#SILENT SERVICE II

[retrocgads]

USA 1990

[blackros78]

[erodasfishtacos]

Wedding Band Cuts

prompt: YN goes into a massage and things go haywire quickly

word count: 8k (oooops)

warnings: this is all filth, i couldn't get this concept out of my mind

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=================

YN may or may not have a slight crush on the owner of the health club that she belongs to.

An boujee, exclusive type of place that there was a waitlist for membership and the prices to join were insane.

The only reason she could attend was because she got a massive discount because of her work.

He wasn’t what someone would imagine the typical gym owner to look like. 

No, he wasn’t a meathead with bulging biceps, thick veins protruding from his forearms, and  a protein shake in hand at all times.

Harry was lean.

Built in a way that was quietly powerful, his strength evident but not flaunted. 

The kind of muscular that didn’t demand attention but commanded respect nonetheless. 

He was intimidating in a different way—not because he towered over people or grunted loudly when lifting weights, but because he moved with an effortless grace that made everything he did look easy. 

The men who spent their time flexing in the mirror and slamming weights to the ground were often left in the dust by him. He bypassed them without so much as a labored breath, but he was never condescending about it.

He didn’t rub it in their faces or attempt to show off.

That, somehow, made him even more attractive.

YN knows that she has never, in her whole life, found someone as attractive as Harry. 

It was almost embarrassing how her stomach flipped whenever she caught sight of him in those tiny workout shorts, the ones that made it impossible not to stare. 

She wanted to drool like a dog when he lifted weights shirtless, every muscle in his torso shifting in perfect harmony. 

But she wasn’t the only one who felt this way—every woman at the gym seemed to have the same not-so-subtle admiration.

The issue was with her (and the other women) she was married.

Despite being the owner, Harry was always around.

 Sometimes he was doing administrative tasks, other times he was covering for employees who had called in sick. 

Hiring college kids meant dealing with last-minute schedule changes, so he often found himself playing the role of front desk attendant, janitor, or—on rare occasions—masseuse.

It was a health club, after all. 

The gym offered more than just workout equipment; there was a spa with facials, manicures, and, of course, massages. While Harry wasn’t an esthetician and couldn’t fill in for those services, he was a certified masseuse.

However, he rarely stepped in for that role because his staff was dependable.

That didn’t stop the women from hoping.

It was common knowledge among the female members that if someone called out, there was a slight—very slight—chance that Harry might step in. 

None of them had been lucky enough for it to happen, though. 

And when news spread that Jerry, a seventy-one-year-old man, had received a massage from Harry when his assigned therapist had to leave due to a stomach bug, the collective jealousy among the women was almost comical.

Jerry, blissfully unaware of the silent resentment directed his way, had wobbled out of the building looking loose-limbed and content, oblivious to the scowls of women who had never before envied an elderly man quite so much.

Tiffany, one of the braver women, decided to test her luck. 

With a sickly sweet smile, she had approached the front desk where Harry was working, tilting her head just so as she asked if he might be able to squeeze her in for a massage.

Harry, ever professional, had simply glanced up from the computer screen, offered her a polite but firm smile, and informed her that since the therapist had left early, they unfortunately wouldn’t be able to accommodate her request. 

He didn’t offer to step in himself, and Tiffany had to swallow her disappointment as she rejoined her friends, shoulders slumping in defeat.

YN was excited for the massage because she kept such tension in her lower back, her thighs, her glutes.

And she definitely didn’t get them regularly enough because life was busy so the strain and stiffness built and built until her body ached enough to have her make an appointment.

It was last minute, they were able to squeeze her in at the last session available, eight in the evening.

The gym was closed at that point but the spa was open until nine.

When YN steps into the dimly lit lobby of the building, she immediately notices how quiet it is. 

The usual low hum of voices or the distant clinking of weights from the gym is missing.

 Instead, the only sound is the faint buzzing of the overhead light and the gentle click of the door settling back into place behind her. She makes her way toward the receptionist’s desk, her steps echoing slightly against the polished tile floor.

The desk is empty. 

No receptionist in sight, no signs of life beyond the unlocked door. 

If the entrance hadn’t been open, she would have assumed the place had already shut down for the night. 

It’s unsettling, the stillness of it all. 

There had been only one other car in the parking lot—a sleek black sedan parked near the entrance. 

She could only hope it belonged to her massage therapist because if she didn’t get the relief she was craving, she might actually scream. 

Her shoulders ached, tension coiled tightly along her spine, and she needed to feel like jelly by the time she walked out of here.

YN lingers at the front desk, her fingertips lightly tapping along the smooth oak surface as she chews on the inside of her lip. 

She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the massage rooms, her nerves prickling when she hears footsteps approaching. 

The rhythmic sound of sneakers hitting the linoleum floor grows louder with each step.

She fully expects to see Pedro—her regular massage therapist. Pedro, who always greeted her with a knowing smirk and a shake of his head, chastising her for letting herself get so tense.

But it’s not Pedro who steps around the corner.

No, it’s Harry.

Harry, the owner of the gym.

He’s always been effortlessly charming, the kind of man who draws attention without even trying. 

Women often mistook his friendliness for flirting, but that was just his nature—engaging, attentive, and naturally likable. He had one of those faces that made it hard to pinpoint his exact age. 

Deep-set dimples softened the sharpness of his jawline, giving him an almost boyish appeal, while the light scruff and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes betrayed his real age.

“Hello, I’m sorry about that,” he says as he moves behind the desk, leaning down to click around on the computer, hiis voice is smooth, deep, the kind that makes you want to lean in just a little closer, “You must be… YN, right? Here for your massage with Pedro?”

“It’s okay,” YN reassures him with an easy smile, a bit fluttery because he was cute, “Yes, that’s me,”

“Pedro had to leave earlier due to a family emergency,” Harry informs her as he clicks around a bit more before looking up at her, “I should have called to cancel but I got distracted with some paperwork. Are you comfortable with having one with me? Or I can reschedule and give you a free massage on the house for the inconvenience.”

YN hesitates. A free massage sounded tempting—nearly $200 worth of pampering for nothing. 

But then there was the other option: a paid session with Harry, the hot gym owner with broad shoulders and an easy smile. 

She hadn’t expected to find herself in this predicament, but now that she was here, her stomach gave a nervous little flip.

“I really need one. I’m really stiff,” YN’s eyes darted away nervously, something akin to the feeling when you’re about to drop down on a rollercoaster creeping into her stomach, “But I don’t want to inconvenience you at all.”

“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience to massage you,” Harry replies, his words slow and this morbid monotone that somehow works for him, his eyes narrow just the slightest, and even though nothing he said was inappropriate.

The way he says it sends a shiver down her spine. 

It’s not the words themselves—it’s how they linger in the air between them, heavy with something unspoken.

 YN presses her thighs together instinctively, pulse quickening as heat creeps up the back of her neck.

YN rolls her lip between her teeth, she doesn’t know when she got so brazen but she gives him a small, unsure smile, “Hopefully you’re as good as Pedro.”

Harry’s grin falters slightly, eyes narrowing at the challenge, “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.”

“Pedro’s hands are amazing though, not just good, you know?” YN keeps her tone casually like she’s not trying to bait him but she’s pretty sure that she’s not misconstruing the sexual tension for him just being nice, he wasn’t like this all the time. 

“I'm sure you’ll be satisfied with my services. Are you hard to please?” Harry asks with a tilt of his head, a slight smirk she's never seen before.

YN lets out a breathy laugh, tapping her fingers against the desk, “Most people would say no. My husband, on the other hand? He might say something different.”

Harry’s eyes flicker down to her left hand, his expression tightening almost imperceptibly when he finds her ring finger bare. 

His jaw clenches just the slightest bit before his tone turns cool, more businesslike,  “I’ll show you to the room we’ll be using.”

YN wonders if she shouldn't have mentioned she had a husband, maybe she had led him on with the fact that she didn't have her wedding band on.

She knew she would have to take it off anyways, and didn't want to get the lotion rubbed into nooks and crannies that are difficult to clean.

He steps out from behind the desk.

YN’s eyes drop to do a full body scan, she often subtly checked him out when she was here but now with a bit of arousal pooling in her tummy - she had a whole other perspective on him.

How his legs were such a sweet juxtaposition of lean but thick at the same time, she could easily imagine herself sinking her nails into them.

The shorts he wore showed them off entirely too well, he absolutely knew what he was doing when he stepped into those short shorts that morning.

And when he turns to start walking down the hallway, YN can appreciate how broad his shoulders are, and they're accentuated by the way they lead down into narrow hips.

The definition of manly.

As they walk down the hallway, YN peeks into the other offices—empty, confirming that they are, indeed, alone.

 It shouldn’t matter. 

This was a professional massage.

 Nothing more.

“I didn't know you were certified in massages,” YN chimes in as they walk, just to break the silence that had fallen in between them.

YN deemed it awkward but she didn't know if he did.

He doesn't turn around but he does reply, “I got a certification when I got my doctorate in exercise science and kinesiology. It was an elective. I did them more when I started the business but now I have employees for that.”

“So you're rusty, is what you're telling me?” YN teases, she should stop baiting him because he seems easy to react and not always in a good way.

YN has seen Harry yell at grown men over poor form that could have seriously injured their backs or throwing them out for not respecting the gym rules.

He was intimidating to say the least.

“Did I say that?” Harry turns to look over his shoulder, “My wife requests them enough that I don't get to become rusty.”

“Oh,” YN replies lamely, eyes darting down to see that he did in fact have a gold wedding band on his ring finger, hard to miss, and proudly shining.

 It’s hard to miss.

And yet, for a moment, she had.

“Oh?” Harry questions, still glancing back, “Is there an issue?”

YN swallows harshly, his eyes were laxer focused and challenging her to say something that she shouldn't.

She shouldn't because he's married.

She shouldn’t because she’s married.

“N-no,” YN stammers at the sudden question, tightened uncertainty winding in her belly - mixing with the hot, subtle arousal.

“Good,” Harry nods before he's stopping one of the last doors on the left, his hand curls around the knob, “Undress to your comfort. Some people prefer keeping their bra and underwear on, others go nude. Whatever you feel best doing.”

YN hesitates, her fingers twitching at her sides.

 Normally, she’d strip off her bra but keep her underwear on—just enough coverage to maintain a sliver of modesty. 

But something inside her stirs, something unfamiliar yet enticing, daring her to step beyond her usual boundaries.

She bites her bottom lip, the decision swirling in her head as she looks at Harry.

 But his expression gives nothing away, his patience unwavering as he waits for her to step inside.

