#Radiant Impasse

[ash-and-starlight]

important question.

(if u voted Yes please feel free to tell me What kind of tramp stamp he’d have)

[half-of-a-gay]

Armor Between Us

Knight!Sevika x princess!reader

(The poll results came in positive so here it is. Let me know what you think and please be gentle it's my first work.😊)

When political corruption, forbidden love, and an old enemy threaten the realm, Sevika must navigate her loyalties, her growing feelings for the princess, and the ghosts of her past to protect everything she holds dear.

Chaper 1 ... Chaper 2 link

The Knight’s Favor

On the eve of battle, a stoic knight receives an unexpected gift from the kingdom's radiant princess—a token of hope that will bind their fates forever.

---

The royal courtyard buzzes with tension. Dawn is a faint glow on the horizon, and the air smells of damp earth and steel. The kingdom’s army has gathered, ready to ride into battle at when the sun rises. Horses snort and paw at the ground, their riders murmuring quiet prayers or sharpening weapons. The clash to come is a crucial one—the fate of the realm rests on it.

Sevika stands apart from the others, tightening the straps on her saddle. Her armor glints faintly in the torchlight, battered but well-kept, a testament to her years of service. At twenty-five, she is already a rising star among the kingdom’s knights—a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Her tall, muscular frame and the cold precision in her movements intimidate even her fellow soldiers. But tonight, there’s a subtle tremor in her hands as she works. She can’t shake the weight pressing on her chest—the burden of what lies ahead.

She has no time for sentiment, yet a fleeting thought crosses her mind: If I fall, who will remember me?

The princess walks among the ranks, stopping to speak with the soldiers, offering words of encouragement. She approaches Sevika, who stands stoically by her horse.

“Sir Sevika?” a soft voice interrupts her thoughts.

She freezes. It’s not just the words that halt her—it’s the voice itself. Warm, clear, and unfamiliar. When she turns, she finds herself looking at none other than Princess. Her heart stutters in her chest.

The princess stands before her, her presence a striking contrast to the grim scene around them. Her long cloak sways gently in the breeze, and her golden circlet catches the faint light. Her eyes—bright, intelligent, and filled with something Sevika doesn’t dare name—meet Sevika’s with an intensity that makes her throat tighten.

Sevika immediately bows, one hand pressed to her chest. “Your Highness,” she says stiffly, unsure how to act around royalty. Her voice is lower than she intends, roughened by the tension in her jaw. Despite her commanding presence, she is a little rough around the edges, more at ease with a sword in her hand than polite conversation.

“Please, rise,” the princess says, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "You are Sir Sevika, aren’t you? They speak of you often in the court—how you never falter, no matter the odds. They say you’re one of our finest knights."

Sevika straightens, but she doesn’t meet the princess’s gaze. Instead, she focuses on the ground, her expression impassive. “I am honored by your words, Your Highness. But I am only doing my duty.”

The princess steps closer, close enough that Sevika can catch the faint scent of lavender. “Duty alone doesn’t make someone a hero, Sir Sevika. I see the way the soldiers look at you. They trust you with their lives.”

Sevika’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t know what to say to that—praise has never sat comfortably on her shoulders. “The men fight for their kingdom. I am no different.”

The princess tilts her head, studying her. She notices Sevika’s worn armor and the tension in her shoulders. She sees the faint tremor in Sevika’s hand as she adjusts the straps of her saddle—a sign of nerves she’s trying to suppress. "You carry more than most. I can see it in your eyes." Her voice softens, as though speaking to a wounded animal. "You’re afraid."

Sevika’s gaze snaps to hers, a flicker of defiance in her storm-grey eyes. "Knights don’t fear battle, Your Highness."

The princess smiles knowingly. "No, but they fear what comes after."

Sevika’s breath catches. She opens her mouth to respond, but the words don’t come. How does this princess, someone who has likely never set foot on a battlefield, see so clearly into her heart?

Before the silence can stretch too long, the princess reaches into the folds of her cloak and produces a delicate handkerchief. It is embroidered with golden thread and adorned with a faint symbol of the royal crest.

“For you,” she says, offering it to Sevika. “To keep with you during the battle.”

Sevika stares at the handkerchief, then at the princess, unsure what to do. “Your Highness, I… I don’t understand.”

“It’s a token,” the princess says, her voice steady. “For luck. And as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” Sevika asks, her voice low.

The princess takes another step closer, her hand still extended. “That you don’t fight for faceless kings and crowns, Sir Sevika. You fight for the people who believe in you. And I believe in you.”

Sevika feels something shift in her chest—something heavy, something she’s carried for years, easing just slightly. Her hand trembles as she takes the handkerchief, her rough, calloused fingers brushing against the princess’s softer ones.

“I… will keep it safe,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

The princess smiles, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world fades away. “May it bring you home safely.”

Before Sevika can respond, the princess turns and walks away, her cloak trailing behind her like a whisper in the wind. Sevika watches her go, the handkerchief clutched tightly in her fist.

When the sun finally rises, and the army marches toward the battlefield, Sevika tucks the handkerchief into her armor, close to her heart. For the first time, she feels something she hasn’t felt in years.

Hope.

[ohproserpine]

lamb to the slaughter

alastor finds heaven kneeling before an exterminator tags. alastor x gn! exterminator! angel reader, religious imagery & symbolism, implied death, blood, dark romance

Alastor holds no reverence for heaven.

He himself was far from holy, his rotten soul resistant to the act of prayer and worship. The humility required to kneel and plead for mercy is an attribute that seems alien to him.

But never before had he beheld such beauty.

Alastor eyes were fixed on you. Before him, you loomed, a majestic creature with pearlescent wings outspread, a radiant halo encircling your horns, and draped in golden robes.

In the grip of your divine gaze, Alastor's thoughts wandered back to the verses he had half-heartedly listened to in the hallowed halls of the church. The utterances of the pastor, the haunting melodies of the choir, and the impassioned prayers fervently uttered by the congregation—all appeared to him as a futile worship. Amidst it all, he remained a solitary figure, impervious to the sanctity of the holy prayers.

Had he known that beauty could materialize into a being such as you, he would have uttered all those holy prayers in your name instead.

"Kneel," you commanded. Something within him seethed, growled, and clawed at his thumping chest.

Despite the tremors in his knees, he feigned composure, sinking to kneel before you. The fabric of his pants tore on the coarse gravel, leaving his knees scraped and bloodied. As he raised his gaze to meet yours, a chilling sensation coursed through him, your heavenly eyes seemingly scorching his skin.

Dimly aware of the pain induced by your blade piercing through muscle and meeting bone, a crazed euphoria enveloped him, numbing the stinging sensation.

Alastor found it somewhat hilarious. Creatures like you, born to worship and embody symbols of holiness, bore wings that were perpetually stained with the richness of cardinal red.

A soft, involuntary groan slipped past the demon's lips as you abruptly yanked the spear from his flesh, forcefully pulling him closer to you. Despite the searing pain, he bit down on his tongue, commanding himself to silence.

"How shameful," your voice cooed, a mellifluous cadence that felt like honey to his ears—soft and warm. Alastor felt the edge of your bloodied spear against his throat, yet he made no move to stop you.

There was nothing heavenly about this, and yet it was the closest he felt to heaven.

What's heaven compared to you anyway?

You moved closer towards him, the spear shifting from his throat, tracing a path toward his jaw before aiming it to strike his head. All the while, Alastor gazed up at you with an expression akin to that of a lamb.

"Beautiful," Alastor spat out, blood seeping from between his teeth. The gleam in his razor-sharp smile held a disturbing charm.

"This praise will not purify you."

His laughter echoed in the air, a breathless and bittersweet symphony that mingled with the metallic tang of his own blood.

Forgive him. Alastor pleaded one last time as you raised the spear high. For he has sinned.

And yet, kneeling before you now, hands bloodied with the golden blood of your kin, he knew he would do it again.

[novaursa]

To Win a Princess (as one)

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the King's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You. 

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous chapter: the eclipse of the alliance

- Next part: a gift of fire

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The Great Sept of Baelor is resplendent, every stone and column adorned in the colors of House Targaryen and House Lannister. Red and gold banners drape from the high arches, interwoven with shimmering silver threads, casting an ethereal glow beneath the light of hundreds of candles. The scents of lavender and myrrh fill the air, mingling with the soft murmur of noble voices and the hushed reverence of those gathered.

At the center of it all, you stand beside Tyland, your hands joined, facing the High Septon. Your gown flows in layers of crimson silk and delicate gold embroidery, each thread catching the light as you move. A delicate circlet of dragon-inspired filigree rests on your head, glinting with the same fire as the rubies that adorn Tyland’s collar. He stands tall and composed beside you, his Lannister red cloak draped proudly over his shoulders, the lion of his House embroidered in striking gold against his back.

King Viserys, seated on a dais with a commanding view of the ceremony, watches with a warm, contented expression that you haven’t seen in some time. The weariness usually present in his face seems softened by pride and happiness, his eyes shining as he observes this union he so clearly supports.

Next to him, Rhaenyra’s gaze is radiant as she watches you both, her smile broad, her posture relaxed as she holds Laenor’s arm lightly. She exchanges the occasional meaningful glance with Harwin Strong, who stands near the edge of the gathered guests. Her glances are discreet, but there’s a warmth and anticipation in her gaze each time her eyes meet his, adding an undercurrent of intrigue and joy to the scene.

In contrast, Queen Alicent sits stiffly beside Viserys, her expression polite but guarded, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She is dressed in her traditional Hightower greens, yet the vibrant reds and golds of House Targaryen and House Lannister dominate the Sept, making her seem more an observer than a participant in the celebration. Beside her, Otto Hightower looks even more uncomfortable, his gaze wary as he takes in the sea of red and gold, a color scheme that seems to shadow the greens of House Hightower entirely. His face is impassive, but his clenched jaw betrays his unease.

The High Septon’s voice rises in solemn cadence, reciting the ancient vows, his tone reverberating through the Sept as he lifts his arms to bless the union.

“Today,” the Septon intones, “we witness a bond forged not only in duty but in loyalty—a union that joins two noble Houses in service to the realm. May the fire of House Targaryen and the strength of House Lannister become one, a beacon of unity and strength in these uncertain times.”

He turns to Tyland, his gaze stern but benevolent. “Lord Tyland of House Lannister, do you swear to honor and cherish the Princess Y/N, to protect her and hold her above all others?”

Tyland’s gaze never wavers as he meets the Septon’s eyes, his voice clear and unwavering. “I swear it.”

The Septon then turns to you, his expression softened, as though recognizing the unique weight of your choice. “Princess Y/N of House Targaryen, do you vow to stand beside Lord Tyland, to honor and cherish him, to bring strength to this union as both Targaryen and Lannister?”

You hold Tyland’s gaze, feeling the depth of your love and commitment reflected in his eyes, and your voice is filled with quiet conviction as you reply, “I swear it.”

The Septon gestures for Tyland to take the crimson and gold cloak resting nearby. Tyland lifts it, draping it over your shoulders with reverence, symbolizing the joining of your Houses. The cloak settles over your gown, its weight warm and comforting as it rests upon you, and a murmur of approval ripples through the gathered nobles, their voices hushed with admiration.

The Septon raises his arms, his voice resonating through the Sept. “By the gods, old and new, I proclaim this union sealed. May it bring peace, prosperity, and strength to the realm.”

A chorus of applause fills the Sept, the nobles and guests rising to their feet in celebration as Tyland turns to you, his gaze filled with pride and affection. He takes your hands, pulling you close, and as tradition allows, he leans down, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is both tender and full of promise.

The applause swells, and as you pull apart, you find yourself smiling broadly, your heart brimming with joy. Tyland’s hand finds yours once more, his grip steady, as you turn to face the gathered court together.

Viserys rises from his seat, lifting his goblet in a toast, his voice carrying through the crowd with a vigor that surprises even you. “To House Targaryen and House Lannister, united in loyalty and strength! May this bond be a beacon for all of Westeros!”

The guests echo his toast, raising their goblets in unison, and the hall fills with the warmth of shared celebration. Rhaenyra raises her own goblet, her eyes meeting yours as she offers you a smile full of pride and sisterly affection. Beside her, Laenor toasts as well, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

Alicent, however, raises her goblet with restraint, her smile polite but strained, while Otto remains composed but tense, clearly uneasy with the magnitude of the Lannister presence and the strength of your House’s new alliance.

As the ceremony concludes, Tyland leans down, his voice a quiet murmur in your ear. “We did it, my love. Against all odds, we’re here.”

You smile, a quiet joy filling you as you whisper back, “We’ll face whatever comes.”

Hand in hand, you step forward, joined not only by duty but by choice, as the new union of House Targaryen and House Lannister is solidified before all of Westeros.

The Great Hall is transformed into a vibrant sea of color and celebration, the tables laden with a lavish feast in honor of your union. Music fills the air, the lively notes of lutes and harps accompanied by the laughter and cheer of noble guests who have gathered from across the realm. The wine flows freely, filling goblets with rich reds and golden ambers, and the scents of roasted meats, spiced fruits, and freshly baked bread drift through the hall, mingling with the hum of voices.

You sit beside Tyland at the head table, feeling the warmth of his presence at your side as guests approach one after another to offer their congratulations. Lord Jason Lannister is among the first to approach, his usual confident grin even more pronounced as he claps Tyland on the shoulder with a hearty laugh.

"Tyland, brother!" Jason exclaims, his voice carrying over the music. "You've done it, haven’t you? Tied yourself to the greatest House in the realm. Our House couldn't be prouder."

He turns to you, his gaze respectful but glinting with the charm that marks every Lannister. "Princess, you’ve chosen wisely. I’ve no doubt Tyland will be the most loyal and dedicated of husbands."

You smile, inclining your head graciously. "Thank you, Lord Jason. I am honored to join your family, and I look forward to what our Houses can achieve together."

Martyn Lannister, standing beside Jason, adds his own good wishes, though his tone is softer, more sincere. "You both have the support of the Westerlands. This union is a true strength, a symbol of what loyalty and alliance can build." He bows slightly, his gaze warm. "May the future bring you both joy and prosperity."

Tyland nods appreciatively, exchanging a look of quiet pride with his cousins. "Thank you, Jason, Martyn. Your support means more than I can say. Together, we’ll bring honor to both Houses."

As they depart, other lords and ladies approach, each offering their own blessings and toasts. Their voices blend together in a chorus of goodwill, though you catch glimmers of ambition and curiosity in some of their eyes—an unspoken acknowledgment of the power your union represents.

However, amidst the sea of well-wishers, a familiar figure makes his way forward, cutting through the crowd with his usual self-assured stride. Daemon stands before you both, his expression one of casual amusement, though you can see the flicker of irritation in his eyes.

“Well, niece,” Daemon says smoothly, his tone carrying an edge of sarcasm, “you’ve truly outdone yourself with this match.” His gaze shifts to Tyland, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “A lion among dragons. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it?”

You meet his gaze evenly, refusing to rise to his provocation. “I think it’s fitting, Uncle. Tyland and I have found strength in each other. Isn’t that what family is supposed to be?”

Daemon’s smile turns sharp, his eyes glinting with a challenge. “Perhaps. Though I’d have thought you might choose a Targaryen over a Lannister. Someone who understands the fire in our blood.”

Tyland’s grip on your hand tightens slightly, though his expression remains calm as he meets Daemon’s gaze. “I assure you, Prince Daemon, I understand what it means to stand with House Targaryen. And I have every intention of honoring that.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, though there’s a faint bitterness to it as he nods. “So you say.” He casts one last look at you, a mixture of resentment and reluctant admiration flickering in his gaze. “May you both find what you seek, then.”

You incline your head, offering a polite but dismissive smile. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Daemon lingers for a moment longer before turning away, his expression dark as he melts back into the crowd. You let out a quiet sigh, feeling the tension ease as Tyland’s arm slips around your waist, grounding you in the warmth of his presence.

Tyland leans close, murmuring softly, “You handled him well.”

You smile, your fingers brushing his hand. “I’ve had practice.”

Before either of you can say more, the music shifts to a lively tune, signaling the beginning of the dances. Tyland rises, extending his hand to you with a faint smile. “Shall we, my lady?”

You take his hand, feeling the thrill of the moment as he leads you to the center of the hall. The crowd parts, their eyes following you with admiration and curiosity as you come together, your hands finding their place, your movements instinctively synchronized. The music swells, and the two of you begin to dance, moving gracefully across the floor in a swirl of red and gold.

As you twirl in Tyland’s arms, the hall seems to fade away, leaving only the rhythm of the dance and the warmth in his gaze. The rest of the world feels distant, even the scrutiny of the court reduced to a faint whisper. Here, in his arms, you feel truly at peace, the strength of your union tangible in every step, every glance.

As the dance continues, you catch sight of Larys Strong standing in a shadowed corner, his gaze fixed on you both with a calculating intensity. He watches in silence, his expression unreadable, though you sense he is cataloging every detail, every move, with a quiet, unnerving interest. But as you turn back to Tyland, the weight of Larys’s gaze slips away, unimportant in the face of the joy you feel in this moment.

Tyland pulls you close, his voice a low murmur as he spins you gracefully. “Let them look, let them wonder. We have nothing to hide, and nothing to fear.”

You smile, pressing your hand against his as you move in perfect harmony. “Let them,” you agree softly. “Together, we are stronger than any of their doubts.”

The music swells to a crescendo, and as the final note rings out, Tyland dips you, his gaze locked with yours, filled with affection and pride. Applause erupts around you, the lords and ladies cheering as you rise, still entwined in each other’s arms.

In this moment, surrounded by admiration and the blessings of your union, you feel truly unstoppable—unshaken by the whispers, unbothered by the watchful eyes. For now and always, you and Tyland stand united, unbreakable.

Otto Hightower stands near the edges of the hall, observing the festivities with a calculating gaze. His expression is reserved, his thoughts hidden behind the impassive mask he wears so well. Beside him, Alicent’s gaze is sharp, her lips pressed into a tight line as she watches you and Tyland dance at the center of the hall, your figures close and moving in perfect harmony. She catches Ser Criston Cole’s eye, and a subtle look passes between them—a shared understanding, a quiet but mutual disdain for the scene unfolding before them.

Alicent lets out a low sigh, leaning closer to her father. “They are fortunate,” she murmurs, her tone edged with a trace of bitterness, “fortunate that Viserys allowed this… farce of a marriage to cover up their urges.”

Otto raises an eyebrow, glancing at his daughter with a hint of curiosity. “Urges, you say?”

