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cherryheairt · 3 months ago

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Dragon Dreamer pt. I

When Rhaenyra followed Jacaerys' suggestion of sending her three eldest children as messengers to call upon bannermen for their queen, Daenys did not expect to be sent to the North.

Perhaps the Eyrie, to treat with Lady Jeyne Arryn, as the widow might have seen a princess coming personally to see her as a sign of great respect. Instead, Jacaerys was being sent to the Vale, and Daenys to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark.

Daenys, although a Targaryen-Velayron princess, had never been gifted in politicking. Never sitting on council meetings as a cup-bearer, never paying much attention to her septas lessons, nor promenading with the court ladies during her time at the red keep. Her only company was her family, her five little brothers and parents. And, of course, her beloved dragon. Rhaenyra liked to jest of how Daenys was perhaps more dragon than girl, spending more time in Dragonstone's nesting caves than her own chambers.

When she was in the company of unfamilar people, she found her throat tightening and her eyes avoiding those of others. Most at court found this behavior to be rude, and indifferent, often ignoring her in favour of more approachable ladies.

Her time in the red keep, though now more of a distant memory, was spent in her chambers or with her dear aunt Helena, who was quite similar to her in most ways, besides the bug collection kept on her desk. Daenys shuttered at the sight every time but tolerated it in favor of spending time with Helena.

It was not always like this. Daenys was born a bright and charismatic young girl, charming the Keep's lords and ladies with her chatty demeanor. Rhaenyra lovingly named her after her ancestor, Daenys the Dreamer, in hopes of her to be blessed and beautiful as she was. Daenys had only one dream to be accounted for, the Doom of Valyria. After saving the Targaryen dynasty, it seemed to be a one-time event.

Daenys, unlike her ancestor, deemed herself cursed instead of blessed. Her dreams started to occur after her fifth nameday, waking up the Keep every night with blood-curdling screams of terror. Every night, guards would come in searching for a threat, only to find the little girl locked in a dead-sleep, thrashing and screeching.

Eventually the intensity of the dreams stopped, to the relief of Rhaenyra and Daenys both. Her dreams still haunted her day and night, but she was no longer waking the keep as she experienced them.

The Queen, Alicent Hightower, looked down upon Daenys as if she was a curse embodied. She called the girl mad, deeming it a fitting punishment for Rhaenyra for her adulterous behavior. Though the scorn was meant to spite Rhaenyra, the only one affected was Daenys.

Shunned by the other young ladies of court, whispered about by the young lords, Daenys found herself friendless and alone in the Red Keep, of all but Helena and her family.

After Joffrey's birth, Rhaenyra had decided she had enough of Alicent's ire and moved her family to Dragonstone. Daenys found it much more agreeable, no court to deal with, and the entire island all to her family alone.

Daenys never recovered from years of ostracizing, still quiet and seemingly rude to any guests of Dragonstone.

"Mother, surely Jacaerys would be a better fit for Lord Stark. I do not think he would be pleased to be sent a girl deemed mad by the queen over the heir to the Iron Throne," Daenys pleaded with Rhaenyra, while they waited for Jacaerys and Lucerys to come.

Rhaenyra, ever so regal in her father's former crown and fine deep-red dress, smiled down at her eldest daughter. Her eyes were still brimmed red with the recent loss of Visenya, though that never stopped her from performing her duty as Queen. "Lord Stark would be delighted to have a princess of the realm visit the north. Never mind what Alicent has said against you. You are gifted in ways only Targaryens will understand. You are my blessing, not my curse."

Daenys picked at the skin of her nails harshly, looking at the cobble she stood on and finding more interest in the damp stone. "I am not like you, mother."

"In what way, sweet girl?" Rhaenyra frowned, reaching to lift her daughter's chin gently, a nonverbal reminder.

Taking a breath in, "I am not so..perfect. You have a million things on your shoulders and never falter once. I..cannot even greet our guests appropriately. I can't do this. Please, let me stay here instead" Glossy-eyed, Daenys squeezed her mother's head with a plea.

Observing her daughter for a minute, Rhaenyra was silent a moment. "You were never meant to be like me. I was a reckless and perhaps foolish girl in my youth, always getting myself into trouble one way or another. You, my girl, are meant to be better. You always have been. It takes time, to learn and heal, there is only one way to do that."

"How can I learn to be like you?" Even the mere thought of it seemed like a dream, distant and unreachable.

"Practicing, tis all. It may seem like I am throwing you to the wolves now, but you can not get better without first trying. Locking yourself on this island has done you no favors, and for that I am sorry. You will see, that it is not so bad out in the world." Rhaenyra squeezed her daughter's hand back, kissing her forehead before stepping away as Jace and Luke finally came.

Holding a hand to the book of The Seven, the three princes and princess swore to only go as messengers for their queen, abhorring all violence.

Daenys said a swift goodbye to her younger brothers before she mounted Morningstar, who had been led to the perch alongside Vermax and Arrax. Fittingly, the dragons sizes corresponded with their ages, largest to smallest.

Morningstar had grown quite fast since her birth alongside Daenys' cradle, almost as big as Meleys now. Vermax and Arrax were smaller in comparison but no less loyal or fierce. The white scales and purple eyes of the dragoness perfectly matched Daenys. Purring at her rider's mount, Morningstar stretched her wings and waited for command.

With a last tight smile to her brothers, Daenys was off with Morninstar across the sea. The three dragons traveled together for almost an hour before splitting to their respective directions. Daenys silently prayed for the safe return of her dear brothers, knowing that they would be home even before she was done treating with the Starks.

◽️

The journey to the North was longer than she had anticipated, boredom and anticipation being her worst enemies. Or, perhaps that title belonged to the biting winds that nipped at her exposed face. Daenys cursed her lack of preparation, only bringing her house cloak for the flight. It was late summer, for the Seven's sake, why was it already so freezing?

To Daenys' surpirse, and also jealousy, Morningstar seemed to enjoy the cold. It was a harsh contract from Dragonstone's humid beaches, but the dragon seemed to have no problem adapting during their ride.

Finally, Winterfell's grey stone Keep was in view, larger than Daenys had anticipated and covered in blankets of pearly snow. Morningstar landing just outside of the gates, shaking off snow from her wings and grumbling at the guards who shakily approached the dismounted princees. It seemed even Northernmen were not brave enough to face a dragon.

Smiling at the sight of such a large man being so timid under the watchful violet eye of Morningstar, Daenys didn't move forward to give the man any peace of mind. Perhaps a little fear was good for rallying bannermen.

The man spoke now, northern accent different than any she had heard before. "State your name and buisness."

Eyeing the dragon at her side, Daenys almost sighed. How many female dragonriders of her age were there in Westeros? Perhaps there were some that she was made unaware of.

Sucking in a breath, and trying to keep her voice steady despite her shivers, Daenys answered. "I am Daenys Valeryon. Messenger to the rightful Queen Rhaenyra."

The guard paused a moment, glancing at his partner, who smartly chose to stay at the gate. There seemed to be a silent conversation happening before the other nodded to an unknown third party. The old gate creaked open, Daenys shifting awkwardly at the silence between the three of them. Why weren't they saying anything.

Finally, "Lord Stark will be with you shortly. You are welcome to warm your hands by the fire inside the keep." The guard said, bowing his head respectively towards the princess.

She nodded, for lack of words to say, thanking him quietly. She followed him into the walls of Winterfell, the stares of the commonfolk following her every step. The whispers started after, Daenys ducking her head and walking faster to attempt to avoid hearing them, but that made no difference when the guard stayed at his steady pace.

"Princess Daenys, 'e said?" A heavy womanly accent leaned into her friend.

"Aye. The mad one, I 'ear."

Daenys shuffled into the keep's dining hall, relieved to find it empty. The guard left fast, assuming his post once more. She took a seat by the hearth, allowing herself to warm up in peace. Curling up, in an unladylike fashion, Haze hoped Lord Stark would take his time. She needed to think about her words carefully and hopefully not stutter them out foolishly because she is still shivering like a dog.

The Gods must truly have it out for her, Daenys cursed, as the Lord himself strided into the room only minutes after she sat. Quickly, she stood to her feet, stumbling slightly at the vertigo hitting her head. "My Lord Cre-Stark." Daenys greeted, bowing her head shortly.

Lord Stark fixed his steel grey gaze on her, pinning her to her spot without so much as a touch. "My princess," he bowed his head, looking into her eyes all the while. His voice was husky with the Northern accent, which Daenys decided sounded best coming from his mouth. He folded his hands in front of himself as if trying to appear less imposing. Failing miserably, of course, with all those heavy furs, leathers, and the longsword strapped to his back. Did he carry that thing everywhere? Normally, lords carried swords at their belts, but longswords were too heavy for that. Daenys shuttered at the thought of such a burden.

"What do I owe the pleasure? Surely, the Queen's daughter does not simply wish to visit the forgotten houses of the North." Though his tone was straight and respectful, the words themselves were slightly bitter, knowing that royalty only visits houses when they need something.

Daenys looked down at her feet a moment, glancing between the floor and his eyes, which were intent on not leaving her own. Shifting, she found herelf lost for words and panicking at what response she should give him, knowing time was ticking by.

He was already upset by the burden of housing her, and knowing that her request was not a light one made her heart drop to her stomach. How does one simply ask for thousands of men to go to war?

Lord Stark hummed at her silence, politely looking to the fire instead of keeping that intense stare on her. "I apologize for my lack of hospitality, princess. I should've shown you to your chambers and allowed you to rest. Your journey was not easy, I'm sure."

Daenys looked up at him, surprised. Both glad to be rid of that intensity and sadden to not see the pretty color anymore, she felt her throat open again. "Of course, my lord. Thank you." The words came slowly, and much quieter than she intended.

As Cregan led her through the keep's halls, Daenya thought of how disappointing it might be to receive a fumbling girl instead of a regal princess. For the first time in over a hundred years, Targaryens visited the North. A shame it had to be her instead of Jace, who never lost his confidence even when being named a bastard.

