigue, but more intense, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen it in anyone else’s eyes before.

“good to know.” he breathes out, as if your words stole his breath, and you come to the realization that maybe, there’s more to kim mingyu than you thought.

now that he seems to be pretty much speechless, you raise your shoulders. “so, are we heading out or should i tell the dancer to come back in?”

he stutters out a reply, and you find it funny how his attitude is constantly going back and forth between a flustered mess and the most confident guy in the room.

once you’ve returned to the backdoor where you got in, you see wonwoo is still outside, his cigarette put out on the ashtray beside him.

“you leaving?” wonwoo asks, waiting for either of you to answer.

“yeah. duty calls.” mingyu replies while putting his jacket on.

for what it’s worth, wonwoo is actually a dear friend of yours, and one of the few people you show physical affection to, so you give him a kiss on the cheek before walking off. “catch you later, okay?”

he nods, catching mingyu curiously watching the exchange, and when you walk off with him, wonwoo notices him put his hand on your lower back, which you proceed to swat away.

a mere twenty minutes later, you and mingyu are seated in your car in an empty parking lot, looking at a screen displaying street security footage of the bank where the withdrawal was made earlier tonight.

mingyu’s friend seungkwan, who works for the authorities, sent you the footage, and as you’re looking it over, he’s on the phone explaining his observations. “he was wearing a mask and a cap, so we couldn’t recognize him. the car he drove has a license plate that doesn’t match, so likely stolen. he drove from a nearby parking garage to the bank, withdrew the cash, got back in the car and then parked it right here, about six blocks further, in the business district.”

the building the car is parked across is one you’d recognize any time of day. it’s where your father’s main office is — or was — one of the places he never allowed you to get into, or anyone for that matter. it was the only place where he got the peace and quiet he wanted.

you turn your head to glance at mingyu, giving him a knowing look. “that’s where my father’s main office is.”

“you think the guy’s gonna try to break in?”

“if he got his hands on the passcodes and proceeds to wait before the building he always worked in, then yeah, i do.”

you nod in agreement, because he makes a fair point. mingyu looks at the worried expression on your face and decides you’ve gathered enough information now.

he thanks seungkwan and tells him bye before hanging up, then turning his focus to you. “whoever that guy is, if he’s planning on breaking in, we gotta beat him to it.”

“you wanna break into an office on the seventh floor located in a building that neither of us are allowed into? they won’t even let us pass the front desk. i know because i’ve tried.”

he shakes his head. “trust me — we’ll find a way in. i’ve got an idea, but it’s not gonna be easy.”

vi. WE’RE NOT SO DIFFERENT, YOU AND I

the following days are spent analyzing and memorizing blueprints, tracking the people entering and exiting the building and checking security in the hope of finding some kind of loophole in the system.

trying to get in through the front door is too risky, so you’ve opted for the roof instead, because there’s several buildings so closeby that you can get into either of the buildings next to it and reach it from there. you’ll get in with a classic heist movie tactic you pray works in real life as well.

ventilation shafts.

so now, you’re both in dark and practical clothing to attempt breaking in. because your plan is mediocre at best.

as you watch from the rooftop of a currently unoccupied office building nearby with a binocular, you face-palm yourself the moment you notice the security set-up is different than anticipated with the blueprints, meaning the ventilation shafts are most likely not accessible. “well, fuck.”

“what’s wrong?”

you hand the binocular to mingyu, and he mimics your previous actions, huffing in annoyance when he sees it too. “shit. what do we do now?”

“nothing.”

“what?”

“our plan was already risky enough, but now that we pretty much don’t even have a way in, we’d be stupid to try. we only have a fifteen-minute window before a security guard comes up the roof again.”

“that’s plenty.”

“it would be, for like — a swat team. we’re amateurs. at this, anyway.”

“speak for yourself.”

“oh, i’m sorry, have you done anything remotely on this scale before?”

“well… no.”

pinching the bridge of your nose, you roll your eyes to yourself. “we should’ve brought wonwoo.”

mingyu is quick to respond with a sarcastic comment. “and tell him what, exactly? ‘hey, we need your help breaking into one of the best-guarded buildings in the city so we can snoop around and try to find a clue leading to a killer’?”

“well, i don’t know if you’ve noticed, gyu, but we quite literally have no other options.”

“we could always try the front door. you’re still his daughter, they might let you in.”

“i really hope that wasn’t an actual suggestion, because if it was, it would highly diminish the idea i have of your intelligence.”

“is this your way of telling me you think i’m smart?”

“well, currently, i think you’re being an idiot, so no.” you retort, stealing the binocular out of his hand again. “god, i’m starting to respect criminals. this shit is difficult to navigate around.”

mingyu chuckles as he adjusts the black baseball cap on his head. “there has to be another way. maybe we could—”

“—get in through an open window.” you interrupt, handing the device over to him. “you see the glass window in the roof of his office? it looks like it’s ajar.”

once he sees it too, he tilts his head. “it’s almost too easy. it’d have to open manually, otherwise we’re screwed.”

you can only shrug. “it’s only a modern interior on the inside, the building itself is older, so the odds might be on our side. besides, it’s worth a shot, right?”

“can’t argue with that.” he agrees, checking the other buildings around to figure out the best approach.

you watch him as he’s distracted. he’s fully going for the whole partners-in-crime thing you’ve got going on with him, yet a part of you is still unsure what his motives might be.

but for now, you’ll just focus on the task at hand.

every fifteen minutes, a security guard comes up to the roof, checks everything, stays for a minute or two and leaves again. you’ve been keeping track of it. as soon as the one currently on duty closes the door to the staircase behind him, heading back down, you both start a silent timer on your watches, getting to work.

one thing you discover doing said task is that jumping from roof to roof is really not as easy as they make it seem in the movies. if anything, it’s pretty scary, even if they are relatively close to eachother.

the jump from the last building to the one you need to be on top of has the biggest gap, and mingyu takes a solid leap, landing ever so gracefully.

you shuffle your feet for a moment, making the mistake of looking down. mingyu notices your hesitation and tries to encourage you the best he can. “it looks scary, but it’s a relatively easy jump. i swear. that’s gotta mean something coming from a person with a fear of heights.”

clenching your fists, you try to steady your breathing. “don’t you lie to me, kim.”

there’s something strangely charming about you using his last name whenever you’re scolding him. “c’mon. i’ve always thought you were fearless. you’re not gonna diminish the idea i have of you, right?”

curse him for using your words against you like that.

clenching your fists, you bite your lip, the worst case scenario going through your head over and over.

“just go back a couple steps. steady your breathing, and then you run. okay?”

you don’t respond to his words but do as he says anyways. the jump isn’t even that far, you’re just afraid of tripping.

but you won’t go out embarrassing yourself in front of kim mingyu. your pride is too strong for that.

so you take a deep breath and make a run for it, jumping over the gap and landing on top of the other roof, far away from the edge. mingyu laughs triumphantly. “good job.”

“thanks.” you smile as he helps you up to your feet, and you dust off your jacket, proud of yourself for going through with it.

the two of you walk over to the glass window, and you kneel down, inspecting the lock. thank fuck — it’s so simple that all you have to do is click it open. you’re guessing they probably thought the security walking around was enough.

with your hands covered in gloves, you wiggle them through the gap and crack it open, after which mingyu takes the lead. he lets himself drop into the office silently, looking up at you as a gesture for you to follow him.

you attempt to do the same as him, but you figure he must have strong arm muscles, because you’re barely able to hold yourself up the way he can. he notices your struggle and moves to stand underneath you.

“just let go. i’ll catch you.”

“are you sure?”

he nods, his arms up as if he’s waiting for you to jump right into them. “yeah, yeah. i got you.”

not entirely convinced, you try to drop onto the floor in a way you can still hold yourself up, but mingyu proves himself true to his word when he catches you as easily as drawing his next breath. he looks you in the eye while he has you in his arms, his senses feeling heightened as your clothed skin touches with his.

then you tap on his shoulder, and he lets go of you.

the office is bigger than anticipated. the moonlight from outside is bright enough for you to not need a flashlight, so that’s beneficial.

mingyu is awfully quick on his feet for someone as tall and bulky as him. he’s quiet in every step he takes, which is useful in a situation like this.

while he begins to look through a bunch of drawers, you open cabinet after cabinet, going through some documents that don’t really contain anything interesting.

you turn to look at the desk and the painting on the wall behind it. it’s nothing spectacular — your father never had much of an appreciation for art, so you find it strange he’d even have it up here.

out of sheer curiosity, you try to check if there’s a secret stash behind the painting like in those crime movies.

you have to refrain from laughing when your eyes fall onto the safe in the wall. “hey. gyu.”

he turns around, his entire demeanor changing when he sees what you’ve found. “you’re kidding.”

the safe has a surprisingly easy system. it has four dials, so you need a code with four numbers to get access to whatever’s inside. you change the dials to your birth year for fun, but naturally, it doesn’t work. hell, mingyu’s birth year might have a better shot.

while you try out every combination you can think of, mingyu gets the little notebook out of his pocket — the one that was part of your father’s inheritance. he flips to one of the last pages. “try 9-3-6-8.”

going with his suggestion, you rotate the dials until they have the right numbers, and you hear a click. blinking a few times, you turn the small crank wheel beside the dials and open the safe.

there’s not much inside in terms of quantity, but the things that are in there are no joke.

two gold ingots, a stack of files and a loaded handgun with a silencer attached to it.

“what the fuck was he up to?” mingyu asks rhetorically, inspecting the pistol with care, and you shrug, grabbing the files to put them into the bag you took with you.

“i don’t know, but we should hurry up. we can look at whatever all this is later. clock’s ticking.”

he figures you make a good point, so you hold out your bag, and he puts all of the safe’s contents into it.

you’re both scared to death when you suddenly hear voices coming from the other side of the door. you immediately zip up your bag and close the safe back up, putting the painting right back in front of it.

footsteps come approaching your direction, and you realize you don’t have enough time to get back out of the office without being caught red-handed, so you’ll have to find a place to hide.

just as you’re about to go sit underneath the desk, mingyu doesn’t hesitate to grab you by your hand and pull you against his body, both of you hiding in the small gap between the bookcase and the wall, which is right next to the door.

you almost jump in your place when the door is opened by a security guard, and mingyu puts his hand over your mouth to make sure the guard doesn’t hear you.

thankfully, you’re hidden right behind the door now that it’s opened, but your heart is fucking pounding as your chest is pressed against mingyu’s, and all you can focus on is him.

he’s suffocatingly close to you.

the situation forces you to look at him so closely — like never before. your attention trails down from his dark eyes to the litte mole on the bottom of his nose, the shape of his lips, and the glimpse you catch of the silver chain adorning his collarbones.

it’s the first time you see how big of a man he is. he’s been working out a lot in the past few years, with considerable results — standing this close to him highlights the contrast between his frame and yours.

the footsteps leave the office not long after, and the door closes. you’re finally able to breathe properly when he releases his palm from your mouth, and you inhale and exhale deeply.

“you alright?”

“yeah. that was just — scary.” you respond, cracking a little smile.

he nods, neither of you really moving in your places yet. “you can let go of me, y’know.” mingyu whispers, sounding entirely unconvincing, and you frown before looking to your hand that’s apparently been clutching his jacket this whole time.

“oh, yeah. sorry.”

“it’s okay.” he assures you, pointing to the ceiling. “we should probably head back.”

you agree and sling the bag over your shoulders, on your back. he gets onto the desk first so he can climb out the same window you used to get in, and once he’s gotten up the roof again, he extends his hand to you so he can pull you up.

it doesn’t go smoothly. he’s a little clumsy, but he manages, so you take a breather once you’ve made it out of the office with him. you close the window in the exact position it was before you opened it, and you make it to the safety of the rooftop where you started just twenty minutes ago.

as you quickly go down the stairs of the abandoned building to reach the ground floor, he laughs triumphantly. “holy fucking shit. i can’t believe we actually pulled that off.”

you smile at him with adrenaline still rushing through you, heart still pounding in your chest when you realize what you just did.

and honestly, you don’t think you’ve ever felt that… alive.

a mere fifteen minutes later, you’re seated in a half-empty diner with him. he’s across from you in the booth, elbows on the table as he fiddles with his fingers.

while he looks around the place, you take the files you found in the safe out of your bag so you can look them over.

as your eyes fall onto the first page, you frown.

mingyu notices your gaze. “what’s wrong?”

you switch to the other file folders before scoffing to yourself, realization hitting you. “you gotta be fucking kidding me. they’re tabs he kept on the people around him. the staff at home, his driver... even me. and you. well, looks like he didn’t trust you completely.”

before he can even reply to the subtle dig, you slide the folder with his name on it across the table, and he opens it up, noticing a huge chunk of information on him neatly stashed away in separate documents. there’s even candids there that must’ve been made by a private investigator.

“i knew he was paranoid, but this takes the cake.” you mutter, and you throw the folders back into your bag, and mingyu hands you his so you can take it as well.

“well, this sucks.” he sighs. “those files aren’t of much use, so now we’re back to square one.”

you tilt your head. “that’s not entirely true. we might be able to check where the gun came from, or whose name it’s registered under.”

mingyu hums, lifting the cup to his mouth, whispering a compliment, not really expecting for you to hear it. “smart girl.”

with your bag zipped up and everything off the table again, it’s quiet between you and mingyu for a moment.

“god, i’m starving.” he says as you wait for your food to arrive, and where he’s slightly fidgeting in his place, you sit completely still, looking at him with a frown. once he catches your gaze, he raises a brow at you. “what?”

“do you do this often?”

“eating in a cheap diner?”

“trespassing. breaking in. illegal activities. whatever you wanna call it.”

he shrugs. “occasionally. keeps life interesting, y’know?”

the casualness in his attitude makes you scoff. “sure.”

“you don’t agree?”

“i didn’t say that.”

“no, but then again, you don’t really say much at all.” he says bluntly. he doesn’t mean it as an offensive statement in the slightest, but it would’ve probably sounded better if worded differently.

for a moment, he thinks his impulsivity must’ve upset you, seeing as you remain silent for a moment.

then you laugh at him. the sound is completely new to him, yet strangely soothing to his ears.

“you’re bold, i’ll give you that.” you snicker before taking a sip of your coke. “but i assume you don’t have an issue with people who are on the quieter side, since you’re besties with wonwoo and all.”

mingyu mimics your facial expressions. “yeah, i prefer being around quieter people more. but i didn’t—it came out wrong. i meant, you don’t really, like... show who you are. if that makes sense. even back when we were in high school, you were like a mystery. you still are, to me.”

“is this what this whole partnering-up thing is about? you wanting to unravel the mystery about me? because if it is, i’ll give you credit for the creativity.”

mingyu tilts his head. “well, it’s a little more nuanced than that.”

“if you wanted to get to know me, why didn’t you try years ago?”

“have you met you?”

you roll your eyes. he smirks at you, enjoying your company quite a lot, anticipating whatever it is you’ll say in response.

“you wanna know something, mingyu?”

“yeah.”

“you’re telling me i’m the mysterious one, but i’d say that’s you.”

his playfulness falters a bit, and he shows his confusion instead. “me?”

“mhm. you’re popular, good-looking, charming, all of that — and i think you’ve got layers to yourself that no one even knows about. characteristics no one would ever dare imagine when they think of you.”

his breath hitches in his throat. “why do you think that?”

twisting your lips into a pout, you put your drink back down on the table. “wouldn’t be any fun if i outright told you, would it?”

mingyu narrows his eyes at you. you just shrug, as if to tell him he’ll figure it out, if he’s smart enough.

and he welcomes the challenge.

“okay.” he smiles, biting his lip when he leans back in his seat. “but, hypothetically — what if you’re wrong about me? what if i don’t have those layers you’re talking about?”

you eye him up and down, remaining quiet with your arms crossed over your chest. you’ve always had that attitude. like you know more than everyone else, as if you’re the smartest person in the room. usually, you are. and yet you’re never smug about it, unless someone challenges you to be — you’re always calm, cool, collected. stoic. the fact that wonwoo of all people called you an ice princess years ago says enough.

“i’d be sorely disappointed.”

“so you have high expectations of me?”

“in a way, perhaps. though you’ll have to work a little harder to impress me.”

“tonight wasn’t enough?”

“it was a start. we still loathe eachother, remember?”

“right. i’ll keep that in mind for next time.”

sure, you and kim mingyu hate one another, but he still makes you smile the most anyone has in ages, and you make him feel more alive than anyone else has.

vii. FRIENDS CLOSE, ENEMIES CLOSER

“i’ve got bad news.” you say, tapping your nails on the coffee table in your living room as you have mingyu on speaker.

“okay. do tell.”

“the gun isn’t registered, so we pretty much only have the files as evidence.”

“yeah. i doubt your father put those files together himself, since they seem like the work of a professional. we might be smart to seek out the private investigator who gave him the intel.”

you know he hears you sigh at the other end of the line, and your response hardly sound convincing. “yeah, i guess.”

“what’s wrong?”

it’s quiet for a moment. you speak up with a tension rumbling in your chest. “maybe we should just quit, gyu. i don’t feel like what we’re doing is actually going anywhere. we still don’t have a proper lead.”

then it’s his turn to remain silent, and you swear you can hear his breath shudder. “we’ll get there. it just... takes some time.”

“you sound a little too sure of that.”

“i just think it’d be a waste to not continue after the stunt we pulled last week.”

“what’re we gonna be doing next? breaking into the national bank?”

“something tells me you’d find that exciting.”

well, shit. have you become so transparent that kim mingyu of all people can tell the truth about you?

“maybe i would.” you grumble like a child admitting defeat.

the sound of his laughter echoes through the phone. it subconsciously brings a small smile to your face.

“look, i have a meeting ‘til five. i can come by after to brainstorm about things, pick up some food on the way. are you free tonight?”

“yeah. text me when you’re on the way here.”

“yes, ma’am.” he jests, saying he’s got to go before hanging up. it leaves you to stare at your phone for a minute. a past version of yourself would never believe it if you said mingyu would ever get close to you in the way he has over the past two months. it’s been a strange time. it’s come to the point you’re pretty sure you don’t even hate him as much as you used to.

maybe you don’t even hate him at all anymore. maybe.

but something about admitting that to yourself feels scary, so you put your thoughts elsewhere while secretly looking forward to having him come over again.

it’s a quarter past five when he sends you a message, letting you know he’s picked up the food and on the way to your house, and a mere twenty minutes later, you and him are seated in the lounge on the first floor as he tells you about his day — all while shoving a dumpling into his mouth.

what interrupts you, however, is the noise of your doorbell. mingyu frowns instantly, and you mimic his expression, because you weren’t expecting any more company. “who’s that?”

“no idea.” you shrug, so you get up from your seat, jogging down the stairs with mingyu following you, simultaneously chewing the food in his mouth.

checking the screen beside the door that’s connected to the doorbell, you notice a familiar face standing outside.

“isn’t he the main detective on the investigation?” mingyu asks rhetorically, his body language changing to something more stiff. “what is he doing here?”

“good question. i certainly didn’t invite him, but the guy at the front gate probably told him i was home. fuck — you have to hide.”

“hide? why?”

because the detective thinks you still hate mingyu, so seeing him here would make your story hardly plausible. “because he can’t see you, obviously. get upstairs and stay there. i’ll distract him.” 

“are you sure?”

“yeah, so go!” you push him back with your hands on his chest, and he seems hesitant to leave you by yourself, but he eventually jogs up the stairs again to get out of sight.

the inspector smiles only as a formality. you do the same. you haven’t spoken to him since you indirectly accused him of being an asshole, a while before your father’s funeral.

“good evening. i hope i haven’t come at a bad time. may i come in?”

“i have to take a business call soon, actually, so another time would be—”

“i won’t be long. i assume you’d like to have an update on the investigation?”

well, fuck. he’s got you there, so you’re forced to let him in, but you don’t let him wonder and gesture for him to sit down in the living room, on the couch. you move to take the seat directly across from him to ensure his focus is on you, instead of on the huge staircase behind him.

“am i still at the top of your list?” you ask. when the man tries to find the right words to respond, you scoff, filling in the blanks. of course you still are. “but you have no evidence.” 

“it’s not about evidence — moreso the lack thereof. i’m stuck with two people who each have a solid motive, an alibi that’s far from foolproof, and an important tie to the victim. you cannot deny that.” 

“is this another interrogation? because this is all off-record.”

“not an interrogation. i was just wondering something — back when i spoke to you last, before your father’s funeral, i asked what you could tell me about kim mingyu, your father’s former associate.” hearing him say his name makes you anxious, yet you pull every possible muscle to hide it. “you spoke of him as if he were the devil himself. you clearly hated him, perhaps more than you hated your father.”

“and?”

he pulls something from the inside of his jacket, and you discover they’re a few candids, photos taken of you with mingyu while out in the city. well, that’s just fucking great. you’re gonna have to make use of your top-notch acting skills here.

“i’m sure you wouldn’t mind me asking why you’re suddenly seeing someone you claim to hate as much as you do.”

the blankness of your face dissolves as you adapt a more playful and sassy persona. “you came all the way to my home for this? a few photos?”

“a few photos of my two main suspects together for a reason i cannot think of, yes.”

“you can’t think of a single thing? really? no offense, but i was under the impression you were at least a little clever.”

the man stares at you as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle. that can only mean one thing — he’s falling for your act.

what an idiot.

you lean forward in your place, the dry smile remaining on your face. “i fucked him. several times, actually.”

he narrows his eyes at your statement. “i thought you told me you hated him.”

“oh, i do. but a good hate-fuck is the best way to release some frustration. you should try it sometime.” the sound of your voice is monotonous as you utter the words in one go.

“i’ll keep it in mind.” he sarcastically responds with a fake smile, and you copy his body language, pleased to see you’ve made him somewhat uncomfortable.

he clearly wants to change the subject, but you don’t feel like continuing this conversation any longer. “if you’ll excuse me, i really have more pressing matters, so i trust you can see yourself out.”

the inspector huffs a bit, but he knows better than to overstay his welcome. he wordlessly allows you to let you walk him to the door before turning around. “i hope you know who you’re dealing with. not everyone is who they say they are.”

leaving you confused, he looks at you a moment, proceeding to walk out your front door, after which you close it. did he know more than he was willing to let on? what a strange visit.

when you finally decide to turn around, you see mingyu standing in the middle of the stairs, looking a little baffled, at which you roll your eyes.

“why would you tell him that?”

“would you have preferred it if i told him the truth?”

“would that be so bad?”

you scoff, passing him on the staircase. “see, this is what i mean when i say you’re not as smart as you think you are.”

mingyu follows you back up to the lounge. “i’m just saying — maybe it’d make us look less suspicious.”

“it’d do the opposite, gyu. trust me.”

“okay. fine. but out of all the things you could’ve said, why that?”

“well, it made him uncomfortable, making it easier to get him to leave early. and, well… you know what you look like.”

the last sentence really grabs his attention.

“what i look like?” he repeats, knowing damn well what you’re getting at, but he’s eager to hear you spell it out for him.

“well, you’re somewhat good-looking. it’s one of your few strong points, actually.”

“so you think i’m hot?”

“didn’t quite say that.”

“no, but you implied it.”

“not really. you may be conventionally handsome, gyu, but attraction is a whole different thing.”

“oh, c’mon. admit it. i’m willing to, so…”

“do i need to remind you i said we’d keep things professional? which you agreed to.”

“god, you’re so tough.”

“part of my charm. maybe that’s why you like me so much.”

“i never said i liked you.”

“no, you didn’t have to.” you scoff, laughing at him, and mingyu feels the corners of his lips curling up — because you’re right.

then, as you plop down on the seats in the lounge again, you sigh as you look at the papers scattered across the table.

“you know, it’s been weeks, and we still haven’t got the slightest clue who’s the killer,” you frown, fingers resting on your collarbone, “and if i’m being honest, i doubt we ever will.”

mingyu briefly narrows his eyes at you, proceeding to take his laptop out of his bag. you watch curiously when he silently types away at his keyboard, then turning the device around and clicking on the play button.

suddenly you hear your own voice, and the words — you said those during the interrogations. how the hell did he get his hands on those recordings?

he seems to be able to read your mind. “i’ve got a contact in the force. he sent me the sorted files of everyone who was interrogated. we should probably listen to them, right? after all, we know more about the situation than the detectives.”

blinking a few times, you shrug and nod in agreement, so he increases the volume and presses the button again.

the following two and a half hours are spent listening to the recordings and taking notes of important things. you’re only halfway through them, but doing this the whole time really sucks you dry of energy.

at a certain point, you press the pause button and get up from your seat, moving to the liquor cabinet a few meters away. “you like a good whiskey, right?”

“yeah. how’d you know?”

“i observe and listen. that, and i heard you say it to wonwoo one time.”

he chuckles at your words, watching you take the bottle with two glasses and set it down on the table.

once you’ve poured the liquid into the glass, he takes what you offer him and down it in one go, after which you give him a judgemental stare. “seriously?”

“sorry. had a rough day.”

your gaze softens, and you pour him a second glass as he holds it out. “why?”

“i just… haven’t been feeling great lately. not really sure why.”

well, that’s interesting. “your conscience eating away at you?”

his eyes widen an uncharacteristical amount, and your face is blank for a few moments until you crack a smile. he laughs it off, squeezing his hands together, which you take notice of.

“guess you could say that. no, i don’t know. my sister’s been stressed and she won’t tell me why, which is odd ‘cause she always comes to me — and my mother’s been overworking herself, and i’m worried for her.”

pursing your lips together, you cast your eyes down for a moment.

for some reason, you feel a sense of repulsiveness whenever mingyu speaks of his family like that. as if it’s a reminder of what you didn’t have.

but you don’t show it.