“I'll give you a few minutes to get settled. Please lay face-down under the sheet, pull it up to your lower back. Do you have any questions?” Harry asks as he flips on the light, the beautiful room already set up, and a twinkling zen music filters through the built-in speaker.

“No,” YN says again, quiet as she steps past him into the space, “Thank you.”

Harry dips his chin in a silent nod before stepping back, allowing her to move past him. 

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

++

It takes longer than she expects for him to return.

At least ten minutes pass, maybe more. 

She can tell by the way the medley of soft instrumentals has shifted two or three times, a seamless transition of calming melodies. 

She breathes deeply, inhaling the mix of essential oils perfuming the air, but the stillness is beginning to make her twitch.

The way that she can feel her nipples against the sheet, the way that every part of her skin is touching it actually.

It’s warm in the room, enough that she can feel the perspiration start to prickle at her lower back, and she can’t decipher whether or not it’s from the temperature of the room or the flush of her body.

YN digs her fingernails into her palms momentarily, to ground herself, to get a hold of herself.

She’s not in some fucking fantasy novel.

Harry is a professional. 

He’s probably oblivious to the thoughts swirling in her head.

He’s married.

She told him that she is married.

The last thing he probably wants is a client sexualizing him in the middle of his job.

Before she can scold herself enough to feel guilt of her rather debach thoughts - the door opens and her heart squeezes with anticipation.

He cracks the door before stepping in, “Ready?”

“Yes,” YN swallows as she squeezes her eyes shut, the door clicks closed behind him.

YN had pulled the sheet up over her shoulders, every masseuse had different protocol, and as soons as he steps over - she realizes that she already hadn’t been great at following his very simple instructions.

She hears his measured footsteps approach before feeling his hands on the sheet—his fingers brushing against the warmth of her bare back as he carefully folds the fabric down.

 It settles just above the swell of her bum, exposing the curve of her lower back.

He stills for the briefest moment.

Then, a deep inhale.

It’s almost imperceptible. A barely-there intake of breath that might be nothing—or might be something.

YN convinces herself she’s imagining things.

He’s probably adjusting his stance. 

Or stretching his fingers.

 Or something entirely mundane that has nothing to do with the fact that he just discovered she’s completely bare beneath the sheet.

“I'm going to begin. Please, let me know if anything is sensitive or sore during. Is there anywhere you would like me to focus in particular?” Harry inquired, he sounds formal, professional as he should.

“My glutes and calves,” YN responds after a moment of thought.

The calves part was true - they were tight and sore from her legs days at the gym.

Her glutes, however, did not need any work but she couldn't get the imagine of his hands massaging her there out of her mind.

“Noted,” Harry replies with a gruff, clipped agreement like he was gritting his teeth at her answer.

The beginning of the massage is as normal as anything, his fingers press deep into the knots lining her shoulders, working out the tension that she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying. 

The pressure is firm, methodical.

But the moment his palms cup around the nape of her neck, a shiver bolts through her spine.

She tries to squeeze her thighs together subtly, a feeble attempt at quelling the heat pulsing low in her belly. 

But it’s impossible, her legs already splayed relaxed on the table.

Harry notices the movement.

“Are you uncomfortable? Do you need to reposition?” Harry asks when he notices her fidgeting, concern in his voice that makes her feel even more guilt at her thoughts.

“No, I'm good,” YN’s reply isn't more than a strained squeak.

Harry doesn’t comment on it, but he does press his thumbs deeper into the base of her neck, a silent cue for her to relax.

“Try to relax then. You're tight,” Harry continues to move his fingers and all she can hear is that last sentence on repeat.

He's talking about back muscles, she has to remind herself.

You’re tight.

YN does finally listen, relaxing into the soft, heated cushion of the table, and purposefully clearing her mind.

“There you go, good girl,” Harry murmurs when he notices her shoulders start to loosen, neck letting her head hang more into the face cushion, and her thighs melting into the table too.

Good girl.

YN’s clear mind is now filled once again.

Her muscles should be turning to liquid under his touch, her mind blank with relaxation. 

But all she can focus on is the phantom sensation of his voice curling around those words.

By the time he finishes her back—nothing but completely professional work thus far, she’s half-certain that if she were to open her mouth, she’d be panting like an overheated dog.

“I’m going to start on your calves,” Harry informs her, shifting his stance beside her, “Then I’ll work my way up to your glutes. Since you requested them, I just want to confirm you’re comfortable with my hands there.”

YN knows he’s only being professional, ensuring her comfort.

If only he knew the absolute filth running through her head.

If only he knew just how much she wanted his hands there.

“Yes,” YN replies shallowly, she had been laying down for at least the last twenty minutes and she felt like she’d just ran a marathon, her throat parched and aching.

Harry’s tone sharpens, more assertive than she’s ever heard before. 

There’s a domineering edge to it that sends a shiver down her spine, “Yes, what? Yes, you are comfortable with that, or yes, you do want to change your mind?”

YN feels embarrassment flushing her at the miscommunication, it blends into the heat she already has seeping from her skin so there’s no difference.

“Yes, I am comfortable with your hands there,” YN manages to get out, she wonders if Harry thinks she’s an absolute basketcase or if he even has any awareness of the situation.

If he notices, he doesn’t show it.

 Instead, he resumes his work, his hands slick with the massage oil he had been using. The scent of sweet almond fills the space between them, subtle yet intoxicating.

 It’s her favorite scent—always has been.

 It reminds her of the raspberry almond cake she and her husband had shared on their wedding day, the same one they’d made a tradition of enjoying every anniversary since. 

Her train of thought was interrupted by an involuntary groan that she lets out when he presses on a tight spot right in the center of her calve.

The pain is sharp and sudden, and instinctively, she tries to yank her leg from his grip, but Harry’s grip is firm, steady.

 He doesn’t even struggle to keep her still. 

His hold is effortless, almost dismissive of her attempt to squirm away.

“You should stretch for longer than five minutes before you work out,” he chides, his tone laced with knowing disapproval,“Especially when you’re doing legs. You need to be warming up your hamstrings, groin, calves.”

He punctuates his point by pressing into the same tender spot again, and she lets out a similar sound—somewhere between a whimper and a gasp as the ache flares up once more.

“How do you know I’m not?” YN challenges, trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. 

She hadn’t even realized Harry was paying attention to her.

 She hadn’t thought he noticed her at all, let alone enough to critique her habits.

Harry chuckles, the sound low and rough, curling at the edges with amusement, “That reaction, right there.”

YN is about to deflate because it wasn’t because of him noticing her until -

“I’ve seen you stretch. You sit on your mat and scroll on your phone for five minutes while barely trying to touch your toes,” Harry calls her out.

His assessment is shockingly accurate, and she doesn’t have much of a defense.

 Instead, she deflects.

“I’m plenty flexible without stretching,” YN quips, allowing a teasing edge to slip into her tone. 

The innuendo is obvious, intentional.

Harry doesn’t rise to it in the way she expects.

 He doesn’t laugh or smirk or falter.

 Instead, his response is delivered in the same flat, unimpressed drawl. 

“Are you?” His thumb digs into her calf again, pressing into another tight knot of tension, “You’re just as tight as you are flexible.”

Touché.

She doesn’t realize just how tightly she’s been clenching her thighs until Harry’s palms press flat against the backs of them. 

Firm but not forceful.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Fuck.

His voice is steady, authoritative, yet devoid of hesitation. 

There is no question in his command. 

She obeys without thinking, parting her legs easily, pliantly.

 But as soon as the sheet shifts—just slightly, the reality of her own arousal crashes over her in a suffocating wave. 

Embarrassment sinks its claws into her as she wonders—can he see?

 Can he tell? Is there enough of a telltale sheen on her inner thighs to give her away? 

A visible wet spot on the table?

“Why are you clenching—” Harry starts, but then he stops.

Silence.

A sharp inhale.

It’s as if something clicks into place, something he wasn’t expecting, and it cuts off his line of questioning entirely.

“Wha—” YN begins to ask, shifting slightly to glance behind her, but before she can move too far, a hand comes down to the base of her neck.

His palm cups it, firm yet controlled, pressing her back down into the face cradle. 

The pressure isn’t rough, but it’s purposeful.

 It’s the first real slip—something that isn’t professional, not even close.

The way he grips her isn’t the neutral, detached touch of a masseuse simply guiding their client. 

No. 

This is something else entirely.

“Don’t move.”

His voice is rougher now, deeper.

 There’s something strained in the way he speaks, his accent thickening as if he’s forcing himself to remain composed.

 It takes her an extra beat to process his words, to pick them apart through the weight of his tone.

“Jesus. S’ridiculous. Just trying to do my fucking job.”

The words aren’t meant for her, not really.

 He’s speaking to himself as much as he is to her.

And yet, they hit her like a slap.

Embarrassment rattles through her, her heart climbing up into her throat. 

He sounds frustrated. 

With her. 

The realization makes her shrink, makes her feel small—like a child being scolded.

“I’m s-sorry,” YN stammers, her mouth suddenly dry, her tongue thick and useless in her mouth. 

She doesn’t even know what she’s apologizing for—only that she feels like she should.

 Because whatever he saw, whatever he realized, it was enough to shift the entire dynamic between them in a matter of seconds.

To Harry’s credit, he doesn’t stop, he doesn’t pull away. 

His hands remain on her, though now they focus on her glutes, kneading into the muscle with a more methodical, calculated touch.

Subconsciously, she starts to clench her thighs again, as if trying to ground herself. 

As if trying to remind herself that this is just a massage. 

That she isn’t some… deviant, reacting to something as simple as his hands on her.

She isn’t.

But then…

His hand moves.

It grips the soft flesh of her ass, squeezing just hard enough that the tips of his fingers press deep into the skin, surely turning it white beneath his grasp.

The gasp that rips from her chest is instant, shocked, sharp.

Because this isn’t just crossing a line.

This isn’t just towing the boundary of professionalism.

This is tearing right through it, shattering it to pieces, leaving nothing behind.

“Stop apologizing and stay still,” Harry orders, his voice rough with unspoken tension.

His fingers remain where they are, digging in just enough to make a point, to drive something unspoken between them.

“Do you understand me?”

YN swallowed hard, her heart was trying to escape her chest at the moment.

Yes.

Yes, she understands.

The massage resumes, thumbs pressing into knots, trading the ache for a different kind.

Should she end the appointment? 

Apologize and never show her face in the gym again?

YN does better, she does, she lasts at least another five minutes as she tries to stay as stock still as possible.

His touches are back to professional and she’s starting to question herself, start to question whether or not he had even squeezed her ass like that.