Cregan stopped at a door, opening to reveal a comely guest chambers, a fire already running at the hearth for her. "I had the servents set up our best, for you. There are some furs in the wardrobe, I hope you'll find them appeasing. I'll see you at supper, princess?" He asked, looking down at her patiently.

From their close proximity in the doorway, Daenys could feel the warmth from him in waves. "I will be there." She told him, nodding shortly. With a charming smile finally adorning his stoic face, Cregan stark left the chambers with a polite bow of his head.

How could he be so kind to her, and patient? After watching that humiliating display she gave him, Daenys was confident he would sneer and send her away, as no lords ever had patience for her fumbling. It certainly didn't help her nerves that he was handsome, a quality not used to describe northmen.

Daenys had always heard of northmen as being fierce, savage warrior men, always loyal and dutiful, but never handsome and mannerly.

Handsome was a term to describe peacocking young southern knights, who have never experienced hardship besides an occasional tourney. It was not a term for scarred and weathered northerners.

Daenys wasn't sure if this was a good or a bad change from her expectations, but she decided not to dwell too much on it. Reaching her frosted window, she made out Morningstar's massivw white shape flying above the keep, most likely looking for a resting spot. She silently hoped that the dragon wouldn't take too much livestock and piss off local farmers.

Hours passed by fast, much to Daenys' misfortune. For hours she spun words around her mind, speaking in whispers to herself to practice what she might say to Cregan's questions. Startled by a maid entering her temporary chambers, Daenys stood from her seat. The woman, older than her mother, gave her a suspicious look. Daenys flushed, feeling her face grow hot in embarrassment at being caught mumbling. It was a nasty habit that didn't help the rumors surrounding her.

"Princess, supper is ready." The maid told her curtly, leaving the room even swifter than she came.

Daenys sighed, throwing a coat of white fur over her shoulders. The weight was heavy but comforting as she walked down the echoing halls of the Keep.

She entered the dining hall to see it dimly lit, the evenings in Winterfell becoming dark much faster than they did back home. "My lord," she greeted, earning a warm greeting back.

Cregan sat alone at the head of a table, reminding Daenys of his status. The Lord was made an orphan at three and ten, becoming lord of his house at six and ten. His brother had also passed years ago, leaving the lord family-less. She wondered how many times he had dined alone, not even being able to imagine such a fate for herself.

Daenys sat opposite him, only a few feet away from each other. For a few minutes, the only sounds were servants suffling about, pouring wine, ale, and serving plates.

"I picked out a sweet wine for you, princess. I know ale is not a preferred drink amonst royalty." Cregan started up, a light look in his eye as he glanced to her over his own cup of strong ale.

"Thank you, my lord. You needn't go out of your way for me, though. I am not picky." She said, voice quiet but loud enough for him to make out in the silent hall.

Cregan laughed, a graveling and husky one that made her stomach tingle with butterflies. "I wouldn't have expected a princess to be so humble. When I saw your dragon fly down, I was expecting a feast to be demanded, our finest accommodations presented for the princess' pleasure." He lifted his cup slightly to her. "You are quite different than what I pictured."

Her face felt hot again, a feeling she would apparently need to get used to during her stay here. She hid behind her chalice of wine, "I hope I do not disappoint my lord."

Shaking his head pointedly, he put his mug down. "That is precisely what I meant," his tone was amused, the bitterness from their first conversation long gone. "I suppose I was wrong about the Targaryens. I admit, I thought you would threaten me with your dragon and demand that I bend the knee, just as our ancestors did."

Daenys met his eye, placing her own cup down. "Do not mistake me for my family. You'll find our methods are quite different in terms of treating. My mother is the queen of the seven kingdoms. This includes your own. I do expect bent knees, and loyalty to our Queen." She stated. "I am merely a messenger this day, I am sworn to peace."

Despite the undertones of a threat in her words, Cregan was not offended or taken aback like she had expected from her sudden mood switch. Insulting her was one thing, but Daenys didn't tolerate disrespect to her family.

He only smiled, corners of his mouth pulling up in a way Daenys couldn't describe. Almost a proud look in his eye gleamed, staring her down once more as she met his line of sight perfectly. Even sitting down their height difference was apparent, him looking slightly down his nose at her.

"And if you weren't a messenger for Her Grace? Would you threaten me with your dragon?" Cregan pondered.

Daenys, fighting the urge to look away, shook her head slightly. "Not unless you gave me a reason to. Would you have sent me away if I came on horseback rather than dragonback?"

"Its an honor to host a princess, dragonrider or not." He said firmly, dark brown tresses falling slightly into his face from the half-up style he decided on. Distracted, Daenys glanced at the way the veins on his hand twitched as he tucked the strand behind his ear.

"I am glad to hear it. I am pleased to be able to visit the North, despite the somber circumstances that we face. It is quite beautiful here, I've never seen snow." Daenys changed the subject, earnestly complimenting his home.

"You've seen enough of it to last a lifetime now, I venture." Cregan dug into his stew, whilst Daenys simply stirred her own.

"I do not fare well in the cold, unlike Morningstar." She mused, smiling to herself.

The two fell into a silence once more, this time more comfortable and less tense. Daenys took small spoonfulls of her meal, not wanting to appear rude or wasteful, simply having little taste for eating in front of strangers. Eventually, Cregan finished his bowl, and she decided that was a good time to let herself set the utensils down.

"Is now a good time to ask your purpose here again, my princess?" He asked her tentatively, as if she would break with a louder tone of voice. Perhaps Cregan thought from their first meeting that she was in some way incapable of her duties, much to her chargin. She swallowed thickly, shifting in her seat.

Daenys pulled out a small scroll from her belt, handing it to him. "The official message from Her Grace.'

He scanned it quickly, a solemn look on his face as he did. Cregan breathed out through his nose, a less dramatic version of a sigh, rolling it up again and pocketing it. "I had heard of Aegon Targaryen usurping the Queen's throne after King Viserys' death–my condolences–but I had only expected a raven to come from the Queen. You've traveled quite a ways just to ask for men."

Daenys nodded, "We thought it more earnest to see our allied houses personally. Ravens are slower than dragons, and do not leave room for negotiations."

"How many is the Queen expecting from me?" He asked, straight to the point. In every way, Cregan Stark proved to be different from court lords.

Picking at her nails again, Daenys winced when she pulled on the skin too harsh, drawing specs of blood. Under the table, they were hidden from his view. If Rhaenyra saw her now, Daenys was she she would frown and shake her head. But she wasn't, Daenys was alone with the lord of Winterfell. "How many do you have available?" She avoided.

He breathed heavily again, and she bit her cheek guiltily. How could she come into someones home and demand that they fight a war they will see no benefit from? Daenys was suddenly very glad that she was not heir. Even being simply the princess wasn't fit for her.

"I will take some time to think of our numbers, and what I can offer Her Grace." He stood from his seat, making his way around the table to her, holding out a gloved hand.

Daenys took it hesitantly, her uncovered hand a stark contrast to the pure black of his glove. She saw him glance at her hand, the red not yet rubbed away. After standing, she folded them carefully in front of herself, hoping he didn't notice too much. "Thank you, my lord. The crown appreciates your consideration."

He nodded, brow furrowed but not questioning her directly. Cregan guided her to her guest chambers, leaving her at the door. "If you need anything, I'm just down the hall." He gestured towards a door near the end.

Daenys settled into her bed after changing into a shift provided by a maid, fur coat drapped over a chair near the hearth. The bed was cozy, a small thing but covered in more furs, soft and warm.

Daenys fell asleep quickly, mind on the man sleeping a few rooms over.

#cregan stark #hotd #hotd fanfic #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x oc #cregan x reader #dragondreamer

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vylewa · 6 months ago

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Over the last few weeks, I have been spending my time working on my save file because I'm gearing up to start a Let's Play series on Youtube. As I've been building the stories for the characters in my save file, I started thinking about the Sims universe as a whole and how I want my Sims to travel between worlds. It got me thinking that some worlds feel like they're just a short 4-hour car ride away, while others feel like you'd need a plane to get there.

So, I decided to map out my sims universe. I got a lot of inspiration from different Reddit posts as well as the EA descriptions of each world. This has been so helpful for me as I plan out the buildings I want to place in each world. It has been so helpful with finding inspiration for creating builds. I hope you can find this helpful too.

I'm really happy about my Sims universe turned out. I'd love to hear what you think about it! Are there any worlds you disagree with me on? Also, when are we getting an African world, EA?

North America

New Crest reminds me of suburban New York, mostly because you can still the city skyline from there.

Brindleton Bay reminds me so much of New England.

San Myshuno is quite obviously New York.

Willow Creek gives me a New Orleans vibe.

Magnolia Promenade is somewhere in the south because of the name (magnolias grow in the mostly in Southern United States - Mississippi, Louisiana, Alabama, Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina). I placed it close to Willow Creek for story telling purposes.

Chestnut Ridge gives me a strong Texas vibe.

Del Sol Valley is undoubtedly Los Angeles.

Oasis Springs I think of as Palm Springs with the desert and all, also the Langraabs live there.

San Sequoia I think of as San Francisco mainly because of the Golden Gate Bridge and Bay area, I have all my tech gurus living up there.

Strangerville is straight up Area 51 with all the weird stuff going on there.

Granite Falls gives me a National Park vibe, so I chose my favorite, Yellowstone which is mostly in Wyoming.

Copperdale seems to be in the rocky mountains, I placed it in Montana because of the old mining town description. Butte, Montana used to be a huge mining town.

Moonwood Mill reminds so much of the thick woods in the Pacific West somewhere Washington or Oregon.

Glimmerbrook I imagine is close to Moonwood Mill and the witches and the werewolves are always beefing.

Evergreen Harbor gives me a strong Pacific West port city like Vancouver (I know Vancouver is not in the US, but you get the drift).