Alicent’s gaze remains fixed on you and Tyland, her expression calculating as her eyes narrow slightly. “Oh, come now, Father. Just look at them—how closely they’re dancing, how freely they move together. It’s painfully obvious.” Her tone drips with restrained disdain as she watches you laugh softly, Tyland’s hand resting securely at your waist.

Otto’s gaze darkens slightly, his brow furrowing. “You’re suggesting… they’ve already consummated their union?”

Alicent’s lips curve into a tight, humorless smile. “Of course. A blind man could see it. They’ve shared their intimacy long before the vows were exchanged. And now they’re basking in it for all to see, believing themselves untouchable.” She pauses, her gaze hardening. “One wonders how they’ll endure the shame of the wedding night when their secret is out for all to see.”

Otto’s expression remains unreadable, though a subtle shift in his posture betrays a hint of discomfort at her words. “Alicent, that is a serious accusation,” he says quietly. “Such claims could damage both their reputations.”

Alicent’s gaze doesn’t waver, her tone cold. “The proof will be plain enough when the night is over, Father. When the princess is revealed as anything but innocent, and there is no… proof to present of their union.” She glances at him, her voice laced with quiet satisfaction. “Let them face the consequences of their indiscretion. They believe themselves above reproach, but the court will see them for what they truly are.”

Otto’s gaze flickers between Alicent and the couple dancing at the center of the hall, his mind turning over the implications of her words. The closeness between you and Tyland, the familiarity, the comfort—it all aligns with Alicent’s suspicions, and he can’t help but feel a trace of unease at the thought. But he tempers his reaction, speaking in a measured tone.

“Such matters are delicate, Alicent,” he replies quietly. “The King is pleased with this match, and any challenge to it could have consequences for us all.”

Alicent’s expression tightens, a hint of frustration flashing in her eyes. “I understand the need for caution, Father. But the Lannisters’ influence is growing unchecked, and Tyland’s hold over the princess only strengthens it. If their indiscretion is exposed, it may yet serve as a means to curb their power. Shame can be a powerful weapon.”

Otto nods slowly, his gaze contemplative. “Perhaps. But we must tread carefully, Alicent. Any misstep could turn the King’s favor against us.” He pauses, glancing at her with a note of caution. “And remember, our duty is to the realm. Personal grievances cannot outweigh the greater good.”

Alicent’s expression remains resolute, though a flicker of frustration lingers in her eyes. “Of course, Father. But sometimes, the realm’s interests and our personal concerns are one and the same.” She glances back toward the dancing couple, her gaze hardening. “Let them enjoy their moment of triumph. Soon enough, the truth will cast its shadow over their celebration.”

The Great Hall thrums with energy, the laughter and clinking of goblets growing louder as the night stretches on. With the wine flowing freely and spirits high, a rowdy chant starts to rise from the guests: “Bedding! The bedding ceremony!”

The lords and ladies cheer and laugh, some already standing, eager to accompany the bride and groom to their separate chambers for the traditional send-off. Tyland glances at you with a mixture of amusement and subtle discomfort, his hand gripping yours as he prepares to stand his ground. The crowd begins to surge forward, a few bold knights moving to escort him, while a group of young noblewomen eagerly eye you, hands extended to guide you away.

Before they can reach you, however, Rhaenyra rises from her seat, raising her goblet and her voice, the sound of her laughter cutting through the crowd’s rowdy calls.

“Lords, ladies!” Rhaenyra calls, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glances your way, offering you a sly wink. “While I know the customs of Westeros hold great appeal, Targaryen traditions are… quite different.” Her gaze sweeps over the hall, her presence commanding as she continues. “Rather than a bedding, we shall escort the princess and Lord Tyland to the Dragonpit!”

There’s a brief pause, the hall falling into silence as the guests exchange curious glances. Rhaenyra smiles, her voice lifting confidently. “Tonight, my sister will settle her husband on dragonback, as is fitting for a princess of House Targaryen.”

The guests break into murmurs of surprise and excitement, some looking on with admiration, others with thinly veiled unease. At the head of the table, King Viserys beams with pride, his eyes warm as he watches his daughters. “Yes!” he exclaims, his voice carrying over the crowd. “Let her ride with her lord on dragonback! It is an honor most fitting for my daughter, a Targaryen princess.” His gaze shifts to you, and there is a proud, almost protective glint in his eyes. “No need for crude traditions tonight. She deserves far more.”

Nearby, Daemon lounges with his usual irreverent smirk, his eyes glittering with a mixture of amusement and mischief. “A bold choice, indeed,” he says, raising his goblet lazily. He catches Tyland’s eye, the faintest flicker of challenge there as he chuckles, “I do hope you’ve a strong enough grip, Lord Tyland. It’s quite a drop from dragonback.”

Tyland, unflinching, meets Daemon’s gaze, offering a polite but firm smile. “I have every confidence in my new bride’s guidance, Prince Daemon. She has assured me I’ll be safe in her hands.”

Daemon’s smirk widens, though he merely inclines his head, an air of barely concealed amusement lingering in his expression. “We shall see, then,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of sardonic pleasure.

Across the hall, Queen Alicent rises slowly, her expression restrained yet clearly disapproving as she glances from Viserys to the lords around them. “Your Grace,” she begins, her tone calm but laced with concern. “The bedding ceremony is a respected tradition, rooted in the customs of the Faith. Perhaps we might honor it, as is expected in the eyes of the gods.”

Viserys’s smile fades slightly as he turns to Alicent, his gaze sharpening. “The Faith has no hold over House Targaryen, Alicent,” he replies, a note of finality in his tone. “My daughter is a dragon. She deserves a wedding night worthy of her heritage, not a spectacle for others’ amusement.”

Alicent’s mouth tightens, though she inclines her head respectfully. “Of course, Your Grace,” she murmurs, though a flicker of frustration crosses her face as she glances around the hall. Some of the lords nod in reluctant agreement, but others, particularly those aligned with the Hightowers, exchange murmurs of dissent.

Rhaenyra, ever attuned to the mood of the room, raises her goblet once more, her voice bright and commanding as she smiles toward you and Tyland. “Let us celebrate in true Targaryen fashion, then!” She casts a quick, conspiratorial glance your way, her pride evident as she speaks. “Tonight, we honor the strength of House Targaryen—and the courage of Lord Tyland.”

The guests raise their goblets in response, the hall erupting in cheers as they toast your union. Tyland turns to you, his hand finding yours as he leans close, a small smile tugging at his lips. “So,” he murmurs, his voice warm with affection, “it seems I’ll have to conquer my fear of heights sooner than I thought.”

You laugh softly, squeezing his hand as you gaze up at him, the thrill of the night coursing through you. “I’ll be right beside you,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, a promise meant only for him. “Together, Tyland. This is only the beginning.”

With the hall’s attention on you both, you rise, hand in hand, and the crowd begins to shift, forming a grand procession as they prepare to accompany you to the Dragonpit. The music swells, and as you and Tyland step forward, you cast a final glance at your family, at Viserys’s proud gaze, Rhaenyra’s supportive smile, and Daemon’s lingering smirk.

You catch Alicent’s expression, her face set in a forced smile, her eyes conveying a quiet discontent. Her gaze flicks to Ser Criston Cole, standing nearby with an unreadable expression, though you can sense the tension in his posture as he watches you pass.

The crowd moves with you, their voices lifting in songs and cheers as the night air fills with the energy of celebration, each step bringing you closer to the Dragonpit.

The night air is filled with excitement as you and Tyland, surrounded by a throng of nobles and courtiers, make your way toward the Dragonpit. The crowd is following eagerly to witness this unprecedented sight: a Lannister taking to the skies on dragonback. Tyland’s hand remains firmly in yours, his steps steady but his grip tightening slightly as you near Belerix’s lair.

Standing at the entrance to the Dragonpit, Belerix emerges from the shadows, his scales catching the moonlight, gleaming like a sapphire with hints of silver that ripple like waves as he shifts. He lets out a low, rumbling breath, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath your feet. His gaze lands on you first, then shifts to Tyland with a curious, almost appraising glint.

You squeeze Tyland’s hand, casting him a reassuring smile before approaching Belerix, stroking his neck as you murmur softly, “Tonight, Belerix, we’re not only bound in blood but in marriage. You’ll carry us both, as husband and wife.”

Tyland watches the dragon, his expression resolute as he steps forward. You can sense the quiet stiffens in his posture, the weight of the moment not lost on him, but he meets Belerix’s gaze with all the pride, dignity, and courage of a lion, standing tall. With a calm, steady breath, he reaches for your outstretched hand and begins the climb onto Belerix’s back, his movements sure despite the unfamiliarity of it all.

As he settles behind you on the saddle, his arms wrapping securely around your waist, you catch the faintest flicker of tension in his grip, the slight hesitation in his breath. Leaning back, you whisper teasingly, your voice laced with laughter, “Come now, Tyland. Surely you aren’t afraid of mounting a dragon. You’ve done it many times before.” Your meaning is unmistakable, and your smile is full of mischief as you feel his breath hitch, then warm against your neck as he catches your jest.

He chuckles, a hint of challenge in his voice as he replies, “And after this flight, I’m looking forward to… revisiting that experience in our chambers, uninterrupted.” His hand tightens at your waist, his tone low and intimate. “Think of this as… a warm-up for our honeymoon.”

The anticipation between you both is almost tangible, but Belerix shifts beneath you, his massive wings spreading wide, ready for flight. You give Tyland a final reassuring smile, feeling his arms secure around you, his presence grounding you as you signal to Belerix.

With a powerful beat of his wings, Belerix rises from the ground, the wind rushing past as you ascend into the night sky. The cheers of the crowd rise with you, their voices fading into the distance as the Dragonpit grows smaller below. From the ground, a chorus of admiration erupts, Jason’s voice carrying loudest over the others as he boasts, “My twin, the first Lannister to ride a dragon! I knew he’d conquer anything in his path!”

A murmur of laughter ripples through the guests, while Daemon, his eyes fixed on your ascent, leans in close to Rhaenyra, murmuring something that earns him a playful nudge and an amused roll of her eyes. “Oh, Daemon,” she chides, though her voice is filled with affection. “You can’t begrudge her happiness. Besides, the dragon seems quite content with him.”

Rhaenyra watches you with pride, her face softened in the torchlight as she observes her sister in the sky, a glimmer of sisterly joy in her gaze.

Meanwhile, up above, the ground fades into a quilt of lights as Belerix’s wings carry you higher. The stars stretch above you, vast and eternal, and the thrill of the flight fills you with exhilaration. You turn slightly, just enough to catch Tyland’s expression—his face a mixture of awe and reverence as he takes in the view, the vastness of the world below, the untamed freedom of the sky. Despite the slight nervousness in his hold, his gaze meets yours with a glint of admiration and pure wonder.

“It’s… beyond anything I imagined,” he breathes, his voice laced with awe. “It’s as if the world below doesn’t exist, only you and I up here, between stars and sky.”

You smile, pressing his hand at your waist as Belerix soars above King’s Landing. “Welcome to my world, Tyland. Tonight, we’re more than just husband and wife. We are bound by fire and sky, by all that lives beyond the earth.”

He leans forward, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “And I would follow you here a thousand times over.”

With the city lights stretching below and the stars above, you know that this is only the beginning of a journey you’ll share. As Belerix glides over the rooftops, his powerful wings carrying you both, the feeling of unity and strength fills you—a bond unlike any other, bound by dragonfire and the shared courage of two souls joined in love.

[dee-writes-angst]

DAFFODILS (Chapter One)

FEATURING Eris Vanserra x pregnant!reader

SUMMARY The Spring Court has gone to shit, and while you would normally be able to tolerate it, the new discovery that you were pregnant pushes you to the gates of The Autumn Court and unknowingly into Eris' arms.

CONTENT WARNINGS pregnancy, Eris being a slight douche (you know how it is yall), violence (reader is kicked in the stomach), and mentions of Tampon (Tamlin).

AUTHORS NOTE who's excited for the kick-off of yet another series? I am! Of course, I had to start an Eris series, I love him too much not to! Strap in, darlings, I have a feeling this is going to be a long one.

SERIES MASTERLIST

The once vibrant Spring court had gone to shit, a shadow of its former glory. Tamlin, the once revered and compassionate High Lord, had vanished, abandoning his people to suffer in the decay his negligence had allowed to fester.

Amid the desolation, there were attempts to salvage what remained of the Spring Court. Lucien's name surfaced as one who strove to preserve our home. I recall his desperate sacrifice on Calanmai, offering himself to Ianthe in a futile bid to rescue us. He still occasionally visits, perhaps clinging to a hope that he might stumble upon signs of revival, our High Lord restored to his former benevolence. Yet each return only reinforces the stark reality of our decline, leaving him unsurprised by the sight of our dwindling realm.

And now, here I stand, just beyond the borders of the Autumn Court, clad in nothing but the ragged remnants of my escape, imploring the impassive sentries to grant me sanctuary within their walls. They offer no response, their stoic countenances unmoved as I plead and weep at their feet.

In my disheveled state, I must present a pitiful sight—my attire threadbare and stained, my once-glamorous countenance marred by streaks of dirt and smudged cosmetics, my limbs adorned with bruises like macabre adornments.

As I teeter on the brink of desperation, a voice cuts through the stillness, emerging from the depths of the forest to my right. The guards snap to attention at its sound, their posture stiffening even further, if such a thing were possible, in deference to its commanding presence.

"What is the meaning of this?" The voice, smooth as silk and sharp as a blade, belonged to a man with cascading locks of fiery hair, who strode forth from the underbrush with an air of regal authority.

Gods, he was a vision to behold. Despite the earthy stains marring his attire and the tousled state of his tunic sleeves, he exuded an otherworldly allure.

"A mere denizen of the Spring Court, attempting to beg her way into our domain, my lord," one of the guards grumbled, offering a curt bow before callously nudging me aside with his boot. I winced as the blow landed squarely in my stomach.

"And what, pray tell, do you think you are doing, you imbecile!" The fiery-haired man's voice dripped with disdain as he strode forward, confronting the offending guard with palpable fury. "Can you not discern her condition, you fool? She carries life within her."

My heart lurched as I instinctively cradled my abdomen, a protective gesture born of maternal instinct. Though every fiber of my being yearned to retaliate against the guard's callousness, I forced myself to breathe deeply, refusing to succumb to the animalistic urges that society expected of Spring Court members in these desperate times.

"Are you alright?" the man inquired, his amber eyes ablaze with a captivating mix of concern and authority, their gaze so intense that it stole the very air from my lungs.

"I'm… I'm fine," I managed to utter, brushing aside the tangled strands of hair obscuring my face and inhaling deeply to steady my frayed nerves.

"I must apologize for the behavior of my soldier. Rest assured, appropriate measures will be taken, my lady," the man assured me, his smile radiant as he inclined his head with graceful deference. His charm nearly brought a wry laugh to my lips.

"No need for such formalities," I replied weakly, the weight of my displaced status as a refugee gnawing at my throat like a persistent ache. But I steeled myself with the thought of my unborn child, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. "I am no longer a lady—well, not in the traditional sense, anyway."

"How so?" the man persisted, his expression a blend of curiosity and genuine concern, prompting me to draw my arms tighter around myself.

"I find it quite audacious for someone whose name I don't even know to ask such personal questions," I retorted, feigning a hint of indignation that rang hollow even to my own ears.

"Fair point," he conceded with a charming grin, though his adherence to formality still grated on my nerves. "Allow me to rectify that oversight. My name is Eris. Eris Vanserra, Heir to the Autumn Court," he declared, and I felt a strange mixture of relief and weariness wash over me at his introduction.

Eris. Lucien had spoken sparingly of his older brother during his time in the Spring Court, but whenever he did, a profound sense of affection tinged with melancholy colored his words. I shook myself from my reverie, extending a hand in a gesture of polite acknowledgement as I reciprocated with my own name. Eris repeated my name softly, testing it on his tongue, and my heart twinged at the striking resemblance in mannerism between him and Lucien, one so distant yet familiar, the other painfully close.

"Now," Eris began, his hands making a smooth, sweeping gesture that hinted at his readiness to delve deeper into the matter at hand, "what brings you to the borders of the Autumn Court, my lady?"

"The Spring Court is…" My voice faltered, and I let out a weary sigh, my hand instinctively resting on my still-flat stomach for comfort.

"It's gone to shit," he finished for me, his smirk sharp but not unkind.

"Well, I wouldn't have phrased it quite so bluntly, but yes," I responded, my fingers tracing small circles over my abdomen. "That place and its ruler are no fit environment for a child. Considering the proximity of your court, I was hoping I might find a new beginning here."

"What about the father?" Eris inquired, one eyebrow—a mirror image of Lucien's—arching skeptically.

I clear my throat awkwardly and look at my well-worn shoes. How does one tell the Heir to the Autumn Court that they are pregnant with his youngest brother's babe? How does one also explain how he is mated to another female, that they knew as soon as that brother found out about said babe, he would give up all hope to find his true mate in order to be there for his child?

"Not in the picture," I manage to say, my voice faltering slightly as I reach up to scratch the back of my neck, a gesture betraying my discomfort.

Eris hums, a low, thoughtful sound that vibrates with suspicion, his striking eyes narrowing as he scrutinizes my uneasy demeanor. The weight of his gaze feels like it could peel back the layers of my hastily constructed defenses, compelling me to confront truths I'd rather leave unspoken. Eris's scrutinizing gaze doesn't waver, and the silence stretches taut between us like a bowstring. "Not in the picture," he echoes thoughtfully, each word heavy with the promise of unasked questions.

I nod, feeling the weight of the moment settling around us. The air in the forest seems to hold its breath, the usual whispers of leaves and distant calls of woodland creatures falling into a hushed reverence. "And you must understand, my lord, that my child is my utmost priority," I assert with unwavering resolve, emphasizing his title with a hint of disdain, as if challenging the very foundations of our unequal stations.

The guards stationed behind me draw in sharp, anticipatory breaths, seemingly prepared for their lord to mete out swift retribution for my boldness. I steel myself against the expected blow, a silent rehearsal of defiance.

Yet, the expected strike does not materialize. Instead, Eris regards me with what could only be described as admiration. His gaze, intense and calculating, appraises me not as a threat, but as a formidable presence in my own right.

"Well, little fox," he begins, his voice carrying a playful undertone that belies the depth of his contemplation. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as if to physically underline his ponderings. "It appears you've presented quite the compelling argument for yourself here."