But then her thoughts start to spiral again, horny and desperate in a way they’ve never been.

It must have been a wiggle of her hips, maybe even a subtle attempt to see if she could find any friction against the table, but whatever it was—Harry had noticed. 

He had noticed, and she knew it the moment the air in the room seemed to shift, thickening with the weight of his attention.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Harry scolded with no more softness in his voice, that upbeat bubbly man that everyone around the gym knew and loved - nowhere to be found and it was as intimidating, thrilling as it was frightening.

The smack comes fast, hard, landing squarely on her left ass cheek with a force that makes her gasp before she even realizes what’s happened. 

The sharp sting spreads out in waves across her skin, the heat sinking into her already sore  muscles. 

She jerks, instinctively trying to sit up, but she doesn’t get far before his palm is at the base of her neck, pressing her face back into the cushioned cut-out of the massage table.

The stinging sensation lingers, blooming like fire just beneath the surface of her skin

 It’s different, though—not just the typical burn of an open-handed slap. 

It’s sharper, pinpointed.

And then she realizes—

His wedding band.

It had cut her. 

Only slightly, just enough for her to feel the tiny scrape, but still, the knowledge of how it had happened made her stomach clench.

 Her cunt shouldn’t pulse around nothing at that thought, but it does.

 It totally does.

“You’re ruining my sheets,” Harry observes, full of judgement and disapproval, like she was inconvenience more than anything.

YN stays quiet because he had told her to stop apologizing and is she pouting about because she just got smacked? 

Maybe.

Harry leans forward, his body heat radiating against her back. 

The soft cotton of his t-shirt brushes against her skin, and she can feel the cool chain of his necklace ghosting over her shoulder.

 When he speaks next, his voice is quieter, deliberate, “You have four options.”

Her breath catches.

“You can either stay still and get your normal massage. You can keep moving and have an ass that aches for the next week. You can end the massage right now and walk out the door. Or…”

YN waits for him but she realizes that he’s teasing it, edging it, her voice is barely above a whisper,  “Or what?” 

“Or you can tell me exactly what you want me to do to you and I’ll do it,” Harry hums as he stands back up, his hands gripping the back of her thighs, and pushing them apart from where they started to drift together once again.

She could tell him. 

She could put it into words, could give voice to the heat curling low in her belly, but the thought alone makes her want to squirm in embarrassment. 

She’s already acted desperate enough—she refuses to push herself further into that category.

The tension in her stomach, the feeling of his wedding band leaving a mark on her ass.

“I’ll stay still,” YN replies with as much of a steady voice that she can manage.

Harry laughs, deep and mean, amusement tinged with something almost cruel. 

It makes the humiliation simmer hotter beneath the surface of her skin.

“Do you soak Pedro’s table?” he asks conversationally, like he’s discussing nothing more than the weather, “Because he’s never mentioned it. And I think I’d remember something that pathetic.”

She knows exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s trying to break her, to make her react. 

His hand twitches against her skin, like it’s itching to leave more marks. But she refuses to give him the satisfaction. 

She clenches her jaw, grits her teeth, forces herself to keep still even as his hands press into her muscles with increasing pressure.

YN doesn’t bite, has to squeeze her eyes shut but she doesn’t, teeth gritting as the pressure of the massage increases.

Then, he revisits the small cut, pressing his thumb against it, rubbing over it in a way that makes her tense involuntarily.

“Does your husband not fuck you?” His voice is scalding, lips brushing her cheek as he speaks, “You’re squirming like you’ve never been touched before.”

The impulse to shoot an insult at him is hard to not take but she’s staying still out of spite.

Harry’s hands start to dip further in between her inner thighs, his fingers swipe against the damp skin of her thighs, and he then rubs it on her asscheek, “Can’t tell when the massage oil ends and your slick starts.”

Her thighs part slightly wider, a silent offering, even though she knows better than to expect mercy. 

She should have anticipated it—the punishment that follows.

The next smack is harder, sharper.

 It radiates through her lower half, a forceful enough hit that her nipples brush against the sheet below her. 

She swallows back a moan, biting her bottom lip until she nearly draws blood.

“You should be thanking me, do you know how many women wish they were in your position right now?”

Even though it was true, he didn’t have to be a cocky prick about it.

YN stays silent, she didn’t know how he still managed to get up the massage at this point.

“I said thank me.”

Another slap. 

Same spot. 

This time, the band on his finger catches her skin just right—or just wrong. 

She feels the sting of it cutting into her, nothing deep, just enough to make her gasp softly. 

Her breath shudders as she exhales.

YN gnaws on her bottom lip to prevent herself from speaking.

Harry’s patience snaps.

His hand knots in her hair, jerking her head up so that her cheek is exposed to him.

 His lips hover on her cheek, just near the corner of her mouth, but he doesn’t close the distance, “Speak the fuck up,” he growls, “or I’m stopping.”

She can’t believe she’s in this situation.

With a married man.

As a married woman.

But when she speaks, her voice is even, measured.,“I would like my massage to continue.”.

Harry exhales sharply, nostrils flaring.

 He unwinds his fingers from her hair, pushing her head back down onto the table.

“Fair enough.”

He does exactly as she asked.

He massages her like nothing happened, his hands working over her shoulders, the backs of her arms, expertly kneading out tension.

 It’s frustrating. 

Infuriating.

Because he has more energy for edging, doing things out of spite than her.

And fifteen minutes later—she’s the one struggling not to move again.

Harry actually starts to hum, an annoying tune from an old game show, completely out of place in the dimly lit room. 

It breaks into the soft rhythms playing from the speakers.

YN squirms.

Harry smacks her again, sharp and precise, the sound echoing through the space, echoing in the thick air between them.

 It stings.

Of course it fucking does.

 It leaves heat blooming across her skin, a reminder of his control. 

But he does not speak.

 Instead, he returns to the slow, methodical touches that are driving her mad—too firm to be teasing, but nowhere near what she needs.

She breaks.

She fucking breaks.

"Touch me, please," YN throws her pride out the fucking window, off a bridge, down into the deepest black hole where she doesn’t have to face it again. 

Desperation drips from her words, heavy and undeniable.

Harry exhales a long-suffering sigh, unbothered by her distress, "I am touching you," he bleats, his voice laced with indifference. 

His fingers trace aimless patterns along her skin, not nearly enough, "We have about ten minutes left of the hour. Where would you like me to focus the rest of the massage?"

“I need something, please,” YN asks with a pathetic plead starting to work her way into her tone.

Harry, ever unyielding, remains unaffected, "You came in with the complaint of calves and glutes. Are you still not—"

YN wants to cut the shit.

“Please, fuck me. Please,” YN feels like she’s on the line of sobbing for relief at this point, she doesn’t know if she’s even been this worked up, and the inability to see him somehow makes it worse, makes her feel more vulnerable, more desperater, “Please.”

“You could have had it fifteen minutes ago,” Harry chastises but his hands - they slide down her body, teasing the sensitive skin, but they don’t go directly to where she needs them the most.

“Harry, I -”

A smack.

Unraveling her like that wedding band on her sensitive skin.

Then his hands are gone entirely. 

The loss is immediate, unbearable. 

The air crackles with unspoken tension before she realizes—he’s just looking at her.

"Knees," he commands, his voice sharp enough to slice through the thick fog of her arousal.

“I-” YN begins to asks but he’s not patient any longer.

“I said get on your fucking knees,” Harry repeats, louder and thankfully, no one else is here.

Before she can fully process, he takes it upon himself to move her, gripping her hips and lifting them effortlessly. 

Her knees slide inward, bringing them closer to her chest, forcing her body into a position that leaves her fully exposed, fully at his mercy.

He winds his fingers into her hair again, fisting the strands tight enough to pull her out of the cradle of the cushion. 

Her cheek is smushed sideways against the table now, breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Harry has no manners, taking what he wants by spreading her cheeks to get a better look at her.

There is no manners left in him. 

No pretense of control.

YN realizes belatedly that there are fat tears rolling down her cheeks, that Harry must now be able to see, and in a break from the thick tension in the room.

He does something oddly sweet, it reminds her of her husband actually, he presses his lips to her cheek.

His voice is soft, more so like she hears around the gym or when he greets her in reception, “Okay?”

“Okay,” YN nods in agreement, her voice cracks, and she can see him smile before slipping back into a scowl.

She appreciated him checking in, warming  her up in a different way.

“Never seen a needier thing in my life. God, your husband must not do shit for you. You're clenching around nothing—both holes,” Harry murmurs thoughtfully, his tone a perfect blend of mockery and amusement. 

His words are crude, biting, but they set her nerve endings on fire.

YN barely has time to react before she feels it—his spit landing on her tighter hole, warm and slick, quickly chased by the rough pad of his thumb spreading it around.

Her skin prickles, her breath catches, and then he continues, his voice dripping with sinful amusement.

“Everyone around this gym thinks you're this sweet, kind person. I hear them talk,” He pauses, tilting his head as if considering something. “What would they think if I told them about this? A bored housewife coming into a massage and begging to be fucked decently.”

It's a monologue, she knows he isn't expecting an answer.

“Spread out on this table, showing me everything with no shame.”

Two fingers—his index and middle, drag lazily through her folds, teasing, pressing at her entrance but never quite pushing in.

YN is trembling, trying not to move but everything aches.

“I would have subbed in much soone for Pedro if I knew I'd get such a sweet cunt out of it. I should have known you'd have the prettiest one I've ever seen,” Harry accentuates it with tucking his fingers into her, the slight stretch of his two thick digits were welcome with how ready she already was, “Those little bike shorts you wear hide absolutely nothing.”

YN pushes back, pulling him in even deeper, and luckily, he doesn't scold her.

But he makes her work for it.

“Ride ‘em. My hands are tired from the massage,” Harry curls them forward against her spongy front wall, hitting her spot head on like he had it memorized on a map.

YN was sweating, hair matted to her skin, and visibly droplets of west gathering around her temples as she started to push back on him.

She couldn't believe what she was doing right now.

“You hear that?” Harry asks, thrusting his fingers a few times to make the sound even more obscene, slick and lewd in the quiet room, “Should record that and make it the spa soundtrack. S’that sound like a good idea, baby?”

Her head drops forward, a loud moan tearing from her throat when his thumb presses into her tighter hole, sending pleasure ricocheting through her body. 

She’s never been this full before—never felt this close to unraveling without even having her clit touched.

Harry’s laugh cuts through the haze of her pleasure.

