#Non Woven Gowns

[ppetestingin-india]

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[amaryllishealth]

Best quality surgical drapes manufacturer from Bangalore India

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[lilacxoz]

Princess - Gojo Satoru X Reader

F!reader

Warnings!: non protected sex, choking, darcryphilia, love bombing, Princess X Royal Guard trope.

I am not responsible for people under 18 who read this. minors or ageless bloggers please dni!

“Please Prue, I cannot stomach anything for the work I must complete before sunrise,” you bit your bottom lip, looking over the written up budget for the kingdoms church. You hadn’t realized just how rich they’d become from your fathers rein. You weren’t much of a religious folk, so you were afraid to cut their income by half.

“Your highness, you are not to eat then I must call your personal guard, for he will make you,” he warned, knowing what kind of bond you and your guard had. He’d been your guard for ten years now, since your sixteenth birthday. He was a foolish boy who wasn’t good at his job in leaving your alone and protecting you from afar. But you’d grown a connection to him, sharing secrets and thoughts in your tower many times. You’d shared things that not even your reflection had heard.

“Call Satoru if you dare, I shall simply give him the same response as you,” you told her, offering a fake smile. Your maid, Prue, was a nice women yet you couldn’t appreciate her kindness due to the stress. She sighed, placing the tray on your desk before leaving your chambers.

As You embraced the silence, your wooden walls homing the orange flicker of your candles. Your desk was covered in papers and folders, painted by the light and some even your tears. You were almost done though, almost free to sink deep into your mattress and let the night whisper a story.

After around three revolutions of the clocks long hand, you heard soft footsteps grow closer outside the door. Your ears perked up, recognizing who held such confidence strides. The wood creaked outside your door as he unlocked the wooden door. He stepped inside, not earning a glance from you. He clicked his tongue through a grin, unstrapping his sword from his waist.

“Princess,” he called to you, setting his sword against your desk as he pulled over a stool next to you. You glanced over at him, being met with his beautiful eyes of the sea. That’s what drew you to keeping him as your guard, his eyes reminded you of salty air and the sound of waves crashing against large rock formations.

“Princess,” he called to you again, this time a little more demanding, “tell me why you choose to be defiant.” You didn’t spare a glance this time, focused on writing down a couple numbers down on the budget for the local taverns. You chose to be a little generous since you yourself liked to relax in one of the local taverns at night before curfew.

You were pulled by Satoru’s soft hand holding your chin between his fingers, making you look up at him. He always had a way of making you flutter like the butterflies you loved to watch with him in the spring. He knew the kind of effect he had on you, and you knew he knew as well. It was almost unspoken, woven between the threads of the stares you share that your relationship had grown far from princess and guard. It was just a matter of time before someone drew further over the line.

“You must eat the soup Chef Dee has prepared for you. It would be a waste and an insult to his craft if you were to leave his food untouched.” He handed you the bowl of soup in a cherry oak bowl. “Eat.”

You stared from him to the bowl, grabbing the silver spoon off the tray and and complying with his request. Prue was right, you cannot defy him. He was persuasive with his words and actions, it was addictive to see just how far you could push him.

“Thank you Princess. After you eat, please slip into your night gown before you grown marks from your corset,” he asked if you, poking your side. You wore your day dress: a soft pink ankle dress with a white lace corset that wasn’t as harsh as your evening dress. It was comfortable, made of silk with lace trim and an off-the-shoulder touch. Your hair was let down, your mothers hair pins holding back your face framing pieces to help you see the papers better. You could admit, it was a little embarrassing for him to see you this way. But then again, he’d seen you down to your undergarments so you had nothing to worry when it came to presentation.

“Why you care so much about my health is up for debate in my head, it cannot just be because of your guardian duties or the fact we are close,” you pointed out. He shined you he boyish smile, his white hair covering some of his eyes. He was truly an amazement at how gorgeous yet masculine Satoru was. His sharp jaw and plush lips were enough to leave a girl melted at the knees. He was every girls fantasy, yet every man’s threat. Satoru was the chief of royal guards, quickly moving up the ranks from when he was placed as your personal guard. He had better opportunities presented to him to change roles, yet he stuck with you. Now he was chief, yet always made time to be with you most of the day.

“Can a guard not care for his princess without reason? The way you doubt me hurts, princess,” he faked pain in his chest, earning a few giggles from you. You laugh was contagious yet a beautiful hymn to him.

His face suddenly dropped, as if lost in his own mind. You nudged him with your foot on his ankle, asking him why he was distancing himself. “My Princess,” he looked down at you with something strange, “shall your coronation come by spring, I cannot promise I will stay your guard. I-“

You watched him break, his jaw hard as he stared at you distantly. You knew the rules, you knew you had to switch to your fathers guard due to tradition. But you hated tradition, it was all a bunch of horse play. You placed your hand on his knee, the other following as you set your bowl of soup down. The candlelight danced across his face, making him appear even more beautiful than before.

“Shall the day come Satoru, I will fight my ancestors and the kingdoms expectations of queen if it is what I must do to keep you. You aren’t leaving my side, I will stand between the lines of the people and royalty just to be with you,” your breath was gone, telling a breathless, “for I love you.”

His hands slid to your shoulders, his eyes clearing of his brain clouds. He knew what he wanted now, and he didn’t care if it was forbidden. He didn’t care if he had to bite the apple as Eve did, as long as he had you by his side.

His lips drew closer, your breaths mixing together in a concoction that left your knees weak. You took the apple, connecting your lips to his. He tasted of the forbidden apple, whimpering out from the sweet taste. You hadn’t realized how much you needed him until his hands trailed down to your waist. You took the initiative, crawling into his lap and letting him lead the kiss.

He was your Romeo, your Shakespeare tragedy that led you astray. You didn’t care of the consequences that would fall over you both for doing this, you were going to be queen and you’d fight for him. He knew that, falling down the same path as you. He’d quit his title as a royal guard just to hold you to sleep every night. Just to taste your lips, just to touch you…just to feel you. He was lovesick, and so where you.

He pulled away from the kiss, watching you breath heavily. He slid his finger tips against your cheek, watching the redness form from your embarrassment and lust. “I cannot kiss you any further when you deserve a bed,” Satoru whispered, leaving the only sound to occupy the room being your breaths and the wind blowing against the windows.

You smirked down at him, combing your fingers thorough his soft snowy hair. It was late winter, his hair reflecting the thick snow coating the once green ground. “As your Queen,” you stated in an authoritative tone, “I command you show me what you think about doing to me on this desk.”

Your body was on fire, his lips all over your neck as you sat on your desk, legs cradling his torso. You could feel him through his trousers, wanting so bad to remove the articles of clothing that were blocking your connection. You needed him so bad, so bad it physically hurt. The fire between your legs grew stronger than the candle flame, and he could feel it.

He reached a hand down between your legs, slipping it down into your undergarments. He could feel how wet you were from a simple touch, only fueling his body more. His hips were magnetic to yours, so much so that he couldn’t control himself from grinding up against the hand he was slowly slipping inside you. His other hand was wrapped around your neck, your eyes rolling back through each small squeeze of his fingertips. You had to be quiet, for anyone could walk up your tower and ask for your assistance. But in some strange way, that made you just a little less quiet. It was almost thrilling, heightening your endless pleasure.

“Tell me Princess, does it feel good to be in such a vulnerable state at the hands of your royal guard?” He asked in a sinister manner, eliciting a small whimper and a nod. He smirked at the response, looking down at you. “Tell me how good.”

He curled his fingers, making your body jerk forward as your eyes squeezed shut. You’d had many late night with guys from the tavern looking for something quick and fulfilling. Even princes had come and made you feel like you were floating. But nobody compared to the way he knew how to play you perfectly, like a bard with his lyre. It was mesmerizing, freeing. Your body melting deep into the earth and coming out in heaven.

You whispered his name in a chant, like the nuns at the cathedral. You were close to that heaven, sinking deeper and deeper until you were finally at the gates. Your body exploded in pleasure, eyes tearing up as Satoru watched you unravel in his hand. Your high lasted longer than any other you’d experienced, opening your watery eyes to be met with his flushed face and a smirk. He was full of lust, and you wanted him to feel what you felt.

You helped him get you out of your undergarments, as well as freeing him of his work belt and unbuttoning his work pants. He cock was large and thick, oozing with precum. You both watched eachothers movemnts, looking for any discomfort; but there was none to be found. You both wanted this, needed this. You both spent long nights, from sunset to sunrise, dreaming and pretending this moment right now was real. Now it was, and you weren’t wasting any time in indulging in it.

You let out a gasp as he slid himself inside you, the skirt of your dress bunched at your hips. The desk below you moaned from the weight of his small thrust, but you both couldn’t fathom anything around you. All you both could focus on was your connection. “Satoru…” you whispered, his hands planted down on the desk by your hips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, crashing your lips to his in a kiss of need. He complied, slowly rocking his hips against yours. You could feel him, all of him, and it was nothing compared to anything you’ve ever experienced before.

His thrusts grew a bit faster as his lips devoured yours, as if a kiss of death. Your body had succumbed to his, moving your body to try and keep up with his thrusts. The desk below was creaking with each fast movement, loud enough for anyone in the stairway to hear. But you didn’t care anymore, especially with the loud moan of his name you let slip. He loved the noice, pulling away from your lips to only attack your neck with bites that caused more.

You moaned, but you were missing something. He pulled away, watching you grab on of his hands and slip his thumb over a specific part of your body. He felt the bundle of nerves, watching you face contort into one of pure blissful pleasure. He loved the reaction, rubbing the small nub faster and pressing down on it. His thrusts grew faster, feeling you tighten around him. He felt it, that feeling of heaven. He ran to it with his pace, your head bobbling with each thrust. You let go of his neck, laying down over the papers as you let him take control.

You were just as close to your orgasm as he was, crying out his name as tears fell down the side of your face. His head leaned back as he gave a few more brutal thrusts before letting himself go inside you. You came just as he did, your bodies connected along with your souls. This was more than just sex, and that was now known between the two of you. This was a soul connection, one that ran deeper than anything you’ve ever felt with anyone.

“I love you, princess,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your neck. He wanted another round, and you were ready to comply to his unspoken request.

[lemongrace]

Mine, all mine

Content Warning: vague corpse description, grave-robbing (whoops!) The ancient stone cracked like ice as the spell that had sealed the tomb came undone, snapping along the lines her fingers had traced over its surface. The destruction brought her no pleasure - hands of a skilled artisan of a bygone era had chiselled an intricate bas-relief into its walls, vines of coiling ivy that choked out the crescent moons they seized; the Venomleaf family’s chosen sigil. The lid shaped into a silhouette of a sleeping elven woman rested on top, her features vague and unidentifiable; subtle enough for tweaks to be applied at the hour of the passing. Now she lay split in half where the stone had ruptured, her solemn visage marred forevermore.

But the dead didn’t so much as stir, and no voice rose to stop her– not even when Eluein pushed the lid aside, the whisper of death and decay not nearly harrowing enough to prevent the Highborne from desecrating the grave. Skeletal fingers still held onto dry blooms woven betwixt them, colour long gone from their petals. An elegant gown of once vivid crimson gently wrapped the remains of the elf laid to rest inside, wisps of dark hair sparsely clinging to the skull. The late Lady Venimeux, reduced to naught but bones and dust.                                                                                                             Canting her head, Eluein regarded the corpse– what was left of it. Though the marble was millennia old, the ward placed upon the sarcophagus sealed it for no longer than a few weeks - yet the body decomposed unnaturally quickly despite its protection, leaving only a skeleton to be found inside. She’d never seen bones so beautiful.

By all means, she deserved to be damned for the mere thought of it - hadn't she caused Idyssa enough grief already? Even in death, the Nightborne had known no peace. But the notion of what they would call her upon her return vanished the moment Eluein slipped the glove off of her hand, exposed digits grasping at the stone. Insults stopped cutting so deeply when the mere utterance of her name fell like a curse from their mouth. Like a graceless feline, starved, Eluein scaled the tomb of her late lover. The damaged lid groaned beneath her weight, threatening to break at any moment, but she cared not for its protestations. The gauntlet-encased arm propped her up while the other, bare and yearning, reached out for the bones within. Following the length of the spine with her fingers, she found it - the misaligned vertebra she had broken out of place, a part of it still stubbornly clinging to the skull. A firm snap of her hand was all it took to free the latter.  The surface of her felt familiar despite the deathly chill that had embraced the remains - the outline of her jaw, the curvature of her cheeks; elegant and timeless, more akin to an art form carved in ivory than just a simple piece of bone. Eluein’s fingertips traced the intricacies of the cranium with a gentle caress, sweeping away the ghastly remains of the Nightborne’s hair. Death wasn’t fit to lay claim to one such as her. Slipping the hand beneath the skull, Eluein carefully removed it from within the tomb, not once breaking away her gaze from the empty sockets. Unbeknownst to the Highborne, her own features relaxed as she beheld it - frown that seemed permanently seared to her brow softened, thumb brushing against the skeletal cheek to wipe away a non-existent tear. If the ghost of her was watching, it had remained silent. Quiet even when Eluein leaned in, pressing her pallid forehead against the equally bleached skull. Death wasn’t fit to lay claim to one such as her - not while the other yet lived.

[omgthatdress]

Night Gown

early 18th century

The Victoria & Albert Museum

"The loosely cut style of this man's informal robe is based on that of the Japanese kimono. Robes like this became popular in Europe from the mid-17th century, brought back by members of the East India Company, and by the 1670s European tailors were making them. The exact geographic and cultural source of the style was not generally well known in England, where they were called 'Indian gowns' when made of any non-European fabric, for example, Indian cottons, Chinese or Indian silks.

This nightgown is a striking and rare example, in very good condition for its age, made from blue silk damask woven in China for import into Europe. Such silks were primarily intended for furnishing, and appear in merchants' records as 'bed damasks'; the length of their pattern repeat was displayed to best advantage in the long drop of bed curtains. A silk damask of closely similar design to this was used to furnish a room in the summer palace of Prince Eugene of Savoy, Schlosshof, in 1725 (now in MAK in Vienna)."

[softsan]

Eyes On Fire. (Pt. 3)

PAIRING: Aemond Targaryen & Fem!Reader

CHAPTERS: | 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 |

WORD COUNT: 3551

GENRE: Alternatively Universes/Canon Divergence, Alternative Ending, The Greens Win, Loosely based on the books/show, Made up House,

DESCRIPTION: After the Greens win the Dance of The Dragons, you a left alone navigating the dangers and woes of Kings Landing. You were one of the last survivors of House Vermillion with the expectation to restore your House to its former glory. Pressured to find yourself a husband, you unintentionally catch the eye of the dangerously, one-eye kingslayer—how will you ever survive amidst those who kill, those who take, and those who wish to eat you alive? Can also be read on AO3 here.

WARNINGS: Bodily Injury, Death, Graphic violence, Suspicion, Attempted murder, Murder, Poisoning, Possessive themes, Aemond in general

OPTIONAL PLAYLIST: Astronomical by SVRCINA, Mercy by Hurts, Up in Flames by Ruelle

"A tournament!" Lady Jeyne Merryweather squealed, jumping letter in hand, unable to contain her artless excitement.

The widowed Clarice Osgrey, was non-the impressed, chastising Jeyne for her unmannerly response. Women according to Clarice Osgrey were to be refined creatures, always pleasantly smiling without issue, without boldness. You suppressed a snort, Lady Clarice Osgrey would despise your true self if it ever came to light.