The use of "little fox" — a term perhaps meant to denote cunning and resilience — sparks a flicker of amusement within me, mixed with a surge of cautious optimism. His demeanor suggests a blend of challenge and respect, hinting at a dynamic that could evolve beyond mere formalities or supplications. This man before me is not just the heir to a court; he is a strategist weighing his next move.

"You seek shelter for yourself and the babe?" Eris inquires with a hint of slyness, as if to subtly test my resolve, though it's a point I've already made abundantly clear.

"Indeed," I retort sharply, refusing to waver under the weight of his penetrating gaze.

"Then shelter you shall have," he declares, pivoting on his heel to fix the guards with a stern glare. "You will allow her passage," he commands, his tone uncompromising. The guards, obedient to their lord's decree, quickly acquiesce, parting to allow me entry with a mere flick of Eris's wrist.

The heady scent of spices and autumnal freshness assaults my senses as I approach the threshold, beckoning me forward with its tantalizing allure. It's as if the very essence of this court implores me to embrace my true purpose, to seize control of my destiny without hesitation. The boldness of it all catches me off guard, stirring a sense of rebellion that courses through my veins like wildfire.

Pausing at the threshold, I find myself suspended between the tranquility of the wilderness behind me and the vibrant chaos of the court ahead. I hesitate, grappling with the weight of the choices that lie before me.

Eris slows his stride beside me, as if attuned to my uncertainty, and extends his arm—an offering both courteous and suggestive. His demeanor exudes confidence and assurance, as if he expects me to surrender to his lead without question.

But I refuse to yield to the expectations of courtly decorum. Chin held high, I meet his gaze with unwavering resolve, ignoring the disheveled state of my attire as I assert my independence. My feet remain firmly planted, refusing to advance until I am ready, on my own terms.

Eris's arm lingers in the air for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his features at my defiance. His amber eyes search mine, silently probing, yet beneath the scrutiny, I detect a glimmer of curiosity and… respect.

"I am quite capable of managing on my own," I declare, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within me.

His expression softens, and he nods, gracefully retracting his arm. "As you wish," he concedes, gesturing for me to take the lead as we finally step through the threshold together.

The walk through the streets of Autumn was like stepping into a painting come to life. The cobblestone pathways wound gracefully between quaint buildings adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant splashes of ivy. Overhead, colorful banners fluttered in the gentle breeze, their designs depicting scenes of seasonal splendor and courtly festivities.

Stands and stalls lined the streets, each one a miniature wonderland of treasures waiting to be discovered. From intricately woven tapestries to gleaming trinkets and baubles, the offerings were as diverse as they were captivating. Merchants called out to passersby in melodious voices, their wares displayed with care and pride.

The smells that wafted through the air were a symphony of sensory delights. Spices mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread, their fragrances intermingling in a tantalizing dance that made my mouth water. Roasted chestnuts crackled and popped over open fires, their warm, nutty aroma floating on the breeze alongside the sweet perfume of ripe fruit and fragrant flowers.

Eris's sudden change in direction pulled me from my reverie, my gaze following his lead as we approached a magnificent structure nestled within the heart of the Autumn Court. The Forest House loomed before us, its grandeur and mystique commanding attention as we drew nearer.

Surrounded by a wrought iron gate, the house stood as a bastion of elegance amidst the bustling streets. Tall trees swayed gently in the breeze, their branches reaching out to embrace the ancient structure with a sense of reverence. Vines climbed the walls, their verdant tendrils weaving intricate patterns against the weathered stone.

The sight of the Forest House sent a shiver down my spine, a visceral reaction to the aura of power and mystery that seemed to emanate from its very core. It was as if the house held secrets untold, whispering tales of bygone days and forgotten legends to those who dared to listen.

"Wait!" I called out, the urgency in my voice halting Eris in his tracks. His steps faltered, and he turned to face me, a glint of amusement dancing in the depths of his eyes. The sunlight filtering through the canopy overhead cast dappled shadows across his features, lending an air of intrigue to his already enigmatic presence.

"Yes?" he inquired, his voice smooth and tinged with playful curiosity, his smirk hinting at secrets hidden just beneath the surface.

"What's going to happen to me? Where will I stay?" I blurted out, the fierce confidence I had summoned earlier dissipating like morning mist in the face of uncertainty. Nervously, I began to pick at my nails, the weight of the unknown pressing down upon me like a heavy cloak.

Eris regarded me with a knowing glint in his eyes, as if he had anticipated my question long before I had voiced it. "You will stay with me, of course," he replied simply, his voice carrying an air of nonchalance that belied the gravity of his words. There was a subtle confidence in his demeanor, a quiet assurance that spoke of his authority within the court.

I recoiled at his casual response, a surge of apprehension coursing through me. "But what about Beron? Won't he object to having a… a lowborn in his household?" I ventured cautiously, the weight of his father's disapproval looming like a specter in the back of my mind.

"Nonsense," Eris scoffed, his arms crossing over his chest in a dismissive gesture. "You are now a member of this court, and given your condition," he added with a subtle nod towards my abdomen, "it is only fitting that you reside in more suitable accommodations." His words were tinged with a hint of defiance, a silent challenge to anyone who would dare question his authority.

Despite his reassurances, doubt gnawed at the edges of my mind, uncertainty clouding my thoughts like a thick fog. "Absolutely not!" I protested vehemently, a surge of protectiveness coursing through me as I instinctively placed a hand over my stomach, as if to shield my unborn child from the absurdity of Eris's suggestion. "I refuse to stay in your chambers, Eris. It's… it's utterly preposterous."

Eris's eyebrow lifted slightly, his gaze holding a hint of amusement mixed with something darker. "Stubborn, aren't we?" he remarked, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "But if you prefer to sleep on the streets, far be it from me to stand in your way."

His words, though seemingly casual, carried a sharp edge that hinted at the depth of his cunning. It was a subtle reminder of his position of power, a reminder that I was at his mercy whether I liked it or not.

I bristled at his thinly veiled threat, my jaw clenching as I met his gaze with a glare of my own. "You wouldn't dare," I challenged, though a flicker of uncertainty danced behind my eyes.

Eris's smirk widened, the glint in his amber eyes turning predatory. "Try me," he replied, his tone dripping with promise and menace in equal measure.

With a frustrated huff, I reluctantly relented, realizing that I was in no position to defy him. "Fine," I conceded through gritted teeth, my hand slipping from my stomach to clench into a fist at my side. "But don't expect me to thank you for it."

Eris's smirk softened into a smirk, his gaze lingering on me with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. "Who said anything about gratitude?" he mused, his voice low and husky. "I'm merely extending a courtesy to a fellow refugee."

His words were laced with sarcasm, a reminder that his generosity came with strings attached. It was a stark contrast to the charming facade he wore, a glimpse of the ruthlessness that lay beneath.

I swallowed hard, a bitter taste rising in the back of my throat as I followed him towards the Forest House. It was clear that my time in the Autumn Court would be far from easy, but as I glanced back at the crumbling ruins of the Spring Court behind me, I knew that I had no other choice.

As we reached the grand doors of the Forest House, Eris turned to me with a smirk. "Welcome to your new home, little fox," he remarked, his tone dripping with irony. "Try not to get too comfortable."

My brows furrowed at his words, suspicion creeping into my mind. "What's the catch?" I asked warily, narrowing my eyes at him.

Eris chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. "Though I do have one condition," he said, his smirk widening into a grin.

"And what is that?" I asked, a sinking feeling settling in the pit of my stomach.

"You must walk with me once a day for the duration of your stay," Eris declared, his tone teasing yet firm.

My jaw dropped in disbelief. "You're joking," I exclaimed, disbelief evident in my voice.

Eris's grin widened, his amber eyes dancing with amusement. "Do I look like I'm joking?" he retorted, his tone challenging.

I narrowed my eyes at him, a surge of defiance rising within me. "This is ridiculous," I protested, shaking my head in disbelief. "I won't be your captive audience."

Eris's expression softened, a hint of something unfamiliar flickering in his eyes. "It's not about being captive," he said softly, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "Consider it… a chance to explore the court, to clear your mind. Besides," he added with a smirk, "I could use the company."

I bristled at his suggestion, my pride warring with my better judgment. "And if I refuse?" I challenged, crossing my arms over my chest.

Eris's smirk widened, a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Then you'll miss out on some truly breathtaking views," he replied, his tone teasing yet earnest.

I sighed in frustration, realizing that I was fighting a losing battle. "Fine," I relented, though the words tasted like ash on my tongue. "But don't expect me to enjoy it."

Eris's grin widened into a smirk, his eyes alight with amusement. "Oh, I have a feeling you'll come to enjoy it more than you think," he remarked cryptically, before turning to lead the way into the Forest House.

As Eris escorted me to the grand Forest House, his steps were measured, exuding an air of regal confidence that was unmistakably his. His fiery locks seemed to dance with each movement, and his amber eyes held a glint of mischief, hinting at the cunning that lay beneath his charming exterior.

Upon entering my chambers, Eris's gaze swept over the room with a critical eye, a subtle smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I trust the accommodations meet with your approval, my lady?" he inquired, his voice smooth as honey but tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

I nodded, unable to suppress a smirk of my own at his thinly veiled jest. "They're quite lovely, thank you," I replied, matching his playful tone with one of my own.

Eris's smirk widened into a grin, his amusement evident in the curve of his lips. "Excellent," he remarked, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before turning away to survey the room once more.

As I explored my new surroundings, I couldn't help but notice Eris's watchful gaze following my every move. It was as if he were sizing me up, gauging my reactions to the opulence that surrounded us. I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to him than met the eye, a depth of character hidden behind his charming facade.

Spotting the single daffodil on the table near the window, I couldn't suppress a chuckle at the sight. It was a quintessentially Eris gesture—playful yet meaningful, a subtle reminder of our earlier exchange. I picked up the note beside it, the elegant script a testament to Eris's attention to detail.

"I will be seeing you real soon, little fox. Wouldn't want you slacking off on our daily walks now, would we?" the note read, the teasing tone perfectly in line with Eris's mischievous nature. I couldn't help but smile at his audacity, the unspoken challenge sparking a flicker of excitement within me.

Setting the note back down, I turned to find Eris watching me with a knowing smirk, his amber eyes alight with amusement. "I take it you approve of my choice of decor?" he quipped, the smirk widening into a grin as he met my gaze.

I rolled my eyes playfully, unable to suppress a laugh at his antics. "It's certainly… unique," I replied, the hint of sarcasm in my tone mirroring his own.

Eris chuckled softly, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. "I'm glad to hear it," he replied, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than strictly necessary before turning away to hide the flush that crept across his cheeks.

TAGLIST

@purple-writer8 @defnotlucienvanserra @cherry-cin @julesofvolterra @mirandasidefics @mandziaaa @lilah-asteria @littlestw01f @skylarkalchemist @babypeapoddd

[pursuitseternal]

“To Slice the Tension:” Astarion x Shadowheart knife play smut🌙⚔️

Act 1 Astarion x Shadowheart | E | 2.7K

Summary: irritation comes to threats at dagger point. Tension grows with sharp words and blades, and finally resolves in the night with hot tempers and even hotter smut

CW: knife play, hate smut, keep quiet, semi-public, dry humping, quickie, poor Gale

Ao3 Link | Masterlist

“You! Cleric!” Astarion snarled, blood smattering his chilled face and clotting in his perfect silver curls. “You have one job! Cast your powerful light spell… thing… and don’t miss!”

Shadowheart lifted her head, glowering where she knelt over Gale, the poor wizard having taken a beating from the ghouls and Death Shepherds that ambushed the lot in the Mountain Path. “Shut it,” she snapped back, her glowing blue hands landing on the wizard’s soft belly with more force than necessary. He sputtered even as she healed his wounds.

“You almost got me killed!” Astarion growled, hovering over her, fingers twitching and fangs snapping with rage. “Again!”

“Not my fault you can’t take the heat of a little radiant damage, undead cretton,” she smirked. “Now do you mind? We have companions that can’t heal just by biting the nearest vermin.”

Astarion growled, feral and deep in his chest. “I should bite you, Cleric…. See if you taste as bitter as your demeanor.” He hissed his words between clenching teeth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little pain-craving Sharran…” he swiftly moved, crouching just beside her. “You tell me to bite vermin, and here you are…” he dragged his fangs over her neck, a threat born of hunger and rage.

But before he could sink a fang, something sharp pushed across the base of his own throat. Holding his breath, Astarion recoiled slowly, Shadowheart’s blade remaining pressed against his own scarred jugular.

Closing his fangs on nothing, Astarion’s lips peeled back in a snarl. “Careful… I don’t just bite,” he purred, colder in tone as his hand moved swiftly, jabbing the soft of her belly through the one opening of her armor.

“Hmmm,” she hummed happily, gripping his blade-holding wrist and pulling him closer. “Seems we’ve come to an impass, Vampire. Unless you want to admit you put yourself in the thick of the carnage just so I’d have to heal you first.” That black braid shook as she wriggled her head to mock him. Like a child. Like a brat. “Does somebody need attention?”

The wizard on the ground beneath them cleared his throat. “Would you mind terribly if you didn’t bicker … or flirt… or whatever this is… over my injured person? Thank you so much.”

Astarion huffed and rolled his eyes. “Oh Gale, you always ruin anything that’s actually fun… I can’t believe anyone as much of a wet blanket as you ever bedded a goddess,” he taunted, voice edged with playful venom.

“Perhaps you could learn from my divine experience and sleep off your tempers, both of you,” Gale smiled, annoyed and yet polite, “your impulses will be tamer come dawn.”

Shadowheart snorted through her nose, rolling her shoulders back as she resheathed her blade. “Fine by me, but I’ll be sleeping with this under my pillow…” her bright green eyes narrowed at Astarion’s smug, dastardly smirk, “and I’ll keep a stake in my fist, just for extra measure.”

“Sounds like you’re so very sure I’ll come for you in your bed, Cleric…” his silver brow arched. “I do like a midnight snack, but I prefer my treats a little sweeter than you.”

“I prefer my lovers a little more alive than you,” Shadowheart fired back before turning on her heel fast enough to whip that black braid around her shoulders.

And it only made Astarion’s smirk twist more deviously.

The rest of the evening passed in tranquility until the pop and hiss of the campfire was the final spark of movement and vitality.

But given the way his body pulsed from blood in his belly after his hunt today, Astarion noticed the soft hush of sandals in the dirt as he laid, meditating in his trance. The moment that blade pressed against his throat once more, he spread his lips in a fang-baring grin. “Come to kill me again, darling?” he whispered, eyes still shut even as Shadowheart straddled his waist.

One crimson eye opened just a sliver to see the Sharran Cleric smirking down, dagger’s edge caressing his throat gently.

“You’re reusing the same stunt you pulled on the Gith?” Astarion tutted his tongue, closing his eyes and settling back into his bedroll, wriggling his shoulders against his pillow just for show. “Run out of new ways to threaten the campmates that arouse you?”

“You annoy me,” she hissed down at him. “Different a-word, bloodsucker.”

“Oh, but I think you’re too a-a-addled to realize just how a-a-aroused you are,” he flashed those red eyes open at last, the intensity nearly disarming the Cleric on his body. That shit-eating grin rubbed her wrong, pissed her off. And it made her shift on his hips.

That thick upper lip pulled taut as she moved, baring even more of his teeth. And only then, did she realize where she sat…. That unmistakable outline of a hardened cock jutted against her thighs. “Oh, Astarion… I think I’m not the only one who can be accused of a-a-arousal?” Those green eyes glinted, bright with mischief.

Lighting quick, he pulled his hand from under his head, another small dagger pushed against her pulsepoint, the one he knew would taste extra delicious if only because he was having to work for it. And, gods, did he love a challenge, especially by his own terms. “Hmmm, this seems familiar,” he crooned up at her, letting his knife blade skate its sharp edge up and down her neck. “Fortunately for you, I’m quite skilled at how to let blood from these delicious veins just enough to leave you weak and begging for more…”

Shadowheart eased the blade off the base of his neck, using one hand to brace herself on his chest as she brazenly rolled her hips. The growl that reverberated in his ribs beneath her splayed hand confirmed her suspicions. “Familiar, yet not identical. Earlier, you didn’t have a prominent erection, I don’t think…”

The slip of her hand provided just the right opportunity, and Astarion seized it. Well-fed as he was, it was less than an eye’s blink before he caught her wrist and wrenched it behind her back, staying her blade. Disarming her. Pinning her on top of his waist. “You were saying, Cleric?”

She tried to put up a good fight, wrenching her wrist, even as his fingers locked it firmly behind her middle. One exasperated grunt, followed by a “Fuck you, Astarion,” only made that feral and wicked smirk deepen as he smiled up at her. Her pulse was accelerating, her sweat gathered on her brow, and, with every desperate movement she attempted to free herself, another scent permeated the night air.

“Hmmmm,” he purred up at her, all innocent tone long gone as he rolled his hips into that gathering heat between her thighs, “you let your guard down, all because now I’m… dual-wielding?” He gave that insufferable, inane giggle, even more annoying as he kept it quiet. She bit her quivering lower lip as he thrust upwards again. “Ah yes, that’s right, keep it hushed and quiet. I wonder if you’d be more embarrassed to be caught with your legs spread for me or to be caught disarmed by a man you tried to threaten in his sleep… tsk.”

“Dual-wielding?” she scoffed, leaning forward so she could hiss her spite closer to his smirking, arrogant face. “You’re going to compare your cock to a weapon, conceited arsehole that you are?”

“Afraid? It could destroy you, if you’re not careful,” he sniggered. And this time, the way she rubbed her clothed sex over his length caught him just in the right place… right in that spot on his cock head. He swallowed the curse, still audible enough to make Shadowheart grin, “Hells below.”

“What's the matter?” She taunted, that sheen of sweat gathering on his brow encouraging her to move faster. The hand on his chest pushed harder, firm enough to feel the slow dirge-like thump of his undead heart race with arousal. “Don’t tell me your blade is dull…” she taunted, a childish pout on her impertinent lips, “or are you known to work too quickly with your blade to leave your victims unsatisfied.”

A breathless laugh from his slack jaw, and Astarion twisted her wrist captured behind her until it let go of her blade altogether. “You have no idea what I can do, do you little Cleric?” He growled, pulling her lower by the small of her back until their faces were inches apart, his own dagger blade still kissing her neck.

“I have little interest in learning,” she snapped in reply.

That only made him grin and pull her closer, “But you have… some… interest…”

She gasped, feeling those plush lips brush their cool fullness against her mouth, the slightest jerk of her head causing his blade to bite flesh. Just a little, just enough to run down the line of her jaw to her lips… to share a few drops from her mouth to his….