“Fuck, you’re filthy,” he groans, watching her. “You like your ass played with too? This is my lucky day, huh? Is that how you’ll tip me? Let me choose?”

“Yes, yes—you can choose,” YN babbles, her voice high and desperate, her stomach tightening, her body coiling tighter and tighter. 

She’s grinding now, less controlled, more frantic, chasing something she’s not sure she could explain, “Please, I just need to come. I need it, please—”

But Harry pulls his fingers out.

The loss is devastating.

Tears sting at her eyes, spilling freely, mixing with sweat, with spit, with the sheer mess of her. 

Her hair is frizzy from where he’s pulled it, her cheeks damp, her mouth parted as she gasps through the absence of him.

Harry grips her hip harshly, not giving her choice as he helps flip her over until she's on her back.

And it's the first time in all of this that she's been able to really see him.

It was nice to see that he was affected too with huffing breaths, nostrils flaring, and sweat on his temple from the heat of the room.

And then he’s peeling his shirt off, tugging it over his head in a way that looks effortless.

His body is all sharp lines and defined muscle, the kind she sees every day in the gym but never gets to touch.

Her legs automatically close, a futile attempt to shield herself, to protect her most vulnerable spot.

 But Harry frowns at that, smacking her thigh sharply, silently telling her to open back up.

He tuts, shaking his head as he looks down at her, “Puppy, if you were this desperate for cock, you could have just asked me. You’re cute enough. I’d fuck you in front of everyone—bend you over a weight bench, let those little biker shorts trap your thigh and watch your squirms.”

YN can tell he’s about to put his mouth on her—but she can’t. 

She can’t take any more teasing.

Her hands shake as she reaches up, fingers pressing to the side of his neck, thumb pressing beneath his jaw. 

She’s sniffling, trying to speak through her sobs of frustration.

“I can’t—I need you to fuck me. Please, H, please.”

The hour of foreplay was more than enough.

Harry blinks, his gaze locking onto hers, searching. 

And then….

He moves up the table, his hand cradling her jaw as he kisses her, slow and deep, melting away her desperation for just a moment.

“You want me to fuck you?” he murmurs, the rasp was thick in his tone, “You’re ready?”

She nods frantically, clinging to him. “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t—”

Harry kisses her quiet before pulling back just enough to push his shorts and briefs off. 

She doesn’t get a chance to look at him before he’s guiding himself to her core, pressing in, inch by thick inch, until their pubic bones meet.

He lets out this euphoric, beautiful low moan when he pushing in until their pubic bones meet, and he's big - really fucking big and she's so fucking full that it's insane.

Don’t need to wait,” she breathes, voice trembling with urgency, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. 

Her legs wind around his narrow hips instinctively, locking him in, heels pressing into the firm curve of his bum as if to keep him right where he belongs,“Please move.”

And Harry fucks like he weightlifts.

Hard. Determined. Precise.

Every powerful thrust sends electric pleasure sparking through her veins, his strokes deliberate and deep, like he’s got something to prove—like he won’t stop until he’s got her unraveling completely beneath him. 

His pace is relentless, the force of his movements pushing her up the table in tiny, helpless jolts before he’s tugging her back down onto his cock without missing a beat. 

The friction is dizzying, intoxicating, and YN feels herself slipping closer and closer to the edge with every merciless snap of his hips.

“I’m gonna—if you rub my-” she pants, but she doesn’t even need to finish.

Harry already knows.

With a low grunt, he shifts, his weight shifting back slightly as his hand snakes between them.

 His fingers find her clit with ease, with skill, and he presses down, rubbing tight, fast circles with a very specific intent in mind.

 His voice is rough and coaxing as he groans, “Yeah, fuck, yeah. C’mon, baby. I deserve it, don’t I? Soak me.”

And that’s all it takes.

A sharp, wrecked cry tears from her throat as her body gives in completely, pleasure overtaking her in a crashing, uncontrollable wave. 

YN’s limbs go boneless, loose like a marionette with its strings cut, as her orgasm seizes her, dragging her under with white-hot intensity. 

The overwhelming sensation floods her lower half, a gush of wetness spilling out between them, coating both of them in the aftermath. 

The slick, obscene sounds of him fucking her through it echo in the room, each thrust impossibly louder, wetter, filthier.

“Holy shit,” Harry growls, his voice thick with awe and arousal, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

His breath hitches, his control slipping,“You just squirted on me—look at you, all swollen and puffy for me.”

His gaze is locked on where they’re connected, utterly mesmerized, before something shifts in his expression—something primal.

 He grips her hips tighter, holding her open as he starts pounding into her even harder, chasing his own release with ruthless determination.

The force of it knocks the breath from her lungs, and before she can even process the sheer intensity of it all, he’s surging forward, crushing his mouth against hers in a desperate, bruising kiss.

 It’s messy—more teeth and tongue than finesse—but it’s everything. 

A claiming, a surrender, a moment of pure, unfiltered need.

He pulses inside her with a deep, guttural groan, spilling into her with a final, shuddering thrust, his body going rigid before finally melting against her. 

He stays there, buried deep, chest rising and falling against hers as he slowly comes back down from his high.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their mingled, heavy breathing. 

Then, Harry huffs out a breathless chuckle, forehead pressed to hers, body warm and weighty on top of her.

“Told you,” he murmurs smugly, voice thick with satisfaction, “Told you you wouldn’t be patient enough for foreplay.”

YN scoffs, though there’s no real heat behind it.

 Her fingers find their way into his damp curls, scratching lightly at his scalp as her lips twitch into a lazy smile. 

“The whole massage was foreplay,” she argues, pressing a kiss to his temple, “I think I did okay.” 

A playful smirk tugs at her mouth as she adds, “I don’t have the patience you do.”

“You never have,” Harry murmurs, his thumb brushing her slick hair off her forehead with a tenderness that makes her stomach flip. 

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth, voice laced with affection as he murmurs against her lips, “You’re an impatient little thing for orgasms.”

His tone is teasing, but the warmth in his gaze, the soft adoration in his touch - it’s so much love and fondness interwoven between them.

“Don’t like this one bit,” Harry grumped after a moment, pulling her hand up and giving a pointed gaze towards her bare ring finger, “Made me almost break character.”

YN giggles as she allows Harry to pull her up to sit, he slips off the table, “I didn’t want to get massage oil on it. It makes the diamond all foggy and I have to take it to the jeweler to get it cleaned then.”

“Hey,” Harry grips her chin, buttoning their lips together for a long moment, “Happy anniversary. I love you and I hope this met your expectations of the scene you were fantasizing about. I’m just glad your fantasies are with me.”

“I’m in love with you, have been for ages and never plan not to be. It was absolutely perfect but now I’m worried I’ll get greedy for more,” YN laughs as she spreads her loegs once again, letting Harry start to wipe her off with a warm towel he takes from the towel warmer that’s conveniently in the room.

“You’re always greedy,” Harry argues gently, blinking up at her, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to walk into this room again without getting a hard-on.”

YN shakes her head with another bout of laughter, “You’re going to be fucked. I have a lot of fantasys about fucking a gym owner.” “Mm,” Harry rumbles as he tosses the towel, his touches getting more full of intent once again, “Lucky you’re married to one, hm?”

+

whew. i hope you enjoyed!

now if you are confused about anything the synoposis - harry and yn are a married couple, they own a gym, and yn wants to roleplay masseuse/client for their anniversary. there is no cheating!

now i recommend going back and reading it and finding all the little hints that they were married couple the whole time.

i would super love to know your feedback on it

[pascaloverx]

STARVE

FANFIC: LUCIUS VERUS X READER X GENERAL ACACIUS

Author's Note: As a test to see if this fanfic might appeal to anyone other than myself, I decided to share a preview with you all. If you enjoy it, feel free to leave a comment—I haven’t yet decided if I’ll continue writing it. The characters do not belong to me but rather to the Gladiator II universe created by Ridley Scott.

one

PREVIEW

Gladiators fighting for their lives in the most savage of manners. The savagery does not startle you; you are accustomed to it. Your late husband often had to fight, quite literally, with tooth and nail to survive. He perished as he fought, dreaming that one day you both might escape. Left alone, hollow within, you were spared by General Acacius.

General Marcus Acacius delivered you from the fate of becoming a courtesan to Emperors Geta and Caracalla. In an act of calculated benevolence, he claimed you as his concubine (concubinatus), securing your liberty through this arrangement. For this, you harbor a profound sense of gratitude each day of your life. From that moment forth, you and the General Acacius have maintained the appearance of a romantic entanglement. He graciously granted you leave to serve as an attendant to Ravi, the steward responsible for tending to the wounded gladiators.

"I have heard that you are Macrinus' new gladiator. It seems the battlefield has taken its toll on you," you remark, approaching the gladiator. Hanno—that is what you heard him called. His blue eyes fix upon you, studying you as though he seeks to unravel your very essence.

"I belong to no one," the gladiator replies, his voice strained as he winces in pain. "But I do appreciate your company. Ravi may be a skilled healer, yet nothing compares to the presence of a beautiful woman." His words are accompanied by a grimace, his arm bearing a wound, likely inflicted by the blade of a sword. Positioning yourself before him, you reach for one of the tools Ravi uses to stitch the torn flesh of gladiators. With steady hands, you then lift a cup of wine laced with opium, offering it to the gladiator to ease his suffering.

The gladiator drinks the wine greedily, allowing the liquid to trickle down his lips. "If my appearance pleases you, I suggest you focus on that," you remark coolly. "For what I am about to do will bring you little satisfaction." Without hesitation, you begin stitching his wound, prompting him to release several groans of pain.

"You seem to take pleasure in causing me pain," he mutters between groans, a chuckle escaping him despite the agony etched across his face.

"Do not misinterpret me so gravely. I take pride in being of service to the recovery of gladiators," you reply while continuing to stitch his wound. "I lost my husband to one of the games orchestrated by Emperors Geta and Caracalla. So rest assured, my dedication lies entirely in aiding you." As you work, his expressions shift, the pain visibly dulling—likely the effects of the wine and opium taking hold. Yet, his hand from the uninjured arm suddenly grips your leg firmly, near your thigh. The gesture appears unintentional. You glance at him, startled.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, withdrawing his hand swiftly, your silent gaze alone conveying your disapproval. "I believe I lost control of my actions for a moment." You offer no verbal response, but the unspoken understanding in your exchange pleases you.

"There are rumors circulating that you have come in search of something," you say, your gaze lingering on the ring adorning the gladiator's finger. "I wonder if what you seek is vengeance—or perhaps a love lost." He lifts his eyes to meet yours, as though carefully crafting the right response.