Sulani reminds me so much of Hawaii, the beautiful beaches, volcanoes, and mountains and the culture portrayed by Sulanians.

Ciduad Enamorada reminds me so much of Mexico City, Mexico.

South America

Selvadorara gives a strong Amazonian vibe so I placed it in Brazil.

Europe

Britchester because of Britchester uinversity reminds me of Universtiy of Oxford, or University of Cambridge so I placed it in the UK.

Henford-on-Bagley gives off a strong English country vibe so I placed it South Central England.

Windenburg gives off a German vibe because of the style of buildings placed in the world.

Forgotten Hollow I think of as somewhere in Transylvania so I placed it in Romania.

Tartosa is undoubtedly mediterranean so I placed it in Italy.

Asia

Tomarang with the tuk tuks and the tiger sanctuary reminds me of Indonesia.

Mt. Komorebi, my absolute favorte world, is Japan. I can't wait to visit someday.

P.S. Batuu is not included in my sims universe because it is in space, I don't anticipate my sims ever traveling there, but if I ever feel otherwise, I will include it in here.

#vylewa #sims 4 #simblr #sims 4 map #sims 4 universe

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 month ago

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In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 4: Emerald]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @arcielee @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus, more in comments 🥰

💎 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 💎

Back into the sitting room, fleeing like a hare from hounds, but Rush is here trying to grab you. You careen to the door to the private promenade deck and dive out into the bitter starlit cold, your breath fog, your shoes slipping on the yellow pine planks that overlay the steel skeleton of the ship, weight that could drag you down to the ocean floor. Rush is in pursuit; he swipes at your arm and gets ahold of your coat sleeve, soft pink wool. You wrench yourself free, twisting out of the coat and dropping your handbag, colliding with the barrier, Tudor-style timber paneling beneath vast windows the frigid night air pours in through. Your hip bruises against the wood, you can hear black waves crashing below; then you collapse to the deck, your spine pressed to the wall, trying to back away when there’s nowhere left to run to. You realize you are still clutching Aegon’s small aluminum lighter and shove it beneath the skirt of your gown. Rush draws his pistol.

“No no no!” you plead, showing him your palms, cowering beneath one of the windows.

They could throw me out of it. They could say it was an accident or a suicide.

The deck is lined with potted plants and lightweight wicker furniture. Inside, you can hear Rhaenyra saying something, though her words are muffled; it’s a tone you wouldn’t have thought she was capable of. She sounds afraid. Draco and Dagmar must be asleep, Fern tucked away in the tiny maid’s room. There are no witnesses to what will happen next. Your heart thuds in your chest, swollen and sickly. Cold North Atlantic wind washes over your bare skin and leaves you freckled with goosebumps.

Like a lightning storm, like a hurricane, Daemon surges out onto the deck. He is still tying his robe shut. His hair hangs in dark, damp strands over his forehead. You picture it again, though you don’t want to: Daemon with Rhaenyra like he’s never been with you, the impulsive desire, the dire necessity.

Why not in Rhaenyra’s bed? Why would he bring her here?

Because he thought you wouldn’t be back until midnight…and to prove he can get away with it. To succeed where he failed with you this morning. To feel like a man again.

“I didn’t see anything,” you tell him, but you cannot keep the shock and disgust from your face, intractable like a wild animal.

Daemon kicks one of the wicker chairs at you. You bat it away with a scream and press yourself harder against the barrier, trying to disappear, trying to become somebody else, a girl who didn’t agree to marry a renegade of a man who showed up smirking and cavalier at her father’s Connemara marble quarry.

I want to go home, you think with helplessness like a child’s.

“I didn’t see anything,” you say again, sobbing now. With one hand, you claw at the windowsill above you so you have something to hold onto if he tries to drag you away. The wind, sweeping down from the Arctic, burns like blue fire in your lungs. “I don’t know anything.”

Daemon dives to the floor, hooks his fingers into your hair, yanks you closer as you cry out and flinch away from him. “One word, one fucking word, and you’re gone,” he is threatening, a blade-sharp hiss, and you can smell Rhaenyra’s perfume on him, marking his flushed skin like a bloodstain; but Daemon’s deep-set green eyes—emerald, malachite, jade, serpentine, Connemara marble—are fearful. This is strange; this is unlike him, this is a foreign language.

He loves her, you realize. He’s terrified to harm her, to lose her.

“I would never—”

“Over the railing,” Daemon snarls, jerking your head to the side as you whimper. “Your bones at the bottom of the ocean, your name forgotten.”

“I won’t tell, please, Daemon, please, don’t hurt me.” You look at Rush. He’s staring indifferently down at you, his pistol still in his hand. You turn back to Daemon. “I’ve never told anyone.” About the bruises, about the man you really are. “Not my parents, not a soul. I don’t want to tell. I just want to stay with you and Draco. I won’t jeopardize that. Please, Daemon, please—”

“No one would believe you,” he says; but if that was true, he wouldn’t be so frantic. “You’d be a madwoman. They’d lock you up in an asylum, put you in a straightjacket, cut the pieces off of you that made you so hysterical.”

“Yes,” you agree, yielding, toothless.

He rips at your hair again, pulling you away from the barrier and to the center of the floor. Rush steps out of the way to make room. You don’t fight Daemon. You have to convince him your fighting days are over.

Why doesn’t he kill me now? A dagger to the jugular, a body splashing into opaque waves?

Because he needs his perfect family in order to march triumphantly into the skyscrapers-and-streetlights labyrinth of Manhattan. Because he can’t eclipse Viserys if people are whispering that his wife is dead under peculiar circumstances, fallen overboard on Titanic’s famed maiden voyage, insane or drunk or maybe—just maybe—murdered by a man’s rough rageful hands.

“What did you see?” Daemon says, testing you.

“Nothing.”

His palm cracks across your face. You yelp, more startled than in pain. Your skin is going numb from the cold; he’s hit you harder before. Now he doesn’t want to bloody or bruise you, he doesn’t want to leave evidence others could notice. He wants his threats imprinted irrevocably into you like scars. He wants you to listen. “What did you see?!”

“Nothing,” you moan, and then the door to the sitting room opens. You, Daemon, and Rush all whirl towards the noise.

In the doorway stands Fern with a silver-plated tray of tea and biscuits. Her black dress and white apron appear hastily thrown on, rumpled fabric and some buttons left undone. She blinks a few times, but she seems more nervous than shocked. Her eyes flit to you and then settle benignly on a wicker table. She ignores the chair that Daemon kicked earlier, lying overturned at the edge of the deck.

She knew what was happening, you think, grateful, a little awed. She’s here to try to stop it.

“It’s so cold out tonight,” Fern says at last. “I thought I’d make tea.”

Daemon doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never cruel to the staff, that’s one of his charms. His miners worship him, his valets believe him to be their true friend, his housekeepers fret over him as if he’s their husband or their son. Daemon rarely acknowledges Fern directly, as if she doesn’t quite exist to him, a ghost whose silhouette appears on eerie nights, squeaks of door hinges and objects nudged a few mysterious centimeters. He chooses his enemies with great care, like a gardener pruning diseased leaves. Daemon understands that the ones who toil beneath his feet are in the best position to rise up and devour him.

Fern sets the tray down on the wicker table and waits, her hands clasped decorously in front of her. “Will you be requiring anything else, sir?”

There are several electrified seconds—waves thrashing against the ship, wind howling as it tears through your hair—and then Daemon laughs and releases you, as if this has all been a comical misunderstanding. He stands and goes to the tray, picks up a cup of tea, and slurps on it as steam billows up into his face. “How kind of you.”

Fern bows her head in a nod, not leaving. Rush glances between them, then slides his pistol back into its holster.

“Draco should have a mother,” Daemon tells you, looking down from a great height. It sounds like it is meant to be a compromise.

“He should,” you reply. Even if I cannot touch him, cannot be alone with him, cannot teach him to love me.

“It’s not good for boys. When their mothers up and die on them while they’re still so young.” Daemon is reflective for a moment—an unusual skin for him to wear—and then slinks towards the doorway. “Fern, darling, change the bedsheets, will you?”

“Yes, sir. Right away.” She follows him back inside, a brief glimpse at you over one shoulder. Rush glowers at you and disappears with them. You are left alone on the private promenade deck.

Your head spinning, your bones freezing, you struggle to your feet: palms flat on the pine planks, black opal ring glimmering in the moonlight, knees groaning as you lift them. Slowly—stunned, aching—you pull on your pink wool coat. You find Aegon’s lighter and hide it in your handbag, then stand there clutching it like you’re on your way to some glittering social engagement, a tea party, a dinner, a gala, a Christmas party. But what you’re on your way to is purgatory, like the one Dante wrote of, a prison where you will sweat out your sins over and over again.

Why did I believe him? Why did I marry him? Why can’t I find a way out?

You leave the deck like an autumn frosting into winter, bleak, hushed, listless. You do not return to your staterooms but pass through the doorway that leads to the B-Deck hallways. The corridors are quiet and still, occasional stewards running the last errands of the night, a few men in black suits puffing on pipes and cigars, swirling clinking glasses of brandy, ruing all the blights that have incumbered their earnings: foolish wives, Democratic politicians, dissolute immigrants.

You flee towards the stern of the ship, far from the first-class sections. Outside there is a greenish hue to the sky—dim echoes of northern lights—and stars that sparkle like jewels. There is no one lingering by the back railing of Titanic, and for good reason; the air is so cold it bites like fangs, and the roar of the propellers is terrible, so loud and so guttural, sea monsters like the ones early explorers drew into the margins of their maps clawing up from the depths. You fall to the deck and sit with your knees to your chest at the end of a pair of benches—hiding in the shadows where you will not be seen by wandering passengers or lookouts scanning for icebergs—and gaze into the east as Titanic chugs westward, away from Ireland, away from everything your life could have been.