“Gods,” he groaned the second her blood was on his lips and over his tongue.

That one nick in her skin sliced the tension, and it left them both aching and starving. “I need more…” he practically whined, blade skating a little deeper to let just a touch more blood flow. Blood he eagerly lapped by kissing her roughly. He devoured her, exploring those parts of her warm wet mouth that tasted of copper and whatever it was that was her… her essence.

A flick of his wrist, and he tossed his own blade away, that hand now pressing into the back of her head. Turning, twisting, he needed to drink, to lick and suck up every bit of her blood that dared to well from the wound. Rapid, open-mouthed kisses on her jawline, he cleaned her. “More,” he rasped nearly silently against her skin, his tongue laving the path from her jaw to those panting lips of hers.

Fingers in her hair, he yanked her, rolling her over and into the dirt beside his bedroll. Her gasp of surprise made him smile, his mouth locked to hers, their tongues tangling, dueling with their own thrusts and parries. And she was his to pin and cage beneath him.

Shadowheart’s pulse raged, in her ears, her chest, even her cunt as he kept grinding against her sex with more and more need. Rutting, that’s what this was, his strong frame, a crush of pure muscle, pinning her to the dirt. Every snap of his hips grew increasingly desperate. Hungry. Harder. His hand gripped into her trousers, yanking them roughly lower over the curve of her hips. Her flushed skin prickled at the cool night air touched where she dripped and burned for more. And every little buck of her hips she made helped wriggled them to her knees and then ankles, letting the cool leather of his trousers press into her sex. Gods, he throbbed, still clothed and contained as he grinded against her.

Little growls tickled her ear with every frantic snap of his hips, that cool, wet tongue still sucking and cleaning the nick he drew in her flesh.

A single, cool digit slipped inside her cunt, and she moaned, loudly and wantonly, earning a heavy palm over her mouth to silence her. But its gag only allowed her to open that impertinent mouth again to whine louder even as his finger found that sweet spot of nerves in her channel and crooked his crooked touch right over them.

Walls clenched, wet arousal soaked his hand, and his palm vibrated with the muffled, half-swallowed whines he coaxed from her throat as she came. He could taste the change in her blood as it still seeped from neck, that heady tingle of arousal in her system as it coursed in her veins.

“More, I need more,” she mouthed beneath his grip.

Astarion chuckled, slowly as she tried her best to shimmy his own pants down. It was just enough to let his cockhead free, a little more and his erection pushed, flushed and rock hard, against her belly.

Another needy whine ripped from her throat, filled with eager hunger, a different kind than the ache in his belly. He needed to be inside… and the whimpers from her lips and the scent on his fingers all screamed her agreement. Astarion had to bite his own tongue to keep quiet as he slotted himself into her. But it wasn’t enough to keep her own desperate keening quiet.

A sound slipped from under his hand as it shook, grasp slipping as he was seated fully inside her cunt. Shadowheart whimpered, high pitched, loud enough to make Gale in the next bedroll rustle his sheets and puff in his slumber. Nearly waking. One heart raced as they both froze… both sets of lungs holding their breaths as they stilled and waited.

“Mmhmmphmm magic touch,” Gale muttered, sticky-mouthed in his sleep…. Then he snored in that rhythmic way of his.

Astarion wasted no time, determined not to let the wizard spoil his fun a second time. He gripped her waist, thrusting into her, sheathing to the hilt as those green eyes widened and rolled back in silent ecstacy. “Good girl,” Astarion dared to whisper, right into the creases of her short-pointed ear. Then, he swallowed the groan that nearly escaped as he started to fuck her in earnest. Elbows in the dirt, mouths pressed together, tongues fighting for taste and dominance… they battled to be the first to finish, to quench the teasing need that had simmered to boiling. “You like this, don’t you… speared on my cock?” he rasped, nearly breathless from the rapid pace he set as he fucked. “Feels good to lose every now and then, doesn’t it?”

Her blunted teeth sank into his lip, drawing a genuine hiss of cool breath from him, making his hips stutter in their timing. “You, vampire,” she growled against his devouring lips. “Bite me.”

His deep-chested laugh rumbled into her own frame. “Now with you, vicious minx, I need to know… ‘bite me’ as in piss off, or…” Trailing off, he let his silent, smirking lips press against her racing pulsepoint. “You just want to feel the attack on two fronts, don’t you? Fangs in your neck… split on my cock…”

She pulled his mouth up to hers and nipped him again, drawing a taste of his blood from the slit she made in that fleshy corner of his mouth.

He snarled into her near-silent laugh, a hand wrapped around her blue-black braid, and he pulled her neck back into reach, his cock hard and throbbing the moment his teeth bit flesh and blood gushed down his gullet. Tasting her climax first, he groaned against her skin as he sucked more and more from her, pushing her through that creating bliss. Fluttering walls, a belly filled with fresh blood, and Astarion’s fucking hitched and slowed and deepened as he flooded her. A few final thrusts, and all that tension released, leaving them bloodied, breathless. He rested his head in the curve of her shoulder, feeling the remnants of her warm blood pooling yet down her neck.

The night quieted back down until it was only the soft snuffle of snores and steadying out of her heartbeat beneath him.

Then she opened that insolent mouth again. “You’re cleaning this up,” she taunted. “Blades too.” Astarion lifted his head; eyes half-mast and chin sloppy with her blood. “And before you begin, no,” Shadowheart smirked, “you can’t just lick them clean…”

The next morning, gathering round the campfire, Gale couldn’t help but notice the way the Cleric and the Vampire sat near one another. “You two look the very picture of camaraderie, if I must say!” He handed Shadowheart a buttered bun and a hunk of cheese. “I am so very gratified you took my advice to sleep off your tempers. Now look at you! Thick as thieves!” Gale gloated, hands on his hips in a pose of triumph.

Astarion just snorted, pulling out his dagger to sharpen as everyone ate. And much to Gale’s mortified chagrin, he replied, “Yes, very clever. But a good midnight fucking works too…”

[kiwanopie]

“What does it look like to see crime lord!kiyoomi blow up at someone threatening the reader?”

cw: mention of bathroom (reader has to number one lmao), character death, death by suffocation

wc: 2.4k

His head immediately turns when he hears your voice calling out for him.

You’re breathtaking in your ball attire. Glowing under the balmy haze of ballroom crystal lights as you duck into his gaze. You’re radiant, and It’s a chore to look anywhere else as Kiyoomi scans the large hall, leaning in to get a better listen at your voice. “What’s up, angel?”

“Can you come with me to the bathroom?” You whisper. “I’m too nervous to go by myself.”

Kiyoomi pauses to delegate a pensive moment. He was supposed to mingle with OneSource’s people to check in on his annual contract bonding. ‘Course there’s no reason to think that anything has changed - they’d have a death wish to pull out from something like Sakusa Enterprises - but it’s etiquette, and it’s still important to maintain general communication. At the very least uphold his reputation as a studious businessman.

He traces the fullness of your eyelashes from where you look up at him. “Mhm.”

Kiyoomi reaches for your hand and leads you to the laboratory.

He’s not the least bit embarrassed to be leading his wife into the otherwise empty women’s bathroom. And even if it weren’t, he doubts he’d be any less unfazed. - Impassive still as he watches you glide your way into the cleanest stall and close the door behind you. Kiyoomi leans against the sink as he waits for you to finish your business.

“Can you turn the sink on? I don’t want you to hear me tinkle.”

“Tinkle?” Kiyoomi snorts as he fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Baby, I hear you tinkle every day in our bathroom. Just let it out.”

“Yeah, but this is a public place,” He can hear you pout. “And I’m already nervous. I don’t want you to make fun of me for spotting.”

Spotting. He quietly titters again. I mean, he’s brushed his teeth with you planted on the bowl before, a little piss staggering wouldn’t even faze him. But still he grabs a paper towel, and uses it to turn the nodule on one of the sinks.

“Thank you!” The better portion of your dress lifts over your heels.

It’s only a few moments that it takes till he’s hearing the telltale sound of an automatic toilet whir into the room. Even with his eyes planted on his phone, he sees you neaten your dress back down in his peripheral. Dark blues turn velvety in the bathroom lights, and pretty spaghetti straps fall loosely on your shoulders; and with the way your hair so lively shines as you walk, he’s nearly convinced that you’re an angel.

His eyes light up with familiar adoration as you approach him at the sink, the smile you pass him is enough to turn his cheeks flowery. “How long is this party gonna last for?”

“Till two, but we can leave earlier than that if you want.”

“Are you having fun?” The soap in your palms audibly squishes as you lather your hands.

Kiyoomi sighs through his nose. “I’m making good connections, but you know me. Huge crowds like these start to break me out in hives. The sooner we can get out of here, the better.”

You ring your hands in the sink. “That makes you and I both then. There’s so many important people here that I can’t help but worry. I don’t want you or anyone else to get hurt just cause some bastard has a vendetta.”

You move for the air dryer on the side of him. “I saw Onslaught and Shinobu wandering the halls together. Those two dudes make it desperately apparent that they despise us.”

“They’re attention seekers, angel. They - No, don’t use that.”

You look at him curiously as he moves you by the arm to the paper towel dispenser. “Those things are disgusting, they’re riddled with germs.”

He snatches a few out for you. “I doubt anyone here has ever bothered to disinfect these.”

You simper as you finally wipe your hands down. “Oh. Well, thank you for looking out for me, baby.”

“Always.”

Kiyoomi slides his phone in his pocket as you move for the mirror again. “They’re attention seekers,” He starts again. “They know what my status is, they know that you and I are the most prevalent family running the underground business nowadays. Anybody who’s anybody should know that the Sakusa’s have owned the better half of Asia for decades. - It’s easy for them to stay relevant when they’re feuding with the most powerful empire in the game; regardless of what risk they’re putting on their lives by doing that.”

You eye yourself in the mirror. “They’re cockroaches. They’re just feeding off us for a little bit of business talk. What will it take for them to understand that business doesn’t even exist if it doesn’t come from you in some way.”

The little boost to his ego already turns him pink, but the way you spin in the mirror has his lips curling over his teeth. “Yeah? You’re absolutely right.”

His reflection mirrors the way he reaches out for you, pulling you closer in his direction, and softly pinching your cheeks with his calloused fingers. “But it’s nothing you’ve gotta worry your pretty head about, huh? - You’re really cute..”

You pout up at him. “What if they pick a fight with us?”

Kiyoomi kisses his teeth. Uncoupling the little grip he has on your cheek to smooth it over with his thumb, and let his blithe gaze settle on the dip in your lips. “As if they’d be so stupid. Self preservation reigns, angel. They all know better.”

You give him somewhat of an unimpressed look. “Death isn’t the price you pay for slighting us, Omi.”

“You’re right,” He hums. “It’s the price they pay for slighting you.”

You lean into the kiss Kiyoomi presses gingerly onto your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Omi.”

“So much.”

“Show me.”

He leans in for another one. A little firmer, somewhat tailed by a quiet hum but the way you move forward to deepen it has him openly sighing into your mouth. Long, savory, tender lip smacking. - Smoothing his grip under your jaw till you’re all but making out like a couple of teenagers. That’s how you make him feel - like a teenager. Jittery and palm sweaty. Meekend as you moan into the kiss and he’s rapt by butterflies. Breathless when you part from him and still overdosing on that contact high.

God, “I love you so fucking much.” He sighs.

“I love you so much more.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t think something like that could be remotely possible.

_____

Kiyoomi pushes your seat in for you as you both take your spots at the grand table.

There are many very important faces here. From the face of your renowned husband, to well known yakuza leaders, - High ranking members of The Sinaloa Cartel, Solntsevskaya Bratva, Sun Yee On, and so forth. With this many dangerous people at one table, most controlling near global power, it isn’t unheard of to feel a little out of your wits. You can’t show your fear as much as you want to, sitting at this table with your husband means sharing the collective power he has - and representing it as well. Much like the other wives and spouses sitting with their respective criminal lovers, you keep your cool with a natural grace. Still pretty even as your palms start to sweat.

Ken Shōhei, leader of the sixth generation yellow fangs, raises his glass to propose a toast. He glitters with shined jewels and gaudy rings as they reflect in the chandelier light. You glance at his wife before glancing at him. Catching a less than friendly evil eye that chills you straight to the blue bone. If you had to guess, they’re friends of Onslaught. If you had to guess again, you’d say it’s probably upsetting to realize you’re not the hottest foreign wife in the room anymore.

“Beautiful people of this nation - of your respective nations,” He begins. “Let us take this moment to reflect on the novelty of such business making and our untaintable honor. To the choices we’ve made thus far that has led us here. The chances we take that - understandably shouldn’t work out in our favor - but has. Our fortune, our hard work, the allies we’ve made today and the friends we’ll make tomorrow. I propose a toast to us. To our virtues, and to our decency. Let us all come together and celebrate ourselves.”

His wife smiles as she picks up her glass. “To ourselves!”

The rest of the table brandish their cups and follow suit. “To ourselves!”

The chatter continues as most of them take a quick sip to their glasses.

Or well, all except for you and Kiyoomi, who’s got the flute halfway to his lips before you stop him in his tracks. “Wait, baby.”

“Hm?”

You lean in to whisper softly. “These glasses don’t smell clean.”

“Hm?” Kiyoomi furrows as he dips his nose in his champagne flute. “They don’t-? Oh. Ew.”

He reaches for your glass. “Don’t even touch that. We’ll sanitize our hands after they-“

Someone’s choking.

Someone’s hacking and gasping for air right in front of you. Loud enough to startle as your head whips in the direction of whoever it is coughing up a lung across the table, and Kiyoomi instinctively reaches for you - pulling you by the bicep as he prepares to step out of his seat.

It’s an appropriate knee jerk reaction for what actually unfolds in front of you. Kiyoomi forces you to your feet as Shōhei’s body crashes into the fine cloth of the grand table and sends the majority of their plates crashing down with him. His shrill wheezing cuts into the silence that befalls the group of leaders as they stare down at him. Twitching and flailing before finally seizing up and you all watch in horror as he eventually goes limp.

You all watch in dread as his wife follows. Nithya, Maciej, Jalmari, Takashi, and Yuina, dropping to the floor in similar fashion. Some fall back in their seats in an effort to save themselves, some face plant into their plates before unceremoniously hitting the ground, but they all meet the same fate. Foaming at the mouth and blue from asphyxiation, all poisoned by something lethal likely slipped into their drinks.

Kiyoomi is the first to break the long stunned silence, calling over one of his underlings to meet him at the table.

He shoves his drink in his face. “Drink this.”

The man does so without hesitation.

After a few long moments the faceless scout looks generally unharmed which immediately raises red flags, but it isn’t over yet.

He hands him his wife’s drink. “And this?”

Another sip, another few long moments.

And then he’s falling to the ground.

You both stare in sickened shock as he flails on the ground just as the other victims did. Gasping for air as his spit foams over and the vessels in his eyes burst from suffocation. He’s dead within a few tortuous minutes, and Kiyoomi all but turns blue.

He nearly breaks his back with how quickly he turns for you, already frantically cupping your face in his hands. “Did you eat anything on the table? Have you eaten anything?”

There are tears in your eyes, rightfully. “N-No.”

He’s shaking. It’s a rare moment of weakness for the revered kingpin. One of the most frightening, if not the most frightening man in all of Asia - glassy eyed at the realization of his lover coming so close to death. He’s pink under eyes, pupils twitching back and forth as he frantically scans your face for any sign of change. The men and women surrounding the two of you take pause. It’s clear this is a shock to you both. That the man in question would rather kill over than put his wife in harm’s way, especially one so gruesome. ~ But there’s layers to this collective suspension shared among the room. Shock, confusion, apprehensity.

Fear.

As expected Kiyoomi’s reaction is less than pleased.

“Miya!”

At the sound of Kiyoomi’s booming voice, Atsumu races into the ballroom and up to the table. “Boss- Whoa, holy shit.”

“Bring me the heads of everyone in the kitchen,” His voice is vitriolic. It sends shivers up the spines of every living body in here. “All except for the chef. Pack him up in the shuttle.”

The boldness of the demand knocks Shinobu out of his daze, he’s kissing his teeth not even a moment later. “Don’t just start giving orders like you-“

“Shut the fuck up, Shinobu. Be thankful I don’t start picking from the table!”

One of the other businessmen at the table speaks meekly. “W-Wait. Let’s just... Everyone just-“

“Enough!” Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. And even to the most lethal of men in the room do they quaver at the venom in his voice. Sakusa Kiyoomi is not known for being an angry man. A spiteful man, sure. Cold and callous and cruel, on his worst days a little psychotic. There’s a scowl on his face more often than not, a sneer almost in the way he speaks to his adversaries and enemies alike. He’s known for being a mean son of a bitch - the meanest, really. But not angry. Not down right irate. Not so wrathful in the way he addresses the crowd around him.

“Someone here,” He breathes. “Has made an enormous lapse in judgment. If not to the leaders we just lost at this table; than to threaten me - to threaten my wife, my family,”

He’s firm yet earnest in his efforts to keep you behind him, nearly yanking you back by your arm but you bump into his firm back with one of his hands fastened over your waist. “You must’ve all forgotten that there is no one on this earth who I can’t get my hands on - especially for something so despicable. Whether they're in that kitchen or in this room, every second of their worthless life is borrowed from me. - Goro!”

The host of the ball swallows as he answers quickly. “Yes, Sakusa-san, sir?”

“Get me the names of everyone who’s been in or out of this place within the last forty eight hours, not a minute short.”

“Yes, of course.”

Kiyoomi nods his head for his men to follow as he drags his wife out by the hand.

[poisonlove]

JEALOUSLY p.2 | m.a

jealously

Wednesday Addams watched Y/N from afar as if she had been ensnared by a spell. The fairy sat under a majestic tree, its foliage filtering the golden sunlight, enveloping her in an angelic and hypnotic aura. Sunbeams danced through the leaves, creating patterns of light that caressed her soft brown curls, making them shine like dark wood strands bathed in the morning dew.

With almost obsessive attention, Wednesday noticed every little detail: the delicate curve of her neck, the long, dark lashes that gracefully opened and closed as she read, her tongue that, at regular intervals, lightly grazed her lower lip in concentration. When something in the book intrigued her, her eyes would light up, a vibrant gleam that turned her beauty into enchantment. Y/N had her unique way of reading, a fascinating ritual. With nimble fingers, she turned the pages gracefully, sometimes delicately underlining the words that struck her the most. Her usually serene face came alive with a radiant expression of joy when she found a particularly touching sentence. Wednesday couldn't help but notice Y/N's small absentminded gestures, her fingers playing with strands of hair, gently touching the book cover, or toying with a blade of grass. It was as if the world around her had melted away, her focus solely on the magic of written words.