"Vengeance for a lost love," he finally admits, his voice laden with the fury of grief. "My wife perished under the command of the General." The intensity of his words is mirrored in his eyes, now burning with a hunger that seems insatiable.

A fleeting discomfort stirs within you as his words settle. You owe much to General Acacius; your life, your freedom, and perhaps even a part of your heart are tied to him. He has been nothing but an honorable man in your eyes, despite his marriage to Lucilla. A genuine affection for him lingers within you, though you respect the boundaries of his union.

"Since you do not know me, I feel compelled to warn you—should your vengeance be aimed at General Acacius, you will find no ally in me. I am among the many who will not stand idly by should harm come to him," you declare, finishing your care for his wound.

"Ah, and we have only just met, yet I seem to have displeased you already," the gladiator replies, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "But allow me to ask—if you had the chance to kill the one responsible for your husband's death, would you not take it?"

His gaze is unwavering, piercing into yours. You avert your eyes, exhaling slowly before stepping closer to him. "When my husband died, vengeance had no place in my heart," you say firmly. "I was consumed with fear—wondering which emperor I would be forced to lay with to survive, or whose entertainment I would become. Fortunately, General Acacius spared me from all those fates and ensured I was kept far from the gladiator who killed my husband." Your eyes meet his with an intensity that demands understanding, your voice steady and resolute. He listens in silence, his focus unbroken.

"Then you are indebted to General Acacius," the gladiator remarks, his tone probing as he holds your gaze. You step away, irritation rising within you, though you refuse to admit it aloud.

"You could say so—I am indebted to General Acacius. Does that make you angry with me?" you ask earnestly, taking a cloth soaked in wine and carefully pressing it against the gladiator's wounds.

"No, I do not feel anger toward you," he replies, his voice steady despite the sting of the alcohol against his skin.

"Gladiator, you are ready to fight once more. Should you suffer any wounds in the future and prefer Ravi's care, I will not take offense," you say, finishing your work.

He smiles softly, gradually regaining his composure. "My name is Hanno. You may call me that, and I would like to keep you as the one responsible for my care." Hanno says, taking your hands as if in gratitude.

"I am Y/N, since we are introducing ourselves," you reply. "And since we are being friendly, I will ask a favor of you. If you plan to seek revenge, do it properly. Confront General Acacius in a fair manner, that one of you may die an honorable death."

You hold Hanno's rough hands, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason. "I will take your words into consideration, but I cannot guarantee anything," Hanno responds, his gaze never leaving you.

"I recommend you rest before being taken to your cell. Surely, we will meet again soon," you say as you step away, gathering the healing supplies Ravi entrusted to you.

Hanno bids you farewell, settling down in a corner of the place where you had been tending to him. You leave him there, knowing he will soon be escorted to his cell. Meanwhile, you make your way to General Acacius, as he often summons you when he returns from his campaigns, and you follow him without hesitation.

"Mea domina, I have waited so long for you to come to me..." Marcus Acacius' voice fills the space around you. The setting is a private garden within his residence, shared with Lucilla.

You approach him, adjusting the stole around your body. He moves toward you slowly, holding a goblet of wine in his hands.

"I had to attend to the treatment of one of the gladiators," you speak softly, drawing nearer to him. He extends the goblet to you, and you drink from it. Then, he rises slightly and places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"I have a wound as well; I would like you to tend to it," General Acacius says, his fingers brushing lightly against his lower lip. Gently, you rise toward him, pressing your lips to his in a kiss so soft it could scarcely be called one. It is delicate, restrained—you have no desire to overstep any boundaries.

"Our charade may now conclude, General Acacius. I believe any servant or guard lingering nearby has been sufficiently convinced by our display of affection," you say, fully aware that this romantic gesture is but a performance to solidify the illusion that you truly belong to him.

"Just a little longer, mea domina," he murmurs, placing his hands gently on your face and pulling you into another kiss. This time, it is more fervent, as though he is intent on committing the feel of your lips to memory.

[shxuga]

Bloody Bites | Twisted Wonderland

Vampire!Malleus Draconia x Female!Reader | Priest!Rollo Flamme x Female!Reader | VampireHunter!Leona Kingscholar x Female!Reader | Vampire AU | TW: Blood, descriptions of violence, manipulation, abuse, dead dove: do not eat.

ACT II

A C T I

It was going to be a harsh winter.

She knew it from the first snowfall when there was barely a hint of frost on the trees. Day after day, the temperature dropped alarmingly, and in a matter of hours, the entire forest had been painted white. A white so pure it was almost uncomfortable to look at.

“You should stay in the village this season.”

Yuu blinked, losing track of what Father Rollo was solemnly reciting that Sunday morning. She turned toward the voice, facing a pair of brown eyes that, to any stranger, would seem cold and indifferent. But to her, they held an almost imperceptible warmth.

“What…?”

“You can stay at my house. During the winter, there won’t be any smell of blood or anything that bothers you.”

He continued, unfazed, completely ignoring the constant "shhh" from the other villagers around them. Yuu blinked again, stunned.

“They rarely manage to hunt anything this season.”

“Are… are you crazy?” She lowered her voice behind a fist, trying to draw less attention than her companion. “Do you have any idea what they’d say about a man and a woman living under the same roof without being married…?”

“You know I don’t give a shi—”

“Adel!”

It was a fact—now everyone in the church knew about their conversation. Even Father Rollo paused his sermon and observed them for a brief, cutting moment before resuming his reading with a grunt, an act of mercy.

It was incredible how, with a face that almost resembled a woman’s, his pretty brown eyes, the deep dark blue—almost black—of his hair, and his rosy skin, Adel could curse so shamelessly inside a church.

“You know Father Rollo…”

“I don’t understand why you revere that idiot so much.”

“Adel…” she pleaded, pulling at her hair in exasperation.

“If he cared about you as much as you think, he never would’ve exiled you to live alone in the forest.”

He added with disdain, declaring his victory as Yuu fell silent.

Not long after, the service ended. Yuu wasn’t even surprised when, from a distance, Father Rollo gestured for her to come over while everyone else left the sanctuary. She quickly bid Adel farewell before hurrying in his direction.

“F-Father Rollo, we didn’t mean to…”

“That butcher… are you two close?”

Rollo Flamme cut off her murmuring mercilessly, earning a confused look from the younger woman.

Yuu swallowed dryly, staring into the pair of cold, dark eyes that always seemed to judge her.

Rollo Flamme was young, very young. But that didn’t disqualify him from his position. The deep dark circles under his eyes were the greatest proof of his devotion and commitment to the clergy. With his nearly six-foot height, severe yet attractive face, he radiated an imposing aura that drew villagers like flies to honey—or, in Yuu’s case, made her shrink into herself.

“Well, yes…”

“Has he asked for your hand in marriage?”

He cut her off again, impatient.

Yuu stared at him blankly, making the wrinkle between Rollo’s brows deepen.

“Has he?”

“No! No, no, no…” She fidgeted with her fingers, suppressing the urge to bite her nails in an attempt to escape his icy gaze. “Adel and I are just friends…”

“Oh, please.”

Rollo scoffed, a condescending smile curling his lips as he looked at Yuu with false sympathy.

“Don’t tell me you seriously believe that a man and a single woman can just be friends?”

Suddenly, the smile vanished, leaving only the tight press of his lips in distaste.

“If you keep thinking that way, you’ll only follow in the disgraceful footsteps of your mother.”

“Remember, Yuu, there isn’t a single man in the world who doesn’t see you for what you are…”

“The daughter of a prostitute…”

She murmured, eyes cast downward in shame.

Yes, that’s what she was.

Exile was the price of atoning for her late mother’s sins. Carrying that shame had long been her way of life.

“Oh, come now, don’t make that face.”

Rollo’s fingers took her chin with a gentleness that starkly contrasted with the severe, accusatory tone he had just used to reprimand her.

“I only want what’s best for you, and if I speak to you this way, it’s because I care. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes… Thank you, Father.”

“Wonderful.”

Rollo hummed in satisfaction, sliding a hand over Yuu’s hair in what could be considered a reward.

“Now, go home. Remember not to talk to strangers, especially if they’re men.”

“…Alright.”

She stepped back with a reverence, ready to begin the long journey back to her cabin in the forest.

“Oh, Yuu…”

“…Yes?”

“Don’t forget that I love you.”

• • •

By the time she reached her humble dwelling, the sky was completely dark, and the snow reached up to her knees. She took refuge by the fireplace, seeking to rid herself of the oppressive cold that seemed to cling to her very blood. She knew it was risky to go back and forth between the church and her cabin, but what else could she do? Father Rollo had always been so kind to her that missing a service felt like an unforgivable act of ingratitude.

She looked out the window, finding nothing but utter and absolute darkness. On nights as cold as this, she missed her mother’s presence... She stepped away from the window, pushing away thoughts of the past, causing the wooden frame to creak under her touch. A creeping sensation stirred within her—that something, deep in the forest, was watching her. She added more firewood to the flames and wrapped herself in a pile of furs that, despite being old and worn, did their job: keeping her warm.

The next morning, the sky was overcast, and the cold was hardly any different from the night before. Yuu began her daily chores early, stepping outside only to clear the frost that had built up on her door and roof. On days like these, wolves and other creatures lurked in the shadows, so the less time spent outside, the better.

That’s why she didn’t know how it happened.

She didn’t know at what moment, in the midst of her cold and lonely winter, she ended up like this—dragging a bloodied young man she had found on an equally gray afternoon while gathering firewood. She knew her world was inhabited by all sorts of malevolent creatures, but she simply couldn’t ignore the dying, unmistakably human figure of the boy lying in the snow, disturbing the pristine white with blood... too much blood.

She knew Father Rollo would reprimand her for not heeding his advice, but she would regret it for the rest of her life if she left him there to die.

There was something sinister about this young man. Something terribly sinister in how pale and beautiful he was. Beautiful—yes, there was no better word to describe his angelic features, which clashed with the ragged state of his bedding. His hair was black, deep, like the glossy plumage of a raven gleaming under the flickering firelight. Even someone as uneducated and illiterate as Yuu could tell that the refined attributes of his face would put many artists and poets—who prided themselves on knowing true beauty—to shame.

She was so mesmerized by his appearance that, throughout the entire process of cleaning his body, she failed to notice that there wasn’t a single wound on his pale, ice-cold skin.

The stranger remained motionless for days, making her question whether she had brought home a man or a statue.

Either way, since his arrival, her small hut no longer felt so lonely. And somehow, since she brought him in, the constant sense of danger emanating from the forest seemed to have lessened.