“sounds tough.” you reply, not intending to sound distant — you just find it difficult to know what to say.

what you fail to recognize is that mingyu sees it. he sees your struggle and the emotions you think are so deeply hidden underneath the surface. they actually are, to be honest, but he’s come to know you and with that the way you hold yourself. and he’s suddenly able to read you better.

you’re made of sharp edges only — broken glass on all sides.

he takes another sip of his drink. you down yours in one go.

“can i ask you something?”

“sure.”

mingyu’s eyes curiously follow your every move, the alcohol in his system making him bolder. “how are you holding up?”

“me? ‘m fine. why do you ask?”

“i think mostly ‘cause i’ve asked you a lot of questions, but not that one.”

the words make you silent for a moment, and you let out a knowing sigh when you realize what he’s getting at. “i told you i was glad he died, gyu.”

“i know. but even if you are, you can still find it difficult to deal with.”

you inhale and exhale slowly, leaning back against the wall for a moment, staring into nothing. “i’m not sad that he’s gone. i never will be. but there’s things i wanted to ask him.”

when you don’t continue, he asks you to. “what things?”

“things about my youth, my mother… hell, maybe even about you.” you shrug, chuckling for a brief moment, but the sound is gone as soon as it came. “but i think, mostly, i’d ask if he saw himself in me.”

mingyu is intrigued by your answer. “why would you wanna know that?”

you shrug, your tiredness contributing to you opening up. “because maybe i’d hear the answer i want to hear, and not the one i currently have. my worst nightmare has always been to turn into him.”

“you won’t be like him.” he tries to tell you, but you shake your head.

“i already am. i hated him to the bone, and yet i act like him, sound like him, handle things like him — because he taught me everything i know. at the end of the day, i am my father’s daughter. there’s no changing that.”

“you’re not a bad person. he was.”

“how would you know? he was nice to you. stand-offish, probably, but nice.”

“you don’t think i had an idea of what kind of person he was? i cared for him, but i knew he could be harsh. i caught some bits and pieces when he… yelled at you after our high school graduation.”

you have an almost visceral reaction as he mentions the incident. your father had yelled at you after the graduation, because the best student of your class got a prize on the big podium, and it wasn’t you. and that as a result made your father angry, because being in the top five wasn’t enough — because it should’ve been you.

it was always supposed to be you.

“why did you even want to be around him at all? if you knew how much of an asshole he was all this time.”

mingyu stares at the wall for a few seconds when he thinks about it. “he came into my life when i needed it the most. but looking back, i feel guilty. i shouldn’t have cared for someone like that.”

“like what?”

“someone that cruel. he didn’t deserve to be loved or cared for, not in any way.”

“can only good people be loved?” you ask in return, and he seems positively surprised at your question.

“you’d find love for a bad person?”

“mingyu.” you say his name in a brief chuckle, and it steals his breath away. “do you think you have that much of a choice over who we love? we don’t. that’s what makes it so complicated.”

he seems to grow increasingly stressed with each thing you say, much to your surprise. “but would you want to love someone like that?”

looking away from him for a moment, you think his words over. “if that person was good to me, and had the same values… yeah, i would. trust me, the few people i care about are no saints, and yet i’d go to hell and back for them.”

“am i on that list too?”

you meet his eyes, and his expression is so beautifully genuine, full of raw emotion you’ve never seen him show before. it’s then that it finally hits you — kim mingyu actually cares about you.

the worst thing is that you just might care about him, too.

so you gently smile at him with a light shrug of your shoulders. “maybe.”

he reciprocates it, his brown eyes blown wide as he gazes at you. “i’m glad. you’re on my list too, y’know.”

“am i?” you tease, and he nods cheerfully, happy to have verbalized his appreciation for you. “well, i didn’t really see it coming, that’s for sure.”

your words bring mingyu’s thoughts back to the death of your father, the rift you accused him of causing between the two of you. a wave of guilt comes flooding in once more.

“look, i… i know you may not believe me, but i genuinely feel sorry for what happened. for taking something from you. despite the things i saw and heard, i really was too stupid to see that your dad treated you as badly as he did.”

staring him right in the eye, you don’t fail to catch the earnestness in them. “it’s alright. you’re not half as much to blame as i’ve tried to make myself believe you were.”

the words intrigue him. “how come?”

swallowing the lump in your throat, you press your lips together. “because he didn’t care about me. he never did. maybe he was different before my mother died, maybe he wasn’t. i wouldn’t know.”

mingyu tries to hold his ground as he watches you get emotional. he remains quiet in his spot next to you.

“can i tell you something?” your voice is hesitant and almost inaudible, like a child who’s trying to tell their parent they did something wrong.

when he silently nods, you continue.

“you wanted to know why i hated you, right? well, i...” you pause in an attempt to find the right words, “i felt invisible to my father. like i didn’t matter — i was treated like nothing more than a tool to improve his businesses. but you... he treated you like a son. like a person. and i spent years trying to figure out what i did wrong and you did right, and i just... i didn’t get it. i still don’t. but whatever it was, i was jealous that you had it and i didn’t. and everyone loved you and praised you, be it our friends or their parents. everyone in our social circle. from my point of view, no one had ever uttered a single bad word about you, and then when my father began to take a liking towards you as well... i just hated you. you were my perfect scapegoat.”

the guilt on his face is clear as day. when he parts his lips, you already know he wants to apologize again, but you shake your head, speaking up first.

because you don’t hate him anymore.

“mingyu, there was nothing for you to take away from me to begin with. long before you were even present in his life, he didn’t care for me either.” with the corners of your lips turned down, you continue. “i did everything he asked. perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect social life. but he didn’t care. it’s not often i say people have no heart, but he just… he just didn’t have one. for his job, perhaps, for his business partners — but not for anyone outside of his work. i just didn’t think that would go for his own child, too.”

you reach for your forehead, trying to take his attention away from your face, running your hand through your hair while blinking your tears away. why are you telling him all this?

but it just feels so good to finally get it all out.

“you did the best you could.” he tells you, and you nod with watery eyes.

“i did. and somehow, none of it mattered.”

when the first heavy sob leaves you, you try to hold it back, not wanting him to see you break down.

he doesn’t let you. he moves to sit next to you and takes you into his arms, and for the first time in however long, you let yourself break. the tears are your acknowledgement of the pain it has caused you over the years, the damage that will never quite heal and always follow you wherever you go.

you’re not sure why you’re falling apart this easily. you hardly ever cry anymore, perhaps a few times a year, and you usually feel strong enough to hold it all back when you’re in front of others, but this time — this time, you just can’t.

“it’s alright, sweetheart. it’s okay. you’re alright. he’s gone now.” he whispers into your ear as comfort. “but you’re not alone. not anymore.”

his heart shatters when he internally makes the comparison between the loving family he grew up in and the lonely, broken family you could hardly call home.

“why wasn’t i enough? why didn’t he like me?” you mutter to yourself, having lost control as you cry into mingyu’s neck, clinging onto his body as your chest aches.

“because he couldn’t. he didn’t have it in him to care for anyone. that says more about him than it does about you.” he responds, gently stroking your hair, even pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

and for the first time in a long time, you feel… cared for. like you truly matter to someone.

something that feels scary, perhaps even strange, but good.

mingyu’s big arms cage you into his hold, a comforting feeling. to be honest, you wish you could stay with him like this for the whole night. maybe even longer than that.

he rubs your back, feeling the pain in your chest as if it were his own. he’d take all of it if he could. you were damaged in a way that no one deserves, and seeing how much it still affects you and most likely will in the long term, that tears him apart.

the heavy ache in your chest subsides, yet you still cling onto him. you feel the most at ease you’ve ever been with anyone.

“thank you.” you mumble, giving him a tight hug with you wrapping your arms around him ‘till he’s almost suffocating. “i needed that.”

“anytime.”

you eventually finally come down from your breakdown, body slightly twitching as the last tears silently roll down your cheeks.

with your head in his lap, you lay on your side, closing your eyes for a while as the pain in your chest slowly subsides. he’s still rubbing at your clothed skin, and you’re curious if he’s aware it does wonders for calming you down.

“i’m sorry for yelling at you, gyu. after the funeral.” you speak up, voice still raspy. “i was wrong about you.”

mingyu feels his throat tighten up. “it’s okay. i was wrong about you, too. we have more in common than i initially thought we did.”

you wipe your tears away and move to sit upright, finally feeling confident enough to look him in the eye again. “like what?”

both of you are tired. everything that’s happened the past weeks has definitely been causing some sleepless nights for both of you, and with all the alcohol and emotions running high, you’re both feeling a tad drowsy.

he runs a hand through his dark locks. “this part of society — i think it’s exhausting, a lot of the time. full of noise, small talk that’s supposed to hide how cold half these people are, social pressure, all of that. but here, at home, it’s quiet. maybe a little too quiet. the thing is, i have my friends and family that i care about more than anyone else, but i still feel… hollow. like i’m missing something.”

you nod at him. “you can be surrounded by people and still feel lonely.”

“yeah.” he sighs. “do you feel it too?”

“well, i may not have a family, but i have my friends. and they mean so much to me, and i can talk to them if i need to, but… yeah. i feel it too.”

he wonders if you feel the same connection that he’s feeling right now. he’s drawn to you like a damn magnet.

mingyu already knows he’s a goner when he gently puts his hand on your cheek. he feels electrified by your presence, your voice, even the way you look at him.

he needs you.

“maybe we can be lonely together.”

his words are enough for your breath to hitch in your throat. you doubt you’ve ever wanted to have someone as much as you do now.

and so you cross a line you never thought you would and press your lips to his, desperately needing his touch.

the kiss is harsh but slow, as if you’re aching to taste eachother. his hand makes its way to the back of your head, the other on your back to pull you closer to him.

his heart might as well be lurching out of his chest. god, he feels that excitement and nervousness as if he were his teenage self sharing a first kiss with his crush — yet whatever feeling is clouding his mind is something darker and deeper, something that transcends what he can describe with words.

he kisses you like his life depends on it. once you’ve both pulled back to get some air, looking the other straight in the eye, it’s like you’re silently admitting that the relationship you share is more than just being partners.

it’s something that comes alarmingly close to love.

the moment is harshly interrupted when his phone rings. he blinks a few times before rolling his eyes at the timing, as he’s still half on top of you.

you can do nothing but wait underneath him as he takes the call, and when he closes his eyes and releases a sigh, you know it’s not positive.

“alright, thank you.” he says before hanging up, turning his focus to you. “the alarm at my apartment in the city was triggered. i gotta check it out, i’m sorry.”

“it’s fine.” you mutter out, suddenly unsure of how to talk to him now that you’ve crossed the line that you have.

but mingyu is much more straightforward. his gaze is warm and intense as it finds your eyes, and he wants nothing more than to stay here with you. so he shows you that.

just when your lips are about to touch again, he smirks, gently holding your chin. “i’ll be back for this.”

with those words, he catches his breath and gets up from the couch, after which he jogs down the stairs, and half a minute later, you hear the front doors open and close.

the sound allows you to release the breath you’ve been holding.

what the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

thank you for reading. let me know if you enjoyed it x

READ PART TWO HERE

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔗𝔬 𝔗𝔬𝔲𝔠𝔥 𝔉𝔦𝔯𝔢

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Isolated and weary of your solitary marriage with the prince, you gather enough courage to approach him one night with the declaration that the both of you try to become better acquainted. When you had proposed the idea, you never could have imagined how it would forever alter the dynamic of your union.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: 18+ content. Minor's scram. AFAB descriptions, some female implying terms used such as "wife." Fingering, Oral (F!Receiving), naked female and clothed male, some hints of sub Aemond, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink. Not proofread. Probably very poorly translated High Valyrian, blame the internet, not me. Aemond being a little shit, but also a little soft, just to balance it out. Aemond speaking in High Valyrian because it does unspeakable things to me.

𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰: 24.8k words. Another unnecessarily long fic because I have no self-control. Reader is a Baratheon. This was honestly just an excuse to write about dragon riding with Aemond. A little bit of Vhagar appreciation because she receives far too much hate.

Life has not been easy as of late. With the threat of war ever-present, looming over the entirety of Westeros like a great storm cloud, thick and heavy with the promise of shrieking winds and a downpour violent enough to rip the foundations of the Seven Kingdoms from the earth and sweep them away in tides of blood. This war could be the end of it all. With dragonflame so readily at the disposal of both opposing sides, there is the possibility of no victors in this battle. All could very well wind up as a victim. Charred corpses to litter the burned lands, scorched black and red from fire and blood like forgotten toys carelessly left discarded and damaged by the children (or the gods) that played with them. 

It is becoming increasingly difficult to nudge it all - the paranoia and worry - back to the distant recesses of your mind. But it clings to you like a stubborn sickness. Making a home in the pit of your stomach like some vile, nauseating thing. It has you hopelessly adrift with no source of salvation to cling to. Especially now that you are in a place that brings you no comfort. Confined within the cold, labyrinthian walls of a castle that you do not truly know beyond the whispers of its name and the faint, watery memory of once dining in the Great Hall as a child while people jovially chattered and feasted on banquet. 

It's all so lost. Being forced to show a polite expression and nod and entertain lords and ladys that hold no true familiarity or warmth to you. Strangers with faces that would smile and stare as though they have known you for years. It is all so restricting. Binding and tight and clinging to your person like the new garments that you have been gifted with upon your arrival to the Red Keep; forced and expected to sport the customary garb and accessories of the Targaryen culture and trends. All wrapped up and pinned up in fine jewelry and embroidered fabrics like a prized broodmare. 

But perhaps then, even "prize mare" is giving yourself far too much praise. Prized pawn is far more fitting of a term. Just some plain, ordinary piece meant to be moved about the board at the whims of the player. Plucked to jump from square to checkered square with little care. You are a simple instrument on a much bigger board; the scope of which, you know is entirely beyond you and your imaginations. 

It makes it all so difficult to not be cross. To push down the anger that prickles at your flesh like hot coals and burns within the chasm of your ribcage. You feel cheated somewhat. Used and played with despite having prepared for this possibility since the moment you had been delivered from the safety of your mother's womb and into the chill of the world. It should be no shock that you have found no comfort. Not in your daily duties and the nugatory responsibilities and diversions you must fill your time with; all of the needlework, entertaining and book reading. It is tedious. Dull. Weak distractions against your harsh reality. That here, so far from home, you are well and truly at your lonesome. Wed to a man who wants little to do with you beyond your expected obligations.  Though you might truly have only yourself to blame for that. Your husband had worn his intentions on his sleeve when he had arrived Storm's End that one tempestuous evening, bearing his true colors to your father and your sisters when he had traded for the Baratheon House's allegiance and loyalty in the exchange for accepting your hand in marriage. He propositioned such terms swiftly. Shockingly so. Sheading little thought to the requirement - it was as easy as breathing for him. All while you stood alongside your sisters, being mindful to keep your spine rigid and head held high while your future was bartered away so easily; swallowing down the unease that stirred in your gut. 

And even with your reservations on the matter, and the buried urge to rush forward and object, you could not help but to study him from your place beside your siblings. You had heard stories of the Targaryen family your entire life. And although you had seen them once before as a young girl, the memories had done little properly illustrate the nearly ethereal grace with which he carried himself with. The first word that had crossed your mind when you first watched him prowl into your family's ancestorial home was simply just:

Stunning. 

For most men you would have used handsome, or dashing. And perhaps those words could be used for the likes of Prince Aemond Targaryen, but there's something about them that does not quite do him the proper justice. He was imposing as soon as he entered the space. Footsteps softly echoing along the stone floors as he approached your father's throne with nothing but pure confidence in his stride. As though you were the guests and not he. And like a moth drawn to a steady open flame your vision had immediately been caught and fastened onto him as though you were placed under spell. 

A simple, harmless fascination, you like to tell yourself. After all, it is not so strange to be captivated by a man who is said to be closer to a god than man; one who rides on the back of a great dragon. And when you first saw him, even with all your uncertainty of his arrival, it was impossible to look away. To try and not to study the countenance of a man you have heard so much about. Tracing the pronounced ridge of his aquiline nose, the keen cut of his jaw, the curved shape of his lips that were set with a slight purse. His features were decidedly sharp, but it suited him well with the assured way he held himself. The scar that marred the left side of his face could do nothing to damage his beauty. A beauty that is so inherently Valyrian. Attributes that mark someone who has blood of the dragon rushing through their veins, smoldering their hair into shades of smoke. And his hair was no different. Spilling down his back like rivulets of pale, silver silk. 

But it was his eye that had caught your attention the most. Even with only one to look, it peered at the world with a focus that was nearly unnerving. Locking onto your father in striking shades of either blue or violet - you could not tell at the time from the distance that had spaced between you. 

And in the moment that you had stood and evaluated him with a sense of wonder and dread, his eye had never flickered over to you. He had hardly spared you a glance. Holding his focus entirely on the Lord before him with the hints of a satisfied smirk nudging at the curled edges of his mouth, even while he held himself so composedly. Like he was truly pleased with the trajectory of the evening. The lack of his attentions on you should have been more than enough to clue you in on the trajectory of your life with the prince. Moreso than the ominous tempest that raged outside the stone walls. Downpours and thunder are no strangers to Storm's End, often ravaging the world beneath with flurries of rain and winds strong enough to lift waves to thrash the against the surface. But that day you had decided that the storm that had blotted out the golden hue of the sun was not simply just a common occurrence, but instead a bad omen. One brought on with the arrival of the prince, set as a warning - a blight on the future of your matrimony that heeded nothing but misery. And you had been right in some regards. 

You knew for certain that as soon as Aemond Targaryen had stepped away from you to stalk after his young nephew with the insistent ravings, flashing a blade with nothing but a crazed scorn in his voice, that you would find no solace within the cradle of your marriage to the prince. And the death of the Velaryon child and his dragon that swiftly followed that night only solidified that assumption. You are married to a mad man. 

One ruled by duty and strategy, but a mad man, nonetheless. 

Even with that in mind you could not help but to long for a connection with the prince. No matter how minuscule or spurious it might be. Your associations with the second born son have been spars at best. Done purely out of obligation at best. Each time you had ever been within each other's presence it had been out of a means to project the image of husband and wife that was expected by the masses and the court. The wedding, the feast you had partaken in, the consummation of your marriage. It was all done with an air of detachment from the prince. He was never rude, or untoward with you, but there was silent boundary that he had sliced between you with his absence and apparent lack of interest in your union. The nights that he would bed you were few and far in between. Done out of the necessity of producing an heir rather than a means to show affection. You could feel it in the clinical way that he touched you. Gentle, firm and somewhat rigid when he would guide you to bend over the foot of the bed with the palm of his hands, lifting up your skirts swiftly as though he is always eager to be done with it and somewhere else. 

You are not a foolish young girl anymore who would listen to your late mother's romantic stories and tales of besotted, star-crossed lovers with a rapt, captivated attention. You now know the nature of marriages. Especially those of highborn society. The expectations of them. They are often done out of the means to strengthen political alliances, not done out of a declaration of love. 

Still, it would be nice to at least know the man that you are set to spend the remainder of your life until the Stranger finally takes you from this mortal realm. The desire for it burned at you, ate at you with teeth that ripped and gnawed at your heart piece by vicious piece until you felt hollow. Not even Queen Alicent, despite her best, though often rare efforts to bring you ease has managed to pull you from the depths of your melancholy.

You wanted more. You were weary of belonging to a stranger. A man who made no attempts for as much simple conversation with you but spent every waking moment strategizing for bloodshed and the success of his house. You knew that if you meant to alter the course of your union with the prince that it is you who must go to him. And the thought of that terrified you greatly. 

You had heard the tales of those who dared to claim dragons that had no desire to be asserted. Those fools' endings were all same. Snapped up between the sharp maws of the great beasts to be swallowed in a gruesome lump of bloodied meat and crushed bone or engulfed in raging flames of bright, molten gold. You had absolutely no desire to become one of those fools. And despite knowing your husband so little, you were able to gather enough, that despite his cunning, he was also undeniably impulsive. Lead by the ferocity and the heat of the dragon blood that coursed throughout his body and burned within his soul like the fire they spit from their throats. If you went to him in the endeavor of drawing him into a connection that he truly did not seek, the only thing you might gain in turn is his ire. 

And so, you had resisted the urge for as long as you could. Settling for the brief interactions you shared during the supper's spent with the family, or the moments when he would meet you within your chambers to do his duty has husband and prince in the hopes of planting his seed and creating his successor. But it all quickly caught up with you. It was not enough, living on the meager crumbs that these encounters provided. Quickly you had decided that you would rather hypothetically get scorched alive by the scorn of your husband than continue to spend your days as a living dead woman, drifting about the cold corridors like a ghost wondering about the life that could have been, had you simply just confronted him. 

It was nearing the night, just little before the hour of the bat, that you found yourself standing outside the doors of his chambers, with soft lilac hues of the twilight slipping through the windows that lined the corridor and painted the floors in dusty shades of lavender. It was purely unbecoming of a young woman to be out so late without an escort, even if she was intending to meet with her husband. It had made the anxiety quivering in your chest even stronger. Fluttering like some wild, frightened creature while your mind swarmed with paranoia and hesitation. Your thoughts had seemed determined to persuade you from your intentions, begging that you turned heel and returned to your quarters before you were noticed. 

Perhaps he was already abed. Deep in slumber and at peace in his rest. Or perhaps he was not even in his chambers at all. Busy with matters beyond yourself. 

It was all almost enough to tear your feet from their place on the floor, but your body seemed eager to betray you, and before you could even notice the movement of your own hand, it was lifted and the sound of your knuckles rapping against the cool wood of the door had rung out within the confines of the hallway. Sharp, loud, and almost violent in your ears. Echoing out like nails being struck into the face of a coffin. 

You nearly flinched, mouth running dry at the realization of what you had just done, and with it the urge to flee had never been so great. Trembling up your spine like a cold breath. You had hoped that he would not answer. That he truly was asleep or vacant from his apartments, but like a twisted jest, the universe had answered your desires, and the sound of his voice slipped from beyond the door. Muffled by the obstruction, but no less commanding. Unable to ignore the call, you had drawn in a deep breath. Steeling yourself and the relentless patter of your heart before you drew the door open and slipped past the threshold with the drag of your skirts whispering ominously as you went. 

The air had seemed to shift when you had entered, and the shadows that clung to the corners and ceiling of the room felt as though it was prepared to swallow you whole, had it not been bayed away by the low flickering the candles that burned about the space like plumes of delicate amber. Your eyes had flitted about the quarters like a startled doe's, desperate to learn the structure of the area as though you might have to flee. Your vision had skipped over the various tomes and documents scattered about the tables; the random objects placed about in meager means of decoration. But you could appreciate them at least, for giving you a small glimpse into the mind of the man you have been bound to. Much like the chessboard left perched atop a tabletop, like a clue to his intelligence and keenness for scheming, and the quills and ink vials and parchment spread along his writing desk. 

But you were only able to distract yourself for so long before your attention had been tugged along as though by an invisible string to focus on the man sitting across the space from where you stood, one of the aforementioned documents held within one of his hands while he watched you steadily. His expression was mostly neutral. But even with how easily he was usually able to school his features, you could see the hint of surprise bleeding into his gaze. The subtle raise of his brow and the confused purse of his lips. You could practically see the question ready at the tip of his tongue, and you loathed the awkwardness that permeated the air. Stifling and prickling like a rash along your skin. 

"Wife," he finally greeted. Though you could still hear the dull bewilderment in the softness of his tone. 

It took you a moment to collect yourself, feebly trying to shake the uncertainty that still clung to you and when you had finally willed yourself to speak, you could only think the gods that your voice did not quiver, even though it was but a few words. "Lord husband," you returned the acknowledgement, nodding your chin slightly in substitute of a curtsy.  You watched closely as he gently placed the document in his hand down flat on the desk, tracing his face and the shadows the spilt across his features from the dim candlelight and the remaining, dull remnants of sunlight that managed to slip in through the windows; the reflection of the fire and sun glinting within the captivating shade of his eye. 

"To what do I owe the honor?" He inquired. 

It had been enough to snap you out of the daze that had clouded over you, jerking you from it so suddenly that you had nearly gasped with the realization that you had been staring. Embarrassment burned at your cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. You cleared your throat, straightening your shoulders in an effort to at least appear confident, but you swore that you had caught the edge of Prince Aemond's mouth twitching up in the semblance of a smile, letting you know that you had not succeeded in your aim. 

"I wished to speak to you." You had answered, clasping your fingers together in front of yourself, and you were now unable to ignore how clammy they had become. 

"So late in the evening?" Came his quick reply, the brow above his good eye perking ever so slightly. And if you did not know any better you would let yourself entertain the idea that it nearly sounded playful, had his face not been so woefully lacking joy. 

"Yes," you said just as fast. You had to ignore the weight of your tongue in your mouth. It suddenly felt too thick. Too clumsy. 

He only hummed in response to your answer. The sound was low and inquisitive, thrumming through the air like warm velvet. And though he had not spoken a word back to you, the singular eye that had he pinned you with bore into you with enough focus to drive you to speak. Forcing the words from your still lungs like a grip that did not exist. Wringing your breath from your body with only the weight of his gaze. "I would like . . . " Your voice died out as quickly as it had risen, snagging within your chest like it had been caught on something. It did not help that your nerves were alight. That your heart was beating wildly, like a skittish animal. But it was mostly just irritating. It had made you feel stupid, the way that your body refused to yield to your own commands. Far too caught within the spell of a primal sort of caution and reluctance to relent to something as easy as talking. 