Tears bleed down your cheeks and turn from magma to ice there. You wipe them off your face with the sleeve of your pink wool coat. You ignite a cigarette with Aegon’s aluminum lighter and smoke it all the way down. You light another, and another, poisoning your blood with each breath, polishing the barbs off reality. It’s not enough. You need a drink. How long until you’re just another languishing housewife addicted to laudanum or cocaine? How long until you’re a drunk like Aegon once was?

I want to go home. I want to go home.

There are footsteps, sluggish and clumsy. An intoxicated man. You are about to scramble to your feet and escape when you see who it is. Aegon flops down beside you in a stolen black coat, the pungent miasma of Guinness wafting off of him and his face splotchy and red, looking away from you, ashamed of himself.

You say: “I thought you didn’t drink anymore.”

“And obviously there’s a reason for that,” Aegon slurs. He rubs his eyes, watery and unfocused, bloodshot and despondent. “I’m having a bad night.”

Me too. “Did you know?” you ask, a hoarse voice, a cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

Aegon is confused. “Know what?”

“That Daemon can’t get hard for me because he’d rather be sleeping with his niece.”

“What?” Aegon gapes at you, incredulous, revolted. “Daemon is fucking Rhaenyra?”

You nod, taking a drag. There is a faint orange glow, a warm hit of nicotine to your blood.

“I can’t believe that.”

“I can. I saw it.”

“Jesus,” Aegon mutters, staring out into the endless ink spill of the Atlantic Ocean. Then, more sympathetically: “No, I didn’t know.”

“You never heard anything?”

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean, I remember when I was a kid and people were talking about Daemon being a bad influence on her. But they said he was teaching Rhaenyra to go to parties and stay out too late and swear and smoke, not��you know. Not that he was committing incest with her. That’s some Richard III mischief.”

“Now I understand why you know so much Shakespeare.”

“My parents couldn’t send me to boarding school fast enough. I was shipped off the same week I turned five. Cake and presents one day, shoved on a train the next.”

“I’m afraid Daemon will do that to Draco.” You can’t keep the quiver from your words. “I’m afraid he’ll kill me now that I know the worst of his secrets.”

Aegon turns to you, and through the haze of dark bitter Guinness that’s still sloshing from his stomach into his bloodstream you can see he fears the same thing.

“I want to go home,” you sob, breaking down. Ashes build on your cigarette until you toss it away. Tears spill from your eyes, the River Shannon, the River Clare. “Nobody here cares about me.”

“I do,” Aegon insists, touching your face, trying to make you listen. His sand-colored hair lashes in the wind. “I care about you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Why do you care? Why can’t you leave me alone? Did you go to O’Connell’s Bar to spy on me, was all of this to spite Daemon and—?”

“No,” Aegon says, a truthful boyish confession. “No. I didn’t know you’d be there. I didn’t know anything about you except that Daemon had married some quarry heiress. I heard he’d be there for an interview, and I was curious, and I kind of thought it’d be fun to fuck with him if he ended up recognizing me, and so I got a job at O’Connell’s and made sure I’d be playing the night Daemon showed up. That’s all there was to it. And then I saw you in that bar in Galway and you were…” He shakes his head. His voice drops to a whisper, aching and reverent. “You were so sad, and so beautiful, and I…I’ve never done anything important in my entire life. I’ve never helped anyone. But I looked at you and I felt like…I thought…I could save her. And maybe that would make all the rest of my mistakes worth it, the wasted years of drinking myself to sleep every night, the aimlessness, the emptiness, the way I abandoned my mother and Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. I followed you onto Titanic because I had to try to help you. But by leading me home, by bringing me back to my family in New York…maybe you’re helping me too.”

I wish I was yours, you think, so vividly you almost tell him. I wish I was a stone in your mine to be found in the darkness, chiseled from the wall, studied and cut down and polished, set in gold or silver to be worn on your ring finger, your blood pulsing beneath my ageless gleam.

“Please stay away from me,” you beg him. “Please, Aegon. I don’t want you to die.”

He says as his thumbprints clean tears from your cheeks: “What if Daemon was gone?”

“You mean what if I pushed him over a railing and into the Atlantic Ocean?” you ask, sniffling. “Assuming I could get him alone, and he didn’t stab me first or drag me overboard with him, they would know it was me. Rush, Dagmar, Rhaenyra. And they would make me pay. If I lived, I’d spend the rest of my life in a prison or an asylum. I wouldn’t get to go home. I wouldn’t get to keep Draco.”

Aegon doesn’t know what to say, and this is because there are no answers. You aren’t overlooking anything. Sometimes reality is cold and unfeeling and lethal, primordial, reptilian, mindless black eyes like a shark’s.

You smile miserably at him. “I’m going to miss you when the ship docks in New York Harbor.”

“Daemon wanting to fuck Rhaenyra doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Stop,” you say, wincing, standing to leave him. Aegon reaches for your hands, but you hide them in the pockets of your pink wool coat. He gazes up at you, drunk desperate heartbreak. You wonder how clearly he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“If you were my wife, I’d never look away.”

“You have no idea who I am. You’ve never really seen me.” Never held me, never uncovered me, never opened me and filled the void with your own rushing blood. Then you depart before someone can come searching for you and discover Aegon, rip away his disguise, toss him into the roiling frigid surf stirred up by the propellers.

In your staterooms, the lamplit air is silent and warmed by the ship’s furnaces, shoveled full of coal at all hours of the day and night. Fern is waiting on the sofa when you enter. She looks at you as if she is relieved, then vanishes into her tiny maid’s room without a word. Your bedroom has been tidied, the linens changed; but the mineral ether of sex still hangs in the space like tapestries from a wall. You try not to notice your reflection in the mirror.

Daemon never touched me like he touched Rhaenyra. He never wanted me, I never satisfied him.

Daemon doesn’t come back all night. You sleep on the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the morning of Sunday April 14th, you dress in green, the color of the Emerald Isle, the color of deep poisonous envy. You affix small emeralds to your ears and one massive stone around your throat, found in Madagascar in one of Daemon’s Grandidierite mines, a lush verdant glint in a nest of cold blue like deep water, like ice.

Heavy enough to drown me, you think wryly, a swift glance at the mirror, turning away again almost immediately. I’d go straight to the bottom.

Before you leave the bedroom, you slide open the top drawer of Dameon’s writing desk, presently abandoned. His dagger is there, gold hilt and spherical gemstones like miniature planets, all fatefully aligned: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire. You lift up the dagger and study it, circling the tiny emerald world with your index finger. You are jealous of Rhaenyra getting everything she’s ever wanted. You are jealous of any woman who’s ever touched Aegon, who knows what it feels like to lie beneath him, to be known by him.

You place the dagger back in the drawer and slam it shut; the whole desk rattles. Then you go out into the sitting room, where Fern is attempting to wrestle Draco into his black wool coat, a small version of Daemon’s.

“No!” Draco is bellowing. “I don’t want to wear it, I don’t want to, let me go!”

“You’ll freeze to death out there, lad,” Fern says, strands of her long copper-colored hair escaping from her bonnet and a sheen of perspiration on her forehead, looking like she’s been to war.

Draco is stomping on the toes of her shoes to little effect. “No I won’t!”

You peer around, searching for your geriatric nemesis, a banshee, a vampire. She is nowhere to be found. “Where’s Dagmar?”

“She’s feeling seasick,” Fern replies, still struggling with Draco. “So she’s lying down in Draco’s bedroom. I’m sure she’ll be up and around again before you know it. She’s a tough old Cailleach.” And there’s no danger in being overheard; Dagmar wouldn’t know what that means, just like you don’t understand her when she mutters her strange Scandinavian curses.

You immediately scoop up Draco and run with him out of the staterooms, Draco giggling shrilly, you beaming as you fly down the corridors and ascend the Grand Staircase two steps at a time, your green shoes slipping on the English oak wood as you zoom past the bronze cherub statue and the ticking clock. All around you are first-class passengers watching with startled looks, a little baffled, a little amused. High above is the dome of glass and wrought iron, brisk white-gold sunlight streaming through. You carry Draco out onto the Boat Deck, the highest level of the ship, and take him to an unoccupied portion of the railing beside one of the lifeboats. You hold him so he can see over the barrier and out into the calm murky blue of the North Atlantic Ocean, hundreds of miles southeast of Newfoundland. The breeze is icy, the sky infinite and cloudless.

You spot slate grey fins cutting up through the water in arches, a whole pod of them. “Look, look! Dolphins!”

“Dolphins?” Draco says doubtfully. “Dolphins are real? Not just in books?”

“Of course they’re real. And they’re friendly, too. Back in Galway, sometimes they swim right up to the pier hoping the fishermen will share the catch of the day.”

“Neat!” Draco shouts. “Can I throw things at them?”

You pause, unsure how to reply. You resist the urge to shake him and say: Do you crave violence like Daemon, are you burning up inside with his fire? Do you want to be a monster like your father? One day will you paint amethyst bruises on your wife? “Why would you want to do that?”

Draco shrugs. “I like throwing things.”

“Well, throwing things can be fun, but if you throw something at a dolphin you might hurt it. Do you want to hurt the dolphin? It’s a living creature just like you. They have friends and families, and blood in their veins. They can feel it if you cut them.”

“No,” Draco decides. “I don’t really want to hurt the dolphins.”

“You can throw things in other situations, like if you play cricket or hurling or Gaelic football. Or baseball, I guess. Now that we’ll be living in America.”

“Okay,” Draco says, gazing at the ocean. Fern trots over to you, breathing heavily from trying to keep up, but she’s grinning. She has brought the coat Draco refused to put on, and this is fortunate, because now as you hold him on your hip you can feel your son is shivering.

“Do you want to put on your coat now?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” Draco says reluctantly, and you lower him down to the deck and help him tug the sleeves over his tiny arms. You suddenly remember when he was born and being so fascinated by his hands—so small and wrinkled, so powerless, always grasping—and Dagmar forever clawing him out of your arms, bundling him up in blankets and whisking him away to other corners of the castle.