Yuu basked in the newfound calm, oblivious to the fact that she had invited the most dangerous predator to her doorstep.

Months passed, and winter began to fade. It seemed like any other day when she left to gather firewood, leaving her silent guest alone, as she had done in the weeks prior. Excited to see how spring was gradually making its presence known with small touches of green here and there, she lost track of time and found herself returning home as the sunset painted the sky in shades of red and orange. It was beautiful; she rarely had the opportunity to admire the sky like this.

The tranquility of the forest was soothing—the distant hum of insects and the fluttering of birds signaled that spring was just around the corner. She gazed at the faint silhouette of the moon in the sky, feeling strangely happy.

Soon, I’ll be able to return to the village and see Adel and Father Rollo!

“Good afternoon.”

Her blood turned to ice.

Slowly, she turned to face the group of hunters who, at some point along her path, had drawn uncomfortably close. She vaguely recognized their faces—they were likely from the village, though she couldn’t put names to them. It was strange. Why were they approaching her like this?

“Good afternoon,” she replied, her voice steady and composed as she clutched the firewood against her chest, an awful sense of dread swirling in the pit of her stomach.

If there was one reason Yuu had survived alone in the forest for so long, it was her instinctive fear of strangers. Even she was surprised that she had invited one into her home.

“It’s been a harsh winter, hasn’t it?”

He kept talking. Why was he still talking? It was odd—normally, everyone, except for Adel, avoided her like the plague.

“Yes, it has.”

She slowly stepped backward, uneasy at how they all seemed to notice her growing desperation to end the conversation. The dogs growled in response, making her even more anxious.

“We had a good hunt,” the eldest of the hunters mused, gesturing toward the large stag they were dragging back to the village. “If you want, we can give you something... in exchange for your services.”

“My... services?”

The men exchanged glances.

“Come on, we all know you’re following in your mother’s footsteps—that’s why that priest cast you out of the village,” another man interjected, far less patient. “So spare us the false modesty.”

She didn’t even get the chance to scream.

Yuu fought with all her might, but they were too many—too strong and too fast. Within seconds, her face was pressed against the snow, sharp stones and twigs scraping her skin.

“N-no...!”

She kicked wildly, screaming in terror as she felt a hand slipping beneath her skirt. Somehow, she managed to snatch a small hunting knife and swung it blindly, forcing them to back away. She took advantage of their surprise and ran, abandoning the firewood in her frantic escape. But she didn’t get far.

One of the dogs sank its teeth into her leg and dragged her back. Her screams echoed through the endless forest. It hurt. It felt like massive needles were tearing through her flesh. Someone struck her across the face, and suddenly, everything went dark.

Yet she refused to stop fighting.

Then came the worst of it.

“Shit! Which one of you idiots stabbed her?!”

“W-what was I supposed to do?! She wouldn’t stop struggling!”

“What do we do now...? Her guts are about to spill out any second now...”

She held her stomach, feeling a great, damp warmth spreading through her arms. Cold, it was so cold. Her eyes could only make out blurry shapes, and her lips trembled with unintelligible mutterings.

It hurt, it hurt so much.

Yuu wanted to scream, but her body was becoming less and less hers; there was a disconnect that manifested as a tingling, numbing her extremities.

So… I’m really going to die like this.

On her deathbed, she thought of Adel, of how she should have listened to him and thanked him for being one of the few who genuinely cared about her. She also thought of Father Rollo and how sad he would feel to know she had died in such a miserable way, all because she hadn’t followed his advice.

And she also thought of him, her nameless guest. Her greatest regret in that moment was that she would never be able to find out what his voice would have sounded like. It was foolish. Why was she thinking about something so trivial? Had her life really been so insignificant from beginning to end?

«Crunch, crunch, crunch»

In the middle of the small battle she was fighting with her eyelids to keep them from closing, she thought she heard unfamiliar screams and growls. Something splattered against her face, just as hot as the blood seeping through her fingers.

«Slurp, slurp, slupr»

What was that sound?

"Ah~, it's been a while since I last had a bite… This time, he really almost killed me."

A single voice echoes in the now silent forest. Yuu weakly lifts her eyes toward the direction where, just moments ago, her tormentors had been looking at her. She almost doesn't recognize the angelic, pale face covered in blood. The vital liquid dripped excessively from his lips, covering everything with the horrible metallic scent that it was known for.

"A bit bitter for my taste, but it'll be enough for now."

It was him.

No, impossible. She had to be hallucinating—a cruel and bleak trick her mind was playing on her before her permanent dismissal from life. It was unthinkable, especially because her guest didn’t have those strikingly prominent horns atop his head, nor did he have the physique to tear apart five seasoned hunters. And he certainly didn’t look like a vampire.

For starters, since when were those demonic entities so beautiful? Father Rollo had always described them as horrendous creatures—monstrous beings you’d recognize at first glance! Yes… ugly, dangerous, and… red-eyed.

But him… he was none of that. His eyes weren’t even red; they gleamed with the intensity of an emerald fully bathed in the midday sun.

"Look at you… And here I was, thinking I’d return your kindness by killing you painlessly."

He spoke, and Yuu’s ears caught his tone like a gentle caress, even in the midst of his condescension. There was no expression on his face, or at least none Yuu could make out when more than half of her bodily fluids had already painted the ground crimson. Besides, the sun had long since vanished, and the moonlight barely allowed her to make out faint shapes.

"I have lived through countless eras, and yet, not once have I fully understood humans. Weak, pathetic, selfish… I have never met one without these three traits. But you, foolish little human… you are, without a doubt, the stupidest one I have ever encountered."

Silence.

That seemed to be the conclusion he had reached as he wandered around her slowly cooling body, splattered with the remains of several people.

"H-Help… me…"

She didn’t even know if he was still there, much less if he would offer her anything after so openly insulting both her and her entire species in her final moments. But what else could she do? In the end, he was right. She was nothing more than a selfish creature who, no matter how miserable her life had been, refused to leave without clinging on and fighting just a little.

There was no response, but that didn’t surprise her either. She hadn’t taken him into her cabin expecting anything in return. Just having someone there for all those months—someone she used to warm herself during the nights when the ice nearly froze her bones, someone to talk to when the silence became unbearable… someone who, in his taciturn way, reminded her of what another person’s face looked like.

How pathetic. She had even shared her most personal thoughts with him when the solitude threatened to shatter what little sanity she had left. She expected nothing from him because, even in all that silence, she felt like she had already received too much.

Yes… in the end… she would die settling for scraps.

Just like her mother.

"Aren’t you just a pathetic little thing~?"

He cooed, his voice light, laughing shamelessly at her plea. But Yuu was already too weak to hear him.

She had the faint sensation of something sinking into her neck, but by then, her nerves had already stopped being of any use.

Her last memory as a human was how beautiful the moon looked at the turn of the season.

Tag list: @ghostlysyntaxed @nico707 @strayharmony943

Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

[drunkenkissesatdusk]

ARE YOU FLIRTING?

pairings — simon (dinner in america) x reader

warnings — swearing, simon may get a little mean idk yet, finally not an already established relationship, a little oblivious reader and a pretty blatant simon, tiny bit of projecting (just to say the reader likes riot grrl music), one mention of smoking (and a scene where they do smoke weed i’m sorry it’s a part of his character forgive me please)

summary — working at a record shop was supposed to be fun and relaxed, yet you (specifically you) have a regular customer who sometimes asks for recommendations and seems to have a staring problem.

notes — okay so hey… i watched dinner and america… this is my literal longest thing written sorry

i. the first time you met Simon

━━━━━━━ IT WAS QUIET, the silent hum of music flowing in from the vinyl player. it was connected to speakers, filling what would have been an unbearable silence, which would conjure a consistent ringing in your ears. you didn’t want that.

you were used to the dragging and seemingly endless Mondays at the record shop. most days did seem quiet, minus the days there would be some real shows of people who can’t sell physical copies and people who can’t sing. you hated it, but you loved working with music.

besides, who’d pass up being able to play whatever record they wanted through the entire store?

you wouldn’t.

flipping through a comic you grabbed from the dwindling comic section, the door rang. briefly looking up, a man walked through. he seemed pissed off, but clearly wasn’t mad at you.

you could see the top of his head at the punk rock section, and didn’t let your gaze linger. the comic - what one you chose, you didn’t seem to remember the title of - was somewhat capturing.

you didn’t like the female character, you didn’t like the male character either (you didn’t like any characters), but you had nothing better to do. if you had been in high school still, you’d probably be doing homework hunched over the front counter.

“excuse me?” you looked up, a police officer with his shiny badge was standing in front of you, and you could see the guy crouched on the floor. you’d never lied to an officer of the law, but everyone starts somewhere.

“hey; what’s up? we just got a new order of Metallica, if you’ve got somewhat good music taste.” you grinned. the officer didn’t, and your face fell again.

“i’m lookin’ for this man.” he slapped a flyer poster down, you looked at the page. Simon, whoever he was, was clearly in need of a haircut.

“so’s a haircut.” you scoffed, sliding it forwards and shaking your head, “sorry dude, no Simon’s here.” the officer glared at you and looked to a corner suddenly.

your eyes flashed to who you’d guess to be Simon, crouched behind a rack. hurriedly, you waved for him to lay flat. dropping your hair seconds before the officer saw, he gave you a hard nod and left.

opening the employees only entrance to behind the counter, it wasn’t hard to find him laying on the ground. “i’m guessing you’re Simon?” you hummed, standing over him with your arms crossed over your chest.

“who are you?” he spat. after a brief introduction, you walked away from him. sliding to the riot grrl section, your hands seemed to automatically find a Bikini Kill album. you grinned at walked back behind the counter.

you didn’t see Simon afterwards, he’d left out of the front entrance and walked somewhere. you were reading your comic again.

ii. second time meeting him, and he stays longer.

━━━━━━━ FRIDAYS, the only days that your manager opened the stage in the back of the building for live performances. typically it was packed, and you’d have to remove a few drunk teenagers and break up a few couples from having sex right then and there, but it seemed emptier than before.

you found out that quickly that you’d spoken too soon, as a flood of people came in and the back door bands used buzzed. you groaned internally - and externally - and opened the door. flashing your customer service smile, you pointed them to the back.

there was a small fluster of background noise after everyone went to the back and flooded that area.

you already missed your silence.

“hey, you the worker from Monday?” Simon, familiar in the second cluster of people, asked you when he separated from the hoard. you nodded, biting back a yawn and cracking your back when you finally stood up straight.

“not gonna go listen t’the band?” you slurred as you fought back a yawn again.