"You would like to. . ?" Prince Aemond articulated the question slowly, letting it hang between the both of you, as though you were a child. Annoyance had spread throughout your flesh like a wildfire, and for one idiotic moment you contemplated snapping at him. But fortunately, your self-preservation still clung strong and forced you to be mindful of your tongue. 

"This may sound odd," you began, swallowing around the spit that had welled up within your mouth. "But I would like to get to know you better, my prince."  

It sounded completely stupid as soon as you heard it from your own ears, and a part of you had longed to wince but you remained surprisingly unflinching. But Aemond it seemed, had been taken by complete surprise. Even though the slip in his composure was quick and subtle, you caught it. The mild slump of his shoulders, the straightening of his posture, the soft pinch between his brows. All of these minute tells that told you so much, though they were gone just as quickly as they had shown. Melted away and replaced by a composure that must have taken him years to perfect. 

But no matter how small his shock had been, the sight of such a naked, human emotion flickering across his face was enough to break the barrage that sealed your voice. The words seemed to flow from you more freely then in a rush of thoughts and feelings; desperate to finally speak your mind and make peace with yourself, and most importantly him. 

"I hold no delusions over this marriage. I know that our union was a strategic one, brought on by the possibility of a looming war, and the foundations of it are clear." Your sight had flickered back up to his own once more, and the hold of his stare once again threatened to leave you breathless. "I realize that we are not truly lovers, however, I do not think that must mean we are to be strangers also. I wish to know you, husband. I do not expect your affections, or love, but I desire at least the possibility of your attentions. An understanding of each other. And perhaps, if it is willed, a sense of companionship. A comradery." 

He remained horrendously silent from his place across from you. Watching you with a keen eye while the hand that still rested along the desks surface fidgeted, the point of his mid-finger ceaselessly gliding along the back of his thumb. It had made you nervous, the way he watched you. Akin to a predator lurking in the shadows, awaiting its moment to strike for its prey's vulnerable throat. You must have stumbled. Foolishly, like the greedy men in all of those ancient folktales. You slipped within the dark and it was then you knew that the dragon was stirring; throat welling up with fire to burn you down for being so presumptuous. 

"So you are here, in the beginnings of the night, interrupting me in the midst of my duties, because you are lonely?" 

That all that you needed to know that you had truly wandered too close. Assumed and hoped too greatly. Blindly walking into the dragonpit to be burned alight like kindling for a fire. And even with irritation gnawing at you and begging that you speak out in your own defense, you had known that you must tread lightly, even while the prince scorned you like you were a naive girl child chasing after some witless fantasy. He wished to humiliate you it seemed, and even while he was entirely successful in his aim, you would not give him the satisfaction of showing it. But you knew that you had to be tactful. An unchecked rise of your emotions would only serve to go against you. 

"Yes, my prince," you had agreed without wavering. And much like your own, his gaze had shifted. The sardonic edge that it had held changed into something darker. More directed than even before. Studious almost. But no matter how much gravity it had held, it was no longer enough to withhold you from speaking. You kept your voice as light as possible, but the firmness, the fervor behind it was more than apparent, drifting out to fill the silence of his quarters. And with each sentence, you let the courage that you had not allowed before to guide you a step closer to the prince. "Yes, I long to know the man that I am to be tied to until death. Yes, I long to know the father of my future children. Yes, I long to know my husband." And with that you allowed yourself to halt after your final step. Then you were so close to his writing desk that if you had leaned over you could have easily reached out and touched him. But you remained fixed in your place, hands still clasped and shoulders high. "Regardless, if my husband will become a lover or simply an ally." 

He remained silent in his observations. Regarding you closely as though he expected you to suddenly give way underneath his stare and dash out of the room. But you did not. Not even when the chill of apprehension trembled along the expanse of your back, sneaking underneath the fabric of your garments like a cold draft. He shifted back in his seat, muscles coiling underneath the dark leathers of his doublet and for a moment you had considered the idea that he might lunge. That he would strike forward like the instincts of his blood no doubt urged him to do. At the very least, you had suspected cold words. A detached response that would order you to return back to your apartments and to leave him undisturbed of your person until he saw fit. 

"Very well then . . . Wife." His head tilted just the slightest when he addressed you, and the glint of his eye reflecting the light of the many candles seemed to bore into you; notching the words he spoke that much deeper and nourishing the surprise of his agreement. "I will make more of an effort to appease your loneliness, should it bring you ease." 

It was because of that decision - because of that night, that your relationship with the prince had been altered. No longer did he suit to sit along your side at social gatherings, tightlipped and rigid, but now he made somewhat of a strive. Much more than before. Though still quiet, he took more attempts to include you in the conversations that he would bother to indulge in. Typically, unremarkable topics that he would try to join you in on, like snide comment on the lords and ladies or an observation of your gowns. Prince Aemond, you easily concluded, had no idea how to speak to the fairer sex. A characteristic that you might have let yourself see as charming if he were not always so subtly contemptuous and withdrawn. Even with all of the improvements with his communications, his presence itself was still scarce. Constantly torn away by the impending threat of calamity and battle. 

And no matter how much you knew that his absence was entirely necessary for the good of the kingdom, especially after the Battle of Rook's Rest and the unexpected injuries that have left the King bedridden and near death, the prince was sparser than ever, with him assuming the role of Prince Regent in his brother's stead. But like a poison, that bitter, selfish part of you could not help but to be displeased by the near constant lack of his company.  

Today however . . . Today you might actually be regretting his attempts at companionship. 

"You still have not told me the nature of our outing, my prince!" You call to him, trudging after him like a shadow with your skirts bundled and clutched within your palms as you desperately attempt to keep up with his much longer stride uphill. The muscles of your calves have already begun to burn and ache with your body already growing weary of the incline, and the weight of your dress does little to aid you in your climb along the earth, still damp from last night's rain. Realistically, there are only a few paces between you and he, but in your mind, it feels as though there are stretches of land separating you. 

He only offers you the barest look, hardly even glancing over his shoulder at you as his long legs continue to carry him upward. "For someone who is so desperate for my time, I did not expect to hear any complaints," he answers, full of snark even though his tone remains just as steady and soft as always. 

Heat prickles at your cheeks. Though now, with your exertion, it is difficult to ascertain if it is simply from your efforts to trek after him or purely from annoyance. A retort rests heavy on your tongue, but you are unsure if you should bother spending your breath on it. It is tempting. But perhaps later. "It is no complaint; I am simply wondering just where it is that you are taking me. If you wished to go for a walk, perhaps the castle grounds would have sufficed . . . or at the very least, a mention of it would have given me time to at least prepare for more a suitable attire." 

He spares you another glance, managing to look down his nose at you from over his shoulder as he continues his ascent until he reaches the leveled crest of the knoll. Leaving you to chase after him while the damp soil, and soaked grass and wildflowers threaten to slip your traction out from underneath your feet with every step. You have never had the urge to strike the prince before, but here and now, you think that you could if he were only close enough. This time he opts to remain silent. Returning his attentions on what lies ahead of him, and it has a flicker of concern breathing to life inside of you. The paranoid, unfounded thought that he means to kill you tries to sprout. It would explain why he had lured you so far away from the safety of the castle walls, and why he had chosen to leave both of your mounts downhill and unattended to graze. How pathetic it would be, to be slain in the middle of the wood, like a dumb girl lured away by a fae in an old folktale. 

And if the treasonous whispers that dart about the castle are true, that he had been the one to strike down the king above the battlefield of Rook's Rest, then surely, he would have no qualms about killing the likes of you. 

Still, while irritation and caution thrums underneath your flesh, you cannot but help to stare at the expanse of his back as you near the top of the hill, taking in the sight of the confidence in his posture as he all but struts along the earth. The sunlight dances along the pale shade of his hair, bringing to life the faint hint of cream and soft gold that hides within the silver. He is gorgeous out here like this. Relaxed within the peace and confines of nature, while the little birds nestled inside the protection of neighboring trees chatter and trill. For a rare moment like this, touched by sunlight and the air, perfumed with the musk of a storm passed and the fragrance of flowers, it is easy to pretend that he is still not a complete stranger. That the impossible gap that seems to divide you both has grown closer, and he does not look to you as an obligation but as a comfort. 

Another fool's reverie perhaps. But a sweet one that you cannot help but entertain while you raise your muddied skirts to strengthen your stride and widen your steps in the hopes to gain on him. But then blessedly his pace finally begins to slow, giving you the means to finally draw in your straining breaths and lessen the expanse between you, making sure to near him from his right, so's not to walk in his blind spot. He tilts his body just the slightest, angling it so that he is able to give you his focus as you draw near, and you have to try your hardest not to gasp and gulp for air in front of him. You need to give him no more reasons to tease and prod at you. 

The glint of his eye, a color that you have now discovered to be a delicate, yet vibrant shade trapped between a soft blue and a muted purple draws you into his stare as you approach. It seems to hold you captive, grabbing your attention as you come to walk alongside him, no longer huffing and panting, and the ache in your legs begins to subside. 

"You have asked to become familiar with me," he speaks suddenly. Not a question at all, but a statement, and the mention of it has your brows raising just the slightest as you manage a nod. "All I ask of you is that you do not scream or allow yourself to panic." 

The sound of those words alone has ice prickling along your skin and settling within the pit of your chest. And the sensation of your apprehension melding with your bewilderment does little to aid you in properly asking him what he could have possibly meant by such a cryptic statement. The inquiry hangs heavy in your mouth like metal, and your jaw seems to open on its own in the means to ask him to clarify. But then, as though it had been timed, a guttural bellow rings out across the placid atmosphere. Humming so heavily that you feel the weight of it vibrate underneath your feet as though the earth were speaking, shaking a small flock of tiny birds from their perches within forest, forcing them to scatter and flee into the clear sky above. 

The abrupt noise of it has you all but tearing your vision from Prince Aemond's unbothered, observational expression to whatever lies ahead of you. And your eyes nearly bulge from their sockets at the sight of the behemoth that lies only several yards away. How you had managed to miss the sight of such a monumental creature is entirely beyond you. The only excuse you could possibly make is that the beast has flattened itself along the floor of the clearing, leathery wings lazily stretched open, head resting in the miniscule cover of the knee-high wildflowers and grasses that scatter along the hilltop in what might be some sort of attempt of basking itself underneath the suns glow. 

It is a beast that you easily recognize despite never truly having been within its presence. The sheer mass of the creature, and the rich green shade of its skin easily gives it away as the great Vhagar. You have heard of her name from countless stories. Those passed on down from generation to generation to speak of the ferocity and brutality of the battle hardened she-dragon, of how the size of her alone could blot out the sun from her flight. You have even caught glimpses of her in the air before. Often from within the confines of the castle while she soars high above and far from reach. None of those rare moments or stories had done any justice in depicting the true scale of her. 

And while you stand, gawking like a slack jawed idiot at the sight of her, you can only manage but to wonder the dumb, fleeting thought of how the Crown could ever possibly manage to supply enough sheep for her appetite. And then any semblance of awe or shock is twisted into a pure sense of dread and a primal fear. Your mind blanks as you try to form some sort of reason for you being here. Why Prince Aemond could possibly desire for you to meet his dragon, but you are left with naught. Something primordial and blazing sears throughout your veins with urge to run, but you find yourself frozen stock still instead while your lungs struggle to move and catch breath. You feel as though you have passed away on the spot and left your body behind to, trapped within this singular moment. 

It is not until the dragon begins to lift its head up inquisitively that you manage to regain any control of yourself at all. The sight of her lids peeling open to reveal blazing amber eyes are enough to force your lost voice back into the base of your throat. 

"Wha - why have you brought me here, Aemond?"  

The look he gives you is entirely unsympathetic. If anything, it seems to be amused. The corners of his lips threaten to perk in the shadow of an arrogant smile. If your heart did not feel as though it were seconds away from overexerting itself and giving out entirely, you are sure that this time, you would have struck him. You would love to hear the impact of your hand meeting the shape of his cheek and snuffing out the pompous way that he is holding himself, but he steps away from you before you can even think to act, fearlessly striding in the direction of the colossal dragon. 

"You long to know a dragonrider, lady wife," he answers with the cool timbre of his voice trailing after him and to you. "Flight with one with be the best way to make that connection." 

You are certain that your heart has well and truly stopped with that statement. That it turned still and unrooted itself from the cavern in your chest to plummet down below into your gut. And for a moment you wish that you have misheard him. Despite your internal panic, your brain manages to scramble and put the meaning of his words together quite quickly. The urge to refuse or ask him to clarify illudes you. You are far too bewildered. Too trapped within the seize of your own chaotic emotions to properly articulate yourself and your reservations. There's an anger stirring in you as well. Brewing and twisting with everything else, spurred on from the haughty glance he had given you before making his approach towards the beast he is bonded with. 

You try and fail to connect his reasoning. The logic entirely beyond you, but when you look upon his face it becomes quite clear. No matter how brief your eye contact had been, you saw the dare that had been dancing in his eye quite clearly. He was challenging you. He is expecting you to turn on your heel and run from the trial that he has set before you. And that has lit a sense of competition in yourself unlike any that you have ever felt before. 

He is no longer paying you any attention to see you coming to a sudden grip in resolve. Instead, he has drawn his observations to his dragon, who has lifted her head just enough in a proper greeting to accept the way that he runs a hand along the slop of her enormous muzzle, just above those massive, gnarled fangs that poke like her lips like daggers. The span of his fingers seems so small posted along the swell of her snout, like little more than a speck. And yet he stands before her so confidently. Free from the faintest edge of discomfort or fear. Instead, you hear him murmuring soft words to her. Speaking quietly as though she were a babe in need of praise or encouragement and not a battle worn goliath that has lain waste to armies and dragons alike.

The sound of his ancestor's tongue is beautiful as always. In your short time together, you have heard little of the language from the prince, but when you do manage to catch the glimmers of it from him you make sure to listen keenly. It flows past his lips like a rich silk; all but rumbling and sweeping around words that you do not know but find captivating regardless. It makes you wish that you did understand them. 

It is astonishing that no matter how small the prince appears now in comparison to her vast scale, he still holds himself so proudly. His shoulders are set straight, and head tilted high: the posture of royalty. All while he composes himself alongside a monster that could easily open her drooping maw and swallow him whole. 

But of course, she does not. A low grumble trembles forth from the wide set of her chest, reverberating throughout the air in a sound that could nearly be likened to the purr of a contented feline. It is shocking to see the famed - the feared Vhagar in such a light. And to similarly see the prince in such a manner as well. Both of them are calm. Peaceful on this tranquil, balmy evening. Untouched by their shared excitement for battle and bloodshed. 

It's akin to watching a pair of ruthless gods' slumber. 

And it seems to be that, more so than the sense of rivalry that has been kindled, that inspires you to move forward. No matter how uncertain you truly feel. Despite your reservations the odd sweetness of the situation still has you drawing close. All while a frigid kind of fear pools in your stomach. So, you try to focus on the little bits of life around you. The cheerful singing being carried by the birds of the forest, the soothing whisper of the air shifting the leaves, the saccharine scent of the colorful flowers that sway in the grass. It is all so soothing, so delicate. But still, it does little to appease the anxiety coursing throughout you as you grow closer to the beast. 

With each step forward, she seems to rise bigger; the growing proximity between you both only making her true mass even more apparent, as you are confronted with the mind-boggling truth of her scale. There is no safety of the castle walls to save you, the collection of the trees that surround you in a half circle would not serve to shield you should Vhagar decide that your presence is an irritant. Her potent fire would consume the forest and you with it with a single breath. Here and now, you know that you rely entirely on the word of Prince Aemond to keep her violent urges at bay. 

And that both comforts and terrifies you. 

You make your lungs draw in a shaky breath that does little to calm you as you step closer to the she-dragon. But you are certain that there is not a single thing on this earth that could truly bring you serenity as you bear witness to her. Never in your life have you ever stood before a being that has ever made you feel so miniscule. Not even the sight of the stars in the cradle of the night sky, in all of their multitudes and vastness as come close to the trepidation or awe that she has roused in you. You are small. Insignificant in terms of her looming stature. Pitiful in the decades that she has lived and the feats that she has achieved. You know now why the dragons are said to be old gods. You can hardly process that you are now right in front of one. Watching the rise and fall of her ribs as she pulls in massive breaths. The subtle shake of her wilting neck that shifts as she angles her head in your direction to study you with eyes that almost seem to burn with the fire contained within her. 

Her nostrils twitch as you come to stop alongside Prince Aemond; near enough that your shoulders nearly brush, but a part of you craves the dim amount of comfort that he provides. She is trying to smell you no doubt. Trying to take in your scent as means to familiarize herself with the stranger who travels with her rider. 

"You may touch her," Aemond offers. Or orders perhaps. 

It catches you completely off guard, like most things this evening. Regardless of the gentleness of his tone, it is difficult to tell if it is a suggestion or a command. Having what little knowledge you have of the prince in mind it was most likely the latter. Or it is another challenge of his. 

The sharp blue of his eye pierces through you once again like he is waiting for you to cower. But now, the prince's concerns and expectations are second at best when it comes to the interest of Vhagar. The brief flicker of your gaze on her confirms that she is still quite placid in mood. Her eyelids low with the remnants of the slumber that she had been goaded from. But that still does little to calm you. Dragons are unpredictable creatures. Gaining a trust of her this easily would be ignorance. 

"Does she wish me to?" You ask, and you see that twinge of what might be amusement grace Prince Aemond's features once again. 

"She will hardly pay you any mind." That is his assurance. A useless one. Your unease is strong. But your desire to please your husband, to beat this little challenge that he has set for you, and to form some sort of relationship with the prince - no matter how fragile - is stronger. With all the courage you can muster you begin to lift your hand. Slowly and steady in your movements as not to cause the beast any annoyance. You would not want to suggest to her that you feel entitled to touch her. Dragons can be opinionated things after all. 

A low noise rolls from her throat at the sight of your hand raised just above her muzzle, just where Aemond had lain his own earlier. It gives you pause. Old, primeval instincts rising inside of you bid you motionless. To wait and see what her move will be next. If she will calm or open her armored jaws to snap you between them. 

"Lykirī." 

It is Aemond's voice that speaks out. Low yet firm in its inflection as his tongue purrs out the elegant High Valyrian word in a silky drawl. You know not what he said, but it was enough to appease whatever offence you might have committed. She blinks slowly in response and the growl dies down into a soft silence. Still, you now find it difficult to lower your hand. Sensing your hesitance, or perhaps weary of it, Prince Aemond's own is suddenly engulfing the back of it, nearly threading his fingers with yours as he guides your palm downward. The weight of his flesh along yours comes as surprise. You have felt your husband's hands on you before. In much more intimate places, but it is the care with which he directs you with that almost seems foreign. New and delicate.

Currently he wears his gloves, usually seen on his hands whenever he intends to take flight, and you hate how a piece of you longs to feel them bare. To touch the callouses along his palm, made from wielding the grip of swords in combat and clasping the horns of Vhagar's saddle. It is a juxtaposition to the much softer skin of your own. But you do not find the texture of them offensive in the slightest. You could almost relish the sensation of it had they not been covered by soft hide instead. 

He leans his body much closer to yours. So much closer that the light brush of his breath glides over the side of your face and the length of your throat. The scent of him wafts from his body in the musk of leather, the spice of dragon smoke and the crisp fragrance of wind. It makes you wonder if he had flown long before he had come to the castle to retrieve you. It is all so distracting. The press of him along your arm, the mesmeric sound of his voice whispering soothing words in his ancestor's language. 

But reality comes back to you quickly in the weight of the dragon's flesh settling flat underneath your palm; rough and thick. You have heard before that dragons run hot. Heated up by the fire roaring within their chests. Those words have not prepared you for the warmth that radiates from her and the strength of it. Of the coarseness of her flesh. How sturdy it is. Much like the leathers used in creating amour. Though you suppose that the purpose of her skin is the same. 

Her massive nostrils flicker again and her eyes squint as she watches you. Studies you really. As though she is weighing and measuring you of your worth. Which is not a farfetched idea. It is the dragon, after all, who chooses its rider. She must be deciding if you are worthy of standing in her presence. 

The elation that floods you at the feeling of her beneath your hand comes like the scattering of butterflies. A smile threatens to break across your face at the small success. A rush of joy from still being alive after touching one of the most violent war dragons the earth has ever seen. 

"Are you prepared to ride?" 

Aemond's question rips you from your elation like a sudden storm smudging out the bright warmth of the sunlight. The smile that could have been dies out with the happiness that had filled you. It is water doused over embers. And with it the urge to snap at him is back in full force. No, you wished to answer, you are not prepared to ride, because you were not told that you would be expected to until only moments before. But you keep that complaint to yourself. Locked within tightly as not to offend the prince and the dragon whose massive mouth rests directly underneath your open palm. Still, many questions gush up and stir a torrent up within your mind. 

"How am I expected to do such a thing, my prince?" 

The look that crosses his face appears tired. It makes you wonder if you have somehow asked something foolish, but you come up empty on what that could have possibly been. It is a perfectly expected question. A dragon will only choose a single rider at a time. And only those who are blessed with Valyrian blood could have the potential honor of sharing such a bond. An ancient line that you have no direct lineage to. But the stare that the prince is holding you with now is one of exasperation, yet also sardonic. 

"You will sit on the saddle; I thought that much was apparent." His lips have pursed slightly, making his expression a blend of smug and annoyed. He is toying with you once again. It also makes his boundaries quite apparent. There is to be no possibility of a bond between the two of you unless you push when he shoves. If you let your offence get the better of you now while he clearly raises his challenge, then your relationship with him will be reduced to nothing more than his child bearer. A vessel for his future heirs. You shall not yield. Not even while your heart races like that of a rabbit who has been tricked into a corner by the snarling fangs of a hunter. 

You are soft but firm when you remove your hand from its place tucked between Vhagar's flesh and Aemond's palm. Your determination rests easily on your face as you turn to observe the netting of ropes that are draped down the side of her great neck as a means to climb astride her. Never has something seemed so daunting before. Not the day that you were bid to leave the familiarity of your life in Storm's End, nor the moment that you had given yourself over to Prince Aemond in matrimony. They all seem so little now as you allow your hand to grip one of the lines of worn rope. 

"Lykirī, Vhagar." 

A nervous sweat dampens your fingers as you squeeze your grip along the course lines, the frayed edges digging into your soft flesh. The sound of your husband placating the beast rings in your ears like a warning though she has not stirred from her position against the forest floor, even while another rumbling hum echos from her chest. It trembles throughout your arm from being so close to her, rattling up your bones. For a moment you contemplate removing yourself from the makeshift ladder, but the firm, urging glare that Aemond shoots you from his place beside you and the embers of your determination spur you to continue forward. 

"I will be behind you," you hear him promise as you haphazardly lift your skirts to enable yourself to place a foot upon one of the rungs. It is now you who hardly offers him a returned glance as you focus on raising yourself along the ropes. You expect for Vhagar to disturb upon the weight of you heaving yourself along her neck, but she does not. She remains blessedly stationary as you urge your body to move upward to scale the high length of her neck, for your mind to remain quiet and centered through your internal panic. The way that the ladder wobbles unsteadily as you work to lift yourself does little to quell the way that your stomach flips with the growing effects of nausea. 

You could swear that many moons have passed by the time that you have made it to the top of the ladder, where the ropes meet the smooth leather that creates the structure of the massive saddle. The seat of it is far greater than any other you have ever seen; those having been suited for horses and not the great backs of dragons. But even considering the long forward slop of what must be the equivalent of the rise and pommel and how the cantle stretches slightly backward to support the rider's spine during an upward flight, it is more than apparent that the seat is designed for only a single person. Every bit of grace room is only available for the positioning that must be required in flight. The design of it allowing for the rider to lean forward comfortably in the seat or relax backward, if necessary, but offering little more than that. 

If you were both truly meant to ride together it would be an awkward fit. Surely not one safe for something as perilous as flying. 

The urge to question this little goal of his rises up high. But instead of voicing your concerns you opt to follow through with his desires. If the two of you do truly not prove to fit on the seat and it turns into an ill sighted blunder on his part, then at least you will be able to silently bask in the pleasure of seeing his arrogance dim at the realization of it. 

You reach for some of the leather straps that lie between the junction of the rope ladder and the saddle, using your grip to hoist yourself upward again, slipping a foot into one of the rungs to push yourself within the range of saddle's lowest set of horns. Your fingers can only reach the base of the grip from your current height, but it is enough to enable you to hoist yourself towards the cradle of the saddle, though your muscles burn with the labor. Some torturous thought wonders what would happen should you slip and fall from such a height, and you struggle to block it out entirely as you continue your clumsy ascent. Using the hold that the flat of your feet have within the straps to keep yourself secure as you work on exchanging your hold from the lowest grip and onto one the horns belonging to the higher set to haul your body upward, swinging your right leg out to lurch across the seat. 

It strains your arms as you angle yourself, and the length of your skirts threaten to snag on the curve of your knee when your all but throw your body onto the saddle. But by the grace of the gods, you make it. Your chest slightly heaves from your lost breath, and your muddied skirts have pulled and rucked up above your knees in the most unbecoming manner from the stretch of your thighs around the width of the seat. But you hardly have the ability to pay it any mind while your nerves still cause your limbs to quiver, and your body burns with an excess of energy. 

While you collect your breath, clasping onto the horns of the saddle with both hands tightly enough for the edges of the leather bound around them to bite your palms, the sound of the wind's current whispering in your ear tugs you from your anxieties. 

It is then that you finally realize just where you sit. Comfortably astride the largest dragon, looking down on the world from the ridge of her back. You could see above the trees from this point, the stretches of the wood that gave and showed the lush rolling hills that expanded far beyond your sight. It was all so small and yet so vast this high up, once again making you realize the scope of your existence. You can spy glimpses of King's Landing up in the distance. The glimmer of the rooftops and the spires of the Red Keep, almost lightened in a shade of bronze from the cast of the evenings golden light. The sea beyond it glittering in a reflection of the sun, like a flat mound of shifting coins. 