Wednesday remained there, admiring the scene with fascinated eyes, as if she had been transported to an enchanted world. It was a vision of beauty and grace that she would never forget.

Wednesday was consumed by an uncontrollable jealousy towards that book. Her jealousy was extreme, fueled by the way Y/N caressed it with her fingers. She ardently wished that those fingers would explore her body, entwine in her hair after every passionate kiss. Unconsciously, she bit her lower lip as she imagined Y/N on top of her, kissing her passionately and penetrating her with her fingers.

From being as cold as a stone statue, Wednesday had suddenly become a burning flame of passion.

"Obsession Addams is the only solution"she thought to herself.

Her eyes continued to enjoy the sight of Y/N, admiring her as if she were looking at the most beautiful painting exhibited in an art gallery. A deep sigh escaped from her lips, a lament of uncontainable desire.

Suddenly, Wednesday felt her blood freeze in her veins when she saw Xavier approaching her. The misunderstood artist from "Nevermore" sat down next to the fairy, causing Y/N to close her book.

A flash of anger flickered in Wednesday 's eyes when she saw Xavier push a strand of hair away from T/N's face during their brief interaction.

How dare he touch what she considered hers? How dare he touch her?

Wednesday clenched her teeth violently, and a growl erupted from the depths of her throat. Her blood boiled, and a fiery blaze burned in her stomach. Her fingers clenched into a fist as she struggled to control her immense anger.

That useless boy was about to experience her wrath.

Finally, she rose from her hiding place and hurriedly made her way towards her Beloved, who still didn't know she was hers. Y/N turned to her, wearing a confused smile at the unexpected visit from the ravenette. Xavier stopped laughing when he met Wednesday 's gaze, which radiated a chilling darkness.

"Oh, hello, Wed," the fairy exclaimed as she got up from the grass and quickly brushed off her uniform.

Every word Y/N spoke made Wednesday Addams feel like her heart was about to explode. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to regain the composure that her trembling knees had taken from her. She sighed deeply, maintaining an impassive expression as she looked at her fairy.

"Do you need anything?" Y/N asked, confused but also slightly excited. It seemed that she was finally having some kind of conversation with her crush, someone she had secretly admired for weeks.

Wednesday decided to get straight to the point, without mincing words. "See you tonight. Here. At 9 o'clock," she said with a determined tone, before turning around and walking towards the academy's entrance. The fairy looked at the silhouette of Wednesday walking away with confusion; their conversation had been brief and enigmatic.

However, Y/N had no intention of letting this opportunity slip away. Excitement and anticipation mixed in her chest as she mentally prepared herself for the upcoming date.

At exactly 8:30, Wednesday was already on her way to the rendezvous point, but she had an important matter to resolve first. Cautiously, she looked around for signs of life, ensuring that no one was watching her as she headed to Xavier's not-so-secret hiding place. The raven-haired girl sighed and silently entered the shed, where she knew she would find him.

Inside the shed, Xavier had his back turned, completely absorbed in his painting. His face lit up with a smile when he felt the door close behind him.

"Hello, Y/N, you know..." he began to say before he turned around, but his voice trailed off when he met Wednesday Addams' piercing gaze.

Something was clearly wrong, and Xavier felt uncomfortable under the ravenette's intense scrutiny. Instinctively, he took a step back.

Did he just say "Y/N"?

With a mocking smile on her lips, Wednesday slowly approached Xavier.

"So... you were expecting Y/N?" She asked with an innocent tone as she traced her fingers over the hanging paintings on the wall. A fire burned in her guts as she remembered the bastard touching her fairy. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Xavier noticed that the girl was wearing gloves, which increased his unease. He audibly swallowed.

Wednesday advanced towards Xavier, picked up a forgotten brush from the table, and drove it into the boy's thigh. A cry of pain escaped from Xavier's lips as he doubled over from the sudden and sharp pain.

Wednesday clenched her jaw tightly, applying more pressure to the open wound. Xavier, with pleading eyes, looked at the ravenette. Wednesday could feel the fear in his eyes, and she found it highly amusing.

"Why did you do it?" Xavier whimpered, struggling to hold back tears as he stuttered from the pain.

"She is mine. The next time you touch her, I'll stab it in your neck, not your thigh" Wednesday said in a low and threatening tone. Xavier nodded in desperation, making gestures to show he understood.

Wednesday got up and walked away from the boy, who was at that moment trying to remove the brush from his leg. With a victorious smile on her lips, Wednesday left the shed, removed her gloves, and put them in her backpack.

The night was taking an unexpected turn, and Wednesday was determined to ensure that Y/N was safe from any threat.

(...)

"Sorry for the delay" Wednesday said with a slight discomfort in her voice. The fairy turned to her and returned a nervous smile.

"Don't worry... you're right on time" Y/N replied simply, her eyes meeting Wednesday's. Addams looked away, feeling nervous about the intensity of her Beloved's gaze.

"Are you ready?" Wednesday asked with a smile as she took Y/N's hand, interlocking their fingers.

The heart of the raven-haired girl was beating strongly against her chest as she enjoyed the pleasurable contact of their entwined hands. She fervently wished that this touch would never fade away.

However, Y/N furrowed her brow when she noticed a red stain on Wednesday's right cheek. Without thinking twice, she raised her thumb and wiped the stain from her cheek. Wednesday sighed, feeling the warmth of her touch.

"Thanks. It's paint" Addams affirmed, offering a small smile, relieved that she could come up with an excuse quickly. She couldn't admit that it was Xavier's blood.

Unable to resist her impulses, the raven-haired girl leaned in to kiss her Beloved gently. Y/N's eyes widened in surprise as she felt Wednesday 's cold lips against hers, but she quickly surrendered to the kiss, smiling at the long-awaited magical moment.

Wednesday caressed Y/N's cheek, enjoying the softness of her skin and the deliciousness of her lips, which immediately became her addiction. She made a small smile when she noticed that the fairy's eyelids remained closed and her lips slightly parted.

"Let's go... I'll take you to a special place, Cara Mia" wednesday whispered, pronouncing the Italian nickname while smiling as she noticed the blush on the girl's cheeks.

Y/N didn't hesitate to take Wednesday's hand. She had complete trust in her, not only because she felt safe and protected but also because she knew that Addams would do everything possible to make her feel comfortable.

Wednesday tightened her grip, fearing that her Beloved might pull away. She hadn't stabbed Xavier in vain; Y/N was supposed to be hers, and the whole school had to know it if they didn't want to face her wrath.

[chosaraki]

Daniel Park's discovery about the life of the Weapon and its new reality.

—————————————————————————

Daniel was in an isolated training camp, with his fists protected by training gloves and heavy breathing. He looked forward, where Arma, his combat mentor, positioned himself with an impassive look. Training was more difficult than ever, and Daniel was being challenged to limits he never imagined. However, he knew that this training was the only way to improve, to become stronger, more capable of facing anything that fate imposed on him.

"Focus, Daniel. Strength is not only in the physical. It's in the mind and in the will to survive," Arma said, with a low and authoritative voice. He was standing still, watching Daniel's every move carefully.

The training was hard, but Daniel began to notice something peculiar. Between the punches and kicks, Arma often looked at the clock, as if he was waiting for something. Daniel, with his always curious mind, could no longer ignore. He approached Arma during a training break.

"Arm, do you... have a family?" Daniel questioned, panting.

Weapon, for a moment, seemed to hesitate, something rare for him. He lowered his eyes, as if thinking deeply before answering. "Yes. Three children. And a wife."

Daniel was surprised. He never imagined that Arma had a family. As far as he knew, Arma was always a lonely man and focused on his mission, but now he began to see a new layer of the man he had trained for so long. Curious, Daniel couldn't help but ask more.

"Why have you never talked about it before?" Daniel asked, trying to understand the relationship between the imposing mentor and his family life.

Arma looked at him with an enigmatic smile. "Because my work and my family are separate worlds. But now you're starting to understand what it means to live with the weight of both."

“But... how do you manage to balance your work life and your family? And your children... are they also... like you?"

Arma looked at him with a rare smile, something Daniel almost never saw. "My children are... unique. Chaotic, each with its peculiarities, but strong. As for my wife, she is Focused, kind, but with an inner strength that few can perceive. She also comes from a lineage of Yakuza, which complicates things even more."

Daniel was shocked by the revelation.

He could hardly imagine how this affected the dynamics of Arma's life. But one thing was clear: Arma had something that Daniel never imagined he could have. A family, with unpredictable and chaotic children, and a strong and loyal wife.

And now, as part of his own evolution, Daniel had to deal with this new perspective. Being trained by a weapon, which had a complex life full of responsibilities, began to make Daniel look at his own life differently. He knew he still had a lot to learn.

——————————————

A few weeks later, Daniel received an invitation from Arma to have dinner with his family. It was a unique opportunity, and he was nervous. When he arrived at Arma's house, he was immediately impacted by the environment. It was an elegant house, but with an informal touch. Arma, with its imposing presence, was contrasted by the chaotic energy of the children.

Arma's three children, as he had described, were there, each in their own world. The older one, a teenager, was playing video games with intensity, screaming at the monitor as if he were in a competition. The second, quieter, was sitting in the corner, reading a book, but with his eyes attentive to everything around him. The youngest, a child about eight years old, was jumping from one side to the other, apparently with energy for the rest of the day.

Arma was in a conversation with his wife, who was charming and radiant, despite her firmer nature, something that Daniel soon realized. She had the charisma, always with a welcoming smile, but with an intensity behind her eyes.

"Daniel, this is my home," Arma said, with a touch of softness in his voice.

Daniel looked at his children and wife, feeling the disconcerting feeling of being a stranger in the middle of that family energy.

Arma's wife approached him, with a kindness that seemed not to match her husband's nature. "Welcome, Daniel. I hope you have prepared your mind for the fun. Here, everyone has a unique way of doing things."

With a gentle smile, she turned to her eldest son, who was losing patience with the video game. "Kaito”, stop screaming. Your younger brother is trying to study."

Arma's children, although chaotic, had an energy that resembled their father's, a mixture of strength and determination. And, at the same time, there was something in them that reflected their mother's love and devotion.

Daniel thought to himself: "This is the real family of Arma, a microcosm of chaos and balance. Maybe I have a lot more to learn about loyalty and what it really means to be strong."

—————————————————————————

In an isolated training camp, Daniel Park discovers, through his mentor, Arma, that behind the ruthless mask of a warman there is a unique family. With chaotic children and an adorable wife with a strong personality, daughter of Yakuza, Arma reveals the hidden side of her life, where chaos mixes with love. On a night at Arma's house, Daniel observes this familiar dynamic, learning that true strength is not only in combat, but in the ability to maintain the balance between shadows and light.

How Daniel interacts with this family and how he sees this dynamic can be an important part of his journey, exploring his own role in the world and how he can relate to people who, although so different from him, share fundamental values.

—————————————————————————

In the following scenario I incorporated Shinichiro's personality into his wife.

Below there is a bow of what the wife would be like.

……………………………………………………………………………

[drauphemir]

[ artist @ TWT ] [ artist @ K-f ] [ artist @ VG ]

Art: NaegiTare Class: Commission @ VGen Characters: Kōhei Senjō © @yugenides, Rurika Sasaki © Oceannist

// 08.2024

[exponentchunk]

Damsel

Thrawn x fem!reader

No warning just reader being a flirt and it’s hella long.

**This is my first fic I have ever written so PLEASE be gentle with me lmao**

*This was base of a dream I had and the story between my oc and Thrawn but I changed it so all could enjoy!*

The warmth of the academy lounge was a welcome reprieve from the biting winter wind outside. Cadets gathered in groups, the buzz of laughter and conversation filling the air as they relished the start of winter break. At a corner table, Thrawn and Eli sat with (y/n), their conversation a curious mix of formality and casual banter.

(y/n) leaned forward slightly, her smile warm as she addressed the two. “So, what do you both have planned for the break? Any big adventures?”

Eli chuckled, shaking his head. “Nothing too exciting. Maybe catch up on some reading or explore the city a bit. What about you?”

“I was thinking about heading out with some friends tonight,” (y/n) replied, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. “It’s been a long semester, and we could all use a little fun.”

Thrawn observed her quietly, his expression as composed as ever. “And how do you define ‘fun,’ Cadet?” he asked, his voice calm but curious.

(y/n) tilted her head, a playful glint in her eyes. “You’ll see if you come along,” she teased.

Before either of them could respond, another voice chimed in from across the room.

“(y/n)! (y/n)! Come on, we need to get ready for tonight!” a girl calls out, rushing toward (y/n).

Thrawn observes the interaction curiously, his sharp gaze following the girl’s approach.

Eli glances between them, intrigued. “What’s happening tonight?”

(y/n) smiles. “It’s winter break, so a bunch of our classmates are going out dancing.”

Thrawn’s brows furrow slightly, his expression remaining composed but betraying his disinterest in the concept of “dancing.” Eli, on the other hand, perks up.

“Dancing, huh? Got a specific place in mind?” he asks, his enthusiasm apparent.

“Yeah, 79’s! You guys should come. It’s a great way to meet people!” (y/n) replies cheerfully.

Thrawn’s expression remains stoic, though inwardly, he cringes at the idea of attending such an event. Eli, however, grins.

“79’s? Sounds like fun. We might have to check it out.”

(y/n)’s friend tugs on her arm. “(y/n), hurry up!”

(y/n) glances back at Thrawn and Eli. “I gotta go, but I hope to see you both there!” She flashes a warm smile, her gaze lingering on Thrawn for a moment before she rushes off.

Thrawn nods politely, his face revealing nothing. Eli gives her a genuine smile.

“We’ll think about it,” Eli promises.

Thrawn watches her leave, a small, reluctant spark of curiosity stirring within him at the idea of seeing her outside their usual environment.

Eli notices the flicker of interest in Thrawn’s otherwise impassive demeanor. “You don’t look too excited about dancing,” Eli teases.

Thrawn exhales lightly. “I find little appeal in such frivolous social engagements.”

Eli chuckles. “You might be surprised. It could be… enlightening to observe our classmates in a more relaxed setting.”

Thrawn raises a brow, sensing there’s more to Eli’s suggestion than meets the eye. “How so?”

Eli shrugs, a sly smile forming. “Let’s just say you might gain some interesting insights—especially about Cadet (y/n).”

Thrawn’s gaze sharpens momentarily, though his expression remains calm. “Indeed. Observing her in a different context could prove… informative.”

Eli grins, satisfied. “That’s the spirit. We’re going.”

A Few Hours Later

(y/n), dressed in a tasteful purple dress that compliments her curves without being ostentatious, dances with her friends at the bar. Her (h/c) hair flows freely as she moves with confident ease.

Thrawn and Eli enter the bustling club, immediately drawing curious glances. Thrawn scans the room with precision, noting the faces and chaotic energy of the scene.

Eli leans in. “See anything interesting?”

Thrawn’s gaze lands on (y/n), her vibrant dress and radiant energy catching his attention. “Yes,” he says simply, his tone calm yet deliberate.

Eli follows his line of sight and smirks. “Looks like she’s having a good time.”

Thrawn doesn’t respond, his eyes lingering on her graceful movements. Despite the noise and chaos, she stands out, exuding a confidence and charm that captivates him.

Noticing her wave in their direction, Thrawn registers a flicker of surprise but offers a polite nod in return.

Eli nudges him playfully. “She saw us.”

“Indeed,” Thrawn replies, his tone measured as he continues to observe her.

Eli, sensing his friend’s intrigue, grins. “You’re staring.”

“I am observing,” Thrawn counters firmly.

Eli chuckles, leaving to grab a drink.

As Thrawn scans the crowd again, he realizes (y/n) is no longer visible. A faint hint of irritation tugs at him, though he maintains his composure.

“Not a fan of large crowds, are you?” (y/n)’s voice startles him from behind.

Thrawn stiffens briefly before turning to see her, an amused glint in her eyes. “Cadet,” he greets, quickly regaining his composure. “What makes you assume that?”

“You seem like the type who’d prefer a quiet library to a nightclub,” (y/n) teases.

Thrawn considers her words, finding them surprisingly accurate. “A fair assessment. The noise and proximity of so many people make it difficult to interpret their behaviors.”

(y/n) tilts her head, intrigued. “Do you struggle with social cues?”

Thrawn’s brow lifts slightly. “You are observant, Cadet. Yes, understanding subtle social dynamics does not come naturally to me.”

“Me neither, sometimes,” (y/n) admits, surprising him. “I overthink them because of my anxiety.”

Thrawn studies her, intrigued by her vulnerability. “So, it is the overanalysis of cues rather than the cues themselves that poses a challenge?”

“Exactly. It depends on the situation. Big crowds or important events make it worse.”

Thrawn nods thoughtfully. “Managing emotional responses in such settings requires discipline. Have you found effective methods?”

“Breathing exercises and meditation have helped a lot,” she replies.

Thrawn’s eyes glint with respect. “An admirable approach. Meditation cultivates clarity and calm—a valuable skill.”

(y/n) smiles. “What’s your ideal night out, then?”

Thrawn pauses. “A tranquil environment conducive to intellectual pursuits or strategic planning. Certainly not one involving flailing limbs and chaotic noise.”

(y/n) laughs softly. “Maybe you just haven’t found the right style of dance yet.”

Thrawn smirks faintly. “Perhaps. But I doubt I would find it efficient.”

“Let’s test that theory,” (y/n) says, finishing her drink and grabbing her coat.

Thrawn hesitates. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll show you. Trust me,” she replies, her confidence infectious.

Thrawn considers her offer before rising to follow. “Lead the way, Cadet.”

(y/n) leads them out of the bar and into the city, guiding Thrawn through the vibrant nightlife of Coruscant. The bustling streets, alive with activity, stand in stark contrast to the tranquility he prefers, but his curiosity keeps him engaged.

"May I inquire as to where we're headed?" he asks, his deep voice steady.

“No, that’s spoilers,” (y/n) replies with a smirk.

Thrawn raises an eyebrow at her teasing response, intrigued by her secrecy. "Very well," he says, a hint of amusement in his tone. "I shall await the mystery."

(y/n) sighs, looking up at him. “You said flailing limbs and rhythmic shuffling was ‘inefficient.’ I’m going to show you that you’re wrong!”

Thrawn’s smirk grows slightly. "Such confidence, Cadet. I am curious to see how you plan on proving me wrong."