Lady Clarice Osgrey was the widowed Aunt of Unwin Peake, Lord of Starpike, and hand of the king. Lord Unwin Peake had brought his kin to court and had inserted them all over the castle and king's guard. He had delegated Lady Clarice Osgrey the position of mistress of Queen Helena’s household which gave her the responsibility to oversee the house's maids, servants, and ladies-in-waiting.

"We are to set a good example," Clarice Osgrey continued, "Our actions reflect directly on the noble Targaryen House,"

Alyssa Royce's cool gaze arose from her book, her stern face cold and untelling, "Are we to participate in the celebrations?" She quietly closed her book, resting it beside her on the padded upholstered seat.

You could discern Alyssa Royce's prudent distaste for such, her heavy discomfort in the social eye. However, Lord Unwin Peake's daughter, Myrielle Peake perked in interest. The young girl, browned-haired and eyed, was dressed in the most decadent of garments, her gowns heavily woven and textiled with intricate designs. It mirrored her House's wealth, a great contrast from the plain, olive clothing you sported.

"We must!" Lady Jeyne Merryweather exclaimed her enthusiasm unmatched, "A Targaryen tourney and ball will be remembered for centuries to come," She lowered her voice, catching Lady Clarice Osgrey's sobering frown, "All the great nobles would certainly be in attendance."

"And shall will we," Lady Osgrey set aside her tambour frame, abandoning her tapestry to approach her Great Niece "But I expect you all to be on your utmost best behavior." She signaled Myrielle Peake to follow, "You are to accompany me," She said shortly before the two left the sunroom arm in arm. To no doubt visit Myrielle's father, you mused.

Within the last few weeks, you had kept a watchful eye on Myrielle Peake, carefully observing the soft-spoken and seemingly naive girl. The corner of your mouth twitched knowingly. In actuality, Myrielle was rather like you—cunningly disguising her paramount ambition, in a veil of innocence. Myrielle Peake along with her conspiring father Lord Unwin Peake longed to further their House's influence and stature. Lord Peake's intention to wed his only daughter into the Targaryen household was more or less apparent.

There were other Houses too, (House Baratheon coming particularly in mind) that rose from their humble abodes looking to snare themselves a slice of influence. In truth, you too were enthralled by the allure of power, to be respected, to be loved, to be feared—however, with your House's diminished reputation and loss of wealth you'd have no choice but to settle for less.

Jeyne Merryweather awaited for Myrielle Peake and her Great Aunt to leave the room before squeezing herself between you and Alyssa Royce, simultaneously sitting upon Royce's book. Alyssa's lips shriveled in annoyance but she said nothing.

"Care to know what is being revealed during the Targaryen tournament?" Jeyne leaned close, hapless against her nature for gossip.

"Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Jaehaera individual betrothals," You inferred, while you added touches to the golden hibiscus you’d embroidered onto a black cut of ribbon.

"Prince Daeron's betrothal too," Jeyne added.

You hummed. It appeared the Dowager Queen Alicent had been successful after all, appeasing the Lannisters after Aemond's stunt with Cerelle Lannister.

"Which sister was decided upon?"

"Cerelle," Jeyne dramatically sighed, her posture slumping, "Had I been but half as wealthy, I could have stood a chance to wed Prince Daeron myself."

"Improbable," Alyssa Royce muttered, displeased her book was still being sat upon.

"Perhaps in another life, the gods will bless you with a Prince," You encouraged Jeyne to stand, allowing Alyssa to swipe her book from underneath, "Woefully we must do with the cards we are dealt."

Jeyne's sulking was short-lived, another sensitive piece of information coming to mind, "I too, know whom the Prince and Princess are to be betrothed to."

"And how is it you came across such privileged information?" You were genuinely curious.

"From a handsome knight, one whose brother is a Lord on the small council." Jeyne gave her sources freely without hesitation, "Princess Jaehaera is to be paired to Rickon Stark eldest son and heir of Lord Cregan Stark. While Prince Jaehaerys is to be betrothed to Floris Baratheon, the prettiest of the Four Storm Sisters."

The Targaryens were spreading themselves thin in order to forge new treaties, you solved—their need for allies stronger than their need to keep their bloodline pure.

"Floris Baratheon?" You inquired, raising a brow.

"Surprising, isn't it?" Jeyne Merryweather played with the ends of her fiery braided hair, "I would have assumed since Lady Cassandra Baratheon, Lord Borros Baratheon's eldest was no longer promised to the Prince Aemond, that she'd now take the Prince Jaehaerys' as her betrothed,"

"And why didn't she?"

You’d safely presume the highborn Lady had broken her ties with Prince Aemond in order to bind herself to Prince Jaehaerys instead. A young boy, and King Aegon's heir. He’d be effortlessly easier to mold and manipulate, unlike Aemond.

"The Dowager Queen specifically requested Floris Baratheon, sighting the Lady Cassandra too old, and too headstrong for her grandson," Jeyne commented.

It was feasible that Dowager Queen had seen through Lady Cassandra's intentions. You carried on threading the needle, starting on the head of a dragon. How observant was the old queen truly? Could she see through your charade also?

"With hope, we'll find ourselves good-looking suitors, during the tournament." Jeyne Merryweather clasped her hands, her voice buoyant and filled with a new optimism.

You grimly smiled in response, finishing the last of the golden dragon's tail. The pressure was mounting from your Aunt to settle with an affluent, and moneyed Lord. You had but a few weeks to garner a proposal, or else your House's debts would consume what little you had left. Your lands would be seized, and your household would crumble to non-existence.

The first day of the tournament was blessed by the bright and brilliant sun, one which brought warmth and color, and lifted the early morning fog. The Targaryen tourney held back no expense, the ground immaculately decorated in reds and blacks, and a new jousting area was constructed to resemble the old, which had been burned down during the war. A green tent was hoisted for the guest in the stands, offering shade as they watched as the Lords and anointed knights of the realm joust for glory. Furthermore, musicians from all over Westeros were hired, the sound of their trumpets and horns being heard for miles.

Aemond was adorned in black-coated armor, twice as strong as bronze, with a gold dragon embossed into his metal chest plate. The leathers he wore underneath his chainmail were reinforced, to ensure the utmost protection was given to his limbs while his metal boots were specifically molded for his feet alone. He glanced himself over in the mirror, satisfied he was but missing his helmet which was strikingly welded into the shape of a dragon.

"Thank you, Lady Merryweather," Ser Julian Wormwood accepted her favor, pinning her silver broach against the little material that showed itself at the base of his neck.

Aemond continuously peered toward the tent's entrance, impatient for he was yet to set his sights upon you. To increase his chances of running into you, he had purposely chosen to prepare himself along with the knights, passing up on the opportunity for his own tent. Aemond reached for his helmet, grumbling under his breath. Too long had passed since the evening he'd stumbled into you in the kitchens. He could still vividly remember how your crimson eyes cast down, your phantom touch, how you'd mindlessly stroked down his reddened cheek where his mother had struck him so. Embarrassed, you had quickly excused yourself, escaping the kitchens with a sudden haste.

You followed after the high-born ladies Floris and Cassandra Baratheon, having spent the morning helping them iron their skirts and lace up their corsets. Cassandra Baratheon, the dark-haired and honeyed-eyed lady was scantily-dressed in comparison to her sister, her low plunging neckline turning heads and conjuring whispers. Cassandra wanted to cause a stir, she wanted to be noticed. She was infuriated for being forfeited, believing it ought to have been her betrothed to King Aegon's son and heir. You pitied the younger Floris, who was clearly hurt by her sister's disdain towards her.

Cassandra Baratheon walked in front, breaking off from the rest of the ladies. As she advanced, she deliberately shoved Jeyne Merryweather who'd been in the midst of conversing with Ser Julian Wormwood. Floris Baratheon made no attempt to head after her sister, preferring the company of a near stranger like yourself.

She tugged on the sleeve of your gown, peering up to you for direction, "What am I to do?"

"It is customary that a lady offers her favor to one who participates in a joust," You explained to the girl, tearing the orange sash you'd pre-prepared, in half. You gave her the longer of the two pieces.

"Prince Jaehaerys is not here?" She nervously looked about for her betrothed.

He was not. Both the Dowager Queen Alicent and Queen Helena had agreed he was too young to take part and would sit up in the stands with the rest of the nobles.

"How about your Uncle Ser Boremund Baratheon then?" You suggested.

The young girl nodded, slowly releasing the sleeve of your dress, "Will you sit with me later during the joust?" Her mousy voice was painfully shy.

"I'm to sit alongside Princess Jaehaera but you are welcome to join us. I'm sure the Princess would appreciate a new friend."

As you watched Floris Baratheon go, you began to sense a heated gaze. Your body instinctively turned to your left, in the direction of Prince Aemond who was standing in front of a mirror tall enough to capture the entirety of his frame. Your stomach flipped. Aemond in his black-plated armor, his silver hair handsomely falling beside his shoulders. Your eyes lock with his in the mirror's reflection, an amused grin sitting upon his lips.

"My Lady Y/N Vermillion," An eager voice broke your stupor.

Ser Simon Strong, the nephew of Lord Lyonel Strong, approached, smiling. He was wearing silver shell armor, adjoined to steel chainmail, and a long draping white cape that was fastened around his neck.

He bowed, taking your hand in his and placing a chaste kiss on your knuckles. "We haven't the pleasure of being formally introduced,"

You politely curtsied, conscious of Aemond's piercing glare.  

"I fought aside your cousins in the war." Ser Simon Strong was yet, to release your hand, "They spoke so highly of you. I knew one day our paths must cross."

Your face softened at the mention of your cousins, you had been very fond of them. Their loss, shattering your Aunt's heart to pieces.

"It'd be my honor, to wear your favor today during the joust," Ser Simon Strong said noting the torn orange sash in your grasp.

You tentatively handed Ser Simon Strong the sash, brushing aside Aemond's darkening aura and the glint of rage which simmered behind his violet eye.

"I shall do Milady proud," He bobbed his head in thanks, "It is very nice to have finally met you,"

"Likewise," You replied, looking on as Ser Simon Strong left the tent.

"Likewise?" An irked voice echoed, tempest building behind his words.

You need not turn to know who loomed behind you. You could sense Aemond's ill-concealed anger, his hot breath lingering against your neck.

"Prince Aemond," You acknowledged, doing your best to bury the heat that bubbled in the bottom of your core.

You kept your expression neutral. The tent may have been near empty but there were still a few ladies such as Myrielle Peake and Cassandra Baratheon loitering around. Their prying eyes train themselves on you. There was no reason for Aemond to address you so, to take such a particular interest. If you were to express any sort of familiarity, it'd only cause talk and scandal amongst those at court.

"Ñuha darling rūklon, ao ōdrio nyke sīr" My Darling Flower, you wound me so. You loosely translated Aemond's Old Valyrian, his breath trickling up your ear. He placed his hands below your shoulders, forcing you to swivel around and face him.

You bit the inner of your cheek, his thumb gingerly brushing your chin forward. There was no way now, the other ladies wouldn’t be suspicious of your relationship.

"First you hide from me," He reverted back to the common tongue, lowering his head, and leveled it with yours, "Then you give your favor—" His teethed gritted, "to a Strong of all people."

The sudden intimacy had made your cheeks flush, “They’re watching us,” You mumbled, your eyes flickering to the side.

“Good,” Aemond murmured back, undeterred, “Let them spread the word,” He’d embrace the hearsay, the talk, for it would convey to others to stay away. That you were his, and his alone.

His other hand still grasped your shoulder tightly, his hold showing no sign of letting go.

Stumped, you closed your eyelids and exhaled sharply. No matter how you proceeded there’d be talk. Regardless, of whether you pushed Aemond away or engaged with him further.  

You slowly re-opened your eyes. “I have something for you,” You groaned inwardly having decided upon your next move.

You stared into the violet of his iris, boldly reaching for a strand of his silver hair.

“You ought not to joust with your hair loose, it’s dangerous and could get caught throughout.”

You observed Aemond’s wrath slowly melt, his scowling lips turning upward as he leaned only closer.

“Turn around,” You firmly instructed, urging him to face the mirror.

Aemond did so, intently watching as your delicate fingers began to comb through his hair. He reveled in the sensation, enjoying your ginger touch. You removed a black cut ribbon from the inside of your pocket. The same ribbon you’d been embroidering on the days prior. The golden thread contrasted with the black, and subtly glittered under the tent’s lowlight.

You gently gathered Aemond’s beautifully silver hair, inadvertently admiring how smooth and silk-like it was. After collecting it into a ponytail, you secured it with the black and gold ribbon. Aemond admired you from the mirror, his chest rumbling warm and content.

The sound of clashing lances, bluntly imploding as two riders on horseback charged, reverberated through the stands. The audience of nobles stood and cheered as a man flew off his mount, his legs caught in his saddle. His frightened horse dragged him across the stony gravel until it finished the length of the course.

Princess Jaehaera flinched, averting her eyes, and focusing on her restless hands instead. She picked at the delicate skin by her fingernails, timidly grimacing as she scored blood. It was a bad habit you noticed she had picked up from her Queen mother Helena. You softly took away the offending hand, advising the Princess the joust would soon be coming to an end.

“Your Uncle Prince Aemond is left, once it’s over we can return to the comforts of your chambers.”

Prince Aemond had not so delicately fought his way through the ranks, coming through to the finals. Admittedly, you were rather impressed by the distinctness of his technique. How relentlessly vicious he was with a sword, his skill in one-to-one combat utterly unmatched by any of the opponents he’d so far faced.

You couldn’t help but compare it to your own expertise—concluding he’d easily overshadowed you if fighting with a longsword. The only way you stood a chance, is with a shield and bow. The distance provided would prove advantageous to Aemond’s dominant and close-combative approach.

Despite, your preference and appreciation for half-swords and daggers. You were always the better archer than a swordsman. You thought back fondly, it’d been years since you were allowed to handle a bow and arrow.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen to battle Ser Amos Bracken!” It was announced, the crowd growing rowdy with anticipation.

You were right in your assumption that Ser Amos Bracken stood no chance against the fearsome Targaryen prince. The hastilude between the two ended quickly, Aemond’s lance hitting with a force that knocked Ser Amos Bracken off his white steed.

You were about to give your applause along with the other nobles when Ser Amos Bracken staggered off the ground, ripping off his helmet, and thrust his sword to point in Prince's direction.

“My lance was tampered with!” He spat, accusing Aemond of cheating.

A hush came over the stand; your mouth parting surprised at the older Lord’s foolishness. To allege someone of royalty was a fraud was a crime in itself but to allege Aemond of all people. You let out an absurd laugh, Ser Amos Bracken was signing his death sentence.

Aemond made a hostile cuss, lurching out of his saddle and landing swiftly on his feet. He unsheathed his Valyrian-steel sword, its unblemished metal gleaming under the rays of the sun. The two circled likes predators, their stances confident and unwavering.

It was Ser Amos Bracken that made the first move, yelling profanities as he struck down his sword. Unintimidated, Aemond skillfully took a step backward. He twirled and orbited around Ser Amos Bracken before defending against his second blow. The two retracted their swords, to strike again. To Ser Amos Bracken’s miscalculation, Aemond’s strength and force were greater than his own. Aemond steadily pushed Ser Amos Bracken's sword back toward his face, leaving Ser Amos Bracken’s only option to duck and lose his position as the aggressor.

You watched attentively, leaning at the edge of your seat. Aemond used his gloved hand to punch Ser Amos Bracken from below. The hit caused his nose to break, while blood pooled down his lips and chin. Aemond then threw another punch, then another.