The sudden weight of a hand clasping the grip along the free space just above your own snaps you from your awe. You hardly have time register it as the prince effortlessly swings himself into the saddle, notching a place for himself between your hips and the support of the cantle. His presence forces you to scoot further up along the swell of seat, much higher up than you are meant to be, but the press of his body flat against your own gives you little choice. The angle of it practically has your rump perched against his hips. And when his other arm reaches around your other side to grip the opposite horn of the saddle, you find that you have been completely enclosed in his body. His chest is pinned snug along your back, and you can feel the point of his chin nudge along your shoulder as he looks past you. 

There is something horribly intimate about it all. Something that you did not even think to consider when you agreed to this. But now that you can fully feel the warmth of him seeping through the layers of your garments to slip through your skin, you could not find any other word to call it. If your mind was not already so preoccupied with your anxieties, it would have easily latched onto the fact that your skirts are still indecently rucked around your thighs, improperly showing off the fabric of your stockings. It could have made you fidget or heat up with embarrassment had you the mind to, but you are far too preoccupied with what is to come. With the weight of your husband so near you. So high up here, with the wind stronger than it had been down along the ground, his scent seems to pool around you. It fills your lungs with musk and spice, and your body longs to draw it in like a glutton, but you do not allow yourself to. You manage yourself to maintain the steady inhales that you have been taking thus far. 

"Remain calm," he reminds you. 

As if on cue Vhagar begins to shift. Her giant head lifts from the meadows floor with a low grunt, as though the action alone costs her a great deal of energy, causing the weathered, battle worn flesh along her neck to wobble loosely along her throat. A bout of nervousness prickles in your gut as the motion jostles you forward. On reflex, your grip rightens around the horns, latching onto the pitiful bit of comfort they prove. Anxiety spreads along your fingertips and toes as she digs the wrists of her great wings into the earth to push herself onto her feet. A simple action, but for you it invokes nothing but unease. Her movements continue to nudge you about, all but prodding you backward to the press of Aemond's chest, and now you are actually thankful for how he is seated behind you. Offering a sense of support that you might have fainted without. 

You can feel the subtle shift of her muscles even through the saddle, and it wobbles just the slightest from the quiver caused by her old flesh. It has your unease spiking. And you think that you yourself could fly, fueled by nothing but your own apprehensions. 

There is a noticeable shift in how she holds herself once she balances on her legs. And incline in her spine lifts as she raises her head high, removing her weight from her wings to unfurl them. You can hear the leathery sound of the thin skin unraveling, spreading out wide enough like sails of a colossal ship preparing to leave port. 

You know what is coming, but you naught of how to weather it. All you can do is stare ahead, looking past the expanse of her neck and to the sky above that you will soon be soaring through. He must be able to sense your anxiety. Or perhaps he felt the tension of it in your back, in the rigid set of your shoulders, because he manages to press himself even closer against you. Like he means to cradle you to him. He releases a single hand from its grip long enough to place it along your waist to steady you. Your mind instantly latches onto the sudden pressure and warmth of it. Your body longing to lean into the weight of his palm but you keep yourself motionless as he leans himself close until you feel the brush of his words along your neck when he speaks. 

"Be still, wife." His voice rumbles out all placid and velvet. The sound of it so close to your ear that it has a tremble skipping down your spine. You can only hope that the thick of your combined attire hid it from him, but his hand flexes against your waist; fingertips pressing inward, and you know that he noticed it. But he fortunately makes no open marks of it. "With me as your guide you will be safe. When she begins her ascent, lean forward into it. It will help to keep you balanced." 

And as quickly as it had appeared, his hand is gone from its position on your waist to return its grip on the horn. You crave to have it back on you again. To have the support of it on you once more, even with the phantom sensations of it still live on your skin, though you do not bother to dwell on your foolish desires. You can only focus on the instructions that he had set. The direction of it serving to ground you, even as the saddle underneath shifts just the slightest as her wings expand. Now entirely unfurled. 

The anticipation of it weighed heavy. Murmuring across the air like something electrical as though you were in the midst of a storm and lightning looms ahead. But apart from a few scattered clouds, it was all but clear skies. Vhagar was prepared to soar. Her muscles were coiled, stretched and tense, and were it not for your being astride, you are certain that Aemond would have commanded her to take off much sooner. If that truly is the case, you are thankful. 

His ribs swell slightly along your back, and the command slices through the air, simultaneously exacting and clement: 

"Sōvēs!" 

Wind claps underneath the great stretch of her wings as she lifts them only to bring them down in a powerful downstroke. It snaps her from the ground in a quick lunge, and the sudden rush of being airborne causes your stomach to turn. You scramble to come to terms with the abrupt weightlessness of your body. It is like all of the breath has been snatched from the depths of your chest as Vhagar brandishes her wings in great, long stokes that sound akin to tremendous waves crashing against the surf; sharp and frightening like a whip slicing towards its target. 

A horrid thought enters your mind, whispering vile things, such as what would happen should you fall off. How you surely would not survive a plummet from such a height. It has your hands tightening around the grips of the saddle. Squeezing so harshly that your tender palms sting. But you almost welcome the burn of it. It is a good distraction from the nausea, from the disorientation that comes from rushing far from the earth so quickly. Now she truly begins her climb upward, and you just barely remind yourself of Aemond's previous command; tipping yourself forward to press yourself along the swell of the saddle as she rises. 

Much as he promised, the change in your posture does help to keep your seat firm as she works to bat her wings to scale her flight. Aemond dips down low after you, resting himself over your body to follow his own instructions. Even while Vhagar approaches her ascent at a slant, the incline is still enough to put strain on your arms as your own weight attempts to pull your backward. You can already feel the strain of it in your limbs, searing along your muscles and setting an ache deep near your bones. 

Never had you ever truly put in mind the physical prowess and endurance a dragonrider must have to properly seat their mount until now. It almost makes you feel idiotic that you would not have truly expected the demands that such a thing would imply. Already the wind claws at your face, slicing at your cheeks like it means to maim you, stinging at your eyes enough to prompt tears to pour. It is difficult to draw in a proper breath as the air passes too quickly for your lungs to properly catch, making you fear that you might suffocate. It feels as though your chest could combust. From the debilitated ability to properly breathe or from the confused sense of excitement, you are not entirely sure. 

Your being has been split down the middle. Caught in a strange limbo of an icy terror and a bubbling kind of joy as she continues her ascension, carrying you both high until the forests below become less defined and meld into blotches of rich greens. You cannot tell if the laugh the begs to erupt from you is one of elation or hysterics, but it froths inside of you with a warmth that rivals the heat that radiates from the brilliant sun above. Your lips part in the semblance of a breathless laugh as your eyes dart to take in your surroundings. The earth is so distant now. Reduced to a flat stretch of emerald and hunter, and the gentle rolling slops of hills and valleys that, in some points giveaway to farmlands. You can spot organized rows of green that must be rich vineyards, and there are many quaint little houses and homely settlements that sparsely dot about the scape. 

Being so high up within the heavens makes the rest of the world seem so small. Reduced down to dots and shadows and shades of color. It reminds you vaguely, of the ancient war table that sits within the council chambers of Storm's End; the stubborn, enduring anatomy of Westeros etched into the face of it, mapping out all of its splendor in its factions and landmarks. 

Out of your peripherals you notice Vhagar's wings tilt, moving to level her body out of its angled position, settling so that she is able to coast on the winds. It near instantly releases the strain on your arms, allowing the sting to ebb from your clenched muscles as you will yourself to try and relax, and the harsh cusp at which the biting wind had struck you with finally loses its violent edge. Still quite strong but no longer clawing along the shape of your cheeks and your unprotected eyes like it means to rip at them. 

It is Aemond who straightens himself first, removing his weight from your back to properly sit astride, completely comfortable in his place along his dragon and untouched by a semblance of worry. Even though you cannot see him from his place behind you, you are still able to sense the composure that he holds himself with. He is entirely within his element. At home here on dragonback. The arm that had grasped the grip on the left of you releases, moving past the line of your vision to where he probably allows it to casually hang at his side, now supporting his clasp on the saddle with only a single, sturdy hold. 

It takes you much longer to will yourself back into an upright position; finding solace in the weight of the saddle pressed to your stomach. But is a crutch that you do not wish to exhaust, and so you right yourself until you can once again feel the expanse of Aemond's chest, snug against your own in an unintentional semblance of an embrace. That stubborn little part of you loathes how the other half preens at the sensation of it. Yearning to bask in affections that are not truly there like some lovestruck girl child that elects to ignore the obvious indifferences displayed by the object of her infatuation. It irritates you to no end. Filling you with a conflict that you do not wish to bear but are unable to ignore. Aemond does not love you, that much is clear. The nature of your union, the quiet apathy that he has shown you thus far have been unobtrusive but very telling in this. Even now, as he makes an effort to test the nature of your will and your desire to truly get to know him, hauling you upon the back of his dragon, it seems to hold closer bearings to that of a trial than a well-meaning rendezvous. 

The look that he had given you when he asked if you were primed to take flight was playful, almost in a malicious manner. Like he was expecting and counting on you to decline and flee. It makes you ponder if you have actually managed to surprise the prince by accepting his proposal and clambering astride the beast's saddle. If your decision to stay and meet his little challenge head on has pleased him at all. 

"Geptot, Vhagar!" Aemond commands, shouting to be heard over the roaring winds. Obediently, the great dragon adjusts the massive span of her wings, muscles rippling to rearrange herself on the support of the currents to redirect her glide in the direction of King's Landing and the vast glittering waters of Blackwater Bay that extends beyond. It is still such a shock to see such a tremendous creature acquiesce its will to the instruction of a man. A man that may sustain the blood of the gods, but still a man, nonetheless. 

She could consume the both of you a single snap of her jagged mouth. Your bodies would be a pitiful bite for her jaws. And yet she allows you to take up space along her back. To become a vessel to suspend you along the heavens to soar between the sparse clouds that hang within the azure cradle of the heavens like tufts of a lamb's fleece. Vhagar is a violent beast you know. You have heard the stories of her wars and blood-soaked accolades, the battlefields that she has left soot covered and smoking, littered with the remains of soldiers. She is a violent creature to be sure. Honed and defined by violence, and yet it is here, carted among the tepid winds, that you decide that she is a glorious behemoth. One whose years have been stained with the life's blood of millions, but it does little to tarnish the position she has taken in your eyes. Not necessarily one held by affections, but mostly a sense of respect and awe. 

You are not diluted enough to think that Vhagar holds any sort of esteem for you. Had you not been accompanied by her rider; you would have been lit aflame from so much as approaching her, but that simple truth does little to dissuade you from attempting to show her your appreciations though uncertainty and apprehension still takes root in your gut. Your hand has a slight tremor when you manage to peel your fingers from their tight grip around the horn. A symptom of the energy and searing heat that pumps through your veins at your body's instinctual fears rather than a conscious bewilderment, but you do not let it stop you from leaning forward as much as your reservations will allow to place a soft, unsure pat along her back. Though the size of the saddle is so great that you still only manage to stroke its leathers rather than the rough expanse of her flesh.

You know that there is no possibility that she managed to feel your touch through the thick of the preserved hide of the saddle. And even if the buffer had not been there, your hand probably would have felt like little more than the landing of a fly; bothersome and barely perceivable. But it still does work for you somewhat, to help in seeing her more as more than simply a vengeful, aggressive beast. 

It shocks you, when you allow yourself to gaze downward towards the horizon to see how quickly you are approaching the edge of the city. It has you daring to tilt your head downward to see past her wings to gaze upon the sprawling cluster of the buildings and structures that create the capital; the clay tiles of the many roofs burning in shades like honey and ginger. The rich hues only amplified by the golden tint of the evening sun. Smoke pours from the some of the stacks, puffing from the hearths, the people down below working to prepare tonight's dinners. The streets thread throughout the ancient settlement like tan lines of thread, intertwining and connecting to unify the entirety of the city, bustling with people who, from your high vantage point, look hardly more than little moving dots; completely unbothered by Vhagar's flight above. 

It's breathtaking. Literally, of course, with the winds that continuously rush against you, but also in the sense of how stunning the view of it is. Had you, in some other life, been blessed with the honor of a dragon, you fear that you would never come back down to earth. As the fear in your stomach begins to thaw and ebb, giving way to nothing but a bright awe, you realize that you could spend an eternity within the sky at peace. This may be freedom incarnate. Untied from the earthly responsibilities and troubles that ail you down below. Here, it is simply the wind beneath Vhagar's vast wings. The same winds that tug at your hair as though it means to unravel it from its dressings. A laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from your chest, rising with the brilliant, beaming warmth of joy, and the smile that tugs at your lips this time is irresistible. 

You doubt that the purpose of Prince Aemond spiriting you away on this outing had any intentions of truly extending an olive branch. Not one in the expectations of actually solidifying a bond between the both of you at least. This was meant to be a game of sorts; you are still entirely convinced. But even with that in mind, you are unable to feel anything other than gratitude. For so long you have been confined to the unfamiliar walls of the Red Keep. Forcing smiles upon your face to maintain the proper ladylike appearances for your social standing. Exchanging forged laughs with the men and women of the court, batting your eyes like a dazed fool as you suffocate within the entrapments of your own longings for home. Strangely, it is here, where the harsh breezes threaten to stifle to the flow of air into your lungs that you feel at your lightest since you have been at the Red Keep. He knows naught of what he has given you, and even if he did, you surmise that he probably would not care regardless. 

Despite the possibility of Prince Aemond's reasonings, it does not stop you from turning your head, rotating your shoulders as best as you can to enable the motion as you make to look at him. It knocks you somewhat off-guard to see that he is already watching you. You had also not anticipated the proximity between your faces, with hardly more than a hair's breadth left between your noses which are so close they could touch. If you only twitch forward the press of your mouth could easily brush along the plush of his lips. The urge of it comes with the realization that the prince has never kissed you. Not even whilst you both fulfil the duties of your marriage in the midst of the night. It has all been disconnected. Done with the same automated detachment that one does with their chores. It should serve as a cold dousing of reality. It should make the rise of your emotions die down into a tame hush, but it does not. 

Your chest heaves involuntarily at the weight of his stare - of how near he is. Your thoughts are tempted to unravel. To get the better of you and indulge in the smoky, lewd corners of your mind that you have not allowed yourself to entertain, like a sinner giving into their temptations. 

The intensity that always seems to lurk within his attention is ignited ten-fold by the way that the sunlight glimmers within his eye, twinging the flecks of soft violets and rich blues with glints of golden light; it bathes his face in the same hue, making it seem as though the pale complexion of his skin has been kissed and painted by the sun itself; set alight by the dragon's blood that surges through his veins like liquid fire. The tresses of his hair billowing in streaks of a pallid silver that rivals the moons glow. 

He is beautiful. You are forced to mark it once again. How captivating the prince is. Disarmingly so, much like the stare that he continues to pin you in place with. The weight of it seems to reach into you, brushing along the boundaries of your spirit and binding it with its grasp. You are unable to discern the reasonings of his intensity, of what his thoughts might be. If they lean in your favor, or if you somehow may have unwittingly foundered into his bad graces. Just how you may have possibly stumbled is beyond you, but his tempers and his motives continue to be elusive. Still, the desire to speak honestly still hangs heavy. If anything, his attention only amplifies the need. 

"Thank you." It leaves your lips delicately. Or as softly as one can project while soaring through the skies without their voice being lost to the wind, and you can only hope that he was still able to detect the depths of your sincerity and appreciation. But you are certain that he hears you. You see the recognition of it flicker in his eye. Something else passes through it as well. It is an emotion that is beyond your scope of understanding. One that you have yet to witness upon the typically neutral or sardonic expressions he tends to display.  

His eye flickers downward. As though it is tracing the shape of your lips, attracted by the sound of your voice when you had spoken your gratitude. For a moment, you think that you must have imagined it. But the steady focus of his gaze is unignorable. He is truly trailing the contours of your mouth with his stare like he means to study them. Transfixed with a similar brand of concentration that he displays when he pours himself over his duties. But there is a fervor behind it that you have yet to personally witness; smoldering in his stare so strongly that it nearly pulls you into a trance. A molten heat flows down your spine, settling inside the pit of your gut with a warmth that startles you. The magnitude of the sensation is a shock, pulling a ragged gasp from your chest and like a puppet follows after the tug of its strings, your head snaps back to face the horizon to break whatever strange influence fallen over you both.

Your vision blindly locks on what lies ahead, desperately searching for something to distract yourself from the hazed chaos that clouds your mind. Though it is hard to focus with the near fevered way your skin has begun to warm, your chest rising and falling rapidly underneath the hold of your garments. The eye contact that you had shared was broken, but the effects of it still linger on you. It envelops you tightly, tingling over your skin, whispering along your flesh like fingertips. It has bout of nervousness fluttering inside of you like a cluster of frenzied butterflies, and it melts when it meets the foreign rush of heat that muddles you, twisting into something excited and burning. 

It has you adrift in a torrent. Completely at the mercy of your own emotions and desires - the severity of which, you had been utterly ignorant to. You scan the rippling face of the waters below, and the sight of it has your mind sluggishly realizing that Vhagar has flown you all past the boundaries of the city and the edges of the land to coast above the glittering, shifting face of Blackwater Bay. It is a sight that would have encapsulated the entirety of your observation before. You would have delighted in the way that the cerulean waters underneath the dragon's wings reflect the suns light like diamonds laid out along a rich silk, but it has become increasingly difficult to do so as you have become increasingly hyperaware of the prince. The press of him at your back, the enticing warmth of him latching onto your skin and spreading so potently that you think it may have sunk bone deep. 

Still, you hardly have the ability to prepare yourself for the sensation of Prince Aemond melding himself closely against you until the faintest stretch of space between you has been completely eliminated. His hips nudge tightly along yours, all but nestling your rear even deeper into the cradle of them in a manner that is entirely crude.

A confused question rests heavily in your mouth, but it is all but snuffed out when he tucks his head against your own, hooking his chin over your left shoulder as the hand that he had previously dropped from the horn of his saddle once again raises to take its position back above your own, as though it had never left. It makes your heart beat wildly like the wings of a startled bird, and the enlivened rhythm only quickens when his scent envelopes you with his proximity. It swaddles you in that mouthwatering combination of leather and smoke. The earthy musk and robust spice seem to find a home in your lungs. 

"Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys?" 

The sudden velveteen sound of his voice over the whistle of the wind inspires your body to still. As though drawn under a trance every facet of your being seems to become inert. Quiet in its endeavor to listen to the words that spilled from him. You assume that he must be speaking to Vhagar. Entrusting another command onto her in his ancestors' tongue, but the beast makes no movements to suggest that she has heard him. The tone in which he spoke with was low, but purposeful. As though he were sharing a secret, conversational in its cadence. 

You are almost reluctant to draw the conclusion that he may be talking to you instead. For some reason, the idea of such a thing seems so ludicrous, despite having spoken to him before. In brief moments when your paths cross within the castle or when society demands it for appearances. He had exchanged words with you on the ground previously, just before Vhagar had taken flight, yet it all feels so impossible. Strange from the odd rapport that seeps into the atmosphere around you. The gusts that rush past you in dashing currents are unable to destroy the inviting aura that has dropped around you both. Yet is all still so jarring. Abrupt in a way that is strange and new. And the aspect that he is using High Valyrian has left you especially lost. Hanging onto words that you could not comprehend as though they were the answer to a salvation that you did not know you needed.  

"Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke?" His head tips much lower now. So dangerously close that his lips sweep along the edge of your ear when he murmurs to you. 

"I do not understand." You confess, daring to slant your face towards his. Such a minute movement but it has the point of his nose nudging at your temple, drawing him all that much closer. He hums in the back of his throat. A quiet sound as though he is considering your utterance. It is humiliating how it makes your entire being thrum with something that is suspiciously close to delight. 

"Pāsan ziry gaomas." 

Your brows pinch close in a confused furrow as he continues to use his second tongue. It is almost as though he is teasing you. Like he is prodding at a weakness that you did not realize you had; an animal nipping and digging at a wound to watch its prey jerk in its grasp. He is teasing you. The small clues there all connect and tie together a little too finely when the understanding creeps in on you. 

He knows, your consciousness decides quickly. He must have figured out the infatuation you have with his voice. The allure that it has on you when he especially uses it to articulate the rhythm of that old language. Perhaps he had seen it on your face. In your eyes, the way that your breath snags in your throat or how your muscles seen to tense with anticipation at the sound of it. It could make you embarrassed that you have been so obvious in your attraction to it. So much so that he means to taunt you for it so openly. But here and now, with his form so hot along your own and the desire that burns so steadily in your gut, you are unable to find it within yourself to be irritated or sheepish over the fact. 

"Ēza nyke pendagon " - the curve of his lip glides along your ear, and you swear that you can feel the damp warmth of his tongue trace the sensitive skin - "hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao." 

The shiver that skips itself down your spine is completely involuntary. You can only hope that he will assume it to be caused by the chill of the winds, but you know truly that he would be a complete simpleton to think so, and Prince Aemond is anything but. You are sure, without seeing, that his mouth has lifted into the faintest hints of smirk; the impression of it against your ear. Time stutters when his thumb sweeps down along the knuckles of your right hand. It is such a small motion. A gentle, subtle caress. One that would hardly receive one's attention but is so different from any other gesture he has displayed for you that it has something inside of you melting and turning tender. It is damning for you. 

Some kind of plea smolders on the tip of your tongue like molten honey. A plea for what is entirely beyond you. For him to relent and move away to give you air? But even simply the idea of such a thing has you mourning the loss that has not come. This entire situation is nudging at the boundaries of the dynamic you have built with the prince thus far. It is unexpected. Bizarre even. But also, entirely exhilarating in a way that fills your lungs with excitement and looms over your being with a charged type of anticipation. 

And then, just as quickly as he had invigorated the raw suspension between your bodies, he removes himself away from you to hold his posture straight and his thumb slips from your knuckles to return its grip on the saddle horn. You are suspended in air, but the loss of his warmth feels as though the support of the earth has been abruptly tugged from underneath your feet. Humiliation wells up, and anger. It seems like a jest on his part. A cruel trick for what purpose you are not certain. To stroke his own ego. To make you feel like a fool. 

It is bitter in your mouth. The tart of it induced by your bewilderment. It leaves you woefully unmoored as your body craves his even as he still remains behind you, his thighs and hips embracing your own. The whispering of the ocean-salted wind suddenly sounds like a lonely, warbling cry. But even while in the midst of your internal conflicts, the longing has yet to subside; instead pooling in your belly. A gasp pushes from your chest, and you urge yourself to look upon the waters beneath and the horizon ahead. Marking a mark of the clouds that drift about the golden support of the heavens, counting a flock of waterfowl that fly in cluster above the ocean as a means to collect yourself, though it proves to be futile. 

"Let us return home now, wife - the hour grows late." 

You make no means to return a comment or to refute. You remain silent as you both dread and crave the return back to the Red Keep. You have no desire to bear the facade that you have been masquerading in for so long, but being grounded may also help you in gathering the torrent of your emotions. Still, the flight back to Vhagar's chosen plot of earth outside the edge of the forest arrived quicker than you had anticipated, and the dismount from her saddle had nearly been just as awkward as the ascension. Neither of you had exchanged any words as you found your horses still hitched to the branches that they had been left posted at earlier, cropping at the rich grass near the base of the tree with their teeth. 

The bustling of the streets does little to assist the chaotic nature of your thoughts as you guided your mount through the crowds alongside the prince. A part of you was still briefly able to marvel how you had just seen the same avenues from above only moments before; the people who had once appeared as little specs now parted around you to make way for you and the prince. Some daring to pass the two of you fleeting glances as you went about. 

You receive similar looks once within the interior of the 'Keep. The servants and people of the court pass you curious and disapproving peeks at the muddied edges of your skirts as you carried yourself down the winding, grand hallways. Though you pay them little mind. Instead, you direct yourself to try not to focus on the dull, rhythmic tap of Prince Aemond's footsteps from their place beside you as he trails you like a stubborn shadow. He had proposed that he escort you to your quarters, as is expected of a husband. 

There is a new sort of uncertainty that has been wedged between the two of you. Though it is so very different from the quandary that had been there before. This type has no longer tinged with apprehensions or resistance, but instead it is almost alive. The want that festers inside of you is so strong that it is nearly tangible; a creature with claws that means to creep and snatch and a hunger that demands to be feed. You are not entirely lost. You are informed of the body's desires and the symptoms that often accompany it. But it is rarely something that you have ever experienced yourself apart from the few rare nights that you had built up the courage to explore yourself within the privacy of your own apartments. And never have you ever felt it so fiercely, searing and thrumming throughout your flesh. 

The buzz of your previous flight does little to damp the fervor of it. If anything, it douses a potent fuel upon the embers, daring to set the smoldering cinders aflame. The scent of him is strong at your side. Sharp from the winds and mouthwatering with the crisp, spicy aroma of his natural musk, and it is a temptation that you can only hope that you will be able to resist. Your only solace is that the entrance to your quarters draws near, only a few paces left near the end of the corridor, and you look to the massive looming doors as thirsting man would an oasis. 

"I take it that you enjoyed todays outing, my lady," Aemond says from your side. 

It draws your attention to him like an insect becoming hypnotized by the gentle flickering an unguarded fire. You dare to allow yourself to admire the almost lazy saunter he carries himself with, the composed way that he holds his hands behind the controlled posture of his back. 