They arrive at the Imperial Ballet, its grand facade illuminated against the night. (y/n) stops to admire the beautiful building. Thrawn pauses beside her, his eyes scanning the intricate architecture.

"Impressive," he remarks. "A place of culture, it seems."

(y/n) glances up at him. “Come on!” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward a nearby alleyway.

Caught off guard, Thrawn allows himself to be led, curiosity flickering in his expression. "Where exactly are we headed?" he asks.

(y/n) reaches the alley, spotting a fire escape ladder that stops just above her head. With a frustrated sigh, she removes her heels and turns to Thrawn. “Give me a boost!”

Thrawn observes her for a moment before stepping forward. "A rather... unconventional path," he notes with a faint trace of amusement. Nevertheless, he cups his hands, ready to lift her. "Up you go, Cadet."

“Don’t look up my dress,” (y/n) jokes, slipping off her heels.

Thrawn rolls his eyes but refrains from looking. "Do you ever stop with the relentless flirting?" he says slightly annoyed.

“Not when it comes to you, Lieutenant,” (y/n) replies with a mischievous smile as she climbs up.

Thrawn shakes his head, faint amusement tugging at his lips. "You are quite bold, I will give you that."

(y/n) disappears through a window, leaving him momentarily alone. He waits patiently until the door below swings open, revealing her triumphant grin.

"Ah, there you are," Thrawn says, his tone even. "What is the purpose of this... secret entrance?"

“I don’t want to pay for a ticket just to prove you wrong. Besides, where we’re going has the best seat in the house,” (y/n) replies with a sly smile.

Thrawn arches an eyebrow, impressed by her audacity. "Ah, so we are trespassing," he remarks, shaking his head. "I should have known."

“It’s not trespassing; it’s appreciating art for free!” (y/n) retorts as she begins climbing another ladder.

Thrawn follows her, his movements precise and quiet. "An interesting perspective on the situation," he says dryly. "I hope your 'appreciation' does not involve breaking more rules."

“Nope, this is it,” (y/n) responds as she perches on a walkway overlooking the stage below.

Thrawn settles beside her, his gaze falling on the ballet performance. "I must confess," he murmurs, "this is not exactly the kind of 'dancing' I had in mind when I made my earlier comment."

Below, a duet unfolds, the male dancer lifting his partner with effortless grace. (y/n) watches, a soft smile on her face. “Not all dances are loud and obnoxious. I thought this would be more your style.”

Thrawn studies the intricate choreography, his keen eyes noting the precision in every movement. "Hm, I stand corrected," he admits reluctantly. "This is... graceful and precise. However, I still maintain that it is inefficient for combat."

“That’s where you’re also wrong. Have you not seen me fight?” (y/n) counters, her tone playful yet confident.

Thrawn leans back slightly, considering her words. "Indeed, I have witnessed your fighting prowess. You move with speed and precision—your combat skills are formidable." He pauses, his gaze shifting back to the dancers. "But tell me, how does something like this, ballet, benefit someone in combat?"

(y/n) gestures toward the female dancer below. “Watch her,” she says with a knowing smile.

Thrawn focuses on the dancer, analyzing her movements. Her footwork is delicate, her balance impeccable, and her control over every motion speaks to immense discipline.

“You study art to learn your opponent’s moves; this is another form of art. So study it,” (y/n) explains.

Thrawn nods, impressed by her insight. "You have a point," he concedes. "Ballet, like art, is a form of expression through movement. Analyzing it can provide insight into the body control and precision required for combat."

He watches intently, his analytical mind dissecting every detail. "The female dancer's footwork... it’s delicate, precise. She utilizes her core strength to maintain balance and control."

“Do you see it now?” (y/n) asks, her smile widening.

Thrawn considers her question, a hint of admiration glimmering in his eyes. "I see," he replies thoughtfully. "Ballet demands incredible discipline, precision, and control. It is not merely a performance but a demonstration of technical prowess. In that sense, perhaps I was wrong in assuming it to be inefficient for combat."

(y/n) laughs, nudging him playfully with her elbow. “Does saying you’re wrong happen a lot to you?”

Thrawn smirks, meeting her gaze with a glint of humor. "Admittedly, it does not happen often. But I am capable of admitting when I am incorrect."

He glances at her, a touch of amusement in his gaze. "Are you planning on reminding me of this often?"

“Maybe we shall see,” (y/n) says, bumping his elbow lightly.

"You enjoy challenging my confidence, don't you?" Thrawn remarks, his smirk lingering.

“And you enjoy the challenge,” (y/n) replies with a knowing look.

Thrawn holds her gaze, a subtle spark of understanding passing between them. "I admit, your unique perspective and audacity do keep things... interesting," he says, his voice tinged with amusement.

“Not exactly a compliment, but I’ll take it,” (y/n) says with a smile, turning her attention back to the performance.

Thrawn’s expression softens as he follows her gaze. "You are a unique individual, Cadet," he says with quiet respect. They sit in companionable silence, watching the ballet in the soft glow of the stage lights.As the peaceful silence stretches between them, Thrawn’s analytical mind begins to stir. His thoughts drift to (y/n)’s familiarity with this hidden spot. Given her connection to Colonel Yularen, her knowledge of this clandestine entrance piques his curiosity. He casts a discreet glance her way, noting her composed demeanor. The question lingers in his mind: how did she and her friend stumble upon such a secluded location?

Breaking the quiet, he tilts his head slightly and speaks, his tone casual yet probing. "Cadet," he begins, "I am curious... How exactly did you come to discover this... unique entrance to the theatre?"

(y/n) keeps her gaze fixed on the ballet below, her tone light as she answers, "My friend and I found it one winter."

Thrawn’s sharp gaze narrows slightly, intrigued by the simplicity of her reply. "In the middle of winter, you say?" he echoes, the detail catching his attention. "And you were just... wandering around the theatre, stumbled upon the fire escape, and decided to explore?"

“Hmm? Oh, uh, yeah,” (y/n) replies distractedly, only half paying attention to him.

Thrawn’s eyebrow arches ever so slightly, the faintest trace of skepticism slipping into his tone. "Just a casual wandering during a winter night, and stumbled upon this hidden entrance?" he repeats, leaning forward slightly as he studies her face. "Seems like quite a convenient discovery for two young women wandering around in the cold..."

(y/n) heard Thrawn's skepticism and wondered if he was starting to catch on to her past. She looked up at him, about to say something, when a man’s voice called out, “Hey! Who’s up here?”

Thrawn’s eyes widened slightly at the sudden interruption, his mind already assessing their situation.

“It seems we have been discovered,” he said tersely, scanning their surroundings for an escape route.

“Shit, follow me!” (y/n) hissed, springing to her feet and running.

Thrawn followed without hesitation, his calm demeanor slipping just a fraction.

“Where exactly are we going?” he asked, his tone edged with urgency. “Another convenient escape route?”

“I wouldn’t say convenient,” (y/n) shot back, reaching a window and glancing down.

Thrawn stepped up beside her, peering down at the street below.

“I’m going to assume you have a plan beyond jumping out of the window?” he remarked dryly, his brow arching.

“Not really. You’re going to jump out of the window,” (y/n) said bluntly.

Thrawn blinked, momentarily taken aback by her audacity.

“Excuse me, what?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his voice. “You want me to jump out of a window?”

(y/n) rushed to grab a rope nearby, tying it to a pole.

“Here—now it’s not really jumping!” she said, tossing the rope to him. “Hurry!”

Thrawn eyed the rope, his mind quickly calculating.

“You expect me to rappel down a theater using this?” he asked, his tone tinged with resignation and reluctant admiration for her resourcefulness.

“STOP ASKING QUESTIONS AND GO!” (y/n) snapped, her voice low but urgent as the man’s footsteps grew closer.

With a grimace, Thrawn grabbed the rope.

“Understood,” he said curtly. In one fluid motion, he swung out of the window, beginning his descent with practiced precision.

(y/n) leaned out to watch him, the man’s footsteps growing louder. She grabbed her heels and tossed them out the window after Thrawn. One of them narrowly missed his head.

Thrawn paused mid-descent, glancing up sharply.

“Do try to have better aim when throwing things!” he called up, his voice edged with mild irritation.

“Sorry!” (y/n) whisper-yelled, gripping the rope and starting her own descent. Her hands trembled slightly as she struggled to steady herself.

“Careful!” Thrawn called up, his tone carrying a rare note of concern. “Take it slow!”

Thrawn reached the ground with ease, immediately scanning the area to ensure it was clear. His gaze then snapped upward, watching (y/n)’s progress with a mix of anxiety and admiration.

She was halfway down when her foot slipped. With a gasp, she lost her grip and plummeted toward the ground.

“Kriff!” Thrawn cursed, his instincts taking over. He positioned himself directly below her, bracing for impact.

(y/n) landed squarely on top of him, the force sending them both tumbling backward. Thrawn hit the ground flat on his back, his arms instinctively cradling her to absorb the worst of the fall.

For a moment, they lay there, winded and disoriented. Thrawn stared up at the sky, his chest heaving from the adrenaline, while (y/n) rested her head on his chest.

She looked up at him sheepishly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Thrawn’s gaze shifted to hers, their faces mere inches apart. He could feel the rapid beat of her heart against him.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice breathless but laden with concern.

(y/n)’s cheeks flushed as she nodded, then began to laugh softly.

Thrawn blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her reaction. The corners of his lips quirked upward despite himself.

“You find our predicament funny, do you?” he asked, his tone tinged with dry amusement.

“Kinda,” (y/n) admitted, laughing harder as she started to get up.

Thrawn winced as she shifted off of him but maintained his composure.

“I’m glad to provide some amusement,” he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

As they helped each other to their feet, Thrawn cast a wary glance around.

“We should vacate the premises before we are discovered,” he said quietly.

“Agreed,” (y/n) said, grabbing one of her heels and scanning the ground for the other.

“Hey, you two!” the man from earlier shouted from the far end of the alley.

Thrawn immediately stepped in front of (y/n), his body shielding her from view. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation.

“That sounds like our cue to depart,” he murmured, his voice calm but urgent.

As they began to run, (y/n) glanced back.

“My heel!” she cried, pointing to the one still lying on the ground near Thrawn.

Thrawn hesitated briefly, exasperation flickering across his features.

“Your heel?” he repeated, muttering under his breath as he grabbed it.

They ran for several blocks, finally stopping when they were a safe distance away. (y/n) doubled over, laughing as she tried to catch her breath.

“You find this entire ordeal entertaining, don’t you?” Thrawn asked, his composure returning as he observed her with mild bewilderment.

“Yes, yes I do,” (y/n) said between breaths. “How can you not? We just jumped out of a window after sneaking into a ballet. That’s so random!”

Thrawn, despite his usual stoicism, can't suppress a small smirk.

"I must admit, it has been rather... unconventional night, both in entrance and exit." His tone holds a hint of dry amusement, his reserved demeanor slipping ever so slightly.

(y/n) slipped on her remaining heel and looked at Thrawn, who still held the other one in his hand.

Thrawn raised an eyebrow as he observed her unbalanced attempt at footwear.

“Are you planning to hobble the rest of the way?” he asked, his tone betraying a faint hint of humor.

“Hopefully, the gentleman holding the other heel will be gracious and help the damsel in distress,” (y/n) replied, her voice laced with playful sass.

Thrawn’s lip twitched as he fought a smile.

“The damsel in distress?” he repeated incredulously. “You are the furthest thing from a damsel in distress I have ever met.”

He held up the heel, regarding it with amusement.

“But I shall assist you, my lady.”

With that, he knelt, holding the heel steady for her. His movements were deliberate and surprisingly gentle as he helped her slide her foot into it.

(y/n) felt the softness of his touch, her heart skipping slightly.

Thrawn’s gaze flickered to hers briefly as he finished.

“There,” he murmured, his voice warm. “The damsel is no longer in distress.”

(y/n) blushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Uh, thank you for catching me back there,” she said, trying to move past the moment.

Thrawn stood, noticing the faint color in her cheeks. His gaze softened as he responded,

“You’re welcome. Though I must admit, your tendency to get into... predicaments is becoming a concerning pattern.”

“Hey, I may get myself into predicaments, but I always get myself out of them,” (y/n) retorted, folding her arms and pouting slightly.

Thrawn raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Indeed, you do have a remarkable talent for finding trouble—yet also for escaping it unscathed.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her pout.

“Though, I dare say, the latter wouldn’t be necessary if you avoided the former.”

“If I didn’t have the first skill, I wouldn’t get to have you help me with the second one,” (y/n) said, stepping closer with a smirk.

Thrawn felt an uncharacteristic warmth spread through his chest, but he maintained his steady demeanor.

“Are you suggesting that your penchant for trouble exists solely to give me the opportunity to rescue you?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“Oh no,” (y/n) replied with a sly grin. “But it’s definitely a side benefit.”

Thrawn’s composure wavered slightly as he regarded her.

“I see. So you don’t just get into trouble for the pleasure of having someone like me save you?” he asked, his voice steady despite the fluttering in his chest.

“I hope it doesn’t break your heart to know that I don’t,” (y/n) teased, her smile softening. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

Thrawn held her gaze, his usual stoicism slipping as his tone softened.

“I have no doubt you’re capable, Cadet. You are quite... formidable.”

A quiet moment passed between them, the air thick with unspoken tension. Finally, Thrawn broke the silence, his voice warmer than before.

“Though it may benefit us both if you avoided getting into trouble in the first place.”

(y/n) tilted her head with a flirtatious smile.

“If that’s what you want, I’ll try. But I won’t make any promises.”

Thrawn’s composure cracked slightly as he returned her gaze.

“I’ll take your attempts to stay out of trouble with a grain of salt,” he said, his voice tinged with dry humor.

Without thinking, he raised a hand, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was intimate, unconscious, and entirely out of character for him.

(y/n)’s (e/c) eyes searched his face, catching the cracks in his stoic exterior as a softer expression surfaced.

Thrawn gazed down at her, his composure faltering under her penetrating stare.

“You have a way of... breaking down my composure, Cadet,” he murmured, his voice unusually quiet.

(y/n) searches Thrawn's eyes, her voice soft with curiosity. “Do I?”

Thrawn's gaze deepens, his usually impenetrable demeanor beginning to waver. A warmth spreads through his chest—an unfamiliar, unnamable sensation.

"Yes, you do..." he whispers, his voice barely audible.

His hand hovers near her face, drawn by an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch her. For a moment, he is lost in her presence. Then reality reasserts itself, and he realizes how close they’ve become.

Thrawn clears his throat, taking a subtle step back. “Perhaps... we should continue the walk back, Cadet. It’s getting late.” His voice carries a slight strain, betraying the effort it takes to regain his composure.

(y/n)’s heart sinks, but she hides her disappointment with a light tone. “Yes! You’re right. It’s getting late—and cold.”

Thrawn nods, a quiet moment passing as he centers himself. “Indeed. Walking back is wise,” he agrees, his voice settling into its usual steadiness. Yet, as they resume their walk, he finds his thoughts drifting back to her. Despite himself, he steals glances at her, the memory of their shared moment lingering.

As they approach the academy steps, (y/n) breaks the silence. “I hope you had fun. I’m glad I convinced you and Eli to come to the club tonight. Though I bet this wasn’t the evening you had planned.”

Thrawn manages a faint smile, his thoughts still tangled in unfamiliar emotions. “You certainly have a knack for... unexpected surprises,” he replies with a trace of amusement.

He turns to her, his expression softening as warmth flickers in his eyes. “But... I did have a good time tonight. Thank you, Cadet.”

(y/n)’s smile mirrors his warmth. “I’m glad you did, Lieutenant.”

Thrawn hesitates, the moment stretching between them. Finally, he extends his hand, his voice unexpectedly gentle. “Let me escort you to your quarters. It is late, and you should get some rest.”

(y/n) smiles, slipping her arm through his. “Thank you,” she says softly as he begins to lead her down the corridor.

Their pace is slow, the silence between them charged with unspoken words. Thrawn is acutely aware of the light pressure of her arm against his, a subtle but electrifying sensation.

When they arrive at the dormitory hall, he reluctantly releases her arm. “Here we are, Cadet,” he murmurs, his voice quieter than usual.

“Thank you for accompanying me on my late-night adventure, Lieutenant,” (y/n) replies, her tone equally soft.

Thrawn feels an unwelcome pang of reluctance as the moment draws to a close. Still, he maintains his composure. “You’re welcome, Cadet.” His voice is gentler than he intends, and his gaze lingers on her face longer than proprietary would permit.

Taking a step back, he adds, “I advise you to get some rest. Nightly escapades are not the most... productive of activities.”

(y/n)’s lips curve into a mischievous smile. “Depends on the activities.”

Thrawn’s breath catches at her teasing remark. He averts his gaze briefly, struggling to keep his usual stoic demeanor. “I suppose it does,” he concedes, his tone slightly strained.

Thrawn takes a deep breath, trying to keep his composure from fully breaking.

“But even so, it is late, and you should rest... Cadet.”

(y/n) chuckles softly, her amusement lighting up her face. “Yes, sir. Goodnight.”

Her smile lingers in his mind as she speaks, her voice gentle and warm. For a moment, Thrawn is struck by a sensation so unfamiliar it almost unnerves him.

“Goodnight, Cadet,” he murmurs, his voice a low whisper. He resists the urge to reach out and touch her again, his hands clenching slightly at his sides.

He watches her disappear into her quarters, standing still until he hears the soft click of the door locking, ensuring her safety. Only then does he turn away, his steps heavy with thought.

As he walks back to his own quarters, the evening replays in his mind—the ballet, their unexpected escape, the quiet, intimate moments shared. Each memory stirs something new within him, a mix of warmth and weightlessness he has yet to fully understand.

[noona-clock]

Fourever 🍀 Welcome to the Show

Genre: Bookstore!AU, Fluff

Pairing: Dowoon x You

Words: 1,659

Welcome to the Show 🍀 Happy 🍀 The Power of Love 🍀 Get the Hell Out 🍀 Sad Ending 🍀 Let Me Love You 🍀 Didn't Know

I'm so moved by the stage That I won't be alone any longer Among all of the possibilities Thank you for choosing me The future that you're welcoming with me might be risky But there might also be tear-filled impassion

Dowoon let out a shaky exhale as he anxiously tapped one drumstick against his thigh. His gaze flitted around, and seeing all of the familiar bookshelves and cozy chairs actually did a lot to calm his nerves. The only other thing that could help would be seeing you, but if he so much as peeked around the curtain next to the small stage in the back of the bookstore, he would see everyone else in the audience, too. And that would most decidedly not help.