“Close your eyes,” You hastily whispered to both Princess Jaehaera and Lady Floris Baratheon, unable to tear your own eyes away.

Aemond showed no sign of stopping, his punches growing all the more unconstrained.

“That is enough!” The Dowager Queen Alicent called out, the firmness of her voice demanding to be followed.

You stood with the crowd, leaning closer to the barrier that separated the jousting arena from the stand.

The other Lords and knights erected from the sidelines. Some were badly injured and needed assistance whereas the others that didn’t took out their swords and readied themselves to intervene at the Dowager Queen’s request.

“Step away from Ser Amos Bracken,” Ser Simon Strong of all people bespoke, “This joust is over. You’ve already won.”

Aemond frighteningly stilled suppressing his frenzy. A wolfish grin painted on his lips as he straightened out his legs. Your gaze followed his movements. He unexpectedly dropped his sword, his bloody hands swinging side to side, dripping crimson droplets onto the ground below.

“I look forward to bludgeoning that head of yours Strong.” His words were laced with venom.

Your chest pounded furiously, your palms sweating. Aemond wasn’t intending to brawl with the Lords and knights all at once, was he?

The other knights tensed with the exception of Ser Simon Strong, who looked delighted by the challenge.

“Aemond!” Queen Helena joined her mother, her forehead creasing, “Our mother’s right that’s enough.”

And yet, Aemond carried on, striding, swordless in Ser Simon Strong’s direction. As talented of a fighter Aemond was, he’d still be no match against all of the Lords and Knights, especially considering they were all armed and he was not.

Aemond’s fist raised. He came forth, closing the distance between him and them.

“AEMOND STOP!” Your mouth moved on its own, recognizing the mistake of your actions almost instantaneously.    

Aemond halted at once, his boots kicking the gravel as he dug in his heels. He dropped his balled fist, turning his head upward towards the stand.

Your eyes widened, astounded that Aemond had stopped just as you had asked. The masses that surrounded you silenced, staring at you as you had managed to do the impossible. You had somehow managed to restrain a dragon. The Dowager Queen Alicent frowned, cautiously studying you with her unsavory look.

Aemond couldn’t quite explain why he’d stopped… Perhaps it was the desperation of your tone or perhaps the worry that lingered behind his name. He eyed you, your hair fiercely whipping behind you as you stood clutching the wooden barrier. Your beauteous face was shocked, your pretty lips slightly ajar.

“I yield,” Aemond forfeited his pride, heading back to his horse to pick up his lance that lay idle beside it.

Once he’d retrieved his lance, he went to collect his prize— a crown of green mint julep roses. You swallowed, as he approached, hooping the crown of roses on the lance’s sharpest point. He angled it so it was within your reach.

“For my Lady Y/N Vermillion.” Aemond crowned you the Queen of Love and Beauty.

TAGS: @elleraelockwood | @hawsx3 | @xxxevevfzeizaz | @simpsrus00 | @mistalli | @yoshiplush | @bitch-biblioklept | @anthonys-viscountess |

[its-jaytothemee]

Until I Met You - Chapter 14

Chapter 14: A Wilting Flower

Pairings: Halsin x Tav

Word count: 4,425

Rating: Currently M, will be Explicit in later chapters.

Read on AO3

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Summary: Another chapter focusing on Tav'ahria's backstory as her reluctant engagement to Noravi Sylvyre is being announced. **Mind the new tags!** There is a brief mention of suicidal thoughts toward the beginning. Part 14 of the slow burn fic. Tav POV.

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual love confessions, eventual smut, angst, implied past rape/non-con and abuse, graphic description of injuries, brief suicidal thoughts.

A/N: Screw it...have another chapter tonight. I was gonna save it but I'm excited to see how everyone likes it. I'd love to hear how you feel about the Tav backstory chapters! Thanks for all of the love and appreciation for my work so far <3

Tav snuck off from camp while everyone else still slept. Her meditation was restless, lasting only a couple of hours. Rather than stare at her tent’s yellow canvas walls, she found herself walking back to the little glowing pond that Halsin had shown her. Her mind kept wandering to Tev as they drew nearer to the path to Moonrise. What would he do in her position? How would he face the ghosts of their family? Would he have been truthful with the others from the start, even if it meant being cast aside?

Knowing Tev, he would have won them all over anyway.

She took a seat at the edge of the water and tossed a rock in. The lights danced in front of her, bringing a fleeting smile to her face. A voice slipped into the back of her head, that voice she tried to keep buried away.

What if he’s still alive?

The guilt had been gnawing at her for days and was likely the fuel for her recent string of dreams. Had their roles been reversed, Tev would have crossed the continent five times over to find a way to save her. He had proven that to her years ago. She pulled her legs close and rested her chin on her knees. The bittersweet memory from tonight’s trance replayed in her mind over and over.

The dread that had been gathering in Tav’ahria for weeks weighed heavy on her shoulders that night. Her mother fussed about her, making last-minute adjustments to the new dress she made for the party this evening. The pale pink gown was as soft as a spring breeze against her skin despite the many layers that comprised it. Each layer caught the light differently giving it an ethereal, opalescent look. The deep plunge in the neckline went halfway down to her navel, revealing more cleavage than normal. Golden clasps at the neck secured it onto her body with an engraved belt that matched them to accentuate her waist. The long train sparkled and flowed with an effortless elegance behind her when she walked, almost as if it was made of the wind itself. This had to be one of the finest gowns her mother had made to date. Tav’ahria despised how well it suited her.

“There we are. Stunning as ever, my dear.” Her mother re-pinned a runaway braid into her intricate updo before smoothing a few rebellious hairs into place. One large braid had been coiled up onto her head to resemble a flower of sorts. The rest of the hair surrounding it had been woven into small lines of braids to be laced into the larger part of the hairdo. Thin vines covered in little white flowers had been woven into the braids as well. Tav’ahria studied her reflection but said nothing in response.

Stunning as ever.

The words were a beautiful lie. Nothing about her was stunning anymore. Her skin had lost its plump, bright hue and bags hung off her dull eyes. It had taken hours for her mother to add enough makeup and face paint to her to make her look alive again. Not to mention the additional layers needed to hide the bruise on her cheek. She would shed a tear for herself if there were any left in her body. Instead, she stared into her own eyes in her reflection, wondering where the life in them had gone.

The woman staring back at her in the mirror was but a walking husk of Tav’ahria Mendelre.

Just a little wilted flower.

Today was the day her parents would announce her engagement to Noravi Sylvyre. Nearly two months had passed since the night they met, the night that Tev had finally broken free. She had heard nothing more about him, which meant he was safe from their family’s clutches. It was her lone solace among the dark thoughts that haunted her mind. Even now, her eyes flashed to the small scissors and blades her mother used in her tailoring.

Just a couple of well-placed slits across the wrists…you can be free of them forever…

A shiver ran through her body pulling her back from the brink. With every passing day, the temptation grew. Did she want to die? No. Was it better than being here? Possibly.

The Sylvyre family had purchased a residence in Baldur’s Gate so they would be able to come and go with ease between here and Neverwinter for their family’s business. They came by often and her family visited them as well. Noravi loved to be seen escorting her around in the city as their “relationship” was gaining attention.

I suppose it’ll be my family business soon as well.

“Let’s get moving, dear. It’ll be time to leave soon.” Her mother helped her stand and walked with her down the marbled stairs into their grand hall where her father was waiting. Her delicate shoes clicked across the floor, announcing her whereabouts to any and all who resided there.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“Omylia, you’ve outdone yourself, my darling.” Her father crooned toward her mother as she walked across the absurdly large room. He looked over Tav’ahria’s gown, taking in the newest look of his little flower. The small orchid brooch he had gifted to her so many weeks ago sat at the top of her dress. Her shoes had higher heels to them than she was used to, but she adjusted quickly.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The rhythmic clicking of her shoes on the floor echoed off the walls of the vacant room. Although the room wasn’t truly empty, everything in their home seemed hollow since Tev left. Every step she took, every sound she made, seemed to bounce around the halls of their estate and taunt her. They reminded her that she was alone.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

At least the sounds gave her something to concentrate on, something to ground her. They helped snap her out of her own mind when the dark fantasies threatened to take over.

“You look perfect, Tav’ahria.” He held his arm out for her to take.

“Thank you, father.” She responded with a practiced smile.

He escorted her the remaining length of the room. She was seldom left alone nowadays since her father had branded her a flight risk.

Flight risk…and just where am I meant to fly off to, father? Little wilted flowers stay close to the ground.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The carriage waited for them just outside the door. Her mother helped gather the long train of her gown, folding the soft fabric into a neat pile at her feet. The ride across the Upper City was barely ten minutes, but it was almost too long to be left alone with her thoughts. No distractions, just darkness.

Their driver brought them through the iron gates of the now familiar estate. The long cobblestone path curved around the spectacular gardens that made up the front of the property. Shrubs trimmed to perfection lined either side, not a leaf out of place. Nice and tidy, styled so no one could see the mess of bare branches just beneath the thin surface of the greenery.

Just like you, little wilted flower.

Her father left the carriage first, offering a hand to her as her mother gathered the rest of her gown to spread behind her. The carved stone steps ahead of her filled her with another bout of dread.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Tav’ahria and her family glided up the stairs with the expected sophistication of elven nobility. After all, what good was their Eladrin blood if they couldn’t dazzle those around them with their graceful presence?

“Invitation.” The guard just outside the entrance held out a lazy hand.

She pushed aside the layers of her dress to remove the small golden plate strapped to her thigh. The thorned orchid stamped into the shining metal had been painted to draw attention to the purple leaves and bright red beads of blood dripping from them. Beneath the flower, her name was etched onto the identification plate.

Tav’ahria Aenwyn Viessa Mendelre.

She held the shiny trinket out to the guard who immediately straightened his posture.

“Ah, apologies Lady Mendelre. I should have recognized you. Please, enjoy the party.” He gestured behind him to allow her passage as she tucked the gold plate into the strap on her leg.

Before she could take another step, Noravi appeared by her side, offering his hand out for her.

“Hello, sweetness.” His grimy smile threatened to break her pleasant mask.

“Hello, my dear.” She forced the endearing words out of her mouth as Noravi leaned forward to give her a quick kiss. The touch caused her stomach to churn. Her hands itched at her side to push him away, but instead she simply took the hand offered to her.

Little wilted flowers don’t fight back.

“Come along little flower, I have so many guests who are dying to make your acquaintance.” She let him usher her past the doors, the pleasant smile etched onto her face to keep up appearances. Pretty. Quiet. Docile. Just the way he liked her.

Tav’ahria took her graceful steps through the corridors with practiced ease despite the new shoes already threatening to scrape a hole in her heel. She kept her arm loosely draped around Noravi’s elbow, showing just enough contact to be convincing, but keeping a loose enough grip so she didn’t make herself sick from the touch. A familiar accessory stood out by his wrist.

A gold cufflink with an engraved black hand.

She still couldn’t place where she knew the symbol from, the past couple of months she had been wallowing in grief and self-pity. Not exactly the right mindset for research.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The grand hall that greeted them just beyond the entrance was even more ludicrous than the one in her own home. Marble floors and pillars helped Lord Sylvyre boast his expensive taste to all who came to visit. Plush black rugs lined the entryway, padding the floor and keeping too much dirt from staining the light tile beneath them. Tables spread throughout the room were filled with beautiful displays of food. Fruits, cheeses, bread, pastries, anything one could imagine was available for their tasting pleasure. Servers made their way through the room carrying trays of drinks – wine, liquor, juices – all preferences were covered. Additional tables were placed around the room to allow guests to stand and converse with their food and drink, covered with lavish black and gold cloths.

But Noravi wouldn’t want to spend his evening out here. No, he would want to find his friends and sit drinking in one of the more private rooms. At least until he was ready to show Tav’ahria off for more attention. When they entered the sitting room, a new member of the staff came up to greet her. A tall, young man with blue eyes and short black hair. He gave Tav’ahria a low bow.

“My lady.” He stood back up and smiled at her. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

“No, thank you.” She returned the smile with ease. “My apologies, I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“No, my lady, I just started yesterday.”

“And your name?” She always liked to know the names of people in her family’s employ, that grace now extended to those employed by the Sylvyres as well.

“Ugh, Tav’ahria, sweetness…must we waste time standing and talking here?” Noravi groaned as he started to pull her away.

“I’ll join you soon, Noravi. Please, go ahead without me.” She smiled, her sweet smile reserved only for Noravi, the one that kept him civil and unaware. The smile that she would taint with poison on her lips if given the opportunity.

“Very well, don’t be too long little flower. I have more introductions of you to make before the announcement.” He had already diverted his attention elsewhere.

“Of course, dear.”

He bent over and planted a kiss on her cheek before striding off. The gesture sent a familiar wave of disgust throughout her body.

“Terribly sorry about my fiancé. He’s not usually this…” She trailed off as she realized a member of their staff would know exactly how Noravi acted.

“Nothing to apologize for, Lady Mendelre. My name is Kadir.” He gave another small bow.

“Very nice to meet you, Kadir. Now that I think of it, would you mind fetching a bottle of rum? I know Noravi and his friends will want it once they’ve polished off the wine in here, so we should have about an hour.” She smiled at the young man, but a strange feeling came over her the longer she looked at him. There was something…familiar about him that she couldn’t quite place.

Kadir had the typical rounded ears of a human, a quick and pleasant smile, and the slightest crook in his nose. Beautiful black strands of hair shone in the candlelight, a striking contrast to the eyes as blue as the sky on a clear summer day. He stood tall enough that he needed to look down to meet her gaze, a rare trait in the human men she knew.

“Are you…sure we haven’t met before?” She studied his face closely, but for the life of her could not place him.

“Unfortunately not, my lady, but it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance now. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go find that bottle of rum before the wine runs dry.” Kadir turned to leave the room and Tav’ahria could have sworn part of his elbow passed right through her.

She shook off the thought. Her mind had been distracted and tired of late, no need to put stock into such tricks of the light.

The next hour or so was uneventful. Noravi took the time to introduce her to more sleazy, stuck-up nobles from other cities whose names she wouldn’t bother to remember after tonight. Guests all around her stopped to admire her dress, for once outshining the jeweled orchid pinned to her chest. Everyone would reach out to take her arm or feel her gown. Many wanted to touch and inspect the intricate braids piled on top of her head. She spent the majority of the night being handled by strangers and acquaintances alike until she felt the need to crawl out of her own skin. But that wasn’t an option. Noravi kept her close at his side, parading her around to be seen with him in front of his guests. She forced the smile to remain on her face and the tears to remain in her eyes.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

Finally, the time for the announcement drew near. Noravi took Tav’ahria’s arm to lead to the front of their grand hall where a stage of sorts had been prepared.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“It’s time to make this engagement official, little flower.” Noravi’s quiet sneer pierced her eardrums like a needle. She tried to drown out his voice by concentrating on the sound of her heeled shoes clicking across the floor. Her heart began to race as the taste of bile made its way up her throat.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“This time next year I’ll be introducing you as my wife.”

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“Or perhaps announcing our anticipation of a child.”

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“We’ll be the couple of the century, sweetness. Do try to look happy about it.” He gave an exaggerated eye roll.

When had she started crying?

“Don’t be silly, these are tears of joy.” The half-assed lie caused Noravi’s grip to tighten on her arm before he realized that bruise would be too hard to cover. At least if he wanted her to keep dressing like this.

You’ll pay for that later. Little wilted flowers shouldn’t use sarcasm on their fiancé.

Click…

They had arrived at the edge of the stage. No more steps to be taken, no more tapping of her heels against the hard marble floor. Nowhere left to hide.