"I did. Truly." You answer honestly. Not even the muddled state of your feelings and yearning could keep you from repelling the truth from him. You find yourself twisting softly on the heels of your feet as you both come to stand before the entrance of your apartments, moving to enable yourself to meet his gaze. It suddenly feels too vulnerable. You no longer have the buffer of being shielded from his stare as you stand in a pair at the end of the dimming hall. He watches you keenly. His expression is mild, and it is only his eye that displays a faint hint of curiosity, but it is enough to prompt you in continuing. "I do not wish to burden you with my toils, but finding my place here within the court has been an adjustment. The people here have been kind, yet it is still a somewhat of a challenge to find my footing. " You pause, the air snagging in your throat and you find your fingers winding together in an awkward clasp as you work to navigate yourself and bear the weight of his unflinching observation. "The flight with you and Vhagar, it was a reprieve that I did not expect to be afforded. I know that you have been occupied by the priorities of the kingdom and the burdens of the war; you have little moments available for yourself, I imagine. So I am grateful that you made an effort to extend that time to me." 

It all seems so delicate now. Something vulnerable has wormed through the cracks of your already weakened restraints. And you swear that you see something just as uncertain and raw peek through the detached facade of the prince. Such a pale passing of emotions that had you not been paying so much attention to him; it might have slipped past your observation. It looks odd, but not unbecoming on him. He is typically so relaxed and serene. Unstirred by the influences of his surroundings. It manages to endear and embolden you all at once, and as though they have a mind of their own you find your feet closing the small amount of distance that divides you. The prince's vision is latched onto you as you move near, unwavering and heavy in his watch. 

For once in your uncertain relationship with the prince, it is you who seems to hold the sense of power. As shaky and foreign as it is. But he observes you with the same speculative surprise as a predator that has been taken off guard and is deciding on if its energy should be spent on fighting or evading. You make sure to be gentle in your approach, lest you break the brittle, intimate blanket that has fallen the vacant corridor. You can nearly hear the thump of your own heartbeat inside of your chest, pulsing along the palms of your hands. 

You surprise yourself as you dare to lean forward into his space. The scent of him engulfs you, and the perfume of it is almost dizzying. Clouding over you in a rush of subtle spice, leather and wind. It guides you press your lips upon the high ridge of his cheek. The soft divot of the scar catches underneath your mouth; the gnarled slivers of its subtly raised edges. You make sure to be gentle so's not to possibly aggravate the old, damaged tissue. His skin is warm. Sultry and smooth against your lips. You raise a single hand upward to place your fingertips along the sharp sweep of his jaw as a means to ground yourself. Or perhaps it is just an excuse to touch more of him. You are not entirely certain anymore. 

You can feel his chest swell with a surprised breath, muscles pulling taut underneath the leather of his doublet. You fear that you may have overstepped, and it draws you to break the kiss from his skin, though you find it difficult to pull away. He has made no attempt to tear his face from the light hold of your fingertips. He remains fixed in place. Quiet and motionless. For one horrid moment, you fear that you might have actually been able to disgust him. That you had terribly transgressed and shattered the delicate little relationship that you have only just began to fabricate. 

But when you look to meet his gaze the stare that he is studying you with holds a sort of hunger that you have yet to ever experience, and it is so disorienting to be on the receiving end. It completely eclipses the way that he had watched you with during the flight. You are sure that this is how it feels to be stalked by something dangerous and starved. It mutates with the vulnerability that seeps into his posture, and the combination of it melts into an ardor that is stifling. 

You are not sure how to navigate it. Of what this all could mean for you. For him. It has your blood roaring through your veins. Everything falls into a hush. You are sure that the rest of the castle is still lively with the preparations for supper. Servants are no doubt preoccupied by the nature of their longwinded duties, causing the innerworkings of the Keep to astir as they all go about their own matters. But here, in this quiet corridor, it feels as though you have been tucked away into your own private bubble. Sealed away and safe within its dulcet embrace. 

You can see the want in his eye so clearly. Bright and burning in its quality, but he makes no moves to act upon it. It is so strange to see what appears to be a sort of hesitance in the prince. Someone who is usually so certain of their wants and desires and acts on them unflinchingly. Arrogantly, even. It makes him appear so much more human. For once, in the little amount of time that you have known him, he finally stands close at a base that you could compare yourself. Not a god. But simply a man. A man who experiences reservations and uncertainty just as you do. One made of bone and blood - even if that blood may run hot with dragonfire. He still just a man. One who appears as though he wishes to seek you out. To bask in the comfort of your flesh and consume you where you stand but will not allow himself to. 

You are unsure where this sense of hesitancy could stim from. You have already lain together before in the hopes of producing a child and he had not shied away in any of those occurrences; having taken you with that cold, calculating indifference each time. You have no ability to say what has inspired the felling of that austere approach, but the sudden lack of it rouses a bravery that has long evaded you. Your lips, still hovering closely above his cheek venture to press against his skin once again. Much lower than their previous position along the sharp contours of his face, but now only a few scant breaths from his own lips. 

You pause briefly to surmise his reaction. Gauging the shift in his breathing and the way that he holds himself to see if you may have misread and breached an unsaid boundary, but he makes no move to tear himself from your proximity. But that is not enough. You must hear it from him. 

"Do you wish for me to stop-" 

A surprised yelp is snuffed from your throat when the plush of his mouth claims yours in a kiss that is so passionate that it is nearly ferocious. Your teeth clack together from the rough nature of it. It makes your mind draw a complete blank. All semblance of thought mutes down into a quiet hum as every bit of your being draws down to focus on the entirety of him. So heavy in its attentions that you hardly bear notice when he crowds you against the heavy doors of your chambers. So eager that the back of your skull knocks on the thick, ornate wood. The pain that flares is stinging and sharp, but you can hardly bother to pay it any attention as he presses himself along your body like he may starve without it. 

Once it all finally catches up with you, you find your hands reaching to sweep along him explorative, greedy strokes. Your fingers claw at his doublet, slipping along the buttery leathers in a weak grip before moving to clutch at the nape of his neck to draw him closer to you. It is crazed. Animalistic. A perversion of the sort of chaste affections that a lady should share with her husband, but you can hardly be bothered to care while your body is overcome with relief. It is suddenly as though he has become the air you require to breathe, and you are under the threat of suffocating. 

His hands are just as rapacious as your own. Clutching at your hips, your waist; reaching fingers gripping onto your hair. He is like some feral animal that does not know where to bite first. Desperate for the taste of flesh and blood but unsure of where to start. 

His teeth nip at your lips; tongue swiping, and obediently your jaw softly parts to allow him to lick into your mouth. The moan that leaves you sounds shocking to your own ears but it is impossible to be ashamed when the taste of him seems to set you on fire. You are quickly to reciprocate with equal ardor, but it is clumsy and underskilled on your part. And it dawns on you that this is your first true kiss with your husband, so very far off from the demure, obligated peck that he had given to you on your wedding day. It makes you burn all the hotter. Your eagerness intensifying tenfold as you grip onto him as though he may vanish if you do not. 

An almost wounded sound leaves you when he removes his mouth from your own. Though it is promptly stamped out when he nudges your head to the side with his own to latch the wet heat of his mouth onto the tender flesh of your neck. A contented sigh leaves you and your body seems to lose all of its strength, going lax against the support of the door as your head lulls back to bear your throat to the bite of his teeth and the suction of his tongue. You feel as though you are turning to mush. Going pliant underneath his ministrations; the heat of him has melted you like wax. 

It is the low bubble of chatter that breaks you from the haze that dips over your mind like the beginning effects of alcohol. Your eyes flutter open to gaze over the prince's shoulder, though he has not even so much as slowed the searing kisses along your flesh. Whether that be because he simply does not care or because he has not noticed the sound of carried voices you are not sure, but you cannot keep yourself from trying to peer down the long stretch of the corridor to spy for the origins of the conversation. You see no one but you are certain whoever is speaking is nearby. Their voices carried and projected by the stone no doubt, but they could round the corner at any moment and catch you and the prince in a most unbecoming manner. 

You mourn the very idea of stopping him, but the requirement to keep appearances and your position of the court untainted from untoward gossip prevails. It has you slipping your fingers along the roots that grow from the nape of his neck to tug as gently as you possibly can, urging him to pry his mouth from your flesh but he remains unmoving. Almost stubborn in his exploration of tasting the salt on your skin. 

"Aemond," you call softly. "We must stop; we will be caught." 

That seems to pull him from the fervent spell that had been casted over him. He finally allows himself to be removed from the crook of your neck, righting his posture meet your line of vision with a slight pant in his breath. The passion in his stare has not wavered or diminished at all. If anything, it seems all the fiercer. 

 

"Will you invite me into your chambers?" He inquires against your lips. "Will you have me?" 

The way he stated the question was straight forward. Blunt in what it implied. Unshy in its desire. But there is an unmistakable edge to it that is almost frail. Fragile in its essence. You know now that here the both of you are at a fork in the path. One single decision that may decide the fate of what lies ahead, and the balance of your matrimony. Prince Aemond wears that facade of his. Like no matter what response leaves from you he will be unbothered, but you can see the vulnerability bleeding into his gaze. You hear it in his questions. The hope that you do not turn him away. 

You know then that you will not send him off down the corridor while you tuck yourself away in your chambers alone. Not as elation and peace wraps itself around you and urges you to tug him closer; guiding him towards you as you make to reach behind to grab for the door latch. 

"Yes, I will have you Aemond." You whisper it softly, as though it is something sacred and delicate. 

That is all it takes to earn his mouth back upon you. Just as starved as it had been before. You are not certain which one of manages to pry one of the doors ajar, but as soon as it is open, you find yourself slipping through the entry as you pull him through by his shoulders as you blindly guide each other across the floor of your apartments. You just vaguely register the sound of the door slamming shut behind you both, but you hardly pay it any mind as his hands sweep along your hips with a grip that threatens to smart skin. The heel of your foot nearly trips along the edge of the tapestry rug, and it is Aemond's firm grip that keeps you secure as you attempt to navigate your clumsy journey to the bed. 

Already his fingers slip behind you, eagerly tugging at your skirts like he means to ruck them over your hips, but then he stops himself short and backs away from you so abruptly that for a second you fear that he is having regrets. That he plans to storm out of your quarters and pretend that this has never happened. His eyes trails over you as he steps away, halting himself he is several paces from you to observe your disheveled state. 

"Undress yourself."  

He says it that poised, calm cadence of his, but the order in it is still apparent. For some reason it makes you pause. You have never been completely bare before him. All of the previous times you had been afforded the crutch of your shift, skin always concealed from view. During your bedding ceremony, while the corridor just outside of Prince Aemond's chambers were crowded with the wedding quests, the attendees of the court and the Crowns Sept, all present to make sure the tradition was followed accordingly, you had still clung to the safety that your chemise had provided you. The two of you were hurdling over so many new steps and parameters in your relationship. For some reason, it does not feel obtrusive or jarring. Simply unexpected. Unfamiliar. But exciting still. 

You reach for the silk placket on the front your bodice, carefully unplucking the golden straight pins that your maidens had secured it with just this morning, being mindful to tack them back into the fabric so they do not drop upon the floor and run the risk of jabbing someone underfoot. Your fingers quiver slightly as you begin to unwind the ribbon lacings underneath, tugging them free from their eyes to loosen the grip of your bodice until the rest of the gown slides free of its grip on your body, enabling you are able to slip the sleeves from your arms for the rest of the garment to pool around your feet. 

You still have several layers to go; held within the confines of your kirtle but he is already watching you with an impassion stare akin to starvation. All of the vigor that he had unleashed on you before in the drag on his lips and the nipping of his teeth has been detained and seized onto with a shaky resolve; his weak restraint projected through the near feral look in his eye. It is clear that he wishes to watch you unburden yourself of your clothes. It gives him some kind of pleasure, to observe you exposing more of yourself to him at his whims. And you would like to indulge that lewd desire of his, but you know that the lacings along the back of your kirtle will be difficult to undo on your own. It is rigid in its structure, and combined with how tightly the many levels silk cord that cross up your spine are cinched, it will be a challenge. Often times it is a pain for even the deft fingers of your maids. 

"Would you so kind, lord husband, to assist me?" You do not bother in awaiting his response as you rotate around to present your back to him. The room is silent, save for the quiet rise and fall of the air steadily leaving and returning to your lungs. You do not hear him diminish the space the separates you both. The sound of his boots along the stone floors does not make a single tap or echo for you to gauge his nearness. But then his hands are just on you, settling at the point between your shoulder blades to pluck at the knot of your silk ribbons.   

The warmth of him wafts against you, causing the hairs along the nape of your neck to rise and your skin to pepper with gooseflesh. You crave to lean back into him. To bask in his natural, soothing heat, but you command yourself to remain stationary as he begins to tug at your lacings. Much steadier and slower than you have suspected. It has anticipation building and churning within your gut. Smoldering and settling like hot coals and molten wax beneath your flesh. 

His lips come to sweep along the junction of your neck, feeling as though they are branding you in their exploration. It should be of a concern with how much that thought thrills you. The idea of walking around with the prince's marks clearly presented for the court to see is an indecorous idea - downright craven. And yet it does nothing but make the flames inside roar brighter. 

You feel the moment that he finished in unlacing the kirtle. It slackens considerable on your torso, before he hastily slips the embroidered edge of the neckline from your shoulders; the truth of his avidity managing to peek through such a simple action. And just like that the materials fall from your body, leaving you in nothing but your shift. It shocks you how quickly his hands find a place on your hips. Fingers clasping tightly like he is resisting the urge to tenderize your skin underneath the pressure of his palms. But that twisted little part of you is still present and greedy. It has you pressing the shape of your rear against his pelvis, and you are unable to contain the delighted gasp that leaves you at the hard press of his cock straining underneath his breeches. 

He has not even seen you naked yet and already the evidence of his arousal nudges at you through the thin fabric of your chemise. He groans as you continue to roll your hips against you his. It's a pleased, low noise, that nearly sounds like a purr rumbling from his chest, and it vibrates along your neck as he threatens to sink his teeth just underneath the edge of your jaw. His fingers begin to tug and lift at the skirt of your shift to pile it around your waist. 

You twitch as he exposes you to the tepid draft of the room; nipples hardening beneath the delicate fabric at the chill. Suddenly, one of his hands is placed before you, fingers hovering close to your mouth as though he expects something of you. Your thoughts scramble along. Already pathetically sluggish and scattered from the lust searing at your being.  

"Take them into your mouth and bite, ābrazȳrys," he guides in a firm murmur. 

Obediently, your lip's part, allowing him to guide the tips of his fingers past them. The leathers concealing the nimble length of his digits is smooth along your tongue. Warm and slightly tangy in its flavor on your palate. The weight of them makes your eyes lashes flutter, threatening to slip closed before a distant voice in the recesses of your mind chides you to follow his desire, and eager to please you gently clamp the edges of your teeth down onto the tips of his gloves. He coos in a satisfied manner when he notices the compliant press of your teeth. He tugs his hand free from the casing of its glove, allowing the now empty garments to lie limp in your mouth before he removes it from between your teeth to discard it somewhere along the floor. 

You vaguely watch his hand from your peripherals as it lifts past the scope of your vison, but the low, wet sound in your ears cues you on what he may be doing. He is licking his fingers. Getting them wet. It makes your body thrum with want. The flavor of his gloves is still strong. A temptation that you never would have imagined. He had used your mouth for something that seems so frivolous, and yet it makes you ache. It reminds you of a bit of course chatter that you had heard from one of the ladies of the court.  A horrible gossip who often whispers of the most perverse of topics between lovers. Though you could not help but to have been intrigued when she spoke of pleasing one of her paramours with nothing but her tongue. 

You know what Aemond plans to do with his hands. The anticipation of it bubbles along the atmosphere like water simmers inside a heated pot, threatening to boil over as his fingers slip between your thighs and part your damp heat with little fanfare. Your body seems to sizzle. A delicious buzz licks up your spine as he sweeps a single finger over your cunt to gather the slick that already threatens to smear down the inside of your legs. Collecting it on the pad of his digit to aid him in delivering a slow, torturous circle along your clit. A drawn-out whine rips itself from your chest, and even with his hand buried underneath the fabric of your skirt, working pleasure between your thighs, you cannot help but to think of the possibility of taking him into your own mouth. 

To delight in the weight of his cock filling it up, weighing on your tongue. How it might taste. The expressions he would make. If his eye would express the same vulnerability that he had displayed to you in the hallway, when he asked if you would have him. Would that hint of desperation no longer be masked, but instead boldly shown? Would his face pinch with pleasure, eye clouded with lust as he watched you on your knees before him?

How gorgeous he would look. 

You have to tuck your face into his shoulder as you helplessly rock your hips against the ceaseless strum of his finger, muffling your cry as he suddenly slips one within the entrance of your cunt, forcing it to stretch and give around its width. He brushes it experimentally along your walls, almost like he is prodding or searching for something within you. Distracting you with the press of the heel of his hand on the bud of your nerves, feeding the fires the pit of your belly. He does find what he is in search of with an adept quickness. You feel it as soon as he does. The blind yet tactful pursuit is rewarded when he caresses something devastating buried inside of you. You gasp, breath snagging as you burrow your nose into his neck, choking on his scent while you search for your voice.  

"Aemond, please." It comes out as hardly more than a wanton moan puffed against his skin, and your hips continue to chase after the exquisite heat that he is effortlessly stoking within the cradle of your thighs. "Please, Aemond. I want to taste you. I want you in my mouth." 

You feel the way he hums in consideration more than you hear it. A nonchalant noise, as though you have questioned him about the quality of his day. As though he was not knuckle deep inside of your cunt. "Hmm, such a temptation. Though, if I recall correctly, was it not my wife who ventured into my chambers with revelations of her loneliness? It seems that I have long ignored my husbandly duties. I think it is due time that I rectify that." 

Those words sound so promising. So sweet in its oath. So, it is entirely cruel when he all but rips his finger from the walls of your cunt, leaving you feeling empty and the scorching embers in your gut smoking but unfanned. A question, an insult, or a cry hang on your tongue, but you never get the opportunity to figure out which it is. Aemond grips you by the shoulders and nudges you in the direction of your bedding, giving you little time to orient yourself through the lustful haze that has clouded your mind over. 

"I want you lying down on your back; cunt spread." His instruction rings out sharply. Like a strategized order that would be given in council. "And remove that fucking garment from your body." 

He spat out the sentence as though the cloth is an offence to him. The sight of it alone enough to rouse his ire. So eager to see you bare before him. You have half the mind to try and tease him, but tonight you can hardly be bothered. The weight of the shift is stifling on your dampened skin, and his covetous stare urges you to do his bid. You do not turn to face him as you disrobe. It nudges from your shoulders easily. Dropping free from your body to leave you in nothing more than your silk stockings and garters, and the diamond accessories that dangle from the lobes of your ears. 

You swear that you can feel the line of his vision upon your flesh. Trailing down your spine, tracing the shape of your ribs as they meet the contour of your waist, skirting along the swell of your arse. You do not turn to face him until you place your knees on the cushion of your mattress, plush and filled with down and feathers, offering you enough support to crawl along the stretch of it before turning on your back as he had bidden. The impassioned look in his eye seems to suspend you adrift. It does not make you feel disgustingly ogled or leered at to be so blatantly admired. He studies you as though he is in the presence of something sanctified. Divine. 

You are not sure of how to compose yourself underneath such unabashed devotion. The only thing that seems to give you any sort of stability is the continued ring of his earlier command reverberating in your mind. You cling to it, like someone who is threatened to be swept away in a rough tide. It is almost absentmindedly that your leg's part, offering yourself up to the insatiable stare of your husband in a manner so vulgar. But you cannot deny that there is something titillating about it. How his posture seems to simultaneously go rigid and slack all at once. A restraint in his composure visibly snapping before he stalks across the room towards you like he means to devour you. 

He is upon you before you can hardly blink. Gripping onto the thick of your upper thigh with his gloved, left hand to further pry your legs apart. Stretching them until you can nearly feel the strain of it in the joint of your hip. "Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys." He lifts your opposite up just enough to nose at your knee, ghosting his lips about the breadth of it as his eye locks with your own sight. Something nearly playful dancing in the vivid shade of colors. "Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?"

He continues to sweep his nose along your flesh. Dragging it downward towards your intimacy, where you burn and ache for him the most. You cannot stop yourself from rolling your hips upward, tempted by the warmth of his breath gliding along your skin and the heat of your cunt. It makes you clench around nothing, as though your body is mourning how empty you are without the stretch of his fingers. 

"Aemond, pleas-" 

He hushes you softly. A placating, quiet sound but it cuts through the air with the swift impact of a steady blade. Like an eager soldier you find yourself falling silent. Focused entirely on him as he lay between your thighs with the relaxed composure of a dragon with its prey already secure between it fangs. "Patience," he murmurs. Though he hardly gives you any time exercise such a restraint because his mouth is on you as soon as the word leaves him. The shock and feel of it sears through you, lashing itself across your body akin to charges of lightning crackling across a storm. Nothing could have prepared yourself for such a thing. The wet heat, the suction of his lips, the skilled slip of his tongue. 

Your legs twitch on reflex, threatening to close but the hand that he had clasped around your thigh keeps it secure in place. Still, it does not stop him from glancing up at you from the apex of your legs with an unvoiced reprimand glinting in his eye. A broken cry shudders from your lungs. Sharp breaths nearly hiccupping from you as he licks at your cunt, burrowing the pronounced, attractive swoop of his nose against your clit while his tongue laps at your entrance. You cannot stop yourself as you begin to sway your hips along the press of it. Practically riding his face with the mindless drive of a woman possessed. Your fingers claw along the blankets; nails tearing at the fabric like it might help you weather through the bolts of ecstasy that ravage your body.  

Your head lifts to properly gaze upon him as he continues to drag his tongue over you, groaning softly into your heat as though he were the one experiencing pleasure. You have heard of women satisfying their husbands with the comforts of their mouths but never the opposite. You know now that it is easily something that you could become addicted to. And based on the pleased pinch between his brows and the way that his eye has nearly slipped closed it seems that he has just as much of an appetite for it. 

"Oh, my gods! Aemond- fuck!" 

You can feel the amused chuckle he releases vibrate along your cunt, making the burning coil in your gut wind that much tighter. He parts his lips from you just long enough to speak, slipping a finger within the tight entrance of your heat just as he does so, crooking it against that delicious spot that he had found nestled within you earlier. "Such a filthy mouth you have on you. How unbecoming for someone who holds the title of a princess." He mocks, crudely stroking and curling his finger within the tight warmth of your cunt. You think distantly to scold him. To remind him of who has drawn such untoward responses from you in the first place but then he is guiding a second digit in along the other, making you stretch to accommodate them; causing your mind to blank. "What would they think if they could see you now? Mewling like well-paid whore."  

You are not sure why that awful little comment has warmth drizzling down your spine like drops of warmed honey. You feel yourself flutter around the ceaseless pulse of his fingers, back arching in a means to draw him deeper. He notices as well. Of course he does, ever so observant. It has him humming in that considering way of his. Like he is pleased with his discovery. You expect another witty remark from him but get none. What he chooses to say next is even more damning. 

"I'm going to fuck you with my fingers, and you are going to be a good little wife and peak on my tongue." 

His tone leaves no room for argument - not that you have given him any in this state. Especially not when the sultry drag of his mouth returns to your cunt to join the clever curl of his fingers. The combination of it threatens to make you sob. Your body writhes when he takes your clit into his mouth, sucking at it gently with steady pulses of his tongue. One of your hands blindly reaches to grip his head, threading your finger through the silken tresses of his hair as though it might ground you; keep you from floating away. It is all so overwhelming. Too much and yet too little. And like a starved glutton you find your opposite palm coming to slip along your own torso, sweeping along your feverish skin to explore your breasts. You mindlessly reach to take your nipples between your thumb and fingers, rolling and plucking at it to further stoke the fire in your belly. 

You hear the sound of Aemond's pleased groan, no doubt watching you from his place between your legs as you touch yourself. Already the rapture flooding your veins begins to rise up. Cresting upon you like a wave being tossed within a great tempest. You can practically taste it. Dancing along your tongue like something sweet and hot; burrowing into the cradle of your hips by the euphoric drag of his hand and tongue. 

"Aemond!" You sob. With the intent to warn him or to merely cry you are not sure. Your face pinches as the grip of your pleasure begins to close around you, holding you tight within its vice like it means to wring every ounce of euphoria from you. "Aemond, I'm going to- gods-" 

The glide of his mouth and fingers is almost brutal. Precise and nimble in his intent to hurdle you headfirst into the throes of bliss, and he is certainly achieving that goal. You can feel the muscles within you drawing up tight; fire lashing and curling over you and wearing at your soul. You can hardly speak. Now struggling to get out broken panting breaths and pieces of the prince's name as your release bears down on you. He shows you no mercy in your state, continuing to suckle and lap at your cunt like he means to drink you down. 

It is with a wrecked scream that you reach your peak. The cry that rips from your throat is short and hoarse, and there is no doubt that some unfortunate soul wandering the hall has heard you. Though you are too beyond yourself to care. Sparks bursts inside your flesh, dousing you in a bliss that you have naught ever brought yourself. Like a mindless animal your body continues to ride itself against the press of Aemond's tongue, his nose, his fingers, all of which still work against you to draw out the euphoria that engulfs you. 

It is not until you hiss from the sudden tenderness in your cunt that he wills himself to pull away, giving you a reprieve to lay boneless and spent along the plush of the bed. His breath is raged when he rises from your hips, face smeared with the evidence of your pleasure, his stare is wild. He looks disheveled, hair disordered from when you had gripped it and chest pulling in frantic gulps of breath. He nearly looks just as winded as you. Though you are surely partly to blame with how you had desperately pushed his face into your cunt like some sort of sex-crazed whore. And the patch of leather that conceals his eyes has become slipped from its place. Not enough to display whatever grievous, old wound may rest beneath, but another unintended brush against it may knock it askew completely. 