It had taken him years to get to this point, and chickening out now would disappoint not only himself but you, too. You wouldn't tell him you were disappointed, but he knew you would be deep down.

Suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly), the urge to see you was almost overwhelming. He knew you were out in the audience, probably not even ten feet away from him at this very moment -- the bookstore wasn't a huge place, after all. All he really wanted was to say 'thank you.' Up until tonight, Dowoon had been too scared to even think about drumming in front of other people, but you had gently pushed him to share his talent. He didn't have to ever go on stage again, not even at the bookstore's Open Mic night; just once would be enough.

And, eventually, Dowoon had fallen so deeply for you that he agreed. The smile on your lips and the squeal his acquiescence had elicited from you had warmed his heart and quelled his nerves.

So, if he could only see you for just a minute right now, just to say 'thank you for believing in me' and wrap you in a quick but tight embrace, he knew he would be able to get up on that stage without a care in the world.

Even so, if you won't let go of my hand If so (If so) Then let's go (Let's go) Welcome to the show I promise you this much I'm going to give my all So, the look in your eyes won't be shaken I'll be standing and looking towards you

Alas, just as Dowoon was reaching into his pocket to send you a text, the emcee for the Open Mic night (the manager of the bookstore) announced the next act -- Dowoon's band.

Technically, it wasn't his band. It was a local band he'd joined a couple of months ago after their drummer moved away. But still.

"And some of you may recognize the drummer," the manager said, her grin apparent in her voice. "He's been working here at The Pagemaster for almost four years -- our very own Dowoon!"

Dowoon's stomach dropped down to his feet. His cheeks almost instantly flamed. He should've known this was coming since his manager, Hanna, had been delighted when she'd heard the news.

But, still? Had it been necessary to point him out like that?!

Somehow, Dowoon followed his bandmates out onto the small stage, though he kept his eyes glued to his shoes rather than look out in the audience. When he sat down behind his drum set, though, he kind of had no choice but to face the audience, so he swiftly found you -- the only person in this bookstore right now (and maybe in the world?) around whom he didn't feel nervous. His anchor, his rock, his home.

A wide, radiant grin appeared on your lips the second your gazes met, and Dowoon imagined the feeling of your hand in his. He imagined you standing right in front of him, blocking out every other person so it seemed as if he were only playing to you.

As the band's frontman was introducing their first song, you discreetly formed a heart with your fingers and mouthed 'I believe in you.'

Honestly, that was all he needed. As soon as the guitarist turned around to give Dowoon the signal, he lifted his drumsticks into the air and counted them off to begin.

Let's go.

I know your decision was not easy It's my part to make you not regret it If you're willing to go to the end together Still holding onto your hand Even on the day that the curtains come down So that we can say to each other That I was happy because it was you

You were so proud of Dowoon that you almost started crying tears of joy. But you could still see the anxiety on his face, and if he saw you crying, it certainly wouldn't help things.

So, to distract your mind, you began thinking of how you and Dowoon met all those months ago...

You had just moved to town not even a week before you walked through the doors of The Pagemaster, a locally-owned bookstore about a five-minute walk from your new place. The stress of moving and unpacking had gotten to you, and you'd decided to notch out some time to unwind with a new book -- escapism and retail therapy. What better ways to cope, am I right?

It hadn't been one of those meet-cutes where you'd seen Dowoon across the room and were pulled by the Universe to go speak with him. You had interacted with him on that first visit, yes, but things had happened gradually. In fact, it had taken you about two months to realize you were visiting The Pagemaster at least once a week not fully to buy or browse new books, but more to see a certain dark-haired, soft-spoken employee.

And then, on your first date a few weeks later, Dowoon had mentioned that he played the drums.

"Wait, how did I not know this already?" you'd gasped, your brow furrowed. "Are you playing at Open Mic Night next weekend?"

Dowoon had immediately shaken his head and murmured, "No, it's just a hobby."

"So? Open Mic Night isn't just for professionals. Actually, that's the whole point! You should sign up and play something!" you'd assured him, reaching out to rest a gentle hand on his arm.

"Nah... I don't think so."

It had taken a bit of delicate prodding to find out Dowoon had just been scared to play in front of people. A classic case of Stage Fright!

So, you'd made it your mission to find a local band in need of a drummer so he wouldn't have to be on the stage by himself.

And now here you were! Many, many dates later, and you were finally watching your boyfriend play drums at Open Mic Night. You were doing your best to catch his eye as often as possible so you could smile encouragingly and quietly clap for him -- he had been nervous for at least a week, and you didn't want him to regret doing this. Even if he never did it again, you wanted him to be glad he'd done it at least once.

Honestly, though, you would absolutely be disappointed if he decided to never drum again after tonight because boy did he look cute doing it!

I promise you this much I'm going to give my all So, the look in your eyes won't be shaken I'll be standing and looking towards you

At first, when Dowoon had seen you stand from your chair and politely squeeze by the people sitting in your row, he'd panicked. The final song was almost over, but he had a drum solo near the end, and he didn't think he'd be able to get through it if you weren't in the audience!

But then he realized you were simply making your way to the side of the stage so you could be there to greet him when the band's set was done.

Thank goodness.

Your closeness gave Dowoon that extra boost of courage, and when his drum solo came around, he really gave it all he had. He clamped his eyes shut so he could just feel the music.

And when the bookstore filled with applause before he was even finished, his eyes flew open and landed on you. He could see from here that there were tears in your eyes, but you were smiling so widely and clapping so enthusiastically that he knew they were tears of joy. Or maybe... pride?

He was certainly proud of himself for overcoming his stage fright, and if he was being honest, if the roles were reversed, he would probably be overflowing with emotion, too.

The applause was still going strong as the band's frontman thanked everyone and then turned to leave the stage. Dowoon swiftly stood, slid his drumsticks into his back pocket, and practically leaped over his cymbal stand to get to you.

"You were amazing!" you whisper-shouted the second he reached you, flinging your arms around his neck.

A shy smile tugged at Dowoon's lips as he hugged you back. He could hear you sniffling above the noise of the crowd and his manager introducing the next act, so he discreetly reached up to take your arm and began to lead you back to the corner of the store where the cozy mystery section was.

"You were so so amazing," you repeated softly once Dowoon had turned to face you again.

He lifted his hands to delicate cradle your face, using one of his thumbs to wipe away a stray tear.

"I'm so proud of you," you whispered as you moved to press your forehead to his.

"I wouldn't have done it if it weren't for you," he reminded you. "So... thank you."

You let out a soft chuckle before kissing him chastely. "You're welcome."

Dowoon searched your face -- your absolutely beautiful, beaming, slightly tear-stained face -- and maybe it was the adrenaline rush from performing on stage or maybe it was your overwhelming emotions transferring to him or maybe... it was just his true, honest feelings coming to the surface, but he felt the words bubbling up and couldn't do anything to stop them.

"I love you."

Your eyebrows raised slightly, but that was the only indication you gave that he'd surprised you. You didn't hesitate even for a second before saying "I love you, too."

He pulled you into his arms then, wrapping them firmly around you as he buried his face in your sweetly scented hair.

No matter what happened from here on out -- if he never performed in front of people ever again or if he joined the band in earnest and became a full-blow musician. If he quit working at The Pagemaster tomorrow or if he worked here for the rest of his life. Dowoon wasn't worried or anxious or afraid about any of it because he knew you would be by his side, and he would be by yours.

Welcome to the show.

[seunghyunsung]

Title: Married to Sunshine

Chapter 1: The secret I do

The warm morning sun streamed through the windows of Hyunjin's dorm room as he sat cross-legged on his bed, biting his lip nervously. Today was the first day of college, and while most freshmen were worried about making friends or finding their classrooms, Hyunjin had a much bigger concern—keeping his marriage a secret.

Marriage.

At twenty.

To Lee Minho.

Hyunjin groaned dramatically, flopping onto his bed. "What kind of drama am I living in?" he muttered to himself, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn't like he didn't like Minho. In fact, that was the problem. Hyunjin liked him too much. Sure, the marriage had been arranged by their families for business reasons, but over time, Hyunjin found himself hopelessly drawn to his husband. Minho's quiet protectiveness, his razor-sharp wit, and the way he secretly left notes or small treats for Hyunjin made his heart race.

The problem was Minho himself. His nonchalant attitude made it impossible to tell if he saw Hyunjin as anything more than an obligation.

The thought of facing Minho today made Hyunjin's stomach twist. Although they lived together in a shared penthouse near campus, Minho had left early this morning without a word.

Hyunjin sighed, tugging on his sunshine-yellow hoodie and jeans. He needed to shake off his nerves and focus on blending in. No one could know about their relationship, especially with Minho's high-profile status as the heir to the Lee Conglomerate.

"Just act normal," Hyunjin whispered to his reflection as he slung his backpack over his shoulder. "You're just a regular student."

--

The campus buzzed with energy as students milled about, introducing themselves and exploring the grounds. Hyunjin couldn't help but feel a bit overwhelmed. Thankfully, his sunny personality made it easy to approach people. Within minutes, he was already laughing with a small group of new classmates.

"Hyunjin, right?" a bubbly girl named Yuna asked. "You're so friendly! It's like you've been here for years!"

Hyunjin grinned, scratching the back of his neck. "Ah, I guess I just like meeting new people."

From a distance, Minho watched the scene unfold. Leaning casually against a tree, he observed Hyunjin's radiant smile and effortless charm. Though his face remained impassive, his eyes softened slightly.

"Still can't believe he's married," Jisung muttered beside him, popping a piece of gum into his mouth.

Minho shot him a look. "You talk too much."

"I'm just saying," Jisung smirked. "It's kind of funny, right? Sunshine Hyunjin and Ice King Minho. Who would've thought?"

"Shut up."

Jisung snickered but didn't push further. It was rare to see Minho's mask crack, and he wasn't about to ruin the moment.

--

Later that day, Hyunjin found himself in his first lecture. He had barely settled into his seat when a familiar figure strolled in. Minho, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black jeans, looked every bit the campus heartthrob.

Whispers immediately erupted around the room.

"Oh my gosh, it's Minho!"

"He's so cool!"

"I heard he's a genius."

Hyunjin shrank in his seat, silently praying that Minho wouldn't notice him. But of course, luck wasn't on his side. Minho's sharp gaze swept across the room before locking onto him.

"Crap," Hyunjin mumbled under his breath as Minho approached.

Without a word, Minho took the empty seat beside Hyunjin, much to the astonishment of the other students.

"Uh, hi," Hyunjin whispered awkwardly, his cheeks tinged with pink.

Minho leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing. "Relax, sunshine. I'm not here to blow your cover."

Hyunjin pouted, whispering back, "You're making it obvious by sitting next to me!"

Minho smirked but didn't respond. Instead, he pulled out his notebook and focused on the lecture.

Despite Minho's calm demeanor, Hyunjin couldn't concentrate. His mind kept replaying the way Minho had called him "sunshine," his tone softer than usual.

--

During lunch, Hyunjin sat with his new friends, enjoying the lively atmosphere of the cafeteria. He was halfway through his sandwich when Jisung and Changbin appeared out of nowhere, plopping their trays onto the table.

"Mind if we join?" Jisung asked with a grin, not waiting for an answer.

"Sure," Hyunjin said, though he was slightly confused.

"Hyunjin, right?" Changbin asked, eyeing him curiously. "You're a freshman?"

"Yep!" Hyunjin replied cheerfully.

"Interesting," Jisung said, his tone playful. "You know, Minho never sits next to anyone in class. But today, he sat next to you. Any reason for that?"

Hyunjin nearly choked on his drink. "W-What? No! There's no reason! We're just... acquaintances!"

Jisung and Changbin exchanged amused glances. "Acquaintances, huh?"

Before Hyunjin could respond, Minho appeared behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hyunjin, let's go."

Hyunjin blinked up at him. "Go where?"

Minho gave him a look that said, Don't argue. "Just come with me."

Flustered, Hyunjin grabbed his tray and followed Minho out of the cafeteria, leaving his friends bewildered.

"What was that about?" Yuna asked, staring after them.

Jisung smirked. "I have a feeling there's more to Hyunjin and Minho than meets the eye."

Once they were outside, Hyunjin turned to Minho, pouting. "What was that for? I was having fun!"

Minho crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "You were being too loud. People are starting to notice you."

Hyunjin huffed. "It's not my fault I'm naturally friendly."

Minho's lips twitched as if he was holding back a smile. "Just... be careful, okay? You're too gullible for your own good."

Hyunjin tilted his head, confused by Minho's sudden seriousness. But before he could ask, Minho ruffled his hair gently.

"Go back to your friends, sunshine."

Hyunjin's cheeks flushed as he watched Minho walk away. His heart fluttered, and for a moment, he forgot about the world around him.

"Married life is weird," he muttered, a small smile playing on his lips.

[thatboreddrake]

Edgedancers

"I will Remember"

Among the Ten Orders of the Knights Radiant, the Edgedancers are those who are most concerned with the plight of the common man. Where the other orders might become absorbed in the grand picture, the Edgedancer never fails to remember that each soldier who falls in battle was a person, first and foremost.

The First Ideal

"Life before Death, Strength before Weakness, Journey before Destination"

The First Ideal, sworn in the same manner by all Orders of Radiants. These three commitments represent the swearers willingness to submit to the responsibility of becoming a Knight Radiant, though the meaning may vary from person to person.

Life Before Death: all life is precious, and death must be prevented at all costs.

Strength Before Weakness: it is the duty of those who have been granted strength to use it for the benefit of those who have not.

Journey Before Destination: one must not be concerned merely with results, but with the path to attain them. Not all journeys are justified, even by the noblest of destinations.

The Second Ideal

"I will remember those who have been forgotten"

The Second Ideal, and the first among the unique oaths of the Edgedancers. These words form the very basis of Edgedancer beliefs, that it is their most solemn duty to carry the memory of those whom the world has forgotten. Few others spare a thought for the outcast and downtrodden: not generals in wartime, not politicians in their chambers, not the soldier on the battlefield. Thus, it is the Edgedancer's responsibility to care for them when nobody else will.

The Third Ideal

"I will listen to those who have been ignored"

The Third Ideal is itself an outgrowth of the Second, and the first major challenge that a prospective Edgedancer must overcome. To listen to someone is to truly understand their plight and their needs. You cannot remember someone until you understand them on an intimate level. The Edgedancer opens their ears to the struggles of others, that they may more adequately care for them and carry their memories.

The Fourth Ideal

"I will speak for those who have been silenced"

Though yet unsworn by any Edgedancer in modern-day Roshar, this oath represents what the natural progression of what Edgedancers could be. For in a world which threatens to crush the downtrodden underfoot, it is not enough to merely carry their memory as they cry out for aid. To be an impassive observer is the cruelest betrayal to those the Edgedancer is meant to serve, as they understand most dearly what these people stand to lose. And so the Edgedancer lifts their voice in defense of the downtrodden. They often fight not with the blade, as their sibling Windrunners, but by lifting a cry for those whose voices have long been drowned out.

The Fifth Ideal

"I am a Light to those who have been abandoned"

The Fifth and final Ideal of the Edgedancers, one who swears this oath has become a paragon of the Order's beliefs. To be a light to the abandoned is to live a life of service to those who society would deem as lesser than yourself. In the days before the Recreance, lone Edgedancers would often reside in small towns and villages, utilizing their Surgebinding to provide healing to the residents. The pinnacle of the Edgedancer Order is to be a beacon of light and of hope, the healing hand of a surgeon, the uplifted voice of an advocate. Under the Edgedancer's watch, none will be forgotten, abandoned, and cast aside, for there are none who are beneath the notice of a Fifth Ideal Edgedancer.

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (whispers or snow)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself)

- Previous part: the future

- Next part: the winter has come

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Happy New Year! 🎉🎉🎉🍾🥂

Winterfell looms in the gray winter light, its ancient walls blanketed by fresh snow. The air is bitterly cold, the strong wind biting through even the thickest of cloaks. The courtyard is bustling with activity as Ramsay’s banners approach, the flayed man of House Bolton a distinct contrast to the icy surroundings. The direwolf of House Stark has long been removed from the battlements, its absence a wound you feel acutely as you stand at the steps of the Great Hall.

The heavy Bolton escort Ramsay sent with you flanks you, their expressions impassive as they line the courtyard. Reek stands slightly behind you, his hunched figure trembling from the cold—or perhaps something more internal. You don’t glance at him, your gaze fixed on the column of riders entering through Winterfell’s gates.

At the forefront is Ramsay, his eyes gleaming as they sweep over the courtyard. He looks almost jubilant, his lips curling into a smile as he takes in the sight of the castle—the seat of House Stark, now firmly under his control. Behind him rides his men, their banners fluttering in the icy wind, their faces grim and battle-worn.

As Ramsay dismounts, his boots crunching against the snow, his grin widens. His pale gaze locks onto you, and he strides forward with a confidence that makes your stomach twist. He stops just a few paces away, his smile predatory.

“Wife,” he greets, his voice carrying a mock warmth. “You look… radiant.”

You incline your head slightly, your voice calm. “My lord.”

Ramsay’s eyes flicker with amusement as he glances around the courtyard, taking in the heavy presence of his men, the replaced banners, and the stark gray walls of Winterfell. “Ah, Winterfell,” he says softly, almost to himself. “It feels good to be home, doesn’t it?”

You force yourself to hold his gaze, your expression unreadable. “For some.”

He chuckles, the sound low and grating. “Always so clever, little wolf.” He steps closer, his eyes shining. “Tell me, how does it feel? To stand here, in your family’s castle, under my banners?”

You don’t answer immediately, your jaw tightening as you feel the weight of his men’s stares. “Winterfell has endured worse,” you say finally, your voice quiet but firm.

Ramsay laughs again, throwing his head back as though you’d told the most delightful joke. “Endured worse? Oh, wife, you have no idea.” He steps even closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But it will endure me. And so will you.”

Reek shifts uneasily behind you, and Ramsay’s gaze darts to him. His grin widens, and he takes a step toward his broken pet. “Reek,” he says softly, his tone dripping with mock affection. “You’ve done well, haven’t you? Keeping my wife safe in my absence.”

Reek flinches, his head bowing even lower. “Y-yes, my lord.”

Ramsay chuckles, patting Reek’s shoulder with a mock gentleness that makes your skin crawl. “Good boy.”

He turns back to you, his expression softening into something almost tender. “And you, wife? Have you been comfortable here? Has Winterfell welcomed you back into its cold embrace?”

You force yourself to remain composed, your voice steady. “Winterfell is my home, Ramsay. It always will be.”