“nah, not yet. those assholes don’t know how to play.” Simon scoffed. you grinned tiredly.

“almost every band that plays here doesn’t know how to. i wish we sold alcohol here, i’d love to drink right now.” you hummed, tapping your hand against the table. “or coffee.” you muttered. the muttered phrase was meant for just you, but Simon seemed to have heard.

he didn’t say anything else, spinning around and walking to the back.

iii. meeting after rude customers

━━━━━━━ YOU DIDNT REALLY REMEMBER what day it was. but you were standing behind the same counter like before, as you did nearly every day of the week.

“excuse me?” the woman was blond, wearing high-heel stilettos and a short pink skirt and matching juicy couture top, “you sold my son this, and he is not allowed to listen to whatever soon-to-be-drug-dealer drugs you put in this music. i want a refund.” she annoyingly chewed her gum, loud nails clacking against her glasses when she went to readjust them.

“sorry ma’am, no refunds.” you huffed.

“that’s just… unacceptable! you have to give me a refund.” she exclaimed.

“dude, i literally can’t. im sorry but im not allowed to.” deadpanning her, your eyes - donning a bored look cast through her eyes - met her sunglasses. you could see your expression, uninterested and tired. she lowered them to glare at you.

“i don’t care what the hell your rules say, give me a fucking refund!” she exclaimed.

“dude can you not yell? it’s not in my hands.” you scoffed.

“give me a fucking refund!” she screamed. then the door rang (only you seemed to hear it) and you could hear a slightly familiar thudding footsteps approaching you and this woman and her awkward looking son.

“christ lady, shut the hell up and accept that you aren’t getting a damn refund.” Simon overstepped her, cutting her off and practically forcing her away from you and the counter.

you grinned small, leaning against the back counter. it didn’t take awhile for the woman to give up and walk off. her son silently followed behind her.

a silence followed afterwards, you waited for Simon to say something and you assumed he was waiting for you to say something. neither of you did for a little, and you silently cursed yourself out for not having an album spinning at the moment.

“people do that often?” Simon reached into his pocket, shuffling around in it until he produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. you cringed silently.

“nah, only when i’m super lucky.” you huffed. Simon brought a cigarette to his lips and flicked his lighter on. promptly, he lit the cigarette and took a drag from it.

“call that lucky?” he raised an eyebrow.

“ask a lot of questions?” you retaliated, exiting the front counter and finding yourself in the riot grrl section again. after you found an album, you opened it, prepared it, and put it on the record player.

with music in the background, you let another tsunami of silence flush over the two of you. it wasn’t awkward since you were more focused on unpacking a newer shipment of vinyls.

the store had recent had a flush of customers and bands playing, which helped you get a raise, but didn’t help your slight social awkwardness. you managed to cope by not hanging out with people outside of work anymore.

with your sudden interest switching to the new vinyls, you didn’t notice Simon leaving.

iv. coworkers and being hit on

━━━━━━━ AS MUCH AS IT SEEMED YOU DIDN’T, you did have coworkers. a few high school students and then a few older middle-aged guys. despite that, you didn’t really like most of them.

you liked the peace that came with single-person shifts, which were mostly what was worked, but events that had multiple bands coming up meant there’d be more than one worker.

you didn’t have to go into work until evening.

but that evening, you were displeased to see the most irritating coworker of yours by far. Chase, a middle aged man who still lived with his parents and was “voluntarily celibate”, was consistently hitting on you.

you didn’t like him, and you made it very obvious. sometimes you were so blatant you thought any child could understand you clearly. Chase was worse than a child.

not to mention, you’d grown accustomed to seeing Simon on most of your shifts, and it had been awhile since he’d shown up. you were a little worried, but you didn’t know him all that well regardless.

you still worried.

during the later half of the shift, the one that included the bands showing up and having to spend all your shift breaking up fights, sex, and so much more you never wanted to talk about anymore.

“hey,” Chase said with your name afterwards, “y’know we could go catch a drink after this.” he offered. you stared at him blankly. you clocked in 5 minutes ago.

“no.” you deadpanned, resting your already beginning-to-ache head against the cold counter. Chase was on the other side, but was still talking to you.

when the door opened, and you could hear the familiar stomping of Simon’s boots, you grinned just a little. you could hear him practically storming closer to the front, as Chase continued to blabber on and on about going out with him.

Simon called your name, and you rose your head. “cmon, i wanna talk to you.” he didn’t look at Chase, just at you. you groaned dramatically, going to slam your head down. a hand on the counter where you were gonna let your head thud against stopped it.

Simons hand led to his body, and his eyes were waiting for you to go with him.

so you did.

you had 30 minutes, and this would count for your break instead of you just taking it later on. you’d probably hate yourself for that later on, but now that you weren’t being hit on by Chase and there were no mean customers, you were happy.

“you smoke?” Simon held up a pre-rolled joint.

“no, i haven’t.” you shook your head.

“wanna try?”

“sure.”

twenty minutes later, you were lying on your back on the blanket you laid out to sit on. Simon was beside you, still sitting up. with the affects of the weed passing over you, your sudden need to have your hands on someone else sent your hands to draw shapes on Simon’s back.

he didn’t seem to notice, or care, and let you carry on.

“where have you been lately?” you asked carefully, your words softly spoken with a grin across your face and eyelids drooping to nearly being closed.

“out.” he hummed. you didn’t bring it back up, letting his words be the only explanation. “you got a boyfriend? girlfriend?” he asked. you shook your head, you didn’t have a relationship because most of your time had unfortunately been devoted to the record shop.

“do you?” you asked him right back.

“nah.” Simon mumbled.

“hey, breaks over.” Chase said, his head popped out of the door. you groaned dramatically, letting your body go lax and not moving.

Simon grinned, his head turned to look at you. every other body part was still, except for your hand - which you kept on a consistent movement drawing a star over and over again.

when he stood up, you frowned as your hand dropped. he reached down again, whisking you from the floor and helping you stand.

for the rest of the night, Simon stayed in the shop until you were done with work and about to walk home. without you noticing, he began walking with you and another joint was shared.

once you made it home, you unlocked the door and let you and Simon in. it was an apartment complex, and you led your guest alongside you to the elevators, which you used to find your apartment.

you unlocked that door too, and let Simon in and closed the door behind you both. “y’hungry?” you asked him. he shrugged, which you took as a ‘yes’, so you began making a box of mac ‘n’ cheese.

Simon took it upon himself to explore your apartment in that moment. you didn’t stop him, letting him look around and walk through every room. after some time, you called him back over and handed him the bowl of food, sitting down on the couch.

after eating, you and Simon found yourself basking in the soft glow of the moonlight on your balcony. it was calm, and there wasn’t really anything happening, seeing as it was around 12 a.m. at this point.

you could’ve fallen asleep out there, the guy you brought with you sitting separated from you by the door, a choice he made himself. you didn’t bother telling him he could come closer, if he didn’t want to sit by you originally then he didn’t have to in the end. you were fine with it.

“i’m gonna go, alright?” Simon said after an hour or so of sitting outside with nothing really happening. you nodded, weakly and tiredly waved goodbye.

he was gone after that.

v. record recommendations

━━━━━━━ YOU DIDN’T SEE SIMON FOR a few weeks after that. you didn’t expect to entirely, he was a little flaky like that, but you at least thought he could tolerate you better than dropping from the face of the earth suddenly.

you spent awhile alone at work again, standing behind the register listening to music and doing stupid stuff, it grew more and more boring.

you missed Simon’s presence. it was the one thing that differed from your typical workday which made everything a little more tolerable.

rather than rest on pondering the “what if”s of this whole situation, you’d found a rather interesting pass time. you began listening to more albums in an attempt to expand your music taste.

even that was in vain - it never worked.

after a week, you gave up the final sliver of hope and stopped wishing. you happily grew more adjusted to spending shifts without anyone with you, and it became easier and easier to go to work.

the third day after what you’d dubbed “The Acceptance” (you had nothing better to do, and were now clinging onto anything that could make it all more interesting) the door chimed and you could see the familiar face and hear the familiar stomping.

“hey, welcome in. do you need help finding anything?” if he wanted to be flaky, you could be petty and treat him like a normal customer. you held up a faux smile, throwing on your “customer ready” face.

Simon stared at you, and you patiently waited for him to do something, say something. but he didn’t. he continued to stare, which grew slightly more irritating.

you huffed internally, cussing him out in your mind while you were at it, spinning on your feet and walking to the side where boxes of new shipment lay.

pulling one up to counter, you grabbed the box cutters and opened it. a new set of the most sold album. you didn’t expect these to last awhile.

“excuse me?” a father with his son walked up to the counter closest to where you were opening boxes to restock the inventory.

you looked up, “yeah what’s up?” you set the cutters down and walked to the front counter.

“do you guys have anymore Korn albums? specifically Follow the Leader.” the father asked. you hummed, walking into the back after quickly excusing yourself. walking back out, album in hand, you were surprised to see Simon still standing there.

you gave the father and son the album, checked them out, and sent them out with a smile.

“did you need something, dude?” you finally broke the silence, back turned to Simon as you kept unpacking box after box.

you didn’t hear anything for a minute, and you prepared to say something else. “that genre you like, give me a recommendation for a band.” his voice was rough, and he sounded hesitant.

you turned around again to stare at him, sighing and complying. you gave him a Bikini Kill album (Pussy Whipped, specifically) and checked him out. as you went to say goodbye, he stomped off.

vi. admittance

━━━━━━━ THE NEXT TIME YOU SAW Simon, was a week later. you’d grown even more used to his absence, and no longer felt as bored as you originally did. you felt the same as before Simon showed up.

it’s like he never walked in.

until he did, the first day you met him and now.

“has anyone flirted with you?” he demanded as soon as he got to the counter. you stared at him in mock-awe.

“seriously, Simon? you turn into a disappearing act like you’re goddamn Houdini, but now you can walk in here and use that type of tone?” you rolled your eyes. huffing, you shook your head tiredly.

“has anyone flirted with you?” he repeated his question. your anger subsided into confusion.

“pretty sure, probably not seriously. why?” you hesitated to answer at first, genuine curiosity running through you like your own blood.

“that explains it. when are you off? or going on break?” he asked.