You do not think when you guide yourself to sit up and lift a hand, thoughtlessly using your thumb to nudge the leather back down to rest securely above his socket. But the realization seems to come to you both unanimously. His own hand coming to grip your offending wrist, keeping it suspended in its place in the air; your fingertips still resting on the structure of the patch. 

 The stare that passes between the both of you is joined by so many varying emotions. Many of them extending from his side: a brief flash of anger, bewilderment, unease. And then, there it is again. That trace of vulnerability that he tries so hard to contain. But it seems to always be there. Lurking underneath the surface like pain disturbing an old wound. And like a shadow, you see that hint of hope again too. It is the only things that keeps you from shifting from him. Of giving him space that you would have otherwise assumed he needs. But now you draw near. Resting on your knees to sit before him. Instead of attempting to withdraw your hand from his clutches, you instead reposition it to cradle the side of his face, maintaining to keep your touch light in case he chooses to remove himself from underneath your hand. 

Few breaths pass, and he makes no moves to do so. He leans closer. It is such a tiny gesture. A barely perceptible movement, but you feel it. The difference in weight against your hand. The glint in his eye pierces into you with a desperation. Like he is expecting you to suddenly come to a realization and flinch away out of fear. Like he is hoping that you do so. 

But you will do no such thing. You shift closer to him, making sure to be careful as not to accidentally prod his eye patch from its place while you clutch his cheek. He observes you closely. As though he is studying you. Searching for a shred of hesitation or disgust so that he may turn you away. The opportunity for him to do that does not come as you lift to seat yourself upon his lap. His chest expands almost shakily as he gazes at you. Eye slightly widened as though he is in a state of awe or disbelief. The sheer unabashed emotion reflecting inside that gorgeous mix of blue and violet could make your heart ache and skip. You long to tell him of how you feel. The breadth of your emotions. Not quite love yet, of course, but it must be the beginnings of it with how tender and passionate it burns, like the birth of a blaze. 

But that may be too much to confess. Perhaps, your actions will have to suffice for now. 

You are certain he gasps when your lips press against his, tongue sweeping along the plush of his mouth like he had done to your earlier, gathering the tart and sweet taste of yourself on your palate. The flavor of your own arousal does not deter you in the slightest. Not the damp of it against your skin as you draw him into a soft exchange of kisses. Much softer than the one that he had inspired in both of your earlier. This somehow seems so much more explorative. Delicate, even with the heat that begins to simmer beneath the surface once more. 

Your fingers once again slip and find purchase in his hair, nails lightly scraping at his scalp as your hips begin to undulate against the bulge that still presses against his breeches. He groans, panting into your mouth while he runs his hands along your nude flesh, reaching down to grip the swell of your arse to aid you in grinding your hips with his. The hard impression of his cock nudging at your cunt through the fabric of his trousers is delicious, even while you are still slightly tender from your previous pleasure, licking a sensitive fire along your skin. Still, it does not stop you as you continue to grind yourself on him, wanton and aching once again. Delight peeks through the drunken haze of your desires as he removes on of his hand from you to slip between your bodies, fingers reaching for the laces of his breeches where he eagerly pulls at tugs at them to draw them loose. 

He groans sharply in relief when he guides himself from the restraint of his trousers. The alleviation must be great, with how long the straining weight of his cock has been tucked behind the material. You hear it in the low hiss that rises from his chest, and it has you humming softly at him, a light reposeful sound as you continue you to exchange a languid, unbroken kiss with him. The both of you unable to tear yourselves from each other, even has the hot length of his cock comes to rest against his stomach, now pinned between the pressure of both of your bodies, burning against your ferverish skin. 

"I need to feel you," he breathes against your lips. "Let me have you." 

You peek your eyes open long enough to consider him, and the longing that burns within the depth of his stare knocks something inside of your soul off guard, shaking the very foundations. Such raw, unprotected emotion. He stares at you as if you are the creator of the heavens, having fashioned the moon and the burning of the stars with only your hands. It makes you unsure of how to stand unwavering, unaffected underneath such a devoted gaze. If only he knew that it is you who wishes to worship him. To pour your affections and adoration onto him like an acolyte offering their deity tokens and praise. 

An understanding seems to pass through the both of you, a wordless communication. He reaches down to grip himself as you post your hands upon his shoulders, your nails burrowing into the leather of the doublet that he has not bothered to shed as a means to braces yourself as you line the head of his cock with the entrance of your heat. There is little fanfare before you begin to lower yourself onto him, splitting yourself on the head of cock as you use your thighs to settle downward. You walls stretch to accommodate his girth, fluttering as he guides you open to find solace in your body. A strained set of words seems to squeeze from his chest, all of them in that beautiful language that you yet to understand. It has a sense of pride flaring. A deep, hedonistic satisfaction welling up to know that you have such a strong, composed man crumbling around the edges from nothing more than the grip of your cunt. 

You place another brief kiss upon his lips, a smile tugging at them when he nearly tries to chase after you, but you distract him by further sinking yourself down around his length until your rump meets his thighs. His mouth drops open in response, eye fluttering at sensation of your walls clenching and flexing around him as though it means to somehow draw him deeper. 

The pressure of him inside of you, carving a space for himself within you almost makes you breathless. It licks itself up your spine like a bolt of lightning, forcing your body to shudder and draw closer to his, subconsciously seeking out the warmth of his skin and mourning when you feel nothing but the dim chill of his leather doublet. 

"Aemond," you beg softly. Your hips seem to have a mind of their own as they begin to lift themself upward to roll back down, working to repeatedly spear yourself on his cock with only desperation and hedonism guiding you. His hands come to grip your waist, spreading his thighs out wider to find a better stance to drive himself up inside of you easier, aided by the slick of your arousal, causing his thrusts to become even more pronounced. The sensation of his girth stretching you out to its shape, veins dragging along your walls has your back curving taut like a bowstring. 

The warmth of his mouth suddenly closes around one of your breasts, tongue lapping at the peak of your nipple as he continues to drive himself inside of you in a devastating rhythm. It has your mind drawing a blank. Going white like a wall of fog as embers and fire sear at the pit of your gut. Your lip's part. Soft gasps panting from your throat as he continues to ravage your body for his pleasure while further tearing you through the depths of yours. It seems to choke through you, forcing you to hiccup and whimper around the insistent pounding of his hips, the weight of his cock dipping inside of you. 

It is disoriented and abrupt when he shoves you onto the flat of your back, knocking what little bit of air was still contained inside of your lungs out and leaving you stunned. You can only lay and take it as your mind scrambles to gain a sense of clarity, while pleasure scalds itself throughout your veins, snuffing your body in a cloud of smoke. His body extends over yours, only supported by his arms posted on either side of your head. His mouth leaves your breast with a subtle nip of his teeth, sparking pleasure with their blunt edges, making you arch your chest to seek out more of it. 

But he ignores the blatant offering, opting to nudge himself up to kneel to better support his weight as he grabs one of your thighs to swing your leg along the perch of his shoulder. It somehow manages to drive him deeper. Effectively punching the air from your chest, the crown of his cock brushing along something inside of you that has your body twisting along the support of the bed. A sob wracks through you and your eyes nearly roll in the back of your skull. You distantly hear yourself whispering his name. Repeating it over and over again with all of the devotion and desperation of a mantra, of a prayer meant for the ears of a god. And here above you now, he certainly looked like one. Pale eye blazing and wild with his lust, hair unkept and freeing from its tie, a sheen of sweat glittering along his pale flesh like flecks of gold and stardust. 

"There she is," he marvels in a coo; pleased and smug in the debauched thing that he has reduced you to. A complete juxtaposition to the longing, vulnerable man that he had been just moments before. "My sweet wife gone dumb and pliant beneath me. Do I satisfy you? Having you like this? Taking my cock so obediently. " You moan in agreement, hips twitching and jerking to further aid him inside of you. Even while it feels like he is deep in your gut, shoving your breath from you with his rhythm, you crave more. "I should keep you like this. Fucked and filled. Would you like that, ābrazȳrys? Stuffed full until it swells your belly with my heir?"

 

It douses you with fire. The comment engulfing you as though you have been guided into the starved clutches of an inferno. The satisfied stare that he pins you with only makes you feel bare and exposed despite the intimate positions that he has had you in already. Like he is piecing you apart and gazing at your soul. Even with the filth that he casually rambles, it does nothing to dampen the tenderness and hunger that seeps into your bones and gnaws at your being. Your body thrums with the delight at being claimed so primally by the prince - by your husband. To walk about the great halls with his babe safely tucked away inside your stomach. The idea of it has you clawing at his back, no doubt leaving marks along the leather, and it is a great regret that it is not his skin that you tear the traces of your nails along. 

"You will truly be so beautiful in such a state. There will be no mistake that you're mine. Mother to my child. My wife." 

The possessiveness that streaked through his words made you arch into him, driving the metal clasps of his doublet into your flesh, causing the skin to sting. You can hardly pay it any mind though. Not while you are hurtling towards your peak. The promise of your release rushing towards you with the intensity a liquid fire. He too is close. You can see it in the furrow between his brows, the pale stutter in his breath which begins to meld into low groans; feel it in the slight falter in his pace. 

"Please, Aemond." You moan, just barely managing to get your tongue to cooperate in forming the plea. His eye locks onto you with the concentration of a hunter, but that softness, his need is beginning to melt it around the edges once again. "I want you to let go. I want to feel you filling me up." 

His hips flounder for a good moment, and it takes him a bit of correcting to regain the fluidity of the brutal stride that he had set, though once he does it is like he had never faltered at all. The almost violent bliss smoldering along your being still engulfs you and nips at you like it means to rip you apart. He swears sharply again. The sound of your wish, both a beg and a command having the most delicious effect on him as he continues to build that euphoria within the base of your stomach, causing the muscles there to clench tight.

"I'm yours. All yours." You assure breathlessly, aiming to appease the proprietorial nature that he has shown you. That is all you can manage before the euphoria finally crests and completely blindsides you within the deluge. You feel outside of yourself as your body writhes, cunt clenching around the deep stretch of his cock as he continues to pound into you, tipping you into something akin to a drunken stupor. It is rapturous. The sheer weight of the pleasure that possesses you and leaves you little more than a vessel that can only lie and try to survive the onslaught. 

Aemond's body shudders over your own, spine curling inward to tuck his face within the crook of your neck as his own peak seizes him. His groan rattles along your throat, followed by a strained fuck as a burst of liquid heat floods inside your stomach, filling you with warmth. His hips jerk shakily, meeting the languid pace of your own as you both work to assist each other in riding out your shared highs. Though it does not take long for either of you to lose your vigor, muscles and bones going lax as you both relent to the weight of your spent bodies. He does not bother in removing himself from the grip of your cunt as he all but collapses on top of you, effectively pinning you to the mattress with his weight. 

You make no effort to move him from you - you find no desire to. The air around you is thick with the scent of sex, still thrumming and alive with the fervor of your shared lust even as it ebbs from your body, replaced with the temptation of sleep. Contentment and exultation pools in your chest, syrupy and thick from the pleasant warmth of his form along yours, and it guides you to glide your fingers through the silken strands of Aemond's hair. He has made no efforts to extract his face from your neck. Perfectly at peace to keep himself tucked against you with his flaccid cock still buried deep, as his breathing levels out into steady puffs against your skin. 

"We cannot sleep, my Prince. The servant girls will be here soon to prepare me for supper." You warn, though he does not stir in the slightest. A hum leaves him. The only confirmation you receive that tells you he has heard you. He almost seems to clutch onto you tighter, as though he longs to burrow into you and meld into one. So desperate for your touch even while he hides so many facets of himself from you. There is no way to truly foresee what the future has in store for you and him. For the welfare of the kingdom. The home of your children. There are many uncertainties. Many stimming from your Aemond himself, the many lethal edges that create his being. But that is fine. You are patient. Tonight has marked a new turning point for you and he, you are certain. You will wait no matter how long you must for him to come to you, and to reveal himself and his truths to you unabashedly. No matter how damaged and bloody and wild those parts of him may be. 

You are certain that you will marvel in the twisted beauty of it regardless. 

"I will get up shortly." He finally replies, tone gentle and rich in your ear. "Let us just lie here for a moment; just you and I." 

Does this truly please you, wife? - Gaomas bisa drējī kostilus ao, ābrazȳrys? To be here with me? - Naejot sagon kesīr lēda nyke I believe it does - Pāsan ziry gaomas It has me wonder of all the other ways I could please you - Ēza nyke pendagon hen mirre se tolie ways nyke could kostilus ao

So beautiful and sweet like this, my wife - Sīr gevie se dōna raqagon bisa, issa ābrazȳrys Do you taste just as sweet? - Gaomagon ao sylutegon sepār hae dōna?    

[writermani4c]

Me and the Devil | Count Orlok x Reader

summary: You're a nun at an isolated convent. He is in your mind, eating away your mind bit by bit, soon destroying the pillars of your faith. Until you have no choice but to surrender to him, he will destroy all that is necessary.

warnings: He's a vampire. Of course he doesn't have to play fair, does he? There is mind control and there are some rather bloody deaths. I don't think I'm really good with that, I don't think it's too heavy, but it's good that there's a warning.

:: We girls can't bear to see a vampire who is completely obsessed with a woman, who will spill as much blood as it takes to get her, and who has already fallen in love with her. I'm completely obsessed by Nosferatu, even though I couldn't get a screening where I live. This is basically my brain being eaten away by Bill Skarsgard's hunger… I'm always hungry for Bill, but at this point in time I could be kept in a secluded castle to give birth to all of his babies, and I mean that. I hope you enjoy this. By the way, good luck in 2024!

The high-pitched squeak penetrated the stones of the convent, seeping like moss into the soft, bumpy cracks in the porosity, and imitated the soft voice of a wanderer saying a prayer in a dead language, older than time. His understanding was forgotten by men, but that didn't silence him. That voice was still preserved in the air that surrounded you like a thick mantle covering a thick cotton habit, as light as the coat of a holy lamb, which covered you from head to toe in a sacred enclosure. 

Through the narrow window of his room, all that showed were the orange Carpathian mountain ranges in the middle of a mild autumn, with the taste of hot tea and the smell of a fire burning in the evening, when the temperature dropped at night.

The mountain ranges and that stone fortress, far from the convent and yet terribly close.

Every day, the castle seemed to move. When you weren't watching it with your stoic expression, it seemed to grow tentacles over its foundation and creep up slowly. Depending on the day, it seemed further away, with only the tip of its towers appearing between the hills. But when you were getting ready for bed, tucked up in the modest comfort of your little room and wrapped in the soft blanket of your nightgown, the castle seemed terribly close to you, so close that you could feel its evil aura as you raised your hand in a vain attempt to touch it. 

He was calling you. A strength, a terror, a hungry longing.

Come to me, my eternal beloved. 

Tormented, you choked on your own breath. The deep, seductive sound of that voice crept under your blankets at night, and under the modest garments of your nightgown, finding your soft, easy-to-creep skin. His touch was physical, even if you often groped your skin in search of those hands and found nothing but loneliness, and intimacy. So intimate that not even the devil himself, cruel and cunning, could emulate such evil in his attempt to corrupt the Lord Jesus in his trial in the desert.

It scared you.

The feeling of intimacy that belongs to something, that is lost until it is regained. That invisible hand, as well as the voice that only you heard, shook your sense of self and made you feel the narrow mattress slipping off your back, the thin blanket sliding off your body and your fear of dissolving as you floated above the bed. A demonic, ghostly vision, with your eyes rolled back in a trance that nothing and no one could stop.

You felt it, more intimately than you felt anything else, and that was scarier than any of the other traps in hell.

♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰♰

— My child — greeted the voice on the other side of the wooden confessional booth. The only voice you could turn to in times of extreme need. Father Lengyel was an elderly authority in the convent, as was Mother Superior Illés. If it hadn't been for that, you wouldn't have had the courage to confide in him your greatest fears, seeking the reassurance of his gentle voice. — In your praiseworthy stillness, I can see that something is troubling you. You owe me your ordeal, child.

— Father, help me! — Tired and sleepless after a night awake, with your knees against the floor praying to ward off the tentacles of evil, you felt your eyes grow heavy as you saw the low, hunchbacked shadow of the priest. — I'm cursed. I didn't do anything about it, but I know that the shadow that haunts me was born with me, wrapped around me like an umbilical cord that has never been amputated. I feel it and sometimes I hear its impatience calling my name.

— Fear not, my child. No shadow of a curse is stronger than our Lord's mercy on your spirit, waking you up every morning with a breath of life.

But maybe it's not our Lord, you thought bitterly. You almost disbelieved that God would even work in your cause, probably deciding to wash his hands of you and leave you alone on your ordeal. This thought angered you, wondering how God, your holy God to whom you dedicated your time and efforts to serve with blind devotion, could leave one of his daughters helpless when the claws of the nefarious one threatened to entangle her? 

And anger, even though it was blasphemy with your Father, was easier to manage in your restless spirit than the fear that perhaps God hadn't let go of your hand. Perhaps he was there, following in your footsteps not long ago, weeping blood for not being able to do anything to prevent the evils that awaited you. Maybe there were forces greater than the salvation you blindly tried to reach like a child afraid of the dark.

That thought you swept from your mind, because if that thing was stronger than the Savior you were turning to, there would be no reason to be reluctant in its evil call.

— I beg you, Father, with all the infinite goodness of your being, pray for my soul. 

— I will, my child. You too, pray for wisdom and that the Lord, in his infinite love, will bring you comfort. 

When you left the confessional, you got down on your knees in front of the proudly erected altar. The suffering face of that poor man in his moment of greatest difficulty never comforted you, but inspired you. If even he, the son and Messiah, found the purpose to remain firm on the narrow road of faith, you too would find the strength to stay in the light. You would have to pass through that tortuous valley to have your healing.

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You weren't the youngest in the convent, but you weren't the oldest either. When you arrived, with your only bag with a few belongings and a photo of the home you grew up in, the home that always seemed unworthy of your torments about the terror that was trying to get its claws into you, there were older girls who took you in as a younger sister, teaching you the trade so that you could also teach those who came to the convent after you. This was the mission: you didn't serve God's pure purpose alone, but learned from your sisters so that you could teach others in a cycle that stretched out like an infinite patchwork quilt. 

Among his protégés, the young Agnes was the most cherished. So young and intelligent, she was your faithful dog in the convent corridors. Agnes, who came from a poorer and more literate family than yours, found comfort in listening to you read the Psalms, the book they were given to study. Agnes' chubby cheeks and earthy brown eyes reminded you of the child you would never have, the one you could never run your hand through and love. The Lord was merciful to you in giving you a sister to fill that void and you gave her all the attention you could. Your beloved Agnes sat next to you while you ate your lunch in silence. The soup was thinner, to save supplies for the harsh winter, and the bread was smaller. All deposits were saved and all fasting was done in summer and fall, because in winter your bodies' strength was tested by the ice that seemed to be trying to infiltrate your bones. They would have to eat better to survive until spring.

Next to him, young Agnes choked on her bread.

— Eat slowly. 

— Pardon me, sister! — She stopped eating, lowering her head as if she expected to be punished. You smiled, running your hand over your protégé's head. 

— Don't be like that. I'm talking for your own good, chew better, it also helps to fill your stomach.

The girl turned her face towards you with a soft, youthful smile. 

A low, loud sound caught their attention. It was as if the ceiling had broken, so you looked up in doubt, but it seemed as firm as ever. Surprised gasps and the sound of footsteps moving across the stone floor made you stand up and look around, at the shocked faces of your sisters. 

— Stay behind me, Agnes. — You stood in front of the girl, shielding her with your body, while you searched for the cause of the commotion among the others. 

Another thud made you find the source of the terror. Your older sister, a girl so genuinely kind that she wouldn't mind giving up her own shoes and going barefoot if she had to. Olga. Olga, who was so generous that she always presented the others with little embroideries on old linen handkerchiefs, making them priceless pieces. Olga who hugged you as soon as you arrived, immensely happy as if you were a relative she hadn't seen for years and who was returning home. Your beloved sister Olga's nose was covered in blood and her front teeth were in an equally miserable state. Her blue eyes were completely covered by dark pupils, making them animalistic as she looked around at the familiar faces until she stopped at you. 

She gritted her teeth painfully, teasing the veins in her neck. Olga no longer knew you. She didn't look at you like her younger sister, but with anger.

— Ungrateful! Damn you! — She pointed her slender, cocked forefinger, the knuckles seeming to ache with the effort. — Ungrateful and  damned, unfortunate creature! Look what I do to what you love so much, look what I do to the object of your efforts!

Olga moved her face away from the table enough to almost fall backwards, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers tightly, before putting all her strength forward and, with a hollow sound of something breaking, smashing her nose against the wooden table. The noise tore you apart. Young Agnes' arms wrapped tightly around your waist as you pushed her back. 

Mother Illés rushed into the dining hall. 

She gave you an appeasing look and you understood. With agility, you gathered all the younger girls, totally terrified, and asked them to follow you out while Olga, surrounded and supported by her older sisters, screamed:

— Love me! Devote yourself to me! Command me if you wish, but don't ignore me, my beloved, don't deny me, for I am your lord and savior! I am the master of your pure and tormented soul, my beloved! 

But you, terrified, denied his call once again. You covered your ears as you led the girls into the courtyard outside. The dry autumn wind enveloped you, your voices, but did nothing to muffle the terror in your minds. Little Agnes was still wrapped tightly in your body and soon the others followed suit, seeking warmth in your shivering, freezing body. Concentrating on them, on reassuring them, took your mind off the torturous thought that, yes, he was impatient.

All those years of “tranquility” were his gift, his way of making you surrender voluntarily. But he was lonely. He was hungry. 

Now he controlled Olga's body. 

But not just her. 

That same night, while Olga was tied to her bed under the watchful eye of Mother Illés, Annabeth began to dance as she blew out the candles. You didn't see it, you were busy with your chores, but the others saw it and told you about it in sad, frightened voices. Annabeth, so young and playful, began to twirl around and the others thought she was just playing. The girl liked to play games, hiding pine cones under her pillows and little flowers in the sleeves of her habits. 

She spun around mesmerized, spinning faster and faster and more violently. Her feet seemed bewitched and she suffered without even being able to move her mouth to do so, her teeth clenched in a painful grind as her jaw unhinged. The candles on the altar grew, fueled by something supernatural and unworthy, dancing along with young Annabeth.

That macabre dance ended in a tableau and the flames touching the young woman's habit. The fire consumed her without anyone being able to put it out; no amount of water could stop the flames. They consumed Annabeth until there was nothing left. In her death, she said nothing, but tearing her clothes to get rid of the fire, her name was torn into the soft skin of my body. Her name was everywhere, written with love, sorrow and anger. Like a love-hate letter, he wrote to you through the skin of an innocent girl. 

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You hadn't slept a wink for three nights. 

At the slightest sign of unconsciousness, as you blinked your eyes a little more slowly, it was as if he was lurking there waiting to take you, and this made you resist even though your body could barely stand.

The mother didn't let you take part in the funeral, allowing you only a brief farewell before you were taken to your chambers to rest. 

You didn't want to rest.

Even so, you didn't have the strength to move. Perhaps it was tiredness or apathy, the feeling that all your efforts were useless.You lay there in your narrow bed, watching the day fade away through the shadows on the wall.

The night was his territory. 

Night was when he hid in the wind and entered his room.

Even though he wanted to, there was no voice in his throat to scream and a hot tear ran down his left eye. 

The door to his room opened and, to his relief, Father Lengyel entered his room. The black cloak swirled solemnly around him, like something divine coming to his rescue.

— What ails you, my dear!

— A large, slender hand, smelling of scrubbed earth, touched his face. There was a certain softness to it, even though the ice in your palms made you sigh with the thermal shock. — My poor little lamb! 

The man held your face lovingly, with such care that you simply let go, allowing yourself to cry in dismay at his attentive care. Father Lengyel, so small and twisted, sat on the edge of your bed. A candle burned on the chair on the other side of the room, the glow of the fire casting shadows on the wall next to your bed and leaving you cloaked in that lonely corner. Father Lengyel kissed your cheek, with those closed, dead lips, so cold they made you shiver.

— Father!

— Poor creature!

— My shadow is growing. — You confessed, leaning your face on the old man's hand. — My shadow consumed poor Olga and Annabeth, casting them into the valley of the storm. 

Father Lengyel pulled the blanket away from your body and, in the narrow space that barely fit a body, he lay down with you. Your eyes widened as the man pressed himself against your body. The man you had always seen as a loving and attentive father, a listener incapable of the slightest judgment, lay beside you with the warmth of a lover. 

— You curse us all, my sweet. — His mouth curved into a smile that only reflected darkness. — Everyone, everyone, everyone. My eyes, so blessed with the beauty of your soft skin and childish eyes, your sweet mouth and the shaggy strands of your eyebrows, became the object of his dark admirer's envy and, look, what he did to me.

In the short distance between your faces, that distance you wanted to increase at all costs, you could make out the old man's wrinkled features. His withered cheeks, the corners of his eyes creased by years and years of study and service to the church. His thinning hair was pearly white on his straight head, with little spots like freckles. The eyes, previously blue, weren't there. 

In their place, there was the emptiness of two hollow holes whose darkness seemed to feed with pleasure. 

The priest smiled in her direction.