“Fern was trying to help you when she told you to wear your coat. She knew you would be cold, and now you are, aren’t you? When adults tell you to do things, it’s not for no reason. They just want what’s best for you.”

“But I don’t like to do what other people say. I like to do what I want.”

“And that’s totally understandable,” you say. “Sometimes you will get to make your own decisions, especially as you get older. But right now you’re very, very young, and there are just a lot of things you don’t know yet, so you need adults more. Please be kind when Fern is trying to help you with your coat or your shoes. She doesn’t mean to upset you. She wants you to be safe and healthy.”

Fern gives you a modest, thankful smile. Draco is mulling this over. “The older someone is, the more they know?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” you say.

“So Dagmar knows a lot more than you.”

He’s not trying to be cruel; he’s trying to figure things out. The world is so new to him. You wish you could recall what that feels like, to see everything with vast light wonder. “Well…” you begin delicately. He loves her; you cannot win by bludgeoning her into a mess of bloodstains and bone shards. “Yes, she probably knows more about certain things.”

You pick Draco up again to distract him, and he is captivated by the seagulls swooping through the air, laughing and tracking them with his wide eyes, a sunlit green beneath pale blonde hair that is disheveled from the wind. There is a figure lurking on the periphery of your vision, a man in black, a coat and a hat, hands in his pockets. You turn to see it’s Aegon, perhaps ten feet away and pretending to survey the horizon. Your heartbeat quickens; you stomach drops.

What on earth is he doing here? Why can’t he leave me alone?

But of course, you don’t want him to. You stare at him and instinctively touch the emerald that hangs from your throat, Madagascar, Ireland, treasure, envy. You think of how your bedroom smelled when you returned to it late last night.

Fern seems oblivious to Aegon. “I feel so much better knowing there are lifeboats aboard,” she says, looking at the vessel you are standing beside.

“There aren’t enough of them,” you tell her, a low murmur that Draco pays no attention to.

Fern is alarmed. “No?”

“They can fit about half the passengers, no more. So if anything happens, make sure you don’t waste any time finding yourself a seat.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, ma’am,” Fern says, troubled.

“Have you seen Lord Targaryen today?”

“No, ma’am,” Fern answers, trying to keep her tone neutral. She isn’t sure if it will be a relief to you or a knife to the heart. “He moved some of his things to Rhaenyra’s rooms before he departed last night. I suspect he will spend the rest of Titanic’s journey there.”

“He’s so fond of his niece,” you say flatly.

“Yes.”

“And she is in need of company, as her own husband is always fraternizing with the Parisians.”

Fern isn’t sure what she’s allowed to say. She smirks and bows her head to hide it. Now Aegon is strolling closer, ostensibly casual. “Good morning, ladies!”

Fern curtsies politely. “Good morning, sir.”

He casts Draco a glance—Aegon seems puzzled by him, maybe a little wary, certainly not accustomed to being around children—then extends an open hand to you. “What an engagement ring! Might I trouble you for a quick look?”

You set Draco down and he is promptly enamored by an orange-sized rubber ball someone has left here. “Of course.” You try to act indifferent, but when Aegon takes your left hand in his own you feel a jolt of warmth travel like a wave up the length of your arm.

Aegon turns your hand one way and then the other, inspecting it. Underneath, his fingertips stroke the lines of your palm. A tremor cascades down the rungs of your spine, helpless hypnotic longing. “What is that, onyx? Obsidian? Jet?”

“Black opal. From Australia.”

“A prison colony,” Aegon says, grinning at you from under the brim of his hat. “A place for villains and beasts.” Swiftly, he takes his right hand from his coat pocket and presses something into your palm: a folded piece of paper, a note, a message in a bottle from a castaway. Then he steps back from you as if it takes great effort.

“There you are!” a craggy voice cries out, and Dagmar is crossing the deck. She seems restored, if a bit wan. She swishes over in her charcoal-colored gown, her white hair twisted into a severe bun, and when Draco bolts to her she kneels down and catches him in a fierce, territorial embrace, her gnarled hands encircling his diminutive body. “Out and about without me? And I wager you haven’t even had breakfast yet, have you, my love?” She glares over his little shoulder at you. “You must be famished. How terribly irresponsible to let you suffer.”

“He ate some tea and biscuits when he woke up to tide him over,” Fern offers meekly.

“I was having fun with Mam,” Draco tells Dagmar, and you see the calculations on her cunning ancient face. She can’t scold him, she can’t correct him. She can’t defeat you with naked wrath any more than you can demand he stop loving Dagmar. You have sailed into new waters, a subtle silent war.

Aegon is receding, disappearing into the crowds of first-class passengers strolling the Boat Deck. Dagmar glances at him and then looks again, her jaw dropping open, her attention captured like a jewel in the pocket of a thief.

“What is it?” Fern asks, peeking bewilderedly at the stranger. Draco is chasing the rubber ball around again. Your pulse thuds hot and hectic in your ears.

Dagmar’s sharp blue eyes are uncharacteristically dazed; she shakes her head as if she’s just seen something impossible, an angel or a ghost. “He looks just like Viserys when he was young.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Dagmar spirits Draco off to breakfast, Fern returns to the staterooms to complete her chores for the day. You take the Grand Staircase down to A-Deck and slip into the Reading and Writing Room, mostly unoccupied this early in the day, to read Aegon’s note. Outside on the Promenade Deck, you can hear Daemon and Rhaenyra strolling by with a number of companions, chuckling and chatting away in a world where all their wishes are granted.

Daemon is saying: “There is an Armenian legend about a so-called Queen of the Serpents, who carries in her fanged mouth a stone made of light. Some nights she tosses it up into the air, where it becomes the moon, full and shining, until it inevitably drops back down to the earth. And as the proverb goes, happy is the man who shall catch the stone where it falls…”

You know that story. It was in one of the books you gifted Daemon for your first anniversary.

With trembling hands, you unfold Aegon’s note. He has written in black ink:

Petra,

One last painting?

Don’t go to dinner tonight. Meet me at the stern.

- Picasso

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii #aegon targaryen ii #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon ii x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii x oc #aegon x y/n #hotd fic #hotd fanfic

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scribbleseas · 2 months ago

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in love & in war, drabble 3: the one where he trips you up…?

Description: Join Ciel, the Earl of Phantomhive, as he embarks on one of the most difficult challenges of his professional life: getting you to fall in love with him in order to become the next chairman of TransAtlantica— your father’s vast shipping empire.

Warnings: There’s a minor mention of blood in this drabble—that’s all that comes to mind!

Author’s Note: I’m sorry this is a day late, haha! Last night, my amazing friend @mylostleftfootsock and I were having some crazy story breakthroughs for an upcoming work of mine. They were, in fact, hitting so hard that I had to make the fic outline as we were both losing our minds. That being said, here is a pretty long drabble! I hope you like it—and that it’s a nice palette cleanser from SL. I’m purposely trying to keep this one as light as I can <3

I’m also trying out the taglist for this post! If you would like to be added, just specify for which fics (or if all!) and I will tag you in all my content posts!

Happy Reading!

- Dan

Fun fact: I’m also 2,031 words into Staight Laced 10. I’m on a bit of a roll this week, woohoo!

⇐ PREVIOUS DRABBLE | NEXT DRABBLE ⇒

MASTERLIST

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The North Pier, Lancashire, 1895

“It is impossible to understate the importance of this promenade, my Lord,” Sebastian explained, matching Ciel’s walking pace to the centimeter as they walked down the cement, having exited the carriage a block away from the beachside pier’s entrance. Sebastian always remained in the same stride as Ciel, a fact that the Earl knew would only delight the demon if he commented on it.

Ciel had no desire to feed the ego of his condescending demon for a butler. Sebastian already gloated endlessly about his upholding of a certain ‘Butler Aesthetic’ that he’d created for himself the first night of his employment.

“You should tell her that her family always hosts the most inspired events, such as this—and you should be sure to show gratitude for her time. Dozens of men not unlike you would do anything for this opportunity,” Sebastian added, emphasizing his words purposefully when he caught on to Ciel’s lack of focus. His butler was correct: a promenade with Lady Y/n at one of TransAtlantica’s seasonal galas for its shareholders, business executives, family ties, and anyone from the business world who mattered. Every year, the shipping company rents out the entirety of the three piers, leaving its multitude of small shops and taverns open for the casual party.

TransAtlantica always picked a weekend that sat towards the end of the spring, the weather a weekend or two away from scorching the Earth. The decision always ensured the best weather—clearer skies, a light breeze, docile sun and seawaves.

Until this year, Ciel would send his regrets, in the same fashion as he would for the company’s fundraisers at the Langham Hotel each season. This event was too crucial to skip, especially after securing himself a promenade. A lot of Britain’s polite society—not just those typical of London’s social hemisphere—would be present. There were no dance cards restricting Ciel’s time with the heiress, and that meant he needed to be especially strategic with the time he managed to have in front of the Y/l/n family.

“I know,” Ciel grumbled. “The color of her gown brings out the…shine in her eyes, or something like that,” he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes to further his point. Another quick look around them assured him that there were no guests leaving their carriages blocks away from the entrance.

“And that cavalier attitude was what ultimately led her to all except rebuke you, sir,” Sebastian scolded, eyebrows drawing together in a brief show of frustration. “Make her feel as if she is the most important person to you—the deciding factor in which you succeed or you fail. She is just that, after all.” He said purposefully, mahogany eyes interrogating Ciel’s expression. The Earl kept his gaze resolutely forward, watching guests meet the Y/l/n family at the pier’s entrance archway, alongside a handful of the company’s executive board members. “We will be within their natural sightline in about fifteen paces, sir.”