“My lord, my lady.” Kadir approached them with a low bow before Noravi took the stage. “If we could have Lady Mendelre stand off to this side instead, it would be most appreciated.”

Noravi waved him off as he adjusted his suit buttons and cufflinks. He couldn’t be bothered with where she stood, so long as she made her appearance on stage.

“Lady Tav’ahria, if you would come with me.” Kadir held out an arm to her as she eyed him suspiciously. “Please?” His polite smile stayed stretched across his face until she accepted.

“I really don’t think I should go too far.” She spared a nervous glance over her shoulder as they walked further and further from the stage. Noravi hadn’t noticed her absence yet, but he would soon enough.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“There’s nothing to worry about my lady, everything is going exactly as planned.” He had a mischievous shine to his eyes.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

“You don’t understand. If I go too far, my father and fiancé won’t be happy. You’ll likely lose more than your job if you allow that.” Her head once again turned to keep a wary eye on them.

Little wilted flowers don’t run.

The faintest whisper blew past her ears from a familiar voice. One she hadn’t heard in weeks.

“Sav-estel ne-emir peth.”

Tav’ahria’s breath caught in her throat and her heart stopped for a moment. Have faith in my words…

“Did you say something?” She turned to ask Kadir. He kept his eyes facing forward as he continued leading her to the edge of the crowd. Once they stopped, she followed his eyes as they darted to a table decorated with a lavish flower arrangement.

Behind the table, she could just barely perceive a bow hidden there.

Her confusion must have been plain on her face. Who was this Kadir, and why was he trying to get a bow in her hands?

Lord Sylvyre’s booming voice startled her and forced her attention back to the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us on this very special evening.” A polite chorus of cheers and clinking glasses erupted in the hall.

Shit.

Terror took over, she went to run back towards the stage, desperate to make sure she wasn’t caught sneaking away. Kadir’s hand caught her by the arm.

“Please, I have to get back over there.” Panic was rising in her voice.

“Is that what you want, Tav’ahria?”

“It’s not about what I want.” Her hand instinctively reached up to caress the hidden bruise on her cheek.

Lord Sylvyre was still addressing the crowd. Noravi had started moving his way to his father’s side. His words were loud and echoed off the walls, but they were garbled gibberish in her ears. Her heart pounded against the confines of her chest, rattling her bones and causing her breath to catch.

“You will have but one chance. Sav-estel ne-emir peth.”

“What did you just say?” Tav’ahria knew it wasn’t her imagination this time.

She turned back and looked at the young man again, really looked at him. Tears gathered in her eyes as the illusion that made up Kadir ever so slightly started to fade. His blue eyes turned a familiar shade of pink. A huge smile spread across her face at the sight for the first time in two months.

“Best kick off those shoes, Ria. We’re going to have to run.” He winked as he began to uncurl a small scroll in his hands.

Tev.

“Lord Mendelre and I are proud to announce the union of our families.” She saw her father shaking his hand.

Tav’ahria slowly slipped out of the uncomfortable shoes, the cold floor a welcome relief to her sore feet.

“Grab the bow and get ready to run on my signal. This won’t last long, and I only have one.” Tev whispered behind her.

“Please, congratulate my son, Noravi Sylvyre,”

She glided over to the table and slipped her hand behind it to grab the bow and small quiver of arrows hiding there. Tev began a quiet incantation.

“…and Lord Mendelre’s daughter, Tav’ahria Mendelre,”

She slung the quiver over her shoulder, trying to remain discreet, and plotted a course for the front of the estate.

“Now.” Tev hissed as he finished the spell.

“…on their engagement.” Lord Sylvyre gestured to the side of the stage where she was supposed to be waiting.

Tav’ahria broke into a sprint for the exit. She didn’t dare allow herself even a glance behind her as her bare feet slapped against the smooth tile. Adrenaline flowed through every nerve, every blood vessel, every muscle in her body. The front of her gown was bunched up in one hand, the last thing she needed was to trip and fall on her face again. Plenty of shocked gasps and murmurs made their way over the crowd, but no one moved to intercept her. In fact, no one seemed to see her at all.

She looked down at her hands as she ran and noticed a slight shimmer to them.

Invisibility spell.

It took all of her self-control not to let out a relieved cackle.

Tev you brilliant, beautiful bastard.

They were almost at the doors as the invisibility effect started to fade. She could see the normal hue of her skin returning. As the spell withered, the hope within her bloomed. Freedom was within sight. She just had to keep running.

“TAV’AHRIA!” Her father’s familiar roar carried over the crowd. She didn’t look back, she just kept running.

Guards were making their way to intercept them. The illusion hiding Tev’s appearance had all but disappeared, his white curls were visible again and she could now see the longsword he had strapped to his back.

“Don’t look back, Ria.” Tev muttered as they came up on the first couple of guards.

“I won’t.” Tav’ahria growled as she drew her bow and shot the first guard in the leg, causing him to drop to one knee. Tev took out the next one by cracking the hilt of his sword over his head. They weren’t trying to kill everyone in sight, they just needed to escape. She just had to keep running.

More guards coming from behind them. They continued their dash into the gardens. One of their pursuers was able to get the train of Tav’ahria’s dress caught on his sword. But Tev was prepared this time. He sliced the fabric being held taut between the sword and her legs to cut her free without even breaking his stride. The delicate fabric broke away with a quiet ripping sound. She kept running.

The tile of the grand hall had given way to the cool stone in the courtyard. The rough landscaping scraped her feet, but she kept running.

Tev stayed close at her side, helping to push the guards away and watch her back for any attacks. Her father and Noravi had joined the chase as well, she heard his curses calling out behind her. Someone grabbed her arm – she didn’t know who. She took an arrow from the quiver and plunged the tip it into their wrist. Blood sprayed up her arm and all over her gown as they released their grasp, but she kept running.

Once again, the sensation beneath her feet changed, now shifting to the soft grass in the gardens. She stepped on a hidden rock. It sent a painful shock through her foot, but she kept running.

Her father screamed her name with a rage she had yet to hear in her life, but she kept running.

The iron gates were in view now, they were closed but they could easily climb over the walls on either side of them. She kept running.

Tev sheathed his sword as he ran up ahead of her and launched himself off the ground to grab the top of the wall. He scrambled to climb up to the top so he could lean back to help her over. She kept running.

Tav’ahria was almost to the wall. She looped her arm through the bow as she jumped to grab Tev’s hand. Her arm was still slick from the blood of whoever she stabbed earlier, and she slipped from his grasp.

“Shit…Ria! Jump again!” Tev yelled from above her.

Their father was getting closer, his angry cursing louder with every step.

Fuck it.

She turned around and faced him as she grabbed her bow, his usual calm and calculating demeanor now warped into a crazed and angry mess.

“Ria!” Tev yelled again, more frantic this time.

“Don’t you dare take one more step, Tav’ahria!” Her father’s voice was shrill and desperate.

Tav’ahria notched an arrow and took her aim. As she released her held breath, the breath that had crowded her lungs for years, the arrow soared from her bowstring to pierce her father’s left knee. He cried out in pain as his body tumbled forward through the grass. She took a few steps back from the wall and made another running jump. This time, Tev leaned down and grabbed both of her hands. Between him pulling her up the wall and her feet pushing against the rough stone, she found herself sitting on top with him.

Tev swung himself over the other edge, ready to help catch her at the bottom. Before she jumped, she took one last look at her father writhing in pain on the ground. A feeling of sick satisfaction coursing through her veins. With a quick rip, she tore the orchid brooch from her dress and threw it into the grass in front of her. She carefully lowered herself down the other side into Tev’s waiting arms.

Involuntary tears flowed freely from her eyes as he grabbed her hand and started pulling her through the streets of the Upper City. The wind rushing past her face as she ran dried them almost as quickly as they came. Her legs ached and her bare feet were already scraped raw. But seeing Tev again, knowing that he risked everything to come back and save her…it numbed the pain and propelled her forward. She followed him around corners and ducked through alleys. They spun around fellow citizens who didn’t move out of their way in time. She listened to the soft slapping of her feet against the stone beneath her, a welcome contrast to the clicking of those heels. They didn’t slow down, they didn’t look back.

They just kept running.

[dotieeee]

The Dream That Got Away

Chapter 9

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x You (no Y/N!)

This is a multi-chapter fic — Weekly updates (either Saturday or Sunday) because I found a rhythm of sorts lol

(The entire fic has been outlined, so I will see this to the end, you have my word)

**********************************************************

Link to the Masterlist

Overall Warnings!! Take heed:

Morpheus is DARK – in canon, he changes for the better (or at least, tries to – but we don’t do canon lol, so he goes even more batshit crazy) cue obsession, manipulation, possessiveness, powerplay

18+ ONLY – explicit scenes will be present, some explicit language

DUB-CON and NON-CON scenes

Character death (sort of)

Creator vs Creation drama

And other dark stuff that may be added in the future

This chapter’s warnings:

non-consensual kissing and touching

touch-starved Morpheus should be a warning of its own

mentions of gore

mentions of drug abuse

You have been warned!! Proceed with caution!!!

Link to the previous chapter

Chapter 9: Courtships with Deadlines

5 Days Until Deadline

You drape a thick, velvet blanket over your shoulders before you go out to the balcony and watch the night give birth to one of the most beautiful sunrises any creature could ever see in their lifetime.

But something has changed: not the beauty of the sunset, but the way you feel about it. You had for so many times looked at it with wonder in your eyes. Now, all it reminds you of is another day in the Kingdom with him: the all-powerful being who had woven your strings of fate and tied it with himself, not caring whether he suffocated you in the process. After he left the room, you never got a wink of sleep; you never even dared close your eyes, fearing he might suddenly pop into your room and force you once more into a vulnerable position. Not wanting to remember your master’s visit last night, you rub your face with your hands to force these thoughts away, suddenly wanting a cup or two of steaming hot coffee with loads of milk dumped in them.

Your mind wanders to the Sleep Doctor you had left in his dreams after a quick, impulsive kiss. Despite liking to take a lot of naps, he actually is an early riser, as you had discovered in your short time in the Waking with him. By now, he should be having the same milky cup of coffee, scrolling through the daily science bulletin on his iPad and muttering to himself as he read the articles, while his favorite cinnamon buns you had popped in the oven happily baked away.

You don’t want to admit it, but you sorely miss Ollie and his cheerful demeanor.

The sun has fully risen in the realm when Morwyn knocks on your door, bringing you a tray of breakfast consisting of your favorite pastries and coffee, prepared just the way you like it. You’re not particularly hungry, but after spotting a cinnamon roll, you contentedly dig in, wondering if Ollie had the same. You share the rest of the generous fare with her and use the opportunity to catch up with her after all these years. When the meal is over, she draws you a bath, then excuses herself, mumbling about preparing your outfit to “his liking.” You ignore the last thing she said, focusing instead on the sea of bubbles that relaxed every tense muscle in your body, savoring every time you have without the Dream Lord hounding your time and attention. Once you’ve dried yourself, you step out of the bathroom in a silken robe, thinking of donning your usual dress. To your surprise and consternation, you find Morwyn in the middle of admiring a blood-red, long-sleeved gown of the finest silk satin, decorated with tiny chunks of ruby around the waist. It’s a dress worthy of a princess.

Except you’re no princess.

“Morwyn, please tell me I’m not wearing that,” You say as you walk to the closet and yank the doors open, expecting to find the clothes you had seen the other day and hoping you get to choose the simplest garb you could find – the closet is empty.

Great. You can’t even choose your own clothes, now.

Unconsciously, you take a leaf after Ollie’s book and rub the back of your head.

“M’lady,” Morwyn calls, her voice slightly trembling, “The Dream King had instructed me to empty your closet and give you this,” she says holding the luxurious dress out. “He says he’d like to see you in it when you meet him later.”

Releasing a defeated sigh, you nod quietly at her and put it on, letting her fasten the ribbon at the back in front of the mirror. The dress feels stifling, and not just because it hugged every curve on your body.

Morwyn gives you a wide, encouraging smile, complimenting, “You look beautiful, m’lady.”

You look just as he intended, you tell yourself. You try to return the smile, hoping it didn’t come out as a constipated grimace.

“Thank you, Morwyn. Has Matthew come around, yet?” The Dream Lord’s words last night were anything but comforting, but he mentioned having his raven come to tell you when it’s time. But for what, exactly?

“Not yet, m’lady. Are you…okay? You look a little pale,” says Morwyn worriedly with her hand on her chin. “If you’d like, I can apply some rouge on your cheeks, doll you up even more?” she innocently suggests, muttering something about “a date” and “looking pretty for the King.”

You shake your head adamantly at the suggestion. No, you don’t want that spurring him on. Wanting to be alone, you say your ‘thank you’ to her and bid her farewell before proceeding to the uppermost part of the palace where your master had said he’ll meet you, hoping for at least a few moments of peace by yourself watching the view from up above.

Thankfully, the balcony is void of the Endless the moment you arrive, giving you time alone to admire the Dreaming Realm in a panoramic view you have never seen before. Your eyes can spot endless, unfamiliar territory and islands you’ve never been in from miles and miles away. Down below you could see the town square, busy as ever, with its tiny residents going about their morning tasks; everything in the Dreaming, right before your eyes – and all you could think of is Ollie.

Due to the events that followed your return, you had not had the opportunity to visit him in his dreams since you left. Your Dream Lord had just complicated things further by forbidding you to step out of his kingdom, making it even more difficult to sneak out and check Ollie's progress. How is he doing, you wonder? Is he sleeping too much due to his eagerness to find you a safe sanctuary away from your master? While you selfishly want him to continue doing so until he finds a solution, you don't want to keep him away from the Waking and living his own life - after all, he has his own dreams to fulfill, and you wouldn’t want to inconvenience him any further.

You need to help him find a way to free you so he can get his own life back, and you need to move faster.

With that in mind, you make a mental promise to visit his dreams as soon as the Dream King has gone away to attend to his duties.

A loud caw, followed by a shout of 'Lady Mera,' interrupts you from your musings. Matthew, the new raven, lands on the balcony railing, flapping his wings before tucking them in.

"I wish you'd stop calling me that," you chide him with a pout.

"I can't, you know how the boss is. He's a stickler to his rules," Matthew replies with a tilt of his head.

"Maybe you can drop the fancy title when he's not around, at least?" you suggest with an innocent smile, patting his head several times.

Leaning into your petting, he acquiesces, "Oh, alright. I never thought I'd enjoy being pet as a bird, you know. Why are you early, by the way? I was supposed to come get you as soon as he says so. Eager for the date, much?"

"This isn't a date," you're quick to correct him with a flat tone.

"Uh, it kind of is? I told him yesterday he needed to spend more time with you so he doesn't uh, intimidate you."

Might be too late for that, you note inwardly.

"You shouldn't have," you find yourself commenting with some truth behind your jesting tone, which earns a nervous chuckle from the raven.

"No, but, seriously though, aren't you and the boss, uh...a thing? You see, I've been meaning to ask, but he's mum about, you know,” he starts, obvious in his tone he’s hesitant to approach the matter. “Except he did tell me you’re his consort. Are you and him –”

“No,” you sharply reply, not liking his line of questioning. “Not yet, anyway,” you mumble.

“Ah, so that’s what the date is for, then,” he says, nodding to himself. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Yeah, sure. It wouldn’t hurt.”

“Do you… like it? Him, I mean?”

You bite your lip, not expecting Matthew’s question – for him, it was a telling gesture. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. How come you don’t tell him?”