— Smile, my dear. Who else in the world would be as adored and cherished as you? What other soul would be as worthy of all the fascination of eyes that have seen the rise and fall of empires as the rising and setting of the sun? There are worse ways to live. In complete ignorance, never seen and never remembered, gradually rotting away like this old man. 

In an unknown breath, you felt the instinct to fight with the same strength as the archangels as you sat up in bed, your body trembling from the effort. The priest continued to lie there, moaning with satisfaction as he enjoyed the smell of your hair against the pillow where you had shed your tears. 

He was totally possessed. The evil had taken hold of the most benevolent man you've ever had the pleasure of knowing, save only his own father, a man so generous that he gave up his beloved daughter to the care of a convent without ever doubting his desires to follow a holy life. All was lost.

You got out of bed, your legs wobbly as you dragged yourself out of the room. There were few lit candles and a long corridor. Carefully, you hugged your body and left your quarters, dreading the next demonic sight you would encounter on your way.

The convent seemed more alive than ever. A complete organism. The walls moved as it breathed and guided you in silence, the cold accompanying you like a guardian, a raven on your sullen shoulders. The moon was high in the sky, its pearly glow illuminating what not even candle flames could touch. And you walked, leaning on the walls, groping for balance. In the dining hall, where Olga's blood was embedded in the wood of one of the tables, you saw the shadows of the feet of all your beloved sisters and your devoted mother.

They all floated solemnly, with ropes around their necks. They all looked at you with pupils consumed by darkness and wide smiles, so big that they seemed to rejoice in your presence. 

— My beloved! — cried Clara. 

— Beacon of my darkness! — said Lucia. 

— Don't you see, my beloved? 

With dread, you walked around the tables, looking into their faces. Every single one of them. The rope wasn't taut, they were floating under the invisible force that kept them alive only for a brief moment. Just long enough for you to see them, to remember their names and their faces, their voices, their lives and their untouchable faith. Because they, like your Savior, had no power to stop the terrors you were cursed with at birth.

As soon as your cry marked his arrival in this rotten, petty and cheap world, he also felt the pain in his chest, where his lungs were supposed to work. Your soft cry marked the raw, lifeless gasp of the thing that woke up to take in its big, slender hands what was rightfully its: that poor soul, which had never found a single day's peace, shrouded in the melancholy of that fateful encounter. 

Nothing could stop her soul from touching him, much less his emptiness from possessing her soul.

It was a perfect fit, an unspoken agreement between heaven and hell. God, all merciful, gave you up for the greater good. You were eternally linked. 

And your sisters, mother and father paid the price for coming between the two of you, for taking you away from your true home and your true master. They filled your days with their miserable little lives, with miserable knowledge, with miserable privations for such... miserable glory. 

— I have set you free, my beloved. I have loosened the nails that bound you to your cross. — Murmured the mother, with jubilant eyes, cheeks streaked with sweet tears. Your stern and beneficent mother. — My obsession is the key to this filthy, worthless prison. Come, darling, and enjoy with me all the pleasures you've been denied. Come quickly, my beloved, put an end to my loneliness.

His shadow has grown over you, outside in the courtyard.

— Spare them! I beg you! — Her voice roared over the tearful smiles of her sisters. Young Agnes wiggled her legs, looking at you with that untouched childish gaze, as if she were throwing herself into dense fluffy clouds and not into the abyss of death, into the blackness of darkness. — Spare them and I'll follow you without looking back. I will never desire anything other than your company, nor will I follow any other path than the one your feet once trod.

Your sisters' laughter exploded through the high ceiling, laden with a mockery that didn't belong to them.

Bewitched, they all looked down at you with equal dark amusement, their voices blending together like a spiral that drained the strength from your legs. 

— Don't you understand yet, my holy lamb? — Smiled sweet Agnes. — There's no bargaining. Whether they live or die, you will still be mine.Even in death, I will pull you back and chain you to me. I myself have suffered many years of being bound to the prison of my desires for you, waiting for you for countless years, feeling the weight of your rejection, cruel lover. 

— But you love me, don't you?

— Every part of me to every part of you, my sweetness. 

— So give me these gifts. Spare my beloved sisters, my fellow human beings, those sweet women with pure hearts who have guarded me long enough for you to come and take your rightful possession. They are not guilty, but guardians. — On your knees, you clasped your hands to your chest, begging the devil for mercy. — I know I wasn't good to you, I was insensitive to your call, but they are not to blame.You'll have all my devotion if you spare them, but if you kill them, even though you have my body and my spirit, you'll never have a drop of my attention. 

The silence of the souls hanging from the ceiling of the convent refectory echoed their inconsolable weeping.Thick tears and a plea so strong that it could make the souls turn over in their graves. 

The doors opened in a rush, letting the cold wind enter the dining hall. 

For the first time, under the ethereal light of the moon, as if in a macabre mixture of dream and nightmare intertwined by the thin veil of unconsciousness, you saw it.Not its aura or its agonized call, you saw the creature with your own eyes. 

You, who know so little about men, had never seen such a figure. 

So tall that you had to stoop to pass through the door that you would walk through without any difficulty.Eyes so deep that no light could reach them. A face hardened by the spectre of death, with a long nose and a thick moustache of a deep shade of black.He entered the sacred ground with equal parts ease and pain, each step a necessary torture to reach the object of his desire. The soul he so coveted in his millennial solitude, forgotten by the world, completely abandoned under the promise of a single soul that the heavens did not claim, a soul he could corrupt at will. 

Yours to devour, he thought at first, perhaps resentful that he was also chained to a lowly mortal, a wandering and very basic creature. Yours to torment, he thought, when you were very young and saw his shadow in your room for the first time. Yours to worship, he realized now, pulling her by her bare arms to stand up.

The creature, hungry for something, for some compensation for its endless loneliness, brought its face close to his and, with a touch of malice, stuck out its tongue, licking the length of his tears with its cold, inhuman breath. 

— I thought you'd wait for me in your habit, my beloved.I was particularly looking forward to it. — He lowered his cold, vile gaze, delving into the shape of your body beneath the nightgown with which you were forced to rest, a fabric so thin of light cotton that it hung down your body, revealing through the worn nature of the fabric the color of your stiff nipples against the fabric. He gasped with pleasure. — But what unparalleled pleasure it is to see you in such intimate attire, my eternal obsession. 

His hands, holding her face, were huge, with large, aged nails. Nails that would have dug into the earth to escape the grave. Their coldness was uncomfortable, but, given the horrors in your mind, you found yourself accepting their touch as a shred of comfort.

It destroyed your sanity, that it would at least give you the soothing balm of a caress.

— Please! — you sighed with a breath, a breath as anguished as it was tired. 

Your hands touched his, your eyes full of life and fear threatened his darkness with such a benevolent request, something the creature had never witnessed. 

Those like you, mortals, used to beg for mercy on your own life, on your knees and with the greatest promises of riches and pleasures.And here you were, a soul who would never reach heaven, asking for mercy for others when it was your fate that was at stake.

How he loved you! How he hated you!

— Treating it as my personal gift and demonstration of my esteem, these women live by my ability to have mercy on the requests of your heart. — He approached your warmth, the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the salt of your feverish skin. All his vitality was more than banal desire, he was madly fissured by every cell of his anatomy, every rudimentary bit of his mortal Anatomy, and so doomed to the horrors of putrefaction. — My eternal living flame, how it tormented me not to be able to touch it. How it torments me right now to feel the softness of your skin. 

The creature's eyes mapped your face, his eyes so vivid and striking in color, the visage on your skin, the softness of his mouth as you breathed audibly, so bruised by fatigue that you didn't even budge when he wrapped you in his arms like a bruised little bird. Her soft sigh, nesting her head against his shoulder, was the fuel for him to release the women from their ropes, gently lowering them until their feet touched the ground.

— As long as you live, my ladies, be the witness of my triumph in having my sweet beloved in my arms for eternity.

He lowered his face in your direction, the ancient smell on his clothes made you scratch your nose. 

The texture of his mustache was thick. When his funeral lips touched yours, you tried to resist. Never before have you felt the pleasure of a passionate kiss or a love that took your breath away. But he knew what he'd been waiting for, holding you tightly by the back of your head, wrapping himself around you menacingly as his mustache scratched and skin immaculate from his face. His lips were hard, demanding and hungry.

His mouth ate you as his last hope, the last of pleasures and torments, a feast for a dying man.

The exchange, life and death, touching each other for the first time ignited an impulse in you. The impulse that matched his kiss, because that was the deal. You gave in, letting your lips submit to the kiss. Your body was surprised as you gasped with pleasure at corresponding with him, stimulated by the passion with which he held you. The human body is capable of many bargains to continue resisting.

And you, who had resisted for so long, gave in to that bittersweet feeling of surrender, feeling it take against your body.

Her body gradually sank into the feeling of being supported. As her dark lover's lips devoured hers, the world became a darker and darker place, the hiss of the wind seeping into her ears like spilled poison.  Between soft gasps, feeling the creature suck on his lips, unable to be completely satiated, his body gave in to the strain, falling into a powerful sleep. Realizing that you no longer corresponded with him, he walked away, looking at her with apprehension. His right hand, large and bony, rested on his chest. 

The beating of his heart was quiet, yet powerful. Each beat rumbling softly against the bones of his chest. 

Under the gaze of the bewitched nuns, he disappeared with the night, carrying with him the only one with whom he could share his eternal night.

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[musouie]

art by ohto.begone ノ divider by @/adornedwithlight

⟢ précis: vi seeks your comfort after reuniting with powder ꒱ inspired by s1 ep6

⟢ contents: hurt/comfort, angst, gn!reader, references to s1 ep 3 + e6, wc: 0.9k

Vi comes to you early in the morning.

She slinks in with the rising sun, tiptoeing across your floors, narrowly missing the floorboards that often creak with an ease that can only be learned — and then, she sits. 

Quietly, on the edge of your bed, stifling her pained groans from throbbing wounds through clenched teeth and blueblack lips — taking the brunt of it as she’s always done …

... alone.

She tries to fight it — the intrusion, the remembrance — but she’s never been good at forgetting, at smothering all the misshapen fragments of her memories until they were soot in her skull —

(Fire, heady and ashen on her tongue; the explosion, the beast Vander had become — and then all that came after. The poison of her words, the gravel of her voice, the tremble of Powder’s bottom lip as she harshly gripped her jaw)

— they haunted, they haunted, they haunted.

Her own lip begins to tremble, and quickly, she begins to undo her bandages, minding the shallow dip of your mattress as she shifts to a better position. (Perhaps the pain would distract her, one sting to outdo another of a different kind?) She unwinds it once, twice — and immediately her nose scrunches at the foul odour it emits: of blood and grime and sweat and —

“Vi?”

Her head snaps up; you’re staring at her blearily — vision blurry and cottoned around the edges as you fight your heavy eyelids.

You blink twice and she nods, slowly turning her muscled back to you as you pull yourself into a seated position, legs still tucked beneath your blanket. “What are you doing here?” Her shoulders tense; you try again. “...When did you get in?”

“Not too long ago,” she mutters, gathering the last of her bandage in her scraped palm. “Snuck in through the window.”

You rub at your eyes. “You know I hate when you do that. There’s a key beneath the welcome-mat, you can just come through the front like normal.” 

She says nothing to that, but her shoulders do that curl. The one that tells you she’s annoyed, that another wall has been drawn up between you. You think it’s because you used the word ‘normal’ – your error. I’m far from normal, she’d whisper on starless nights, the things that happen to me don’t happen to normal people. 

She’d groan when you’d whisper back, And what is it that happens to you?

(What followed was predictable — routine. The crow’s feet by her eyes eased, and her lips hardened into a line — one that you knew not to cross, not to touch…not to kiss in lieu of all the ‘I’m sorry’’s and ‘Please forgive me’’s that neither of you would appreciate the outcome of.)

So you wait for her shoulders to straighten themselves, for the sun to peek through your window, one shy ray behind the other — and for the breath she’d been holding to release itself in one large huff.

“I–” she turns, and it’s then you glimpse the extent of her state, of her lips — indigo and swollen; berries crushed beneath a careless fist, one bruise atop another that has yet to heal. “Can I just lay beside you?”

“Your lips—”

“—They’ll heal.”

“But—”

“I said they’ll heal,” she bites.

And there it is again — the wall.

The wall.

(How many times had you tried to climb over it, to scale the bricks and mortar and find a way inside? How many times had you slipped and fallen, the jagged edges of its foundation cutting deep into the skin of your palms, your knees, the soles of your feet?

How many times had you bled, and bled, and bled, and bled, and asked no more questions?)

“Alright,” you murmur, lifting your blanket to invite her in.

(It was a small mercy, you supposed. To have a part of her, even if it was just a fraction, a piece, a fragment.

To have her close, and not so far away.) “Come.”

And so, she does. Wincing, groaning, hissing — she does.

You hold your arms out and she falls into them, her face burrowing into the crook of your neck. Her fingers, her nails, her hands — they grip the fabric of your shirt, bunching the cloth and pulling it tight.

(If you were to look down, you would see her knuckles, white, and the veins of her wrist, pronounced and raised. Most of all, you would see the tremor, the shake, the quiver, the shiver, the tremble of her entire being.

A leaf, battered and broken, blown and thrown by the wind.

A bird, with its wings torn and clipped, left to bleed and rot in the dirt.)

“I-I saw her.”

The admission is uttered so weakly, muffled by the fabric of your shirt, that you nearly miss it.

Your chest rises. “Who?”

“Powder. I–” Your shirt is drawn tighter. “It was so foggy… I-I didn’t even recognise her at first.”

“Vi…”

“I should’ve. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen her, I should’ve stayed with her, I should’ve—”

“Vi.”

“I should’ve—”

“Violet.” 

Her body shudders, her shoulders quake. “S-She was just a child.”

You pull her closer, until the two of you are flush and her body heat seeps through her clothes and your thin sleepwear, to your flesh. You cradle her, and carefully, you run your fingers through the jagged, pink strands of her hair — as though she’d skitter off at any moment.

“As were you.”

She doesn’t respond.

So you cradle her, until her breaths are yours and hers.

Until the blood on her lips are yours and hers.

Until her heartbeats are yours and hers.

Until her scars are yours and hers.

(And yours, hers.)

masterlist <3

[1800-fight-me]

Future

Logan Howlett x Female!Reader Rating: E (Explicit-MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, explicit PiV sex as well as oral sex (M&F receiving), breeding kink, and daddy kink (oof) Word count: A little over 8.3k Synopsis: Logan goes back to the past in an attempt to save the world, but more importantly- you. (Set in X-Men Days of Future Past and switches between Logan and Reader's POV) Author’s note: Something about Logan makes me absolutely insane to the point that I wrote the longest most explicit sex scene I've ever written.... please enjoy P.S. I do not have a taglist! Instead if you would like to be notified when I post new fics follow my side blog @jo-writes-fanfic and turn your post notifications on! Comments and reblogs make my day! Main Masterlist

LOGAN’S POV

The future was dark and bleak. A war of uncontrollable violence, more than Logan had ever seen in his long life. 

The only bright spot in such a horrific future was you. You were the peace and rest his aching soul had long been searching for. 

It started as two people seeking solace and relief in one another, but the foundation of friendship created something so much more significant than either of you could have predicted. 

You became the planet around which he orbited. The home he never thought he’d find. The balm to his raging fire. 

Despite the hell that was life in the future, he had you. It was fitting that it caused the world falling to shit for him to finally find you. 

His self deprecating thoughts also told him that it was fitting that he lost you too. He didn’t deserve a love so pure and bright. He didn’t deserve such happiness when everyone else he cared about was either suffering or dead. 

All the blood on his hands left him marked, scarred, filthy down to his soul. But you looked past all of that, claimed you loved him anyway, claimed him. 

He was yours completely, worshiped at the altar of your affection, would go any lengths for you- do anything you ask. 

He would do anything to protect you, and it was the biggest black mark on his soul, after an extended lifetime full of mistakes, that he wasn’t able to protect you when it mattered the most. 

He shredded the sentinels, the unkillable soldiers in his rage, but one had slipped past his defenses, used your own healing powers against you and sucked the life right from you. Snuffed out your bright light all too soon. 

He killed, and killed, and killed- and it still didn’t bring you back. 

No one and nothing but him made it out of that abandoned warehouse that night. It was the tipping point for him, it made him bloodthirsty and reckless. It made him willing to go along with Charles and Eric’s ridiculous plan. 

As he laid down on the stone slab and allowed the young mutant to send him to the past, his thoughts were only on you. 

Everyone knew what his hopes were, but it went unspoken for fear it wouldn’t come true. Logan went back to the past with the desperate desire that he would wake up in a future in which you were still alive. A future he hadn’t already destroyed with the worst mistake he’d ever made. A better future. One you deserved, he would give you anything and everything you asked if he could bring you back. 

He woke in 1973 in the arms of a woman who wasn’t you, a woman he didn’t really remember. He hadn’t met you yet in 1973, unfortunately it would be a long while before he met you. And besides, he didn’t have time to search for you, he only had enough time for his mission. 

He could only hold onto the hope that he would see you again in the future, if he could change things for the better- if he could finally do something right. 

You were his motivation through dealing with younger versions of Charles and Eric, through all the missteps and mistakes, he tried his best to not lose hope. 

One last chance, after the mess that was Paris, this intervention was the only possibility of setting things right. 

They had to prevent Raven from killing Trask at this ridiculous anti-mutant presentation. Logan was inclined to agree with Raven at this point, but he knew the outcome of that decision and it was one he couldn’t live with. 

He and Hank made their way through the large crowds as Hank pushed Charles’ wheelchair, all focused only on their task at hand. Logan scanned the crowd, looking for Mystique despite the fact that Charles would be the only one able to find her. 

A voice met his ears, one that made his spine go rod straight. A voice he had unconsciously trained himself to seek out over years. 

“I really don’t want to be here,” the voice grumbled. 

Logan whipped his head to the left so quickly that if it was possible he probably would have given himself whiplash. 

It was you. 

His heart pounded harder than it had in the entirety of his two hundred something years. 

He stopped dead in his tracks and it was a force of will to not stare at you with his mouth hanging open. 

You looked different, but the same. You were younger obviously, your hairstyle and clothes were completely different, but that was you. 

His hand ached with the need to hold you, just one more time. 

“Please, I get extra credit for attending this thing and I can’t fail my government class,” the woman who he assumed was your friend whined as she clutched at your wrist. 

He did a mental tally in his head. Of course, he should’ve remembered that in the early seventies you were in a college not too far from Washington DC. It really wasn’t a huge coincidence that you would be here, but still it felt monumental. 

You looked over at her and huffed in resignation. 

God, you were cute, he thought. 

“Besides, maybe you can meet a handsome guy here. That would lift your spirits, wouldn’t it?” your friend said as she wiggled her eyebrows at you. 

You rolled your eyes and said, “This isn’t a bar, Jenna. This is anti-mutant government propaganda bullshit.” 

As did so often, he agreed with you. 

She pouted at you. “Well what if I promise to take you to a bar right after this ends?” 

You looked over at her in exasperated fondness and let her pull you forward, closer to where Logan and Hank stood in the crowd. 

Hank was saying something to him, something he didn’t hear - his attention entirely on you, and he snapped his head back to Hank as he shook his shoulder. 

“What?” Logan snapped. 

“Who are you looking at? Do you see Raven?” Hank asked. 

Logan took a deep breath and said, “No. I’m looking at my wife.” 

“Oh no,” Hank muttered. 

“Logan you can’t-“

”It’s not safe for her here,” Logan growled. 

————————————————-

YOUR POV

“Look, that guy is looking at you,” Jenna whispered in your ear. 

You followed her line of sight and saw the most handsome man you’d ever seen. 

He was exactly your type and in tight jeans to boot. He was huge- tall and extremely muscular. His dark hair was the kind of neat disheveled that begged you to run your fingers through it. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses but you could feel his intense gaze through them. 

“Holy shit he’s good looking,” you murmured and your friend giggled. 

He looked over at who you assumed was his friend and you continued to take him in. You weren’t sure you’d ever checked out a stranger in such a blatant manner before. There was something about him so inviting, despite his tense posture and intense demeanor, that your mouth was practically watering. 

“The guy next to him is cute too. Maybe we should go talk to them,” Jenna said. 

You tore your eyes from the object of your lust, and looked at the man next to him. He was cute in a nerdy way- exactly Jenna’s type. There was a third man with them, he was in a wheelchair and had his fingers to his temple as he scanned the crowd clearly in search of something or someone important. 

“I think they’re coming to us,” you said as the nerdy guy walked towards you. 

But unfortunately, the one you wanted to come closer didn’t, he stayed with his companion in the wheelchair and bent down to whisper something in his ear. 

“Hey ladies,” the man in glasses said as he approached you and Jenna. 

She immediately began to smile and twirl her hair around her finger as she spoke with him eagerly. 

He introduced himself as Hank and you shook his hand and introduced yourself as well, but your eyes continued to drift behind him to the other man, the one who you felt an inexplicable tug toward. 

“What about your friend?” you asked, your words an interruption to whatever Hank had been saying to Jenna. 

Hank looked stressed, but you looked back at the large man only a stone's throw away. 

He looked up and made eye contact with you, he must have taken his sunglasses off while you weren’t paying attention. Never before had you felt so stripped bare by just meeting a man’s eyes, there was a whirlwind of emotions within them- something akin to familiarity, possibly even love, and hunger. 

It took several moments of drowning in his gaze before you regained your wits about you. You smirked at him. 

He crossed his arms over his chest, which made him appear even larger as his muscles flexed. He raised a brow at you, but his lips were upturned in a small smile as if he was smiling despite himself. 

You crooked a finger at him, an invitation to come closer. 

He smiled and shook his head slightly, almost as if he were reprimanding himself but also couldn’t help himself. He turned his head and said something to his friend in the wheelchair before he strutted over to you. 

Every long stride he took towards you led to a tightening in your chest. It wasn’t fear, no, it was yearning. There was something inside you that wanted- no, needed, to know him. 

Your instincts were all wrong, he looked like a predator closing in on his prey, something about him sharp and animalistic as he approached you, and yet you felt at ease, intrigued, safe. 

“Hi,” you breathed out as he reached you. He smirked and stood a bit closer than would be normal for a stranger, but you didn’t mind at all as you looked up at his towering figure. 

He introduced himself in a low gravelly voice that sent a shiver down your spine and hearing his name was like an answer to a question you didn’t even know you’d been asking. 

Logan. 

You told him your name and he had this secret smile as if he already knew what you were going to say. 

He repeated your name, and something in you changed forever at the sound of it on his lips. 

“How come you didn’t wanna come say hi?” You asked teasingly. 

He looked at you and you felt more at home than ever before, which you knew sounded insane, but you couldn’t deny the way he made you feel. 

“Oh I wanted to,” he said and warmth filled you as you smiled at him. 

“Logan,” Hank hissed as he elbowed him. 

You’d honestly forgotten that you and Logan weren’t the only two people in the world at that moment. You’d forgotten about Jenna, and Hank, and the teeming crowd of people around you. 

“I know,” Logan replied to Hank in a grumpy tone that made you huff a small laugh. 

“Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but you need to leave. This isn’t safe,” Logan said fervently as he placed a large hand gently on your upper arm. 

You scrunched your brows at him in confusion. 

“Is this some kind of ploy to get me to leave with you?” You joked. 

He chuckled, the sound from deep in his chest, and you grinned. 

“If only,” he said. “No, pretty girl, I have to stay here.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused,” you said. 

His thumb rubbed up and down your arm in a way that was both comforting and familiar. 

He glanced over at your friend, and as he saw that she was deep in conversation with Hank, he leaned closer to you in order to whisper in your ear. 

“This isn’t a safe place for mutants,” he murmured, urgency in his voice. 

You pulled back enough to look into his eyes, shock evident in your expression. 

“How do you know-“ you gasped quietly. 

He shook his head, “I’m one too, I can explain everything later, but please- for your own safety sweetheart, please leave.” 

You met his gaze and something about the urgency and care you found in his eyes made you believe him. 

“I suppose I’ll take your word for it. There’s a bar across town called McClarin’s, will you meet me there tonight? You can buy me a drink and explain all this weirdness.” You said. 

There was a flash of something akin to sadness in his eyes, but he gave you a tight smile and said, “Of course, I’ll be there. I’d do anything you ask.” 

You believed him. 

So you turned your head to your friend and said, “Jenna, we’re leaving.” 

You ignored her protests and stood on your tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Logan’s cheek. 

His hazel eyes fluttered closed, as if he were savoring the feeling of your lips against his skin. 

“Until tonight,” you said as you slipped your hand in Jenna’s. He nodded in agreement and you turned and walked away from him. 

“Why are we leaving?” Jenna complained. 

“They’re going to meet us at the bar later, we can watch the broadcast on the TV,” you said. 

She huffed but agreed as you led her out of the crowd and towards safety. 

A little while later you sat at the bar with Jenna- you ate pretzels and nursed a beer, and watched the news. 

Logan had been right, it was a dangerous situation for mutants. 

Tears filled your eyes and your heart dropped into your stomach as you watched as Logan was massacred by Magneto. His body was violently filled with pieces of metal and then thrown so far the cameras didn’t catch where he landed. 

He had to be dead, no one survived something like that. He saved your life and then didn’t survive the fight he protected you from. 

None of the news outlets had any information on your mysterious savior. 

You spent the evening calling both hospitals and morgues and no one had any knowledge of Logan or even a John Doe that matched his description. 

Weeks went by with no news. There was a hole in your heart, which seemed ridiculous considering you’d only met him once, but there was something about a promise unfulfilled. 

There was a feeling as if your future had been altered completely, as if Logan was supposed to be a part of it but now he never would be. 

————————————————-

Your mutant ability to heal others and yourself led you to work in a hospital as a nurse after you completed all of your schooling. 