Y/n was dressed sensibly in a light gown, the bodice appearing to resemble a man’s sophisticated white vest, which cut into a feminine design with ruffled short sleeves and lace lining the square neckline. A lot of her clothing tended to include a hint of masculinity—an effort to be taken more seriously in these executive circles, Ciel guessed. Her long blue skirts matched the clear sky, the shade matching the accents in her mother and father’s attire for the afternoon.

The Richmond Earldom always appeared as a matching set, stressing the importance of Ciel’s own apparel during these events. Lord Richmond, Y/n’s father, was searching for an intelligent man who could manage his legacy just as perfectly as his company’s prosperity. All of these simpering suitors could never seem to comprehend that they were vying for more than just a young woman’s hand. They were romancing a company and ultimately, Y/n wasn’t marrying anyone without her father’s approval.

“Remember, my Lord, I can only tip things in your favor so much when it comes to matters of the heart,” the demon lowered his voice, now that they were within earshot of the family, among the last few straggling guests stepping onto the pier.

Ciel fought the strong urge to roll his eyes at his butler’s joke. Tipping things. How cheeky.

Lady Y/l/n, Y/n’s mother, noticed Ciel first. Quickly excusing herself from the conversation she was entertaining, she aimed her publicity smile at him— Y/n always seemed to default to the same empty look without failure.

“Lord Phantomhive! How lovely it is to see you here,” she greeted, accepting Ciel’s hand in a firm handshake. Lady Y/l/n’s short lace gloves matched her daughter’s. “We’re all so thankful that you could make it all this way.”

“The pleasure is completely mine. You’ve picked an auspicious day for this gala once again,” Ciel answered, pleased with Lady Y/l/n’s social intellect. By greeting him so brightly, she had also caught the attention of her husband and daughter, allowing them to respectfully finish their current engagements.

Y/N Y/L/N

You watched Ciel enchant your mother with an entirely faux smile, not unlike the one you kept stretched across your glossed lips. He always managed to look painfully smug, no matter how he tried to soften his expression.

“Lord Phantomhive,” your father greeted, taking the Earl’s hand. He gave it two shakes, never one to waste words. “I understand you will be promenading with my daughter today?”

You flushed, now the object of Lord Phantomhive’s stare. You could also feel the craning necks of others around you, arming themselves with gossip about you.

‘Lady Y/n is promenading for the first time this season, with Lord Phantomhive!’

‘Do you think they will get married?’

You could already see the headlines. There were already peering camera lenses around each corner, the only warning being their blinding flash.

“If she wills it, we shall. A good day, my Lady,” it was your turn to offer your hand to the Earl, but not in a shake. Instead, he took special care in accepting your gloved hand and equally raising your knuckles to his lips and bowing his head to avoid moving your arm too high. His lips hardly grazed your glove.

“To you too.” You dipped into the shallowest version of a curtsy you could manage without being impolite. You hadn’t quite made up your mind about the Lord of Phantomhive, finding him to be contradictory. Sincere enough one moment, crude the other. He reminded you of a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together to make the complete picture.

Thankfully, he didn’t waste time in releasing your hand.

Lord Phantomhive righted himself, clearly attempting to dissect your tight expression. You suspected that you could see through one another as plainly quite easily, no more transparent than glass. You felt a small lump form in the back of your throat, as you were unsure how to proceed.

Unfortunately, your mother could also read you like an open book. “You’ve greeted most everyone already, Y/n. You and Daphne should join Lord Phantomhive and his butler,” she prompted in a gesture that was both helpful— and embarrassing. Particularly in front of your father.

“Right,” you answered. At the sound of her name, your maid appeared. Daphne was always close enough to be a call away—except for when she wasn’t, you thought about your first run-in with the Lord Phantomhive. Was he truly charmed by you from that encounter? You had been, admittedly, short with him because of how nerve-racking the situation was. “We will walk the pier,” you said, forcing your shoulders to drop. High shoulders suggested tenseness, which then, in turn, implicated anxiety.

You couldn’t help but feel the Lord Phantomhive could sense weakness. That was how breakout corporations like Funtom were made, weren’t they? With leadership at the helm.

“Be safe, please,” your mother gave your hand a meaningful squeeze and joined the rest of the guests with your father. Your stomach sank as if they had left you flailing in the middle of the cool sea beneath the boardwalk.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

“Did you hear about the ferris wheel they are constructing here? Apparently, it is set to open this July,” Ciel said, breaking the silence with one of the many anecdotes Sebastian armed him with. While the Earl preferred silence whenever possible, apparently long silences unnerved the social butterfly in Lady Y/n. Sebastian had instructed him to keep a steady conversation flowing between them at all times—he’d hypothesized she would feel they were compatible intellectually, if he could manage.

“Oh, I certainly have,” the heiress answered brightly. “Isn’t it fascinating? My father and I visited Chicago’s Columbian Exposition about two years ago. The fuel source are steam boilers with underground main pipes that then funnel the steam into pistons that then power thousand-horsepower engines. It’s an enormous axel,” Y/n explained with an intriguing willingness and clarity.

She knew the intricacies of engineering? How curious of a young noblewoman.

“Did you manage a ride on it?” Ciel asked, not offering his arm to her. That would foil his plan, and he figured Lady Y/n wouldn’t appreciate it at this stage. She valued her independence—or the appearance of being self-sufficient, at least. Ciel had yet to make his final verdict of her disposition. After all, the rumors were that her father trained her with the same intensity he would have a first-born son.

“Heavens, yes.” Lady Y/n said, making a clear effort to look ahead as they walked and maintain casual eye contact with him. Their servants lurked behind them, Sebastian entertaining Daphne with some mindless chatter while picking her brain for more information about her mistress. “There was no chance I would miss that sort of opportunity, being up so high like that.”

“I couldn’t imagine it, myself,” Ciel answered. They spoke aimlessly, cycling through topics they had in common: they were each accomplished linguists, readers, instrumentalists. Y/n even claimed to be a worthy fencing opponent, of all things.

“You are half my height,” not even the Earl could fight the amused twist of his lips at the thought of Lady Y/n parrying his advance. The top of her head just barely reached his chin by a handful of centimeters. And that was in addition to her stately heels.

“But Lord Phantomhive, all warfare is based on deception,” Y/n answered, blinking at him guiltlessly.

“Are you quoting The Art of War?” Ciel asked, raising an eyebrow. That would insinuate Y/n was competent in Classical Chinese, since Sun Tzu’s piece hadn’t been widely translated into English yet. A language that Ciel had still been in the process of mastering with Sebastian. The demon claimed to have been ‘around’ when the military strategist created the ancient military treatise. Presently, he felt it had important lessons for Ciel to understand.

Apparently, Y/n’s father—or her tutor—were incredibly insightful to pick such an ancient text to add to her studies. That was quite an advanced piece of literature. Honestly.

”Yes,” Lady Y/n said, as if this was obvious. “Who better to reference?”

Of course she read it. And learned it well enough to have quotes on hand. She could probably recite it in its original language, Ciel guessed. That wasn’t an unattractive quality in a woman—in fact, he felt a dim respect for it.

“I also quite appreciate Machiavelli’s inspired piece, The Prince,” Ciel answered, finding himself confident that Lady Y/n might understand his reference.

Y/N Y/L/N

His remark made you smile.

Of course, you’d heard the rumors about Ciel Phantomhive, The Queen’s Guard Dog, King of the Underworld, Police of the Underworld. While most of the public could only speculate the sorts of private investigative work that Her Majesty requested of the Phantomhive family, plenty of rumors swirled in the absence of the truth.

You heard whispers of no one daring to cross the Earl, for fear of severe repercussions. Life-threatening ones. You heard of the uncertainties surrounding the fatal inferno that burned down the manor so long ago, killing his family. His miraculous reappearance two years later. Apparently, now the Earl Phantomhive was reportedly a hardened man, callous and willing to crush any opponent in his path.

“You find you relate with the Italian diplomat?” You asked, curious about Lord Phantomhive’s response. Did he read this body of work as a step-by-step to creating a tyrannical regime, or did he perceive it as a frank reading of politics and the nature of diplomacy? It had been so long since you had a proper discussion about such matters with someone besides your father, your tutors, or Daphne, and you were decently assured they were weary of your constant need for knowledge.

The Earl seemed to enjoy this type of logical sparring, embracing it, even. It left you…curious to have more. If not, interested.

Lord Phantomhive took a brief moment to reply, leaving you to appreciate the scenery around you. The sky was impressively clear, no hint of any clouds near the horizon. Seagulls wailed to one another, fluttering about the long piers and across the empty coastline. As warm as it was, the weather wasn’t quite hot enough for there to be beach galas.

The air smelled of salt, gusts of air determined to pull strands of your hair astray. They were certainly doing a number on the Earl’s raven hair, tousling it playfully. This whole promenade, you had walked away from the direction of the gala, and now, as you reached the end of the pier, the two of you turned around, starting back.

“I think there’s more nuance—” Ciel started, “are you alright?”

Before you could process your fall, you were face-first on the sandy boards. Your knee erupted in pain, your bare skin touching your dress. You must have ripped your stockings? How could you have tripped? You had only allowed your mind to wander for a second, and there had been nothing obstructing your path, either!

Not to mention, your balance was typically impeccable. You were no ballerina, but years of fencing helped you regulate your posture and weight distribution.

It was as if the wooden board had simply decided to loosen, give somewhat under your weight, and catch your heel between the planks in order to trip you! How peculiar.

“I’m…fine. I only scraped my leg, I think,” you said, more mortified than pained. Your face reddened as you accepted Lord Phantomhive’s helpful hand, dusting off the sandy front of your dress with the other. You forced yourself to give him a weak smile, looking back down at the flooring. The wooden panel seemed to be perfectly in place.

“I’m not sure what could have caused that,” you added awkwardly, releasing the nobleman’s hand.

You were thankful that no one else was present to witness such an unbecoming moment of yours. It was a contender for one of your worst moments with a suitor.