Chuckling humourlessly at his question, you answer, “We’re talking about your boss, here, Matthew. To him, any dissent warrants either an unmaking, a banishment, or a lifetime of nightmares: you take your pick.”

“Tell me about it! Did you know, he had an ex that he sent to – uh-oh .”

‘What is it?” you ask, recognizing the slight alarm in his tone.

“He’s calling for me, I think. I have to go. See you, my La – I mean, Mera!”

Before you could say your farewell, Matthew goes flying off into the horizon and dips below into one of the palace rooms and out of your line of sight. Just as he disappears, your hairs stand on end and a cold feeling washes over you like icy water being dumped over your head.

He’s here, the Voice warns.

From behind you, arms snake up and wrap around your waist, pulling you closer until your back hits a taut chest. Your entire body goes rigid and your breathing turns shallow as you feel a warm breath tickle your earlobe, followed by a whisper:

“You’re early, my dream.”

“I just wanted to admire the view –” your sentence is cut off with your breath hitching; your Dream Lord just dragged his nose down the side of your neck before planting a heated, wet kiss at the base – his lips linger, then suckles on the skin, holding you tighter to himself to keep you from struggling. From your ruby-bedazzled waist, he drags his left hand slowly upwards across your chest, grasping your throat gently and angling your head so his mouth could get better access to the base of your throat, intent on leaving small, angry welts. You close your eyes with a whimper to endure this, repeating Ollie’s name over and over in your head.

“And yet these views are no match to what you offer me in this dress. You are a sight to behold.”

The low rumble of his voice makes you close your eyes tighter, biting your lip to prevent yourself from making any more noise that could excite him further. He seems undeterred by your silence – he spins you around, and, pushing you against the balcony railing, he captures your mouth with his in a fiery lip lock. His hand nestles on the small of your back, while the other grips the back of your neck as his insistent tongue pries your lips apart and tastes your hot cavern. You had tried your best to hold it all in, but treacherous tears escape the corner of your eyes. Your master seems to feel this, for he surprisingly lightens the kiss, his lips stilling over your swollen ones. You turn your head away to will the tears away, afraid that he might see this as another sign of your defiance.

Instead, he plants a gentle kiss on your temple, before saying softly,  “I admit my past courtship of you was hurried and rough. I worry that I may have pushed you further away in my haste. I should like to court you once more. This time, I will endeavor to be more patient and earn your affections.”

He kisses your exposed cheek. Sniffling, you open your eyes, but your head remains turned away from his, refusing to meet his gaze. You feel him pull his head away in your silence.

“Will you not look me in the eyes, little dream? Do you fear me?”  he asks with a slight edge to his voice, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the skin beneath your ear in an attempt to comfort you.

Is that remorse you detect? It couldn’t be, you remark, but you couldn’t help but meet his blue eyes to try to gauge what he’s truly feeling. Not wanting to give him a reason to further punish you, you say, “My apologies, my Lord, I am just coming to terms still, with…with what you’re asking of me.”

Yet, his darkened gaze tells you that what you just said to try and placate him was a huge mistake.

“What I’m ‘asking?’”  he narrows his eyes on you, his voice laced with impatience. “ I’m afraid I’m not ‘asking’ this of you, my Mera. This is the function to which I, your King, have assigned you. This courtship is for your sake alone, that you may grow accustomed to it. We will be united. I will give you five days, after which, we will consummate our bond.”

His final sentence sparks terror in the pit of your stomach. He’s giving you a deadline. Stifling the urge to retch, you swallow thickly before you try to beg, “Sir, I –”

“Enough. I will not have my will questioned,”  he interrupts you as he tightens his grip on the back of your neck.  “You will be here, in the palace, at all times. You will await my call and come to me when I summon you. I do not mean to be harsh, my dream, but time is of the essence – I was cruelly robbed of mine with you, after all. I shall amend that once I have dealt with the damage left by the Vortex. Is that understood?”

“My Lord, please –”

“Is. That. Understood?”  he repeats his question through gritted teeth, clearly unwilling to listen to any more of your pleas.

You look into his hardened, now-silver eyes, attempting to look for any trace of empathy at the situation he’s forcing you into. There isn’t any.  Wanting to end your argument so you could be relieved from his presence, you respond with a whisper, “Yes, my Lord.”

Your creator releases a hum of satisfaction as he places a lingering kiss on your cheek, before praising,  “That’s a good dream.”

You feel immense relief the moment he lets you go and steps away. You expect him to vanish with a swirl of his sand, but he lingers, standing a few feet before you with his hands behind his back.

“I will call you for tea tomorrow afternoon.”

You could only nod quietly. He takes a small amount of sand from his pouch, presumably to leave, but a sudden question crosses your mind inspired by his previous words. “My Lord, the Vortex…is she…?” you blurt out, slightly hesitating.

“Dead? Yes.”

You bow your head, not knowing how to process the fact. Rose Walker seemed so young and she had so many dreams she wanted to fulfill that you felt them, despite your fleeting interaction with her. You feel your heart clench at the thought of her life being cut short.

“Do not grieve of Unity Kincaid, my dream. Hers is a noble yet necessary sacrifice for the sake of the Dreaming, and of her great-granddaughter, Rose.”

“Unity?” you ask, confused. Wasn’t Rose the Vortex? “Rose is alive?”

Shut up, shut up, NOW, comes the Voice’s sudden warning.

“Yes, she is. You know of her?”  He asks, stepping forward, suspicion marring his dark features.

You shake your head, realizing your error; if he finds out you had met with her, he’ll discover your little tryst in the Waking, and if he does, he’ll surely uncover the connection which led to it. That was a stupid, stupid thing to say, you inwardly scold yourself.

“I heard from Lucienne, sir,” you say, mentally crossing your fingers that he doesn’t press any further.

Putting on a blank expression, the Dream King purses his lips, as he releases the sand in his palm.

“I will call for you tomorrow. Do not be late.”

As soon as his form is engulfed in his sand and he vanishes, you make a wild run for the Library. Hidden in one, or two, of those books, are incriminating passages that detail your meeting, and subsequent stay with Ollie, and once the Dream King sees those pages, you could definitely say goodbye to your plans of staying in Ollie’s dreams for good. If he even so much as gets a whiff of your affections of anyone else besides him, there’s no telling what he won’t do to you, and more importantly, to Ollie.

You push the heavy doors to the library quietly to avoid drawing attention to yourself. As noiselessly as you can, you dash through the shelves, skimming through the books in a mad rush. To your alarm, there was no ‘Oliver Chapman,’ not in the ‘O’ or even in the ‘C’ wings. Cursing mentally, you wonder: has Lucienne read them? Worse, has your Dream Lord gotten ahold of them? Are they hiding it from you, knowing you’d try to tamper with them? Letting out a huff of frustration, you sit on the floor, wondering where else they may have kept Ollie’s books of dreams.

The office, whispers the Voice.

Of course. The Dream Lord has an office in the Library, separate from the rest of the space. Not that he needed it, of course; he just usually asks for books to be brought to his throne room where he normally reads them. But why would the books be kept there?

You try to strain your ears for any signs of Lucienne; thankfully, it looks as if she’s out on an errand, so you sprint in the direction of the Dream Lord’s office.

Located at the farthest end of the Library, you’re panting heavily by the time you get there. You push your ear against the doorframe to listen for any sign of life inside. When you hear nothing, you turn the doorknob and push.

Locked.

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. There is only one person – or being, for that matter – that has the key, save for the Dream Lord and his Royal Librarian.

You run out of the Library in search of the said being. You find him tending to your favorite garden in the palace grounds, his hands deep in the dirt, planting more of those accursed red flowers – Mervyn the Pumpkinhead.

The keys, attached to his toolbelt, lie discarded beside him, along with his other gardening tools. You know full well you couldn’t just walk up to him and ask for a key to the boss’s office in the library – or is it that easy?

You don’t really have the luxury of planning an elaborate heist for his set of keys, so it’s now or never. Steeling your resolve, you walk up to where Merv is, opting for a much simpler plan.

“Hello, Merv!” you call as you approach.

He stops digging into the flowerbed and turns to you, giving a mock salute. “Hello, kid! What can I help ya with?”

“I’m looking for Morwyn. Have you seen her?” you ask, hoping to put up a convincing act.

He scratches his pumpkin head and replies, “No, I haven’t. Whatcha need her for?”

“I kind of locked myself out of my room, and I need to get something from there,” you say sheepishly, rubbing the back of your head to make it look believable.

“Uh, I have the key in there somewhere, but I’m in the middle o’ something, see? Why don’t you take ‘em keys instead? It’s the gold one with the tiny ruby at the bow.”

Bingo.

“Really, are you sure?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves you off, continuing his digging on the flowerbed.

 You grab the keys and take off as Merv calls out from behind you, “Give ‘em back, ya hear?”

“Sure thing!”

It takes you a few good minutes to find the key that fit the doorknob. Once you do, you wildly look around you to make sure you weren’t being watched, before you turn the knob and push the door open.

No one has been in the office for quite some time if the dust on the desk in the middle is anything to go about. The room is larger than you expected, and the natural light streaming through the stained glass windows illuminates the numerous towering shelves of books untouched for many years. Wanting to waste no time, you skim through the many bookshelves. They’re thankfully arranged in alphabetical order, so you find an entire shelf dedicated to the name ‘Chapman’ in no time, with Ollie’s name placed at the farthest end.

Curiously, you pick up the book a few places before Ollie’s name first, and with it, you make a startling discovery: the books of dreams on the shelf not only belonged to random ‘Chapmans,’ but to the males in Ollie’s entire lineage. You just picked the book of dreams belonging to Ollie’s great-great-grandfather.

But, why? Why is Ollie’s book of dreams, as well as his male ancestors’, singled out among the infinite number of dreamers?

“Have I told you before that the Chapmans were cursed? Well, the males, at least,”  Ollie’s words from almost a year ago echo in your head.

This isn’t the time to unearth Ollie’s family mystery, though, so you make a mental note to do more research in the future and set those thoughts aside. You carefully leaf through the pages to find the section where you made your appearance – your meeting with him, spanning a year, detailed in twenty-full pages. Setting the book on the floor, you get to work.

Hardbound books were tricky to manipulate, with the pages stitched to a section of the book’s spine, so you use your fingers to remove the stitching of the last twenty pages with care – simply tearing the pages away would leave a sign of the book being tampered with. Once you’re sure there were no traces of your crime, you put the book back in place, and scramble out of the office, locking it behind you. You hand the keys back to Mervyn (“What took you so long, kid? Couldn’t be hard to spot a key with a damn ruby, innit?”) and rush to your room. Barricading yourself inside the bathroom, you set the pages alight with a matchbox you stole from the kitchens before washing the ash away with water.

Look how you’ve turned into a cold-blooded criminal mastermind, you inwardly deadpan.

***

4 Days Until Deadline

Afternoon tea with your Dream Lord isn’t as bad of an experience as you thought it would be.

Matthew had fetched you from your room, and you had followed him to the same balcony you had met him with the morning before. You found your master, already sitting beside a table full of your favorite sweets, drinking tea from his cup. He had stood up to greet you, taking your hand in his and kissing it, before leading you to sit across from him. You both sit in somewhat companionable silence while you munch on a cinnamon bun, with him just sipping his tea and watching you with blue, ever-observant eyes.

Until…

“May I ask a question, my Lord?” you shyly break the stillness, setting down the pastry you’re nibbling back on your plate.

You watch a corner of his mouth turn upwards as he sets his cup on a saucer. “Ask away, my dream.”

“I was wondering,” you say slowly, choosing your words carefully. “If you would allow me to continue forming dreams along with my new…role?”

Just then, you could feel the atmosphere change to one of palpable tension, the small grin vanishing from his face.

Tentatively, you add, “Please?”

“I think not. Your duty is to me, alone,” he declares flatly, his cold stare making you squirm in your seat.

You bite your lip and break eye contact with him.

“It’s what I’ve been doing all my life, your majesty,” you whisper dejectedly.

“And that will change in four days’ time.”

“Will you take away my ability to form dreams, too?”

The Dream King seems to contemplate this. The pause is long, before he responds, his tone slightly softening, “I could never bring myself to take that ability away, my little dream. It is part of who you are. I intend for you to keep it.”

But what good is keeping it if he forbids its use, you ask yourself. Still, you give him a subtle nod and a small ‘thank you’ to end the topic. You leave the cinnamon bun untouched, suddenly not feeling very hungry anymore.

The quiet that follows your conversation becomes heavier, so you’re thankful to Matthew for interrupting, quietly delivering news that you couldn’t quite hear. When your King gets to his feet, you swiftly follow his example out of politeness.

“I’m afraid I must cut our date short, my dream. I have matters to attend to.”

You bow your head in response but he takes your chin in his hands and promptly gives you a single, prolonged kiss on the mouth. You close your eyes until he lets go of you, and bids you to ‘stay here.’

Noticing fine grains of sand in the air, you realize he has transported you to your chambers – you turn to him with a protest bubbling in your throat, but you find that he’s gone, and to your irritation, the door locked from the outside.

***

3 Days Until Deadline

Clear as day, Dream of the Endless recalls his first visit to the first Chapman who had crossed his path many centuries ago.

He had not paid him, or any of the other Chapmans, much attention since he had placed a curse on the males of his lineage (except for that one occasion), a curse that felt righteous and just after a slight he had committed against him and his Realm.

Now, as he faces the dream of his only living descendant, he finds himself wanting very much to place another, more potent curse on Oliver Chapman, the mortal whose embrace now cradles the dream he so deeply cherished and ardently pursued.

Or Oliver’s dream-version of you, more accurately.

Morpheus knows this, but he couldn’t help the bitter jealousy burning in his heart as he watches the mortal lavish the lips of your dream-version with his own. He has not felt the urge to smite anyone for dreaming of his creations so lasciviously in a long time – this is an image of you he’s disrespecting, and he refuses to sit idly while this human corrupts you.

An image of you, he corrects.

With a lazy flick of his fingers, the dream-version of you taking Oliver’s shirt off melts before the human’s eyes. He ensures it’s the most gruesome sight this errant dreamer has ever seen: the dream-Mera’s skin peels off starting from her head down to her feet, followed by her flesh boiling and steaming away in an amalgamation of blood and gore, and with a final flair, he makes her bones disintegrate into dust. Oliver’s screams of horror permeate the dream-space – he couldn’t deny the screams gave him utmost satisfaction.

Dream watches curiously as Oliver attempts vainly to regain lucidity by counting his fingers aloud. It’s a trick that could’ve worked, but curiously, the dream remains volatile in his favor.

Morpheus decides to twist the knife, taunting him,  “You’ve lost control, lucid dreamer.”

The mortal snaps his head in the Endless’ direction, looking confused, possibly wondering why he couldn’t take over the dream. Medication, perhaps? But Morpheus has not the slightest interest in why a lucid dreamer has lost their ability. He is, however, greatly invested in finding out how such a mortal might develop a certain fascination with you.

“Tell me: what is my dream doing in yours?”

“Who the fuck are you?” Oliver replies, growing more confused. “And who the fuck are you talking about?”

In his fury, Dream could feel himself transforming into a nightmarish image he rarely ever shows his dreamers. No one has ever woken up seeing this form of his with their sanity intact, so he tries to rein in this metamorphosis.

“The dream you were defiling,” he spits out, his bellowing voice echoing the dream-space, “Belongs to me. Explain yourself, Oliver Chapman. My patience is waning.”