Years passed and you met Storm when she literally landed in your hospital, as in she was thrown by an enemy and crashed through the ceiling. 

You stared at her in shock, then jumped towards her and used your powers to heal the gash in her stomach where blood had already begun pooling. She thanked you before flying off into battle once more. 

Once the fight was won, Storm came back and asked you to come with her to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. 

You were intrigued and soon found yourself as a professor of health sciences, part time school nurse, and an X-Man on the side. You weren’t much of a fighter, during missions you really mostly hung back and healed the injured X-Men as well as any civilians fought in the crossfire. 

It was a fulfilling life, one you enjoyed immensely, but something always felt like it was missing. You dated a bit but being so busy prevented anything deep. 

There was no spark, no instant connection with anyone like there had been with Logan. You supposed it really was a once in a lifetime experience. 

It didn’t help that you weren’t interested in anyone romantically that you worked with. Storm, who had quickly become a great friend, encouraged you to give Hank a chance when he pursued you. You tried, he was nice, but it just wasn’t love, and after a few months you ended it. Luckily you were able to remain as friends. 

Time passed and Professor X pointed out to you that you didn’t appear to age. At first you brushed him off as ridiculous, but eventually consented to let Jean run tests on you. 

As it turned out, your ability to heal yourself extended to things such as diseases and life’s natural course of aging. 

Eternity yawned its horrid mouth open before you and the loneliness of it threatened to swallow you whole. 

You took a leave of absence to avoid others seeing you in the midst of an existential crisis. You traveled for a couple of months, took time to see the world in a way you never had before, met beautiful strangers, and came to terms with the fact that it was likely you would never die, that any connections you did make would die long before you were ever ready. 

You decided to make the most of life, embrace the joy and the hurt, and returned home. 

As soon as you walked through the door of the mansion, everything felt different, but perhaps it was you that was changed so irrevocably. 

You made your way towards Professor X’s office and literally ran into a man as he walked out. 

“Ugh,” you groaned as your face squished into a broad chest. The body you slammed into was so sturdy the man didn’t even stumble, he merely placed large hands on your shoulders to steady you. 

“Woah there, speedy. You alright?” A deep voice said. Something about that voice tickled something in the back of your brain, a memory from years ago. 

“Sorry!,” you exclaimed as you stepped back and looked up to see his face. 

“Logan,” you breathed out in surprise as you finally saw him. He looked nearly the same as all those years ago. His hair and clothes were slightly different, but it was definitely him. He was as handsome as the day you lost him.

He raised a brow in confusion as he looked at you. 

“Have we met?” He asked. 

Your heart dropped into your stomach. The man of your dreams, the man you thought had died and yet you had continued to pine over for years, was standing before you and didn’t remember you. He didn’t remember meeting you, an experience that had been so cataclysmic in your life but apparently unimpressionable in his. 

“Yes, many years ago,” you breathed out. 

He looked you up and down and said, “Well, I really wish I remembered that.” 

You huffed a laugh to cover up the ache in your heart as you looked down at your feet. You told him your name as his hands finally slipped from your shoulders, you mourned the loss of his touch. 

As he repeated your name in that gravelly tone your heart thumped harder in your chest, despite yourself. 

“I don’t remember anything before a few years ago,” he said. 

“Oh?” You asked. Maybe it wasn’t that you were forgettable, it was just that he didn’t remember anything. 

“What happened?” You breathed out. 

Confusion and echoes of pain clouded his gorgeous hazel eyes. “I don’t remember, but I know it was painful,” he said. 

You placed a hand on his arm in comfort and said, “Maybe the professor can help you figure it out.” 

He nodded, “Not sure if I’ll be sticking around long enough. Being on a team isn’t really my thing.” 

“Sure it’s not,” you teased with a wink, thinking back to the team he was clearly a part of back when you met him. 

He grumbled something you didn’t quite catch at the same time Charles came out of his office to greet you. 

You bid Logan goodbye as you followed Charles into his office to catch up after your extended absence. 

Your heart still pounded from meeting Logan and you wore a grin you couldn’t prevent for several minutes. 

And to your delight, you found out later in the day that Logan decided to stay. You weren’t sure what the deciding factor was, but you were happy all the same. 

Maybe things would fall into place, perhaps your future could end up brighter than previously anticipated. 

————————————————-

LOGAN’S POV

Logan awoke, the same song playing on the radio, your song. He lurched out of the bed and stumbled out of the room. As he opened the door wonder filled him as he realized he was in the mansion. 

Children bustled past him as they went to their classes. Friends and family that were long since passed in his future smiled and waved at him as he walked through his home eyes full of wonder. 

It had worked, all the effort and pain had been worth it, everything was as it should be. The only question that remained was you. Where were you? 

He made his way to Charles’ office and sighed in relief when he saw him safe and alive. 

His old friend welcomed him back to the future, a better future. 

“Where is she?” He breathed out as Charles read his mind, getting a glimpse of his past. 

“She’s here, she’s safe, but Logan you should know-“ 

At that moment you walked into Charles’ office and if Logan wasn’t already sitting he would’ve fallen to his knees. He’d never seen such a beautiful sight. 

He breathed out your name like a prayer and you looked over at him. He didn’t even register the look on your face, he’d already made his way across the room and wrapped you in his arms. 

“Logan,” you squeaked out. “What the hell?” 

He lifted you up and buried his face in your neck. 

“Can’t breathe,” you huffed as you pushed on his shoulders in an attempt to get him to release you from the vice hold he had you in. 

He put you down and looked down at you, placed a hand on the side of your gorgeous face- it wasn’t until now that he took in your expression. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked. 

You pulled back from him again, even went so far as to push his hand from you and took a step back. 

“What’s gotten into you? Why the hell do you think you can just-” You asked in confusion, irritation coloring your tone. 

He cut you off as he blurted out, “What? I don’t understand-“ 

“Logan, in this timeline you and her broke up,” Charles said. 

“Broke up?” Logan asked with raised eyebrows, the words lacked any meaning to him. There was no future in which he and you were not together. It was inconceivable. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Logan said. At the same time you asked, “this timeline?” 

You both looked at one another in confusion. 

“Sit, both of you, let me explain,” Charles said. 

Logan sat and watched your expression change from suspiciousness to utter shock as Charles explained that Logan was from a different future, a different timeline, and had replaced the Logan you knew. 

He didn’t remember anything after 1973, other than the horrible future he had come from. But he did remember the first time you met that day in Washington DC. Although for him that was far from the first time you’d met.

“That’s a lot of information. I think you broke my brain- that’s so confusing,” you breathed out. 

Logan’s heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he tried to gauge your reaction. 

You turned to him. “So in this future I’m guessing you and I are together?” 

Logan nodded. 

“Well not in this one,” you muttered and stood to leave. 

“Wait, princess - talk to me,” Logan pleaded as he grabbed your hand. 

You turned back and glared at him. “Logan, I don’t care which version of you it was, you broke my heart and I have no interest in sitting here listening to any more of this.” 

You yanked your hand from his and stormed out of the office. You left him feeling helpless and empty. 

He looked over at the Professor. “What happened?” He asked. 

“It’s still fresh. The others have found her crying multiple times over the last few days. I tried not to pry but-“ 

“You went into her head,” Logan guessed and Charles nodded. 

He prepared himself for the worst and the flicker of hope in his chest began to gutter. He would be devastated if after all of this he couldn’t be with you. 

“The two of you have been together for about five years, were close friends for years before that, but she ended it about a week ago during an argument. She wanted to have a child and you didn’t,” Charles explained. 

“That’s it? She wants a baby? I’ll give her a baby. I’ll give her whatever she wants, the version of me from this timeline must be a goddamn idiot,” Logan said sharply. 

Charles chuckled. “I spoke to the other you yesterday, he had come to the same conclusion. It wasn’t that he didn’t want a child, he was just letting his fears get in the way.” 

“I have to go talk to her,” Logan practically growled as he stood and stalked out of the office in search of you. 

It wasn’t difficult to find you. He had memorized the sound of your heartbeat, your scent, and was all too familiar with the salty tang of your tears. 

He found you in a bedroom he assumed was yours, he knocked and let himself in despite your garbled yell of, “Go away!” 

It was clear this was the makeshift room you’d moved into after the break up, your decorations were all in boxes, your clothes piled everywhere and spilled out of drawers, and everything all together more messy and haphazard than he knew you liked to keep things. 

You sat curled in the bed as tears streamed down your sweet face. 

“Go away Lo,“ you sniffled as you quickly wiped your tears away. 

“Oh, my sweet girl-“ Logan said in a gentle voice only you knew. 

“No, Logan I’m not yours anymore,” the words were weak and he could tell you didn’t even really mean them. 

He came closer to the bed and you glared at him but didn’t say a word as he sat down and pulled you into his lap. 

You sunk into his embrace and buried your face in his neck. He ran his hand up and down your back soothingly. 

Your fingers tangled into his shirt, your breaths were shaky, and a few more tears managed to escape. His heart ached at the pain you were in. 

“I changed the timeline of our universe to be with you. I’m not gonna let anything stand in our way. So, you want a baby, I’ll give you a baby. I’ll give you as many babies as you want. I’ll give you anything you want, I’d do anything for you. I love you,” he said and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

“But-“ 

“And before you ask, Charles told me that the Logan in this future had come to the same conclusion and was planning on making things right with you today. In every timeline, I want to make you happy.” 

He wiped the tears from your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

“Did we ever talk about kids in your future?” You asked in a soft vulnerable voice. 

He held you tighter. 

“Only once, but it wasn’t a possibility for us, that future was too dangerous. So dangerous that I lost you. I wouldn’t survive losing you again.” 

At the pain in his voice you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. 

“Tell me about that future,” you asked gently. 

And so he did, every awful part of it as he held you in his arms and reminded himself that this was real, that you were safe and alive, that this was his new future. 

You wiped the tear that slipped down his face as you looked up at him in awe. 

“You did all that for me? For us?” You asked in wonder. 

“I’d do anything for you,” he said fervently. You placed your hand on the side of his face and his eyes fluttered closed as he finally, finally received affection from you after so long. 

He nuzzled his face into your hand, pressed his lips against the pulse point at your wrist, finally let himself sink into your intoxicating presence. 

You slipped your hand into his hair and pressed a featherlight kiss to his lips. The weight of time without you pressed in on him and his self control snapped, with one hand on the back of your head and the other on your waist, he crushed you against his body and kissed you with desperation. 

He wanted to consume you, to sink inside you, to never be apart from you again. 

You made a high pitched sweet sound of surprise before you kissed him just as fervently. He groaned into your mouth at the taste of you as his tongue slipped into your mouth. 

It was absolute heaven. 

This kiss could have gone on for hours or perhaps only seconds, he didn't know, no time was enough with you. 

You pulled back and looked at him. “I love you,” you said. 

“I love you,” he groaned and pressed his lips to yours repeatedly. 

You breathed out a soft giggle at his expression of adoration. 

He tilted his head back to look you deep in the eyes once more and said, “Let’s make a baby.” 

You looked flustered and he thought it was the sweetest thing he’d ever seen. 

“Right now? I-“ 

“I’ve missed you so much, sweetheart. I want to. Wanna give you want you want,” he moaned as he kissed you again. 

“Missed you too,” you whimpered as his lips drifted across your jaw and down your throat. 

————————————————-

YOUR POV

It was all consuming. He was everywhere all at once as he laid you on your back and pressed himself on top of you. 

The weight and heat of him was both comforting and intoxicating. The last few hours had given you emotional whiplash, but it was Logan. 

Apparently he was your soulmate no matter the timeline. He kissed you as if he were drowning and you were his breath of fresh air. He said everything you’d been dreaming of, and more as he declared his love and promised to fulfill your every desire. 

There was nothing the two of you couldn’t overcome as a team. You loved him and he loved you, and maybe that was all that mattered. 

As he bit down on your neck, all other thoughts flew from your head, it was just him. You and him- forever. There would be no long lonely life, he would be by your side always. 

“Logan,” you gasped and he groaned against your neck as he continued to nip and suck at the skin there. He loved to mark you as his and the thought made your toes curl. 

As if he could read your mind, he said, “Tell me you’re mine.”

His tongue licked up the column of your throat and you panted, “I’m yours, Lo. Only yours.” 

“Marry me,” he murmured against your skin. 

‘What?” You breathed out as you placed your hands on either side of your face and pulled him back enough to meet his hazel gaze. His pupils were blown with a combination of love and lust which caused heat to fill your entire body. 

“Marry me,” he repeated, then pressed his lips to yours again. 

“Yes,” you gasped into his mouth. His fingers gripped your waist tighter as they slipped under your shirt and met your heated skin. 

“Let me make you mine forever,” he growled and you whimpered and nodded as you tugged at his t-shirt. 

He helped you pull it off him and you let out a soft groan as your hand explored his broad chest, then down his muscled torso as you followed the trail of hair that led to the vee partially hidden beneath his jeans. Your mouth watered as your hand reached his belt, and you saw the evidence of his desire for you straining against his pants. 

He snatched your hand right as you were about to reach his hardened length and you whined in frustration. 

“Please, Lo,” you breathed out and he smirked in that cocky way that made you want to either smack him or suck him off. 

“No, I’m gonna take my time with you, pretty girl,” he said as he pulled your shirt off, then immediately followed with removing your bra. You whimpered again at the feeling of his skin against yours as he leaned back down and kissed you. 

His lips trailed to your breasts and you moaned as he licked and suckled at your sensitive nipples. Your core heated and throbbed as you became slick with desire for him.

You gripped the muscles of his tensed shoulders as you wrapped your legs around his trim waist. 

You attempted to grind yourself against his hard cock but he bit down on your neck in reprimand. 

“Stop that,” he growled. 

You moaned in response and he chuckled darkly. Suddenly he sat up- and you squeaked in surprise at the sudden shift as he stood from the bed. Before you could respond, he yanked you to the edge of the bed and kneeled before you. 

“C’mon, be a good girl and I’ll reward you with my cock, I’ll fill you to the brim, give you a baby just like you want. You just have to be a good girl and let me make you come on my tongue, can you do that princess- hm?” 

You moaned at his words, nodding vigorously as he slid off your jeans and spread your legs before him. 

“Use your words,” he taunted as he rested your legs on his broad shoulders. 

His nose ran up, up, up the inside of your thigh until it reached your panties. He groaned deeply as he took in a deep breath- turned near feral at the scent of your arousal. 

“Yes, yes, I’ll be good, please- just please, Lo,” you babbled. 

Another deep noise from the back of his throat came from the sounds of your sweet begging as he used his teeth to pull your panties off. 

You gasped as his warm wet tongue licked up your gushing pussy, all the way from your hole to your throbbing clit. 

“You this wet just for me, princess?” He said, the words muffled against your cunt. He began flicking his tongue over the most sensitive part of you and you keened. 

Your back arched and you plunged your fingers into his hair, your fingers tangled in and gripped the brown and silver strands. 

“Yes, for you, only for you, always for you,” rambled. 

The squelching sounds of your cunt as he pressed two fingers inside mixed with your heavy pants and his groans to create the most erotic symphony you’d ever heard. 

Your whines reached a fever pitch as his fingers curdled and pressed against the spongy spot inside you that made you forget anything but his name as his tongue continued to flick and swirl around your clit. 

“Logan!” you moaned. 

“Missed this pretty pussy,” he growled. 

Heat filled you as electricity prickled up your spine. You writhed on the bed and pressed your cunt closer to his mouth.  

One of his large hands smacked your hip lightly in reprimand. He then laid his arm down across your waist to hold you still. 

“Thought you were gonna be a good girl, or do I need to stop,” he teased as he looked up at you and you moaned. 

You slick coated his lips and beard, his hair was disheveled from your hands, and his gorgeous eyes were blown with desire. 

“No, I’ll be good, promise,” you panted. 

He smiled at you, the kind of smile a predator gives their prey before they pounce, and licked you once again. 

You were completely at his mercy, pinned to the bed, his fingers inside you and his mouth on your cunt. 

You dug your heels into the muscles of his back in an attempt to urge him on.  

The tension inside you built and built as his tongue continued its ministrations. 

“M’gonna come, Lo,” you whined. 

“Good girl, come for me,” he replied then sucked on your clit. 

The pleasure was so intense as his thick fingers continued to hit that spot inside you that lightning ran up your spine and you came with a moan of his name. 

He continued to lick until you yanked on his hair in an attempt to pull his head away as his arm across your hips kept you pinned to the bed and wiggling away wasn’t an option. 

He chuckled darkly as he pressed a final kiss to your bundle of pleasure then looked up at you. 

“Did I do good? You gonna reward me with your cock, daddy?” you asked. 

There was a heartbeat before he replied, where you worried you went too far as he looked at you in surprise.

But then came his response, “Fuck. Yes, sweetheart, you’re perfect. Daddy’s gonna give you his cock, gonna fill you up real good.” 

You whimpered in desire as he stood. You sat up and immediately began to yank at his belt. 

He smirked as he looked down on you- watched you in your desperation to reach his thick cock. 

Your mouth watered as you won your fight with his belt and zipper and yanked the jeans down enough to get a glimpse of his gloriously hard dick. 

Logan finally took pity on you and helped you to remove his pants altogether, which left him wonderfully bare before you. 

Good god, he was sexy- his rippling muscles glistened with sweat and you wanted to lick every inch of his skin. 

He lifted your face with a hand on your chin so you would meet his eyes once more. 

At the heat in his gaze you felt yourself gush even more. 

His thumb brushed across your bottom lip and you obediently opened your mouth. He pressed his thumb into your mouth and you moaned softly as you sucked on it. 

“Shit, you’re killing me, pretty girl. Lay back, I need to be inside you,” he growled. 

You let him pull his thumb out of your mouth and looked up at him through your lashes. 

“Can I taste you first?” you asked sweetly. 

His eyes rolled back into his head and he gripped your chin tighter. 

“Course you can, my good girl gets whatever she wants,” he said then led your face closer to his cock. 

You wanted to live in this moment forever, your head fuzzy with ecstasy only he could provide and empty of anything but him as you were eager to please him. You wanted to be his - in every possible way. 

You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock and pressed a kiss to the tip as you looked up at him. His breaths stuttered and power rushed to your head. You had this big strong man literally in the palm of your hand as you gave him pleasure that nearly brought him to his knees as your tongue peeked out and you licked the sensitive underside of his tip. 

He groaned your name and that prompted you on as you opened your mouth and began to take in some of his length and suckled gently. 

You moaned at the salty taste of him in your mouth, and took him in deeper as your hand worked in tandem. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured. 

You rubbed your thighs together in an desperate but fruitless attempt to generate friction as your clit throbbed again with need. There was nothing as delicious as the grunts and groans Logan made as you took him deeper into your mouth. 

His hand slipped from the side of your face to cradle the back of your head and you moaned around his length as he led you to take him deeper into your throat. You took deep breaths through your nose as you swallowed him, taking him in far enough that you no longer needed to use your hand and instead used your hand to gently cup his balls. 

“That’s it, doing so good f’me,” Logan groaned. 

The musky scent of him filled your nostrils as your nose brushed against the wiry hairs at the base of his cock. His other hand began to flick and pinch at your nipple and you moaned around his length. 

His size was substantial, but you were used to it at this point and your head emptied, only Logan present in your mind, as you let him guide your mouth up and down on his cock as you sucked him deeper. 

It was everything you wanted and more, until he pulled you off him. A string of saliva connected from your bottom lip to his tip as you gasped for air and looked up at him. 

He wiped away the spit as he murmured out, “fuckin’ perfect.” 

You whimpered as he surged forward and kissed you, near feral with desire. 

“Logan,” you gasped as he manhandled you further back onto the bed and laid himself on top of you. 

He continued to kiss you, his lips moved against yours and you surged closer- your chin bumped his as you kissed him urgently. His tongue explored your mouth and electricity filled you. Your body was filled with desperation as you wrapped your legs around his trim waist. 

“Need you inside me, please daddy, need your huge cock inside me, need you to fill me up,” you pleaded as he began to kiss and suck on your neck. You knew there would be bruises there tomorrow, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care - it was only more evidence that you belonged to him. 

He chuckled darkly and said, “You sound so pretty when you beg, princess. Don’t worry, daddy’s got you.” He reached down and lined his cock up to your desperate hole and you whined in relief. 

Slowly, so slowly, Logan pressed himself inside you. Inch by inch he sunk his cock deep inside your cunt and the feeling was unlike any other. 

He caged you in with his large arms on either side of your head and you pulled his face down for another desperate kiss. 

Once he was seated fully inside you, it was as if all the franticness of the moment dissipated and you both felt the need to savor the moment, to extend it for as long as possible, to live in this experience of perfection for eternity. 

There were times that sex with Logan was rough and animalistic, but you both knew that this wouldn’t be one of those times. This was making love - this was a reunion, a reconciliation, a healing of hurts, a fusion of souls. 

You looked deep into his eyes and found home. 

You locked your ankles around his waist to keep him close, the desire to be as close to him as possible all consuming. His deep breaths pressed his chest against yours and there was nothing in the world but you and him. 

One of his hands stroked your arm as you reached up and placed your hand on the side of his face. The other rested against his shoulder as you gripped the muscles you found there. 

You caressed his cheek and ran your fingers in his beard. 

“I love you,” you whispered. 

His eyes became bright with emotion, he had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen- dark green with rings of brown that held unconditional love for you. 

He murmured your name and it sounded like a prayer of devotion as it fell from his plush lips. He pressed a tender kiss to your lips. 

He pulled back enough to press his forehead against yours. 

“I love you more than anything,” he replied. 

You felt perfectly incandescently happy, so wonderfully full of him, and despite both of your desires for this moment to never end, you also needed him to move inside you. 

“Please, Lo,” you breathed out. 

He knew exactly what you meant and he braced his forearms on either side of your head and pulled his hips back. Logan pulled back enough that only the tip of his cock remained inside you, before he sunk back in slowly. 

Your breaths mingled with his and it felt as if the two of you were on an island of your own- as if you were the only two people in the world. 

There was a feeling of connectedness, as if the puzzle pieces had all finally fallen into place, as your heartbeat sped and began to beat in time with his. 

“You feel so good, so big,” you breathed out as he continued his slow steady pace. Again, and again, and again he pushed himself inside you. 

He moaned and kissed you again, this time messy and more urgent. 

The string of fate that connected the two of you pulled taunt, became stronger as a result of your union, as you declared to one another your infinite commitment and love. 

You clenched down as he increased his pace. 

“That’s it, that’s my good girl, so fuckin’ tight,” he said, his lips moved against yours as he imprinted the praise into your mouth. 

There was a delicious feeling of fullness as you felt stretched and stuffed to the brim with his cock, as your heart threatened to burst at the care he showed you. Your hands ran across his arms and shoulders, around and down to his back where your nails dug into the sweat slicked muscles you found there. 

He grunted and again increased his pace. Your thighs tightened around his waist and you held onto him more securely as he pistoned his cock inside you. 

There was no better feeling than when he was inside you. His cock repeatedly hit that spot deep within that made you see stars and you felt that familiar burning inside you begin to grow. 

There was no possible way to be closer to him. His face was buried in your throat, his chest pressed against yours and every thrust brushed your sensitive nipples against the hair there, your puffy clit felt shockwaves of every thrust as his groin grinded against it, the slick of your arousal coated you both- there was no possible way to be closer to him, and yet somehow you needed more. 

“Daddy, please,” you gasped. 

“Mhm, is this what my pretty girl needs?” 

He shoved a hand between your bodies and began to press tight circles against your throbbing clit. 

“Yes!” You let out a high pitched whine as you threw your head back let out a low groan as you clenched down on his thick cock. 

The squelching sounds of your joining bodies should’ve made you embarrassed, but white hot pleasure eroded all your senses. 

“C’mon pretty baby, come for daddy and then I’ll fill you up, I’ll make you full of me, make sure everyone knows you’re mine with my ring on your finger and my baby in your stomach. S’that what you want? Huh? You want everyone to know you’re mine?” he growled in your ear. 

“God, y-yes, Logan- fuck,” you stuttered out. 

He continued to fuck into you with those long harsh thrusts, the pace quick and intense as his finger drew tight circles on your overstimulated clit. It balanced you on the line of pleasure and pain, but his words pushed you over the edge. 

You gasped loudly, “M’gonna come!”

He grabbed your face and said, “Look at me.” 

White hot pleasure exploded through you. Your eyes fluttered open and you stared deep into his intense gaze as you came on his cock. 

He groaned along with you as you clenched down on him. 

“Shit, that’s my good girl,” he said and kissed you sloppily. 

You keened at the praise, your head fuzzy with ecstacy. Your nails again dug into his back as he continued to pump himself inside you as he chased his own release. 

His breaths came harder as his sweat slicked skin slid against yours. His hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as his pace somehow increased. 

There was nothing you could do but take it. This-this was bliss, this was perfection. 

“Want you to fill me up, want you to come in me, please Lo,” you whined. 

He groaned and with one more deep thrust he pushed himself as far inside you as possible and came. He filled you up, with stuttered breaths and hips, he came until he had nothing else to give. 

You pulled your head back from his neck, where you had bit down- hard, and pressed a kiss to his lips. 

You could’ve sworn that the thread of fate, the connection between the two of you glowed in the aftermath. 

With a grunt, he flipped over onto his back as he held you tight, and kept you against him and pulled you on top of him as he kept his cock inside you. 

You rested your head against his chest. 

“Can we just stay like this for a while?” you asked. 

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head as his large hand ran up and down your back.  

“Of course, princess. Anything you want.” 

And so you did. After all, time was a minuscule thing when the entirety of a new future together stretched before you.