CIEL PHANTOMHIVE

The panic in Lady Y/n’s face should have been enough to make Ciel regret his and Sebastian’s plan. However, he’d found it to be rather promising. If he could nail the proper response her ideal gentleman would give, Lady Y/n would feel vulnerable around him. That was key to making love inevitable. She might look to him for support going forward.

Of course she didn’t know what had caused her trip. Sebastian was fast enough to loosen the plank just enough for it to shift under her confident step and throw her off balance, only to re-tighten and return to Daphne’s side in milliseconds. Faster than a blink. That left Ciel to provide Lady Y/n with a helping hand, some validation…and apparently a young woman appreciated a man who could bandage her wounds.

“Oh dear,” Ciel said, his eyebrows drawing together in a construction of curiosity and concern. He ignored his own nagging thought that he sounded like his butler, swallowing down the embarrassment. He could feel Sebastian surveying his performance, having coached Ciel on this part of the interaction. “I wouldn’t wish for it to continue bleeding, you did scrape it,” he said carefully.

“Why don’t you take a seat? I have a handkerchief.” He gestured to one of the pier’s benches with his chin.

“It truly doesn’t hurt,” Y/n attempted to deflect, still staring at the plank curiously. Of course, she was smart enough to know that there had been something amiss, but of course, smart enough to never consider the supernatural.

Judging from the way her fist squeezed at her side, the superficial wound stung more than she wanted to admit. There was likely sand around the injury or near it, only an added irritant.

Ciel merely met her eyes, asking her if she truly intended to push ahead in mild discomfort. Y/n surrendered begrudgingly mumbling a mildly unladylike, “Oh, alright.” Not always so untroubled as she seemed, was that it?

“You’re not in any other pain?” Ciel asked, kneeling to get a closer look at Y/n’s scrape. Daphne, unconicidentally, didn’t have any medical supplies with her. Sebastian had conveniently hid them from the maid to afford Ciel the right to tend to his intended.

“No,” she confirmed, cringing at the light pressure Ciel applied to stop the bleeding and clean the debris. “Honestly, the plank had a mind of its own, it feels like,” she mused, her tilted head racing for some logical explanation. There was none.

“And you are positive you didn’t hit your head on the way down?” Ciel asked her, appreciating the ghost of a laugh that escaped her lips. That was the right thing to say, he could tell.

This battle of love was only growing easier. The Earl was growing confident, fashioning his dialogue to that of a novel protagonist’s. Bland and kind, slightly humorous.

“Positive. Unless I hit my psychotic break last week in agreeing to have you join me for a promenade,” Lady Y/n said, standing once Ciel tied the handkerchief around her leg tightly, stopping any more bleeding. “In which case, we might need some more urgent care.”

“Would it take another such reckoning for you to agree to meet me again?” Ciel asked, adding a new flair of seriousness to his voice as he righted himself in front of Lady Y/n. He took a quick moment to dust the fronts of his trousers free of sand before refocusing on Y/n, urging her for the answer he craved. The key to becoming an official suitor of hers.

One outing was a trial. Two was one step closer to serious consideration.

“No, it would not,” the begrudging grin at the heiress’ lips told Ciel that he’d offered her a masterclass in lying and deception. “Perhaps, the 1895 Grand National next weekend. My family loves to attend.”

Y/n Y/l/n was already inviting Ciel to the 57th renewal of the Grand National horse racing event? Perhaps, this endeavor was going to be easier than Ciel originally thought….

Tag List: @vixxzill, @theblueslytherin

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bloodstained-porcelain-doll · 5 months ago

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Heel to her Master, ch 2 - Sandor Clegane x reader

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 here

Summary: The handmaiden finds him terrifying yet intriguing. The Hound finds her wildly attractive. He stakes his claim. Warnings: Eventual smut, dub con, public humiliation, bdsm, Master/pet dynamic

The handmaid was walking with lady Sansa, enjoying a promenade through the beautiful blooming gardens. The gardens were her favourite part of King’s Landing save for the taverns. Sansa blabbered on about some song she used to sing as a child, and they spoke of her upbringing in the North. The handmaid said she would love the visit the North sometimes, and it seemed to sadden Sansa. She probably didn’t expect to return there again after the death of her father and after king Joffrey had begun showing his true colours.

It wasn’t long before the king and his guard dog approached them in the garden. Sansa and the handmaid both curtsied to the king, then the handmaid looked away as her lady and the king spoke. She felt the Hound’s eyes burning holes into her as they always did. She wondered what kind of magic was bestowed upon him to make her feel like this. To grant her the desire to step closer to him, but not the courage to meet his eyes. He seemed to eat her up with his gaze and she found her knees weak. Last night she had touched herself again to the fantasy of him, of calling him her Master while he did unspeakable things to her body.

“Escort Sansa’s handmaid back to the castle, she’s not needed anymore,” Joffrey spoke. Her eyes snapped to him and then to Sansa. Lost in her thoughts, she had failed to realise that the king wanted to take his lady for a walk alone. The Hound nodded and grabbed the handmaid’s arm roughly.

“Wait-” she burst out without thinking. Shockingly, the Hound let her go.

“Catch up,” he muttered and began walking. She said her goodbyes to Sansa and gave the girl a hug, hoping to leave her with an act of kindness before the boy king destroyed it all. She jogged to catch up with the Hound, briefly wondering why she had to be escorted.

“Good girl, heel to your Master,” he said once she caught up and placed herself on his left hand side. Her eyes went wide and she almost choked on her own spit. Had she just misheard him? Given by the smug smirk on his lips, she had not. She thought it best not to reply.

“Where’s the king taking Sansa?” she asked a few moments later. The Hound pushed her up the stairs unceremoniously. So rough, all the time, that man.

“You’ll mind your own business if you know what’s good for you,” he said. “But you don’t, do you, pup?” He backed her up against the nearest wall and she realised he had led her into the castle through a back door and they were all on their own, with no one in the corridor. Her voice wavered when she spoke.

“What do you mean?” she asked. He was so tall, towering over her. His gloved hand came up to grab her chin, forcing her to look at him. When he gave no answer she continued. “We shouldn’t be all al-” “You shouldn’t be all alone with someone like me. Who knows what could happen to a poor little pup like you? Stupid little girl… you haven’t got a clue, have you? What they’re saying about you?” His voice was dark and coarse and he leaned in closer. The handmaid’s breath hitched and her knees were weak. The Hound still held her chin firmly with his thumb and forefinger, squeezing and holding her in place when she tried to turn her face away from him. Her body was frozen cold in fear, yet it burned with desire.

“What who is saying?” she mumbled, fighting back tears in her eyes. The Hound chuckled darkly.

“You gonna cry for me, girl? Would be a pretty sight.” He licked his lips, looking down at her hungrily.

“Please…” she pleaded, not knowing what for. The Hound groaned, making her eyes widen again. His eyes roamed her body, landing on her breasts for a second before looking in her eyes again. “Beg, too? Must be my lucky day. Maybe they’re right about you after all. Maybe you really are that stupid.” He let her go. “Go on, back to work with you,” he said and backed off, turning away to return to the his post by the king. A sudden rush of bravery washed over the handmaid.

“Wait! What are they saying about me?” she asked, needing to know. The Hound stopped and looked back at her. He grinned, and she swore this time he looked even more smug than before.

“They say when I’m not looking, you look at me like a whore does a Lannister. Now back to work, pup.” The Hound left her standing there with her mouth hanging open in shock.

#sandor clegane #Sandor Clegane fan fiction #Sandor Clegane smut #the hound #the hound x you #the hound x reader #Sandor Clegane x you #Sandor Clegane x reader #smut #game of thrones

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calabria-mediterranea · 1 year ago

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Calabria, the toe of southern Italy is one of the country’s least-known regions and probably the most underrated one.

Calabria is best known for its beautiful sandy beaches along the Tyrrhenian and the Ionian Sea, and its dramatic cliffs, coves, and rock formations: 800 km of coastline, stunning turquoise waters and green hills adorned with olive, orange, and lemon trees.

The heart of the region offers a pure and unspoiled scenery, comprised of thick forests, dotted with canyons, streams, and waterfalls and three national parks: Aspromonte, Pollino (UNESCO heritage site), and Sila.

The warm weather, the wild and mysterious nature, the strong and genuine flavors of local food and the vestiges of its ancient origins, when it was a colony of Greece, make Calabria an ideal destination all year around, without the long-haul flights of more exotic destinations.

Art lovers cannot miss the famous Riace bronzes, that were found in the Ionian Sea near Riace in 1972 and exhibited in the National Museum of Reggio Calabria. These beautiful statues, probably two warrior heroes larger than life-size, are a fine example of classical Greek sculpture.

Reggio's ancient history predates the Greeks, who settled this strategic location at the exact center of the Mediterranean in the 8th century BC. They called their colony Rhegion, which was subsequently Latinized by the Romans and transformed through the ages under the area’s various rulers.

In Reggio Calabria, the lungomare or waterfront is a great place for a stroll, either down at beach level or along the upper promenade, which flanks what is commonly referred to as Via Marina, a pair of north-south coastal roads laid out in boulevard style. The approximate two-kilometer strip of land between serves as a lovely city park the length of the downtown area.

Stately mansions face this public garden and the strait beyond.

The seafront elegant, panoramic promenade lined with palm trees, with its views across the Messina Strait, which divides the Italian peninsula from the island of Sicily, to Mt Etna is one of the most atmospheric places for a walk.

Capo Vaticano is considered one of the 100 most beautiful beaches in the world: a long beach of fine sand with crystal clear waters, surrounded by ancient trees.

Tropea, a puzzle of lanes and piazzas, is one of Calabria’s most attractive towns. It is set in a dramatic spot on a cliff where the houses seem to blend into the rock. Tropea is famed for the spectacular sunsets, between the cliff and the rocky promontory with the church of Santa Maria dell’Isola.

Stacked high up on a sea cliff, there is Pizzo with its unique Church of Piedigrotta, entirely carved out of tuff stone.