Oliver rubs his head in frustration. “I don’t know…I don’t remember.” He looks at both his hands, now coated in blood that isn’t his. “Fuck, there’s so much blood… where is she? She’s injured, I need to help her. I just wanna help her, man. I have to find her…”

Dream narrows his eyes at the mumbling man before him, somewhat disappointed that he could no longer extract reliable information from him in such a state. Recognizing that his fun is over, he transports himself with a pinch of his sand back to his Kingdom. He thinks it’s best that he confront the only other being in existence who had the answers he seeks.

***

When Matthew came flying into the balcony of your room, delivering the message that your King has summoned you to the library, your heart leaped to your chest at the suddenness; your little tea date, as the bird has taken to calling it, hadn’t been due until a few hours after midday. You hastened to dress out of your pajamas and rushed to the said meeting place, your heart beating so fast you could hardly breathe. Had he found out, you wondered?

You find your Dream Lord pacing restlessly to and fro near your favourite reading spot. He stills, looking at you with hardened eyes and clenched jaw, seemingly trying to control the fury you could feel emanating from him. It’s a look that was almost enough to curdle your blood.

He doesn’t even wait for you to get close – immediately he’s upon you, cornering you to one of the bookshelves, making you yelp instinctively. He grabs hold of your wrists and pins them above your head as his body covers your own.

“You will tell me everything, my dream, and I might be inclined to spare Oliver Chapman: why is he dreaming of you?”  He growls, his face, inches from yours, contorted in pure rage.

Fighting inwardly to maintain your composure, you respond with another half-truth. “I was injured, my Lord, from a battle I enacted in a dream. I got in his dreams somehow, and he helped me, he nursed me back to health. I stayed there for a while so I could recuperate.”

“Is this the truth, my Mera, or are you keeping anything else from me?”

You wince at the way his grip closes on your wrist further, cutting off the circulation.

“Please, my Lord, you can check for yourself,” you dare meet his eye with your own fearful ones, trying to drive your point.  “The dreamer’s name is Belladonna San Mateo – I reenacted a medieval battle for her. It’s the truth, sir, please…”

He pulls his head away as one of his hands releases your wrist and grasps your chin, so you had nowhere else to look but those silvery swirls of galaxies in his cruel eyes. After a few agonizing moments he dips his head, giving you a warning:

“If I find you in the embrace of any other, mortal or otherwise, I shall personally see to their torment in their waking, their dreaming, and their afterlife.”

When he lets you go, you couldn’t help but let out a gasp of relief, clutching your chest to calm your rapid heartbeat.

“There are matters I must attend to. As such, I must regrettably cancel our meeting for this afternoon,” he says, his face once again the stony mask that spelled no room for negotiation.  “Stay in your chambers. You are dismissed.”

You turn on your heels and dash away from Library, glad to give the place a wide berth. He had met with Ollie, visited him in his dreams, and didn’t like what he saw. You don’t like the sound of your creator potentially bringing harm to your doctor, so a visit may be long overdue, and it has to be soon.

***

2 Days Until Deadline

As discreetly as you can, you take a plunge into the sea of dreams and navigate your way into your doctor’s dreams, praying to the Fates that he’s asleep at the very moment.

Once you land in the space, Ollie greets you with a tight embrace, one which you return with as much enthusiasm. You had missed him terribly and had been worried out of your wits upon learning of his meeting with your Dream King, so when you let go, you make a fuss over him, checking him and his form for any sign of injury.

“Hey, I know you find me irresistible, but I didn’t know you were bold enough to cop a feel,” he jokes, earning him a half-hearted shove and a slap on the bicep from you.

“This is no laughing matter, you idiot!” you chide him with your arms crossed, relieved on the inside that he was unharmed.

In response, he grins coyly from ear to ear. “You were worried about me. I kinda like that,”

Pouting, you say, “Yes, I was bloody worried. I’m sorry I couldn't visit sooner.”

Ollie turns away from you, scratching the back of his head. “No, it’s quite alright,” he mumbles. “I'm sorry, too. I couldn't do much work on the runes the last few days, Mera. I've been, uh... shit, I... don't know how to say this…”

“What’s wrong?” you get right in front of him to press him, worried at his guilty tone.

With the most apologetic expression you’ve seen in him since the dreamcatcher incident, he replies, “It's the sleeping pills. I've been on them and I think they might've hampered my hypnagogia.”

His revelation makes you drop your jaw in surprise. “Wha-fuck, why are you taking them? And how come you've never told me about this?” You grab hold of his arms to demand answers.

With a placating look, he responds, “I swear, I've been taking them sparingly, but I've been needing a lot of sleep because of... you know. But it's okay now, honest! I didn't take them today, and I'm in full control.”

You place your palms on his cheeks, putting on a serious expression. “You have to get off those. I'm being serious, Ollie.”

“I am! I’ll keep it that way, I promise.”

Not letting go of him yet, you look into those gentle, green eyes, trying to detect signs that he may be hiding something.  But this is Ollie, too, you think to yourself. You know him to be bad at keeping secrets. Satisfied with what you saw in his eyes, you let him go, offering a soft apology: “This is my fault. I'm sorry I pushed you into this.”

“No! Hey, no, Mera, you didn’t,” he corrects you with a firm tone. “I've been prescribed these since I was little. You know, the Chapman curse and all that. Oh, and I’ve finally figured out a fitting name for the invention.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“I’ll call it MiraSleep. It’s a sort of, play with your name and the word ‘miracle.’ That’s what you are to me, you know. Everything I do now, I do for you.”

Not knowing what to say to his heartfelt admission, you stare into those forest-green eyes of his, a look of agreement passing between you two. Finally, you flash him a grateful smile, which he returns with his own sheepish grin.

“So, Ollie,” you start with a slightly more cheerful tone, fighting back a blush creeping on your cheeks without much success. “Mind telling me what it was you dreamed about that involved me?”

He breaks into fits of nervous laughter while rubbing the back of his hair. You already know you don’t like what he’s about to say.

“You’ll never believe it if I told you.”

***

You walk back into the palace grounds with high spirits after you visit Ollie’s dreams. He had immensely cheered you up despite his retelling of a rather salacious dream he had engaged with a dream-version you at that moment he lost his lucidity – the dream with which the Dream Lord had walked in on and had taken absolute offense to. He had assured you that the momentary lapse in his dreaming abilities would never happen again, and with that, you’re confident that by your next visit, you could finally stay in there with him without having to worry about being chased after by a certain Endless.

It's this thought that helps you endure your master’s company and his not-so-subtle touches during your morning ‘date’: as soon as the sun had risen in the Realm, he had summoned you through Matthew to accompany him in a morning walk around his Kingdom.

He smugly parades you around the busy town square with your fingers intertwined in his; on occasion, wrapping an arm around your waist as he rubs circles over your clothed skin; at times, even kissing your hand while not breaking heated eye-contact; all these gestures of his affections for the entire Dreaming to see. To the townsfolk, he introduces you as his princess-consort, much to the Dreaming residents’ delight – they had not had a princess-consort to dote on for eons, and so they lavish the both of you with promises of gifts that they are to send to the palace to congratulate their King and to his ‘pretty little dream-bride.’

Just grin and bear with it, as the Voice comments.

Touching as it was, the Dreamfolk’s welcome of you as Dream of the Endless’ new princess-consort breaks your heart even more, knowing that you’ll eventually disappoint them by running away as soon as you have the chance to. Breaking your previously-cheerful outlook further, you walk past the sea of dreams with the thought of never coming back to form the dreams of the mortals forever once you’re free with Ollie.

Before you left his dream at dawn, Ollie had asked you whether you were actually ready to leave your job for good. He knows there was nothing else you loved more than forming dreams for humans and inspiring them. You had never given it much thought before, but your brief stay with him had also made you realize one thing: while you were planning to abandon the role you had loved with all your heart, he had a device that would do the same for millions of other dreamers. While not under your name, the device Ollie had invented would be his and your legacy, and perhaps you could make peace with that. This comment of yours earns you a proud smile from Ollie that rivaled the brightness of the sun – it’s a smile you’re sure you’ve burned into your memory.

***

1 Day Until Deadline

When you wake, you’re greeted with a massive headache – it’s an ominous warning of your days closing in on you. Only one more day until your King’s imposed deadline, and you could only hope Ollie makes a breakthrough with the runes by tomorrow, or all will be lost.

After you had been dressed up by Morwyn, who as usual, gushed over the gown your Dream Lord has selected for you to wear for the day, Matthew delivers the news of your morning activities. According to him, they will consist of morning tea and brunch with his boss in your favourite spot in the Royal Library. When you arrive in the garb he had chosen for you to wear for the day, he gives your red-satin-clad figure an appreciative look before he greets you with a soft kiss on your lips and leads you by the hand to the leather couch you had fallen asleep in so many times.

You engage in light, minimal conversation during tea. You find yourself almost enjoying your time together, discussing your past dreamers with a sense of nostalgia.

That is until an attendant brings a trolley full of books to his side and you inspect the names printed on the books: each containing the name of every dreamer you had visited in his absence.

Perhaps your face had paled when you noticed the books, for he flashes you a small smirk, before assuring you,  “It is only procedure, my little Dream. Lucienne told me that you had insisted on finding me in the dreams of mortals even after it proved fatally dangerous for you. I should like to read of your unwavering loyalty with my own eyes.”

His words only made you fidget in your seat, abandoning the cinnamon swirl you had started to dig into a few moments ago.

Your discomfort does not seem to escape his watchful eyes.  “Unless, you had something to hide from me, my Mera?”

From the rim of your teacup, you smile wanly, sipping your tea before quietly shaking your head. Inside, however, your heart is practically threatening to escape your ribcage, sending bile to your throat and souring your tastebuds.

“I imagine this will occupy the rest of my day. Stay and read with me.”

Having no choice but to comply, you excuse yourself to pick out a book, choosing one you had read from cover to cover so many times in Ollie’s study.

Choosing a book was the easy part; concentrating on the pages proves a lot more of a challenge, especially when you have your master inspecting your work right in front of you. His occasional praise of your handicraft almost always makes you jump on your seat, thinking that anytime, now, he could be going through Ollie’s book of dreams, potentially exposing you. It takes all your energy to remain composed before him lest he notices your odd behaviour and decides to investigate the source of your restlessness further. The day goes on agonizingly slow, but thankfully, he only goes through the first half of the pile on the trolley.

With a loud pouf, he closes the final book shut and places them on top of the growing pile on the coffee table. Getting up to his feet, you copy his movement, inwardly glad for a dismissal and looking forward to your time alone, stewing in your own worries. You brace yourself as he steps closer and takes your chin in his thumb and forefinger before dipping his head downwards to plant an openmouthed kiss on your lips, one that you now know you’re obliged to kiss back. You expect the kiss to be brief, but he apparently has other ideas: he wraps his arms around your body and maneuvers you. You both end up on the couch, with you straddling his lap. As if predicting your actions, one hand grips the back of your neck and the other holds your hip in place, preventing you from getting away.

He drags his lips away from yours to the groove of your neck while his hand pulls the sleeve of your gown downwards to expose more of the flesh he had longed to mark for a long time. You let out a whimper in protest, before softly pleading, “My Lord, please, we’re in the library…”

Against your skin, you feel him chuckle deeply.  “Would my little dream prefer the privacy of her chambers, then?”

He does not wait for your response. Instead, he continues licking and sucking on the exposed skin below your clavicle, dangerously close to your right breast. You let out a startled gasp as you feel his hand go under your gown and start stroking your inner thigh. Your body seems to betray you at that moment: you start feeling heat pooling in your belly, indicating your arousal, no matter how unwilling.

From a short distance, a door in the library creaks open, and a pair of footfalls you recognize start making their way to Lucienne’s desk.

You feel your King let out a growl of displeasure at the disturbance; a second time his librarian has interrupted you – a second time you owe Lucienne one for deterring him from any further actions.

Against your ear, he then whispers,  “Tomorrow could not come any faster, little dream. It will be a union you will remember for eternity.”

With unexpected gentleness, he spins you around and sets you down on the couch beside him, and without a word, walks away as if nothing happened.

You clutch your heart and adjust the sleeves of your dress, willing the tears threatening to spill to go away. Tomorrow, you’ll be gone for good, and well away from him – it’s a small reprieve that allows you to clear your head and quickly lock yourself inside your chambers, holding Ollie’s dreamcatcher like a lifeline.

***

0 Days Until Deadline

My little dream,

Proceed to Fiddler’s Green

…Reads the note that Morwyn delivers to you along with your morning coffee. You hope this visit wouldn’t last long; after this, you had every intention of going back to Ollie’s dream. It’s the day of the deadline your King has given after all, and you’d have no other opportunity to escape if you let this day pass.

Don’t go, the Voice warns in your head; but what choice have you, other than comply? After all, it could just be one of the last commands you’d ever obey from him. Not wanting time wasted, you refuse breakfast and begin the long tread to the heart of the Dreaming, and into Gilbert’s sanctuary.

You had been so close to meeting each other in the Waking, during your stay in Hal’s Bed and Breakfast. It’s perhaps pure luck that your paths did not cross, for you’re not sure how Gilbert would’ve reacted, or what he would’ve revealed to the Dream King once he went back.

After your walk for what seemed like hours, the grassy patch of land full of lush, blooming bushes and thick, tall trees greets you with what feels like an urgent breeze, almost making you stumble.

In your head comes Gilbert’s grave tone: “Mera, what are you still doing here?”

Feigning hurt at his words, you reply, “Hello, Gilbert. Am I no longer welcome in your lands?”

“Why, but of course you are, my dear,”  he amends. “But, given how dire your situation is, I hardly think this is the best time for a leisurely visit.”

“What do you mean, ‘my situation?’” you ask, your brows furrowing in confusion.

His breeze blows more insistently against you, making your dress billow along. “The Dream Lord has come to me about two days ago asking about you and a man called Oliver Chapman.”

Shit.

Every part of your body stills at the news, your heart sinking to your stomach.

“Now, if your relationship is anything as close as he had implied, this mortal is in danger, as are you. He has instructed me just this very morning to keep you here for as long as I could while he deals with this Chapman fellow, but I could not bring myself to keep you in the dark, especially as it sounded like you care much about him.”

Fiddler’s Green was just a diversion, the Voice concludes.

“You must go, Mera,” Gilbert says with another strong gust of wind as if trying to get you running.

Turning back to him one last time, you start, “Thank you, Gilbert –”

“Go!”

You need not be told further. With all the strength you could muster, you run as fast as your legs could carry you, not caring who or what you bumped into or if you tripped. With breakneck speed, you make your way to the sea of dreams, and will yourself to land in the dream of the man you love, your only remaining refuge, hoping against hope you weren’t too late to save him.

Ollie, startled by your sudden appearance, runs to your side at once. You gasp greedily for air, clutching a stitch on your side from all the effort.

“Mera, fuck... are you okay? What’s all this rush?” he asks, holding you by the shoulders to support you.

Tears of relief gather in your eyes as you take his unharmed form. You’re not late; you still had time.

Letting the tears cascade down your cheeks, you break the news to him:

“He’s coming. He’s coming for us.”

Author notes on the Chapter:

***********************************************

Link to the next chapter

Oh my god this went out of hand!! I'm sure I had mentioned on a tumblr comment that Ollie would only be around for around two chapters, but sorry, things and plot points seemed to have a mind of their own lol. Dream seems to have found them out!! How will their confrontation go?! Aghhhkk

As usual, thank you for sticking with me in this!! Love lots!!!

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Author's notes in general:

Thank you, THANK YOU for reading!!

Please engage, comment and reblog!! I love feedback from you guys :) This is my first ever fic, so kindness is truly appreciated!