His grin falters for the briefest moment, but then it returns, sharper than before. “Of course it is,” he says, stepping closer once more. “But now, it’s ours. A new home for a new family. Our family.”

He places a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm and possessive. The weight of it makes you want to recoil, but you hold your ground, refusing to show weakness.

“Shall we go inside?” Ramsay asks, his voice lighter now. “It’s cold out here, and I have much to discuss with you. Plans to make.”

You incline your head slightly, stepping aside to allow him to ascend the steps. He strides past you, his men falling into formation behind him, their heavy boots crunching against the snow. Reek lingers, his gaze darting to you briefly before he shuffles after Ramsay.

You glance up at the walls of Winterfell, the crimson banners fluttering in the wind like a wound that refuses to heal. This is your home, but it feels foreign now, tainted by the man who claims it as his own.

As you follow Ramsay inside, the cold of the courtyard clings to you, a reminder of the battle you’ve yet to fight.

Ramsay walks ahead of you, his steps brisk and confident as though he owns not just the castle but the very ground beneath it. You follow in silence, the heavy doors of the Great Hall closing behind you with a resonant thud. The warmth of the interior does little to soften the oppressive atmosphere Ramsay brings with him.

He leads you into the solar, a room you once remembered as a place of quiet planning and respite. Now, it feels smaller, darker, the air heavy with dread. Ramsay turns to you, his eyes gleaming with something unsettling—a mix of triumph and cruelty.

“I imagine you’ve already heard,” he begins, his voice almost casual, as though discussing the weather. “About my father.”

You stiffen slightly, meeting his gaze. “I heard whispers,” you reply evenly, though your chest tightens at his tone.

“Whispers,” Ramsay repeats, chuckling softly. He steps closer, his smile widening. “Well, let me put those whispers to rest. My father is dead. Roose Bolton is no more. I am the one true lord of House Bolton now.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. You force yourself to remain composed, though the weight of what he’s just said settles over you like a suffocating shroud.

“And Lady Walda?” you ask carefully, your voice quiet but steady. “Her son?”

Ramsay’s demeanor shifts abruptly. His smile fades, and for a moment, his face is unreadable. Then, his pale eyes darken, and his lips curl into something far more sinister.

“My hounds,” he says softly, his tone almost reverent, “needed a proper meal before the trip to Winterfell.”

The words hit you like a blow, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. Your hands clench at your sides, and you feel the blood drain from your face as his meaning sinks in.

“You… fed them to your hounds?” you whisper, your voice trembling with horror.

Ramsay’s grin returns, sharp and unrepentant. “They were quite hungry. Traveling is exhausting, you know.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening with a mixture of fury and revulsion. “Why?” you demand, your voice rising. “Why do that? You could have sent her back to the Twins. Sent her son with her! They were no threat to you.”

Ramsay chuckles softly, shaking his head as though you’ve said something amusing. “No threat? You’re more naive than I thought, wife.” He steps closer, his pale eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. “Walda’s son was a threat the moment he was born. A trueborn son, carrying my father’s blood—untainted.” He sneers the last word, his voice dripping with disdain. “Do you think the North would hesitate to rally behind him if given the chance? No, little wolf. I couldn’t allow that.”

You take a step back, your voice shaking with anger. “You didn’t have to kill them. You didn’t have to—”

“Of course, I did!” Ramsay snaps, his grin vanishing as his voice sharpens. “Do you think I’d leave loose ends? Do you think I’d allow anyone to question my place as the Lord of the Dreadfort, the Warden of the North?”

“They were defenseless,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “A woman and a child—your kin.”

“Kin?” Ramsay’s laughter is cold, cruel. “They were obstacles. And obstacles are meant to be removed. It’s the only way to survive, little wolf. You should understand that by now.”

You glare at him, your chest heaving as you struggle to contain the rage bubbling within you. “You’re a monster,” you say quietly, your voice laced with venom.

Ramsay tilts his head, his grin returning as though your words are a compliment. “Perhaps. But I’m a monster who wins.”

The silence that follows is suffocating, the fire in the hearth crackling faintly in the oppressive stillness. You take a step back, your gaze fixed on Ramsay as though seeing him clearly for the first time.

And in that moment, you realize the truth: this man, this creature who calls himself your husband, will destroy everything in his path to maintain his power.

Winterfell may be your home, but with Ramsay as its lord, it feels more like a prison than ever.

The cold wind howled through the high walls of Winterfell, carrying with it the scent of snow and the promise of blood. The ancient castle, so familiar yet changed, seemed to hold its breath as something sinister grew with every passing day. You sat in your chambers, the fire burning low in the hearth, its warmth a weak shield against the chill that had settled deep in your bones. Your hands rested on the growing curve of your belly, the weight of your child a constant reminder of the battle you fought every day to survive.

The sound of boots on stone echoed down the corridor, heavy and purposeful. Moments later, the door burst open, and Ramsay strode in, his face alight with an excitement that made your stomach churn. A letter was clutched in his hand, the Bolton wax seal broken and smeared. His eyes conveying something dangerous as he looked at you.

“Wife,” he said, his voice lilting with mock affection. “It seems your family is proving to be more troublesome than I anticipated.”

You stiffened slightly, your hand instinctively tightening on the armrest of your chair. “What are you talking about, Ramsay?”

He waved the letter in the air, his grin widening. “Your beloved bastard brother, Jon Snow, has decided to play at being a Stark. He’s gathering an army, they say. Marching to Winterfell to claim what he thinks is his.”

Your heart skipped a beat, a mixture of fear and hope rushing through you. Jon—alive, fighting, coming for Winterfell. But at what cost?

“An army?” you asked, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Who would march with him?”

Ramsay laughed, a low, grating sound. “The Wildlings, for one. That traitorous red-haired giant-killer of his, and some scattered houses foolish enough to believe in his cause. Pitiful, really. Does he think he can challenge me with that rabble?”

You met his gaze, your voice cold. “He’s not challenging you, Ramsay. He’s coming to reclaim his home.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered for the briefest moment, his pale eyes narrowing. “Our home,” he corrected sharply. “Winterfell is mine. The North is mine. And your bastard brother will learn that soon enough.”

He began pacing, the letter crumpling in his grip as he spoke. “They think they can defy me, these… Stark loyalists. But I’ll show them. I’ll flay every man who marches under Jon Snow’s banner, hang their skins from the walls for all the North to see.”

“Ramsay,” you said softly, your voice cutting through his rant. He stopped, turning to face you, his expression darkening. “Do you really think the North will follow you after that? Do you think fear will hold them forever?”

“Fear is stronger than loyalty,” he snapped, his grin returning, though it was tighter now. “Loyalty fades. Fear doesn’t.”

You leaned forward slightly, your gaze steady. “The North remembers, Ramsay. It always does. And it will remember you, but not the way you want.”

His jaw tightened, his grin vanishing entirely. “Do you think I’m afraid of your brother?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

“I think you should be,” you replied calmly. “Jon isn’t like you. He doesn’t rule with fear. He inspires loyalty because people believe in him. That’s something you’ll never understand.”

Ramsay’s laugh was loud and humorless. “Inspires loyalty? He inspires fools. And fools die just as easily as anyone else.”

He stepped closer, leaning down so his face was level with yours. “Let him come,” he said softly, his pale eyes burning with a cruel light. “Let him bring his army. I’ll crush them. And when he’s dead, I’ll send his head to the Wall as a reminder of what happens to those who defy me.”

You stared at him, your hands tightening into fists. “And what happens if he wins?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Ramsay straightened, his expression unreadable, though his eyes shone with something you couldn’t place.

“He won’t,” he said finally, his voice cold and certain. “Because I am Ramsay Bolton, the Warden of the North. And no bastard will ever take what’s mine.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat in the silence that followed, your hands resting on your belly as your heart pounded in your chest. Jon was coming. He was alive, and he was fighting.

But at what cost?

The path to the Godswood was coated with a fresh layer of snow, muffling your steps as you made your way across the quiet courtyard. The ancient weirwood tree stood in the distance, its red leaves stark against the gray sky, its face carved with an expression of eternal sorrow. The sight of it filled you with a longing for the peace and solace you had once known here, before Winterfell became a shadow of what it was.

But you weren’t alone.

The sound of uneven footsteps crunching in the snow behind you made your jaw tighten. Reek trailed after you, his presence as unwelcome as the cold wind biting at your skin. Ramsay’s orders, no doubt—a constant reminder that even in your moments of supposed freedom, you were never truly alone.

You paused at the edge of the Godswood, turning to glare at him. “Do you intend to follow me everywhere?” you asked, your voice filled with irritation.

Reek flinched, his shoulders hunching further as though trying to make himself smaller. “M-my lord’s orders, my lady,” he stammered, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “He… he said I was to watch over you.”

“I don’t need to be watched over,” you snapped, your annoyance flaring. “Especially not here.”

Reek glanced up briefly, his face a mask of fear and uncertainty. “Please, my lady,” he whispered. “If… if I don’t… he’ll—”

“I know,” you interrupted, your tone softening slightly despite yourself. You turned back toward the weirwood, your hands clenching at your sides. “Just… stay there. I need some time alone.”

Reek nodded quickly, his movements jittery, and remained where he stood, a few paces back. His presence was still a weight on your mind, but you forced yourself to focus as you approached the heart tree.

The weirwood loomed above you, its pale bark etched with the weathering of countless centuries. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the rough surface, as you closed your eyes. The silence of the Godswood wrapped around you like a comforting shroud, the distant sound of the wind through the trees the only accompaniment to your thoughts.

You whispered under your breath, a quiet prayer to the Old Gods. You didn’t even know what you were asking for anymore—peace, perhaps, or strength to endure what was to come. The weight of Ramsay’s shadow was a constant presence, but here, beneath the weirwood’s sorrowful gaze, you felt a flicker of the resilience you had once known.

A faint rustle behind you broke the stillness, and you opened your eyes, your jaw tightening once more. “I told you to stay back.”

“I… I didn’t move,” Reek stammered, his voice trembling. “I swear, my lady.”

You turned to look at him, your irritation fading slightly at the sight of his hunched figure, his hands trembling as they clutched at the edges of his tattered cloak. He looked more like a beaten dog than a man, his fear of Ramsay etched into every line of his face.

“Why do you let him control you like this?” you asked suddenly, the question escaping before you could stop it.

Reek’s head snapped up, his hollow eyes wide with shock and something that almost looked like shame. “I… I can’t…” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I tried… before… and he… he made me Reek.”

The rawness of his words silenced you for a moment, the weight of his pain settling heavily between you. You turned back to the weirwood, your voice quiet. “No one should live like this.”

There was a long pause before Reek spoke again, his voice barely audible. “Neither should you.”

You froze, his words striking a chord deep within you. Slowly, you turned to face him, your eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?”

Reek looked down quickly, his hands trembling more violently now. “Nothing, my lady. Nothing at all.”

You stepped closer, your gaze sharp. “No, you said something. What did you mean?”

He shook his head, his whole body trembling. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll… he’ll find out. He always finds out.”

You sighed, the moment slipping away as quickly as it had come. “Stay here, Reek,” you said softly, your voice losing its edge. “And keep your distance.”

He nodded mutely, sinking back into himself as you turned away, your focus returning to the weirwood. You placed your hand against its bark once more, the sorrowful face carved into the tree seeming to echo the weight of your own thoughts.

The Godswood was supposed to be a place of solace, but today, it felt more like a reminder—of everything you had lost and everything you had yet to endure.

And as you whispered your prayer to the Old Gods once more, you wondered if they were listening.

The library at Winterfell was one of the few places that still felt untouched by the chaos that had consumed the castle. Its high shelves, lined with centuries-old tomes, carried the faint scent of parchment and leather. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, creating a warmth that did little to dispel the cold that always seemed to linger in the air.

You sat at one of the long tables, a thick book of Northern history open before you. Your fingers idly traced the faded ink of the pages, but your mind was far away. The weight of Ramsay’s presence in Winterfell, the constant shadow of his cruelty, loomed over you even here, in the quiet sanctuary of the library.

The sound of boots on stone made you tense, your fingers freezing mid-page. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The deliberate pace, the way each step seemed to echo louder than it should—it could only be Ramsay.

“Ah, wife,” he greeted, his voice warm with an edge of mockery. “Hiding among your books again, I see.”

You looked up slowly, forcing your expression into one of neutrality. “I’m not hiding. I’m reading.”

Ramsay’s grin widened as he stepped closer, his pale blue eyes gleaming in the firelight. “Reading,” he repeated, his tone amused. “Always so clever, little wolf. Always filling that pretty head of yours with so much knowledge.”

He reached the table, pulling out the chair beside you and sitting down with a flourish. His movements were smooth, almost lazy, but there was an intent in his gaze that made your stomach twist.

“What are we learning today?” he asked, leaning over to glance at the book in front of you. “A history of the North? How quaint.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes flicking back to the page. His proximity made your skin crawl, but you refused to show it.

Ramsay tilted his head, his grin softening into something almost tender. “You’ve been so quiet lately,” he murmured, his voice low. “So distant. It’s unlike you.”

“I didn’t realize you were keeping track,” you replied evenly, turning the page.

He chuckled softly, the sound both unsettling and oddly intimate. “Of course I am. You’re my wife, after all. And soon, the mother of my child.” His hand moved suddenly, resting lightly on your belly.

The touch made you flinch, though you quickly masked it by shifting in your chair. Ramsay’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered with amusement as though he’d noticed your discomfort.

“Is it strange for you?” he asked, his voice soft, almost gentle. “Carrying our future? Feeling it grow inside you?”

You met his gaze, your expression guarded. “It’s… different.”

“Different,” he echoed, his hand lingering for a moment longer before he pulled it away. “I suppose that’s true. But I imagine it’s also… reassuring. Knowing that you’re carrying something so important. Something that will secure your place here, forever.”

“My place,” you repeated, your voice flat. “Do you mean my survival?”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his pale eyes gleaming. “Oh, you do have a way with words, little wolf. Survival, security—it’s all the same, isn’t it? And you’ve done so well so far.”

You leaned back slightly, your hands resting protectively over your belly. “What do you want, Ramsay?”

His grin faltered slightly, his expression softening into something almost contemplative. “Want?” he repeated. “I have everything I want. Winterfell, the North… you.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And soon, our child. What more could I possibly need?”

The closeness, the mock tenderness in his voice, made your heart race with unease. You forced yourself to hold his gaze, though every instinct screamed at you to look away.

“You’re unusually affectionate today,” you said carefully, your tone laced with suspicion. “Why?”

Ramsay chuckled again, his hand brushing against yours on the table. “Do I need a reason to care for my wife? For the mother of my heir?”

“Yes,” you replied bluntly, your voice colder than you intended.

For a moment, his expression hardened, the sharp edge of his temper flashing in his eyes. But then his grin returned, and he laughed softly, leaning back in his chair.

“Always so defiant,” he murmured, shaking his head. “That’s what I like about you. That fire. It’s what makes you… unique.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes dropping back to the book in front of you. Ramsay watched you for a moment longer before rising from his chair with a fluid motion.

“Enjoy your reading, wife,” he said, his tone light but carrying an edge of menace. “We’ll speak again soon.”

He turned and strode toward the door, his boots echoing loudly in the quiet library. You didn’t relax until the door closed behind him, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

Even in his moments of supposed affection, Ramsay was a storm waiting to break. And you knew that, like all storms, he would leave nothing but destruction in his wake.

[jainiss]

hello!

bringing the reactions of male characters from genshin impact meeting Aether's incredible and gorgeous girl(boy)friend (you).

Hope you guys like it ~~

Ps: forgive me if there are english mistakes. English is not my native language.

Ps2: these are guesses at what I think it would be. all fictional.

Diluc's usually stoic expression softened imperceptibly as his eyes met you. The flames dancing in his vision seemed to mirror the warmth he felt, a rare smile gracing his lips as he nodded in your direction.

Kaeya's charismatic grin widened, his roguish charm fully on display. He sauntered over with a flourish, extending his hand, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet such a dazzling lady/gentleman." His playfulness held a hint of admiration, his eyes gleaming as he held your gaze.

Venti's carefree demeanor momentarily faltered as he looked upon your ethereal beauty. He let out a low whistle, his eyes dancing with mischief. "My, my, Mondstadt truly is blessed with breathtaking sights," he quipped, raising his wine glass in salute.

Childe's eyes widened, his competitive spirit momentarily forgotten as he took in your allure. He chuckled, appreciating the visual feast before him. "Seems I'm not the only one with impeccable taste," he remarked, a hint of respect lacing his tone.

Xiao's quiet intensity remained unbroken, yet his gaze held an additional depth as he observed you. His eyes lingered longer than he intended, acknowledging your beauty with a nod of his head, a silent understanding passing between them.

Bennett, in his usual earnestness, beamed at you with unadulterated delight. "Wow, Aether, you really found someone amazing!" His genuine enthusiasm was infectious, and his admiration for you radiated from every word he spoke.

Zhongli's composed demeanor didn't waver, but a softness graced his eyes as they met yours. His words held an air of contemplation as he remarked, "Beauty, much like the mountains, is a sight to behold." His calm observation carried a layer of admiration, showcasing his appreciation for your presence.

Albedo, ever absorbed in his work, found his attention momentarily diverted. His eyes, usually focused on scientific marvels, briefly lingered on your radiant form. "Nature itself would envy the artistry of such beauty," he murmured, a rare compliment from the alchemist.

Xingqiu's poetic soul shone through his expression, a mixture of wonder and genuine admiration. He gestured toward you with a flourish, his words crafted like verses, "Aether, you've introduced us to a living embodiment of celestial aesthetics." His playful charm couldn't hide the genuine sincerity in his praise.

Chongyun's usual shyness was replaced with unabashed awe as he gazed upon you. His cheeks turned a faint shade of pink as he managed a timid smile, offering a quiet "Hello." His gentle nature resonated with the delicate beauty you exuded.

Razor's observant gaze softened, his connection with nature allowing him to appreciate your presence on a different level. He simply nodded, acknowledging you with a quiet reverence, his loyalty to Aether reflected in his actions.

Kazuha's serene aura remained steady, but his eyes held a hint of intrigue. He inclined his head respectfully, "Mondstadt's winds carry tales of beauty, but they couldn't have done justice to the reality." His calm nature mirrored the tranquil appreciation he felt.

Cyno's stoic demeanor faltered, his usually impassive expression shifting slightly as he observed you. His eyes flickered with a hint of surprise, his voice softening as he acknowledged your presence, "Greetings."

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Byebye ~

© jainiss ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