Chili pepper, ‘nduja and Tropea onions are the first ingredients that come to mind when talking about Calabrese cuisine.

Calabrians love chilli peppers and they add it in everything, from pasta to ice-cream! Every September, the “peperoncino” festival takes place in Diamante to celebrate its locally produced food.

‘Nduja is the Calabrian version of salami. A spicy, spreadable cold cut with chilli peppers (of course) and spices.

Tropea’s red onion is known for its mild, sweet flavour. In fact, these onions are so famous that cipolla di Tropea has become a Calabrian symbol.

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blackpoolhistory · 6 months ago

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Cliffs Hotel on the North Promenade in 1937. The building was constructed in 1921.

#cliffs #promenade #north shore

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ominouslywritinginmyhead · 3 months ago

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@anonimusunnoaniswriting @erebus-et-eigengrau our Regency-era vampire lover is back, and this time, there’s something he wants to tell you…will you hear him out? 😇

Part 1 is here.

wc: 2033 (holy shit this got LONG)

Notes: Regency au, fem!reader, dark-ish romance, some form of mind/body control but it’s still sfw (for now)

There is a ball two days before your wedding.

As the soon-to-be wife of the season’s most eligible bachelor, your presence is required. All eyes are on you as you enter the room, wearing a brand-new gown paid for by none other than your future husband, the jewels and hairpiece a gift from him as well.

Even those who give you sour looks have to admit you are the luckiest woman alive. To have a man who spoils you so much and asks for nothing but your affection is what they all hope for as well. They cannot help their envy as you hesitantly enter the room, your attire a sharp contrast to your demeanour.

People pretend to forget who you are and where you come from when they greet you, focusing instead on your upcoming nuptials and offering their congratulations. You thank them with all the graciousness you can muster, fighting back the urge to turn and flee for home.

To your relief, he finds you within minutes, and sweeps you into a corner; this is his last chance to see you before the wedding ceremony, and he is going to make the most of these fleeting moments.

You think his eyes glow from the light of the fire nearby, but it’s strange how they become this red. Or how the colour never flickers with the flames. His hand rests on the small of your back; the sensation steadies you, keeps you grounded amongst all the compliments and stares.

“How are you, my dearest?” He asks, kissing the back of your hand. His teeth flash white as he smiles.

“I am well,” you reply. “A touch apprehensive, but otherwise well.”

“Apprehensive?” He repeats. “Are you having doubts?”

You shake your head. “No doubts. But our match has the eyes of the ton. There are far too many people stepping in.”

“Not to worry, my dear.” His voice drips with honey, soothing you. “Pay no attention to this ton. You and I are the only ones who matter. Once we are wed, we shall return to my estate in the far north and never see their eyes again if you don’t wish it.”

That does sound like an appealing prospect. “It’ll be like the days of my girlhood again,” you sigh, reminiscing on the past, when all was well and you could only see the vast meadows around your father’s home, rolling hills just beyond.

“It will,” your betrothed assures you, voice still honeyed. “Come, let us dance. We shall show the ton what they are about to lose.”

It might be the wine you drank earlier, or perhaps it’s the sheer nervousness, but you cannot seem to control your legs. They walk to the centre of the ballroom as if commanded by some other force. But when you look up into your dearest’s still-red eyes - how odd - you know you are safe.

He has always made sure of it.

You curtsey and look into his eyes as the dance begins. Are they still red? How odd. The lights here do not glow the same way as the fire does, so how are his eyes still the same from then? It makes no sense.

But there are many things about your future husband that make little sense.

He is incredibly averse to sunny days, and only reluctantly agrees to promenade with you when the sky is clear and bright; his preference leans towards courting you indoors. He rarely attends daytime events during the season - you have long grown used to seeing him at the latter half of balls.

Not that it matters when he comes to your side. When he smiles at you and takes your hand in his, nothing else matters.

You know that despite his oddities, you will be happy with him. Perhaps what you feel isn’t love yet, but whatever it is, you are confident love will grow.

It is unbearable to think of the alternative.

As the music crescendos and dies down, you curtsey to him again and he bows as well, signalling the conclusion of the dance. As the dancing pairs drift away, he offers you his gloved hand. “Shall we walk?”

****

The gardens are illuminated by a thousand miniature lights. Guests linger in the shadows, seizing an opportunity to experience the world in a way their chaperones will never permit.

Your own chaperones have begun to leave you to your own devices at balls since the official announcement, particularly when your soon-to-be-husband is with you. In two days, you will no longer be their problem. You will no longer be anyone’s problem. Instead, you will be cherished and kept happy. Or so you hope.

“Come,” he says, gesturing to a nearby stone bench, voice honeyed again. What is it about these tones that makes you lose control of your body? In this moment, your movements do not feel like your own.

When the two of you are seated comfortably, his voice changes. Gone is the honeyed voice that takes control. Gone is the confident man who met you all those balls ago and said you should have more suitors. In his stead is a man who is all seriousness, whose handsome face looks darkly solemn as he faces you.

His eyes are still red. Even if a little dull.

“My darling,” he begins, “there is something I believe you must know. It would not be right for us to wed without you being aware of it.”

Your stomach lurches. What does he mean? Does he no longer care about you anymore? Is there someone else in his life? Will you be a wife in name alone?

He smiles and takes your hand. “Don’t be so distressed, dearest one. We will be married. If you still wish for it, that is.” His face falls.

“What do you mean?” You ask hesitantly. “Why would I not wish for this? It’s all I have wanted since I met you…”

“Perhaps you will not want it once I tell you,” he says. “I will not hold it against you if you change your mind. But I would like you to promise me that you will keep my secret.”

“I will. And I’m certain that nothing will change my mind,” you tell him earnestly. You care for him too much to let go, and the shame of returning to your relatives after a broken engagement would be too much to bear. No matter what it is, you will marry him in two days.

His expression is almost pitying. What does he know that you do not?

As you gaze at him, you find that he is far more relaxed under the moonlight than he is on your afternoons together this season. His fingers lace through yours - hesitantly. The first time they have ever been this way.

“Dearest,” he begins, “I am no ordinary man.”

“You are not,” you agree. “You are better than most of them in the ballroom.”

He shakes his head. “That is not what I mean.”

Then what does he mean?

“I am no ordinary man,” he repeats. “I haven’t been one in many years. Or should I say, many decades…”

Decades. The word lingers in the air. He looks only a few years older than you do. And yet, there is something about his gaunt yet handsome face that suggests he has seen more of life than anyone else - including the old Papas and Grandpapas back in the ballroom.

The puzzle pieces begin to fall into place.

“What I truly am has many names,” he tells you softly, perfect white teeth glowing in the darkness. You were not imagining their sharpness when you first met him; that’s real. “I travelled the world these last two decades and have learned all the things they call me. But in our language, it has one name.”

“Vampire,” you finish, heart pounding in your chest.

“Correct, my darling,” he whispers. “I am a vampire. I relish the darkness. I watch my friends age and die while I remain unchanged. And I thirst for one thing and one thing alone.”

Blood.

The pulse on your inner wrist throbs as he keeps your hand in his. It knows what he wants. You know what he wants.

“I have thirsted for you since the very first day I saw you,” he whispers. “I can sense the richness of your blood as it courses through your veins. You are the only one who can end the thirst I’ve been enduring for over a century.”

“Is…is that why you want to marry me?” You ask, almost accusingly. “A free and regular source of blood?”

He shakes his head. “My inner nature drew me to your blood. But my heart - silent as it may be since my change - drew me to you. To your smile. To your kindness. To everything you are aside from your veins.”

There is no honey in his voice - honey which you now suspect has something to do with his “inner nature.” He means every word he says.

“I will not take your blood if you do not wish it,” he continues. “I can endure, and you matter far more to me than my thirst. And if you wish to end our engagement, I will not stop you so long as you keep my secret. I will take the blame for our failure. But I did not want to conceal the truth from you any longer.”

The sadness in his red eyes makes it clear that he is telling you the truth. Even if it pains him, he will let you go if you do not want to marry him anymore.

You have read books about him and his kind. Like everyone else in the country, you believed that they had all fled to the Continent or been taken down by the Hunters. But he is here despite all that. He hid from everyone. From you. He danced with you and courted you, all the while seeking your blood. He wanted to marry you for you, but you know full well that your veins played a significant role in that decision.

…and is that really so bad?

Here is a man who wants you. A man who desires what you have. A man who has revealed his true nature so that this marriage will not be founded upon deceit.

And is blood such a big price to pay for that?

You doubt it.

But there is one question that remains to be answered.

“W-will you kill me once you have slaked your thirst?” You ask quietly.

“Never. I want you to stay by my side forever. I want to make you mine one day…but again, that is only if you wish it.”

Forever. He wants to be with you forever. To make you one of his kind.

He leans in and tucks a stray lock of your hair behind your ear. “What do you want to do, dearest one?” He asks, and is it your imagination? Or is his voice shaking as he speaks?

Well, it won’t have to shake for much longer.

“I want to marry you,” you whisper, forehead pressed against his. “I want to be by your side forever. I want to love you and be happy with you. That is the only thing that matters to me.”

Some might say you have made a rash choice. To marry a vampire is to run risk after risk. But you are not afraid.

Crowds frighten you. The ton frightens you. But this man, who cares for you and will not take your blood without your consent…he will never frighten you in that way.

He wants you.

He longs for you.

“Then,” he chuckles, voice steadying, “we will marry in two days.”

He leans in even further, lips brushing against your ear. “And when we are married and far away from this crowd, I will make you happy. I will give you the moon and stars and everything you desire.”

Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised when his honeyed tones return. But what does astonish you are the words accompanying it:

“I will love you and give you a place you can truly call home.”

Part 3 coming soon, and I’m warning y’all in advance, it’s not gonna be sfw from any angle whatsoever 🤭🤭🤭

Update: It’s here! (WARNING: nsfw content)

#vampire x reader #vampire lover #vampire #vampire romance #saber writes

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