Thank you to my queen @queenshelby@endlessdreamqueen3 for encouraging me to pen this, as well as to my fellow Dark!Morpheus writers whose work I have thoroughly enjoyed and keep rereading :)

Post date: 12/19/22

Edit date: 12/19/22

Taglist: Just lemme know please if you want to be added, too!

Tagging the following:

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[elsewhereuniversity]

I'm open for commissions for clothes, costumes, gear and armor. I need to pay rent and also get some mileage out of this tailoring class.

I've also a few things for sale like this ball gown made from sapphire silk with blue diamonds woven in (It can't leave the campus otherwise it'll go poof like Cinderella's wardrobe malfunction at godmother's curfew)

Or this royal raven regalia made with real raven feathers (I payed them with bread, they're fine with it)

[pinned to the bulletin board, accompanied by glossy photos of the gown and regalia in question. they are indeed lovely. there are shadows in the background of both pictures, decidedly non-humanoid in shape.]

[amaryllishealth]

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[heimdallsram]

━━━━ masterlist. soundtrack. archive of our own. taglist.

title: perennial

pairing: heimdall x female! goddess! reader

"You were a goddess of oaths and vows. It was only fitting that Odin would bind you to his service in only the most ironic way that he knew how: marriage."

this fanfiction contains the following: domestic violence, blood, gore, choking, violent sexual content, bad BDSM etiquette, non-consensual somnophilia, blood drinking, unhealthy relationships, and much more content that may be sensitive to some readers. reader discretion is advised.

*for inquiries about the taglist, please dm me and i will add you to it.

"My name is Inkeri.”

  You had first met one of your past incarnations in your memories—not your dreams, as Odin would, at times, so eloquently assume. You had not dreamed without your past selves present since you were a young girl just learning your strength, your passions. It was as if you had a host of other presences in your mind, constantly vying for your attention in one way or another, offering advice, leisure, company, and companionship. But none were so adept at earning your gaze as Inkeri, the first Var goddess to be born in Vanaheim and not Midgard as was tradition.

 She was a beautiful woman, even if memories faded with time. While the gold of her jewelry and weaponry was bronzed and aged, her hair still glowed like the palest of snow and her eyes were greener than the grasses outside of Asgard’s towering walls. Her skin was a burnt umber, attesting to time spent under the sun, and dotted with freckles and sun spots that did not detract from her overall appearance in the slightest. Her nose was turned slightly to the right from repeated fractures and breaks; her neck a smidge too long for her broad frame; and her eyelashes, strangely, were charcoal black instead of the wintry hues the braided length of hair down her back held.

 Each time she would appear to you she would be dressed in a different gown, each one more plain, more humble than the last. There would, however, always be some form of jewelry clasped around her neck, hips, or wrists that sparkled with soundstone, a silent promise to whoever had gifted them to her. Such fine metal work was not cheap, nor was it easy to come by.

 “Your mind is a mess,” Inkeri had laughed. When she saw the confused look on your face, the way your brows furrowed as you took her in, she smiled, and wrinkles formed at the corners of her eyes and mouth. A happy woman, young, but aged too much to be innocent to the horrors of the world. “Let me help you, little one.”

 And so, every night since, your previous selves would aid you in making something comprehensible of the absolute chaos your emotions wrought on your mental state. Some would do it for you entirely, their abilities still somehow able to shine through your own, and weave stability and ease into your mind where it would not dislodge so easily in the face of panic, fear, stress, worry. Others would speak to you as if you were their daughter or niece or friend, but Inkeri treated you as if you were an equal—someone that was deserving of her respect and time. You liked that, feeling… equal when all you felt around the other gods was inferior. Weak. Undeserving. An outsider.

  Tonight, Inkeri was alone. None of your other incarnations had deigned it proper to visit you, or perhaps they had not felt it right to intervene at all. Her appearance had changed, once again, and she was no longer in the dress she had worn the last time you had seen her. Instead she was clad in a rough woven dress shorn up to the knees, barefoot, her hair knotted and wild upon her head. But where her skin had once been unblemished, scars now marred the entirety of the flesh you could see, all over her arms and neck and face and legs and feet. They were grisly, some scarred and some not, some burnt with Bifrost and some still weeping freely upon the metaphysical plane of your mind space.

  “Do not panic,” Inkeri said, raising a hand to soothe you when you opened your mouth to speak. She did not appear in anguish or pain despite her wounds. In fact, she appeared almost at peace, serene. “It is the natural progression of memory. This is how I looked a few years before I was… Well. Taken prisoner, in a sense.”

 The woman was careful as she approached, sliding her arms around your shoulders in greeting. It was a hug, but not any sort of hug that you could feel. It was a whisper of air and nothing more. You leaned into her and tried to push down the thoughts burning in your mind, only one floating out into the open.

  “You are going to leave me soon.”

  “Yes.” Inkeri, named for her beauty and grace, smiled, sad and honest. “Like all those before you, I must leave you as you progress into your power. Today was one such stumble that you corrected. I am proud of you, my dear.”

 Briefly, your mind flitted back to the way you had snipped out pieces of the vows belonging to Thor and his daughter. You had not been able to do that before without inspiring suspicion or anger, even though those that you had tried to extend those abilities on were confused why they had felt such in the first place. You had pushed yourself to do more, to try more—something you rarely did with Odin breathing down your neck as he was.

 It was an inevitable thing, the… passing of your past selves. Each one was like losing a member of your family, of which you had none save for these incarnations, or a close friend. It made your heart ache, your soul tremble, every time one of them would fade into nonexistence, waiting for the birth of a new Var goddess to cement themselves into the present mind once more. Some of them were easier to take, like those who did not—could not—speak at all, time having ravaged their memories long before Inkeri had been born some thousands of years ago. Others devastated you… like Inkeri’s would devastate you, when it happened.

 Sometime in the future, you would be terribly, horribly alone. But tonight was not that time.

 “It felt less like a stumble and more of a fall,” you mumbled in reply. The fatigue and sluggishness followed you into this landscape of thoughts, dreams, and memories no matter what you tried to do to leave it in your body where it resided. You pulled away from Inkeri to sit on the white wooden flooring that had materialized as soon as you wished to sit down. “What am I supposed to do here, other than kill those who break their oaths and… interfere with others’ vows? I can’t be all that useless, Inkeri.”

 Her answering laugh was loud and bellowing, something that did not seem possible out of such a tiny woman. Her four foot ten frame shook with it. “Ha! Useless? Do not jest with me, girl. We Var are never useless when wielded by the right hand.”

 And Odin, you knew, was very much the wrong one.

 When Inkeri quieted, she was more thoughtful, though amusement still sparkled in her sage green eyes. “Well, now. I know you do not think yourself the entertainer, dear, but that was quite amusing. You are never useless even in idleness. You are always watching, observing, caring; there is nothing that is not useful in that, no? You are young, fresh with immortality. Use that, if it worries you. We are all memories destined to fade. You will not until it is your time, and it is not any time soon.”

 It was not any more reassuring than the other times she had told you, but you nodded in understanding as you always did.

 “On a more serious note,” she interrupted before you could think to find something to say,”you are to be married soon. Your thoughts lie, do they not?”

 You sighed heavily and averted your gaze from her. “They do not. I am to be married in five days, give or take a few hours.”

  “Odin and his schemes.” Inkeri’s scowl was ferocious. She did not lower herself to sit with her legs sprawled as you were and folded her knees under herself, tucking the awful dress around her thighs casually. “I had thought he would die by now. Of course, I am always mistaken. Ragnarök has not come yet.”

 You gave a wry smile. “His former wife, Queen Freya, got very close to killing him.”

 “I always knew it would be one of his toys that would try to do it, one day.”

 Together, you settled into an amiable silence, friendly and warm. It was nothing like the chilled dinners that Odin forced you to sit in on with the rest of his family. Sif, at least, tried to make conversation with you despite your uncomfortable mood, and you would swap food or stories through the night while the men laughed and drank and, in Odin’s case, spoke about battle plans. You were largely ignored during these dinners and that made you feel cold inside, like a spark was missing.

 “Heimdall,” you began slowly, hesitant to break the quiet. Inkeri’s eyes followed you as you sat up, crossing your legs in a more ladylike manner. “Do—do the others have any memories of him? What he’s… like?”

 “Your betrothed,” Inkeri inferred seamlessly. She nodded and beckoned to something in the distance: a fledgling memory. “Yes, one of the other incarnations has a few memories of him. She was deaf, however, so I cannot attest to the words said, but she gestures that he is arrogant, full of himself—ah, a little shit, I apologize for that mistranslation—a flying sack of… Oh my. Well, there is all of that; but she does say that he prefers the animals more than people because they do not lie. Or deceive? I am unsure what she means completely.”

 You watched the memories unfold before your eyes as Inkeri spoke. It was never not strange to watch through the eyes of others, even moreso when you were watching those you recognized through a body you were not familiar with. Heimdall flashed through her periphery at times, walking past, or she would observe from far off and turn her attention to more important matters. She never lingered on him, as if he disinterested her, and focused on appearing as a Midgardian woman with exceptional sigil work.

 None of these were particularly helpful to you, but you were grateful for them at least trying. You knew more about Heimdall than any of them, save the animal thing, through the barest expressions you had glimpsed. Insecure was a thought that came to you almost immediately. Without Odin, who was Heimdall? His vows centered around him entirely, like a well made cage of loyalty and pride.

 “He is dangerous,” your friend whispered when the memory eventually collapsed into the back of your mind. “So, so dangerous. That kind of loyalty does not come cheaply… or without cause.”

 “I know.” You brought your hand to your mouth and pressed your fingers to your lips hard. “I… am lost at what to do. Odin will never let me be in charge of my own vows, and Heimdall will most certainly trust him to make them. Of that I am sure. I cannot think of a way to salvage this in my favor, even with the shield around my thoughts.”

 Inkeri hummed. “I see, I see. I understand. Odin is crafty, the bastard, and he knows some things about your power. But he does not know everything, and that will work on your behalf. If he cannot specify the exact thing he wants to keep or force you to avow to, he will have to resort to vague ideas and theories. The most damage he can do to you is through Heimdall; you will have to share a room, a bed, a life. That is torture of the highest regard to a Var goddess.”

 “To share love, honesty, warmth with another is our shame.” The voice was quiet, soft, but tinkled like chimes in the wind. A woman appeared from the vast nothingness of white, clad in an ornate set of armor, with gorgeous wings curled around her shoulders. A Valkyrie. “Hello, little one. We have not met, yet.”

 “This is Siv,” the white haired woman introduced, waving her hand towards the other woman. “She’s the previous incarnation before Embla, I believe. So, around six hundred and thirty-two years before you, yes?”

 Siv smiled and it was not warm, but feral, savage. “You are correct. Inkeri thought I would be best to advise you in this way, as I have loved more than my fair share—and found myself in a similar situation.”

 “Siv, before she was a Valkyrie, was a lover of Odin’s.” At your surprised look, the winged lady laughed, and hers was much more spine tingling than Inkeri’s. Yet the older woman continued on, settling her hands on your shoulders encouragingly. “Don’t worry, she won’t bite. She’ll be able to help you quite a bit, I think.”

 “I will do my best.” Those great wings relaxed. “But it is time for you to wake. I will be here to greet you upon your return.”

 Inkeri released your shoulders and joined her side. “As will I. I have some time before I am due to leave you, my dear, so I will remain until then. Go, join the waking world. Eat, drink. Then I want you to think about what has been spoken here.”

 There was no calmness when your mind returned to your body. It was a rush of pure energy, always, and each time your eyes would open wide before they settled into sleepy recognition. Your bed would always feel the same, your fur blankets were as soft as they ever were, and other than the tunic you had worn to bed to beat out the chill, you woke as you did any other day.

 You rubbed your eyes free of crusted sleep as you sat up, your tunic falling open all the way to the waist. It was one of the few that you had left unmended, likely because the openness felt more soothing than the scratchy material, and the buttons had long since scattered to the crevices and holes in the floorboards. You tugged your hair up and over your shoulder to rest against your back, kicking the furs to the foot of the bed to be made later. You made to rise, one foot on the floor and the other curled underneath you, when you heard a shuffle.

 Breath freezing in your chest, your eyes shot to your bedroom door on instinct. Locked. Yet there was no relief to be had as the shuffling continued, followed by a dark chuckle, and you dragged your eyes away from the door to settle on a pair of boots propped up on your foot board. They were pristine, as if they had never trudged through mud, grass, or on stone. You followed the boots up and up and up until you settled on the pair of eyes that seemed to haunt your thoughts almost daily now, only to find they were obscured by a knife and apple, carefully being whittled free of the skin.

 Each curl of shining red dropped to the floor carelessly.

 “The traitorous bitch wakes,” Heimdall noted, a vicious streak in  his voice. “I almost thought you were dead, given how you continued to sleep with how… exploratory I’ve been during your slumber.”

 Something in your gut told you he had not done anything other than sit and wait for you to open your eyes. You ignored it and mentally checked over your body and found nothing except the previous day’s exhaustion. There was nothing about him you could trust except to act in Odin’s favor.

 At the moment, you were unsure if that favor was being kind to you.

 “What do you want?” Your voice was still edged with sleep. “What has possessed you to infiltrate my rooms like this that is so important?”

 Sleep, also, made you daring. If you had been of more sound mind, you would have bolted for the door.

 He carved a slice of apple free from the core and, using the knife, brought it to his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, eyes narrowed in delighted glee the more irritated you grew, and sighed as if the mere task of speaking tired him. “Ah, that. Well, while you slept, the All-Father had a brilliant idea.”

 There was a growing sense of dread pooling in your gut. Alarm bells sounded in your head, suspiciously like the horns of Svartlfheim, and you had to resist sliding your foot back under the furs and hiding under them.

 Though he was acting as carefree as a bird, you could see there was a burning rage underneath, seeping into the narrowing of his eyes, the furrow of his brow, and the brutality in the way he was cutting up the apple in his hands. Then, as if he had decided something, he laid the apple slices down and fixed you with a stare that made your very soul shudder.

  “He thought ‘Perhaps  a fortnight is too long of a wait.’ He thought ‘Perhaps, it would be wiser to take things a little faster, more up to speed.’” Heimdall’s mouth curled into a scowl as he stood. The knife shone in the morning light as he made his way around the side of the bed. “’Perhaps. Perhaps, they should be married today, right after the dinner bell rings.’”

 “No,” you choked. All of the blood drained from your face. It wasn't supposed to be this soon. You still needed to prepare, to, to... “Oh, Gods, no—“

 A hand shot out and closed around your throat. Squeezing, prying at the veins that pushed a horrified blush of exertion up your neck and cheeks. His fingers were tight, cutting off your air, and he leaned impossibly close, his nose and lips brushing yours with only a hair between. “I wondered what gave him that idea. I did, you know; and I could only come up with one answer. You, you ridiculously deceitful little cunt.”

 You struggled to speak through your closed throat, reaching up and clawing at his wrist. Each flail you gave inched you closer to having your back on your bed and Heimdall above you, more leverage at his behest. “I—Fhhr—“

 Spit rolled out of the corner of your mouth and onto the back of his hand. His face screwed up in disgust.

 “Fucking filthy. I should cut your tongue from your mouth and see if you may spit on me then.”

 The way he was speaking to you made you feel awful, the worst you had felt in a long time. You could feel the insecurity, the shame, crawling up your stomach like a malignant wraith seeking to drown you in endless shadow. His hand around your throat only seemed to make it worse, squeezing the life out of you, and darkness started to dot at the edges of your vision.

  “Oh?” He sounded so pleased. “Losing consciousness, are you? We can’t have that, we still have so much to discuss… wife.”

  Heimdall punctuated the slur of a title by releasing you. Your head hit the headboard with a crack and you were only able to glimpse the exasperation on his face before you succumbed to the black that beckoned you.

 “Oh, lovely.”

| next.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

I've been trying to put this into words since you put If These Scars Could Speak back up. First off, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Scars is one of, if not the, fic that has stuck with me the most. I must have read it a dozen times before you took it down. It was actually a tab that I kept open on some of my harder training exercises.

(A brief aside, because I'm afraid I cannot always make words work as I intend them to. I am in no way, shape, or form trying to guilt you, or hold any animosity. You did what I assume was best for your mental health, and I respect that immensely. If anything, it was my fault for not saving myself a copy. Please don't take anything that I am saying in a negative way.)

The first time I read Scars, I was blown away. The story is amazing, the characters have so much depth, I am a sucker for your Lambert/Aiden, yes, but it was Geralt who held me captive and kept bringing me back. Because my dear - you wrote me.

From the time I began to suspect I was neurodivergent way back in secondary school, I ruthlessly suppressed it (often to my own detriment). Because I had known from an even younger age that I wanted to join the military, and now, despite being damn good at my job and not once having an issue, I would be medically discharged if I ever ended up in front of a psychologist. (Even now, it puts my heart pounding to write this, but I told myself that since you had the strength to put it back up, I would find the strength write this.) The military has yet to realize that these things exist on a spectrum, and just because there are some people who absolutely should not be allowed to serve, there are just as many who can take their divergence and make it work for them, as your Geralt does.

Here was a character who thrived in the military and was not a walking stereotype (and do you know, I did something similar, finding myself a small unit where I'd only have to handle a dozen or so people). This is the kind of representation I never imagined finding, and to stumble upon it…I don't have the words to adequately express what your story means to me. Thank you for the care you took with this story, for the time and heart and love you poured into it (and your portrayal of PTSD…God, how many of my own brothers I saw in them). I will never stop being grateful that you wrote this. For whatever people said to you, please know that there is at least one person out there whose life was changed absolutely for the better through your words. This is so far beyond a comfort fic - this is what I read when I need to feel like I am not alone in this. Thank you, thank you.

Non, I read the start of this ask and ran away for a bit, but then I took a deep breath and read it properly.

When I tell you I cried, I'm not being hyperbolic. I've had... let's say an interesting couple of months, and it's the small things getting me through. But this is a big thing. It's overwhelming. I am so humbled.

Thank you for letting me know. Really. The story is so precious to me. There are parts of me in every character, parts of the people I know, all woven in with the characters I love. I needed hope when I wrote that story, even with all its clunky bits, so the fact that others connect with it too? I don't have words to express how that makes me feel.

I am always baffled by people's kindness, but I am so, so grateful for it.

I hope you have family and friends that love you like Geralt's does. You deserve the biggest hug and the fluffiest dressing gown to eat chocolate in. Much love, Non.

[grey-joys]

Pomegranates

Pairing: Theon Greyjoy x Sansa Stark

Warnings: Domestic violence, abusive relationships, sexual abuse, implied/referenced rape/non-con, torture and references to torture

Synopsis: They meet again in Winterfell, but there is much to be explained.

Sansa is married to Ramsay Bolton, but this time, she does not forget the lessons she learned on her journey there.

Chapter: Sansa II

Words: 812

--- 

As a girl, she dreamt of this day. She imagined herself married in a Sept, rainbows and shimmering light cast over her and the man she was to wed from the beautiful stained glass windows. She would be dressed in a beautiful white samite gown, ivory silk along her arms. Her maiden’s cloak would be gray and white, a proud direwolf on her back. And though her father did not follow the Seven, he would have escorted her to the altar between the statues of the Mother and Father where her soon-to-be husband would be waiting. She could still imagine her father’s face as he would remove her cloak, tears shining in his gray eyes. It was harder to remember what his face looked like, now. 

It was harder, still, when she saw herself in the looking glass. She did not wear samite, it was too cold to do so in the North. Instead, she wore a dress made of white wool, the fabric woven in intricate designs. White furs had been draped over her shoulders in place of a Stark maiden cloak, and she knew there would be no way for her father to escort her now. 

How she was supposed to pretend it could be close to her childhood fantasies, she could not begin to fathom. Her father was dead, his body lost along with her mother’s and Robb’s in the Riverlands. The servants who clasped the front of her dress with trout-like clasps struggled to do so, missing fingers making them struggle. When she gently suggested she do it herself, the woman shook her head frantically, though she did not answer. She couldn’t, her tongue had been torn out. 

Any other day, she may have wept, refusing to get out of her bed or to dress for the horrible ceremony. But today, she wished to hold her head high and not give Ramsay Snow the satisfaction of seeing her in such a state. Once, she dreamt of Myrish lace and cloth-of-gold dresses, but she found the woman looking back at her was just as well suited by the furs and wool they’d dressed her in. Still, she wished for her father. In some cruel jape, Ramsay had decided a shriveled, sickly looking man was to walk her to the Heart Tree. The stench that emanated from him was enough to make her want to refuse. 

Ramsay had smiled at her cruelly, saying that Theon Greyjoy was the closest he could come up with in terms of her family on such short notice. She froze, turning slowly to Ramsay with a scowl, “I don’t want the traitor and murderer of my brothers to touch me, let alone walk beside me to the Heart Tree.” 

No matter how Theon begged, she refused again and again. She did not even care if the look Ramsay gave the two of them made her stomach roil. 

She didn’t want Theon. She wanted her father to give her away. She wanted Robb, Bran and Jon and Rickon. She even wanted Arya there to lend her the strength she always held even as a child. She would have taken Jory or Ser Rodrick… anyone but Theon. 

When she left her chambers, Theon was waiting outside, offering her his arm. Without a second thought, she pushed his arm away, walking past him. She knew the way well enough. Whatever that look Ramsay gave Theon before meant, she did not care. He could die before she began to care at all, and should Ramsay’s anger turn to her, she would accept it in exchange for this one act of defiance. 

She’d arrived before the Heart Tree before Theon did, though it had been easy with how he seemed to hobble. She stared at the tree, the red sap flowing from its eyes. Perhaps, its tears of blood are for me and for what I will endure. 

The ceremony had finished before she could even realize. It was not long before Ramsay took her by the arm, spiriting her away. He had taken her, then, in that horrible house of death, where the shrieks of those who suffered echoed from wall to wall until the sound ingrained itself into her memory. 

“You are my wife, now,” he whispered in her ear, his grip on her never loosening, “you must obey me, or else face the consequences.” 

She pulled away, then, scoffing, “I have seen my father’s head on a pike. I have seen men’s tongues torn from their throats. I have seen my own aunt thrown through the Moon Door, and my cousin poisoned. I do not frighten easily.” She wiped at the fabric of her sleeve, a look of disdain on her face. 

A look of what she could only imagine to be morbid curiosity crossed his face, “have you? I should like to hear more of it.”

[questioned-quetzalcoatl]

30 Days of OTP - Day 14, Genderbent

Rating: K

Verse: Nyotalia

AN: This is set up so that it's not the 'Oh my god we've turned into women' cliché because I didn't want this to sound as cringe as some of the previous days ;w;

But yeah they're already established as their Nyo! versions and in a ball in the 1800's because I'm always a sucker for vintage things, especially clothing and fashion of the time period. Kainga literally looks the same both canon and Nyo, that's being androgynous for you *shrug*

I will actually write Non Binary Tonga one day I swear-

Juliet (New Zealand) Kainga (Tonga)

Why was she here again? She didn't remember. Taking it upon herself to accept the party invite in the first place, what on earth was she thinking?

Dressed in her light blue ballgown, she'd even forgot where she'd got this from. Perhaps caught her sight in the window of a store as she walked past the window of flashy dresses, new in style of the typical modern style of the 1800's. She clearly didn't try it on before she ran into the store to buy it, she just knew she had to grab it before someone else did. The consequences catching up to her as the dress constricted around waist and stomach, designed that way to make her slimmer, defining her more feminine features in its purpose design.

Despite the coreset half crushing her ribs, the dress was enticingly beautiful. The sleeves and blouse were vaguely puffed out, all done in sapphire blues and shades of cobalt flecked with white that seemed to undulate of their own volition. The lower skirt of the dress consisted of ruffled tiers of sky blue satin that ended in a ragged hem just above her ankles, as if the seamstress had suddenly been called away before completing her task. Patterned up with light blue flowers across the fabric, woven into the creamy material. A spidery white lace bodice consummated the ensemble, shimmering under the ballroom light that matched with the pearl necklace wrapped around her neck. Silk cyan ribbons held up the dresses lace around about the area of her chest, waist and upper arms where her pleated trimmed sleeves came to an end.

She held her matching fan up to rest on her chin and mouth, watching the ballroom with weary eyes. Three dozen glittering crystal chandeliers spiraled down from the ceiling, which was the exact shade of yellow of a sunny summer day in August, sending a lovely diffused golden light over the ballroom’s occupants. And how they glittered as well. A group of three women in front of Kainga all had flowing, elaborately-bejeweled ball gowns of the most beautiful shades of emerald and ruby and amethyst. They smelled of roses and hyacinth and jasmine and every other flower in the garden outside the palace. The ballroom had been cold for centuries, until true love entered and the torches lit as if by divine hand, to feel the presence of a heart with such a strong soul-connection. But there was no one here for her.

It was too stuffy in here anyways. Was there a way out? She had no purpose here than to sit and look pretty for the glazing eyes of single men who watched her trying to figure out if she was truly a woman, man, or something entirely different. It was the way she held her hair wasn't it. Dark brown curly hair, the waves of hair wrapping around themselves like locks of pure silk. Held together with a small white headband so her hair curled up in the same fashion where her hair curled like the horns of a sheep.

Making her way to the balcony, she was glad to find it was relevantly empty. A few people stood at the large arching entrance to the balcony, she could hear their low chatter as they talked among themselves and laughed, seemingly completely at ease. Around the balcony where lush bush grew, coiling around the marble pillars like snakes within the thick trees that hung over her. Her gloved hands rested on the railing on the balcony, just glad to get some fresh air and-

There was a rustle from the trees, the sound of grunting. Was someone attempting to climb it? She peeked forward timidly, unexpectedly, another woman jumped from canopy of the trees, making Kainga scream in surprise and drop her fan. The other woman didn't seem phased, in fact, she laughed loudly at her. Like this was some kind of joke that the Tongan had almost ripped her dress.

Juliet is surprised to say, she got away with wearing such masculine clothing for a woman. Dressed in a suit and tie, the pants up to her ankles because god forbid she show her ankles in public. But she wasn't one to fit into the exact norms of the time, plus it was easier to climb trees and sneak into parties in. That's the kind of woman she was.

"Sorry to scare ya!" she bent down at the hips, Kainga was baffled by her behavior. What woman bends at the hips? It would reveal...everything! How informal was she? This woman in a suit bending down at her hips before-

She handed her back her fan with a smile coaxed on her face. "Miss Tonga is it?"

Kainga took the fan with a small huff, opening it up to fan it in her face. She noticed the strange looking markings under the woman's lower lip. They looked like some kind of chin tattoos, she examined it closely. It looked rather traditional, consisting of curls and swirls patterned on her dark brown skin. Whatever it was, or meant, it was strangely beautiful. Kainga looked back into her bright eyes. "Miss Kingdom of Tonga to you-"

"That's too long," the Kiwi complained. "Can I just call ya Miss Tonga? You got a human name? Are ya even a shelia-?"

She let out a small sigh and shot her a dark look, looking away from the over woman with her fan half covering her face. "Kainga." she said meekly, looking back up at her. "You?"

"Ms Aotearoa!" Juliet chirped cheerfully. "Or New Zealand as Alice calls me, I prefer Aotearoa, it's badass!"

Kainga let out a small scoff. "Right. And your human name..?"

"Juliet! Me friends call me Julie!" Juliet took the gloved hands of the Brunette in front of her, making the other almost jump out of her dress. Speaking of which. "Wow, this dress is amazin'! Where'd ya get it from?!" Without warning, she grabbed the helm of Kainga's dress all too innocently and lifted it up to inspect more.

Kainga could only let out a scream of pure blaspheme, whacking the Kiwi woman over the head with her fan. While Juliet only caught a glimpse, she could tell that the Tongan possessed the same genitals as her. Tonga was indeed a girl. But she really didn't mean to lift that far up. Juliet let out a scream as her fellow colony punches her and starts shouting at her in her mother tongue as the pair scrapped on the floor.

Even as the smaller woman was on top of her probably trying to kill her for such awful deeds, she couldn't help but think about how adorable she was. When her hits gave less force, she just grabbed the Tongan's wrist.

"I'll have ya know, I think yer adorable." Juliet exclaimed all too happily. "Like a poodle, a really feisty poodle!"

Kainga's wrist slipped out of the white silk glove as Juliet held it. She shyed her hand away and attempted another swipe for it. "I'm no poodle!" she snapped angrily. Pushing herself off of Juliet's not so womanly body, from the looks of her, she was rather strong. At least compared to how petite Kainga was. "Give it back!"

She snatched the glove out of Juliet's hand with a disgruntled high pitched huff, standing up to dust off her dress and make sure that the boisterous Kiwi woman hadn't ripped it. Juliet however, was rolling on the floor in a hoot. "Yer shoulda seen ya face! Priceless!"

"Oh shut up you! You crinkled my dress!" She pinned her hair back up with the bobby pins and slipping her headband back on. Giving Juliet a lighter hit on the head with her fan. To be fair, it could've been worse. She'd had her fair share of men try to grab her bust, above all, this woman didn't seem like she really meant harm. Maybe she was just a bit stupid. Or really stupid. She took that latter.

"Oh relax princess, it's not the end of the bloody world!" Juliet stood up with a jump in her step and smiled at her. Suddenly, taking the smaller woman's hand in her own when the music got noticeably louder. "I like this song," she hummed thoughtfully. ",Yer dance?"

"W-what?!"

"I'm askin yer, if ya wanna dance with me~" She took her hand, raised it onto her shoulder. Kainga's gloved hands were so slim and elegant. She noticed, trailing her own fingertips down her arm before going to hold her waist. Taking the position of the 'man' in the dance, the Tongan gasped. Scandalous, she's never danced with another woman before. She felt her face flush as if she was being courted by a man but, no, it was different. At Kainga's incredulous stare, Juliet only smiled.

"Well...yes I suppose so-"

She couldn't even finish her sentence before Juliet swept her off her high heels into a dance. Outside on the balcony, just the two of them. They fell in step, letting the rhythm control their movements. Kainga didn't even know this dance, nor did she even dance but something about being in Juliet's grasp made her feel gentle. Safe. All the scenery and people around them vanished, it was just Juliet and Kainga.

Kainga set her head on her shoulder, eyelashes fluttering shut like the beat of a butterflies wings. They continued to dance, simply just lost in each other. Time could only pass as their feet moved in the steps of the foxtrot.

She brought her head up and sleepily opened her eyes. She leaned in and planted her lips on Juliet's. Juliet wrapped her arms around her neck in return and held her tight as the kiss continued.

Kainga broke off gently and gazed at her, Juliet's lips stained with her crimson lipstick. "Scandalous. You're really something else aren't you?"

Juliet still could not get over how beautiful Kainga truly was that, she couldn't even respond.

[onlinecareerestmarket]

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