“i get off in an hour, and my break was like twenty minutes ago. why?” you took a step closer to the one thing stopping you from walking straight up to Simon.

he shook is head, “i’ll be back in an hour, then.” he muttered, turning around and stomping out.

the hour that you had left was dragging on suddenly, and your body practically shook with nerves and insecurity and one too many thoughts for the rest of the day.

you tried everything to get rid of it, attempting to listen to music (your thoughts were louder), attempting to read a book (the words moved when you tried focusing, like they were shaking with your nerves), and trying to work on inventory (there was nothing to unbox).

once it was over, and you were clocking out, you were surprised to see Simon driving a blue truck. he waited for you, as you hesitantly approached the car. with a single honk of his car and a mean glare, you got in quickly.

he hardly waited for you to get in before driving off. you didn’t get scared or anything, you just braced yourself and got comfortable in the plush seats.

“who’s truck is this?” you quizzed.

“my friends.” he bluntly spoke, leaving no room for any other conversation.

it didn’t really bother you, the silence was comforting and now that you were with Simon, your previous nerves and feelings had been dropped entirely.

after what seemed to be around an hour, Simon pulled onto a desolate dirt road, that switched to a untouched grassy trail. your relaxation turned into confusion. was he about to kill you? you expected you’d live a few more years, but maybe you were wrong.

he parked near a cliff, and got out. you went to follow him, but he closed your door before you could. you watched him in confusion as he circled the car and opened it for you.

you looked at him, even more confused than before. this was not like the Simon you had been talking to in the past.

“who are you and what have you done with Simon?”

“shut up and come the fuck on.” now it sounded like the Simon you knew, you grinned playfully and got out.

“are you taking me here to kill me?” you questioned carefully.

“why the hell would i do that?” he turned to you, confusion written across his face.

“no clue, not every serial killer needs a motive.” you tapped your temple after saying that, before pointing at him.

“what the fuck.” he muttered.

“you choose to bring me here!” you exclaimed.

“clearly, i made a mistake.” Simon complained, watching as you walked closer to him.

“why did you bring me here?” you finally asked, folding your arms over your chest and patiently waiting for his answer.

“isn’t it obvious?” he scoffed. you shook your head with an eyebrow raised. what was supposed to be obvious? you waited for him to continue.

“jesus christ. i fucking like you, dumbass.” he emphasized the insult at the end. you rolled your eyes before stopping. it was like everything around you practically did the same thing - stopped.

you stared at him long and hard.

“you’re lying, right?” you hesitated to break the seemingly ever-lasting silence, but what was done is done, and Simon was the one rolling his eyes.

“no, i’m not. are you really this dense?” he was getting mad now.

“well, sure.” you shrugged one shoulder, letting your arms unfold and fall to your sides. he scoffed - which seemed to be his favorite thing to do. it didn’t help how awkward you were.

sure you had been mad at him, but now, thinking back, you could feel the undertones of yearning for his care, and yearning for a relationship. you sighed, looking down to regain your confidence before looking back up.

“if it makes you less mad, i like you too.” you hummed with a sly grin.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests is open!!

[lyinginmeadow]

Breakaway II. | hockey!Azriel x reader

It is finally here! Thank you all for being patient, hope the wait was worth it <3

Part I. Summary: Your brother finds out about your relationship with Azriel and he's less than fond of it. Will he come to terms with it before he ruins his relationship with his best friend and sister?

Word count: 2,7k

Warnings: Rhysand is an asshole in this one (I still love him, tho), swearing, angst, violence

A/N: I gave the reader a name, I couldn't leave her as Y/N, sorry. I tried to tag all of you, but some blogs weren’t found :((

Going on the ice after everything went to shit was not ideal. The whole team was nervous, Cassian tried to make jokes to lighted the mood, but to no avail. Rhysand wasn’t paying any attention to him. But he was pissed. Azriel never saw him this pissed. It was clear as day that the teamwork they had built over the years had just crumbled as if it were a house made of carts. And it was his fault.

‘’What’s the matter, pretty boy? Girl trouble?’’ Taunted Eris while all the players returned to the ice. His eyes flickered between Azriel and the tribunes were you were sitting. You were not looking at him, which made Az even more anxious. Instead, all your attention was on Rhysand who was returning it.

‘’Fuck off.’’ Azriel snarled, not willing to pay him any mind. Eris was trying to get rise out of him. It was how he always played. Usually, Azriel didn’t take the bait but with everything going on, Eris was getting on his last nerve.

‘’Aw, if you need her off your hands, I’ll gladly be of service.’’ He continued. Azriel clench his jaw. Thankful for the puck being dropped in the center to mark the start of the last period, he tried to shake off everything that plagued his mind and focus solely on the game.  

The last period was an utter disaster. Rhysand completely ignored every advantage Azriel made. It was becoming absurd. He knew he fucked up by not telling him about the two of you, but this was just Rhysand being Rhysand. Insufferable. Rhysand was his friend and he made it clear that you were off-limits. But Azriel couldn’t help it when it came to you. You were like a breath of fresh air. He couldn’t imagine not being with you, not wanting and loving you.

Rhys loved you and Az knew he would never hold anything against you, except for the lying. Rhys hated lying with his whole heart. All you two wanted was to share something that was exclusively yours. He also knew that you two were just trying to avoid the inevitable which he regretted. The stolen moments now tainted with this ridiculous feud. Worst of all, Azriel didn’t know how you would react to the news and he was terrified. What if you wanted nothing to do with him in order to avoid ruining the relationship with your brother?

As Eris went for the puck, Azriel snapped out of it, flying after him instead, silent as the night. He was quick, but Azriel was quicker. Everyone knew that no one on that damned rink could outskate him. But that didn’t stop Eris from trying. The game was tied, and everyone was on the verge of their seats. Azriel smiled as he neared the player, just as Eris reached the attacking zone, Azriel skated right in front of him and crouched to bodycheck Eris. He went flying right over Azriel landing on the ice with a sickening crunch. ‘’Ups.’’

Eris screamed in pain as he clutched his injured hand. Azriel usually wasn’t one to hurt his opponents, he was not a defenseman, but with everything that went to hell that day, he just couldn’t let Eris mess with his head any more than he already did. Eris finally stood up with the help of his teammates who glared in Azriel’s way, leaving the Cavaliers without one of their best players.

It was a miracle he didn’t get a penalty, but he did get booed by Cavalier’s fans. Technically, the bodycheck wasn’t against the rules. It was just unfortunate how Eris landed on his hand with his whole body weight. Some could say it was his own fault he didn’t know how to stick a landing. But Azriel couldn’t act as if he was sorry, because he simply wasn’t. That bastard deserved it. He played dirty more than once, it was time for him to finally get a taste of his own medicine. Judging by Cassian’s expression he approved. Usually, Cassian was the one to brutally bodycheck his opponents. The nickname Lord of Bloodshed, which he earned from the fans, made Azriel chuckle more than once.   

As the puck hit the ice once again, he didn’t wait for Rhys to claim the opportunity instead, when one of the opponents passed the puck, he interjected it, claiming it for himself. He glanced at the clock, realizing there were only ten more seconds in this match. He glided swiftly across the ice,  dodging other players as he reached the attack zone he smashed the puck with his stick. It wasn’t the clearest shot, but somehow it bypassed their goalie earning Velaris U a winning point. The horn rang announcing the goal. The tribunes erupted in cheers, but Az didn’t feel like celebrating.

When the Cavaliers went around to congratulate the winning team, Azriel grabbed Eris’s uninjured hand more tightly than was necessary. The player returned to the rink just for the handshakes, which Azriel did not expect. But he guessed that Eris was more of a diplomat than he believed him to be. ‘’Talk about her again, and I will break more than just your wrist.’’ He let go of his hand with a tight smile.

Usually, a win made him feel proud. All the hard work they – he – put in paid off. He loved celebrating with his teammates, and the camaraderie that came with the territory. But there was nothing to celebrate. They barely won and it was his fault.

‘’I hope you packed because you’re benched till the end of the season.’’ Rhys snarled when they left the locker room.

‘’What are you talking about?’’ Azriel whipped his head around to find the source of the interruption. He didn’t want you to be subjected to any of this, even though he knew there was no way around this conversation.  That was what got them in this mess. That and Rhys being a complete asshole.

‘’Stay out of this, Velaria.’’ Rhys signed pinching the bridge of his nose. You looked between the two most important people in your life frowning.

‘’You kicked him off the team, didn’t you? Are you serious?’’

‘’Veli…’’ Azriel started. ‘’No, Az. He’s being ridiculous. He can’t do that!’’ You yelled in frustration throwing your hands up.

‘’I can and I already did. And I don’t want you anywhere near him.’’

‘’You can’t boss me around, Rhysand. I’m not your child.’’ She snarled poison seeping through your clenched teeth.

‘’No, but you’re my sister and I will not sit around idly watching you get hurt.’’

‘’I wouldn’t hurt her, ever. And I won’t leave her, not until she says otherwise.’’

‘’You will if you know what’s good for you.’’ They stared each other down. ‘’That’s enough. We’re leaving.’’ You shot daggers in your brother’s direction as you took Azriel’s hand in yours. He looked as if he wanted to object, but you didn’t give him a chance, dragging him out of the stadium.

Mentally drained after last night's shit show, you were grateful for an empty apartment. Azriel went to pick up a few of his stuff from Rhysand’s house leaving you alone with your thoughts. You groaned loudly when you heard the doorbell ringing, so much for a calm morning.

‘’What the actual fuck?’’ Yelled a voice as soon as you opened the door.

‘’Don’t you yell at me. I didn’t want you to find out like this.’’ You turned around after closing the door of your apartment. Thankfully none of your roommates were home to witness this escapade that was undoubtedly about to unfold. Even if you would appreciate the support, you were glad Azriel wasn’t here either. The match was enough of a fiasco that you didn’t want him to be subjected to any of this. Rhysand was your brother and his hissy fits were yours to take care of.

‘’No, Velaria, you didn’t want me to find out at all.’’

’Well, I’m sorry. What else do you want me to say? I mean, look at how you’re reacting. It’s ridiculous. I am my own person, I’m an adult and I can make my own decisions. Who are you to tell me, that they are wrong, hm?’’ You were staring him down. This whole situation was blown out of proportion. But that was how Rhysand operated. Nothing concerning him was ever subtle.

‘’He sleeps around, don’t you remember how he went after Mor? Or Elain for that matter? He will dump you once you stop being exciting to him. Which I imagine will be soon now that your little charade is over.’’

‘’He’s your best friend!’’ You exclaimed.

‘’Exactly! That means I know him. You’re my sister. He’s not good for you!’’

‘’You don’t know him like I do.’’ You kept defending Azriel. It hurt you beyond belief to drive a rift between them. Ever since they met, they had been practically inseparable. You never imagined that Rhys could act like this towards someone who he considered important.

‘’He will break your fragile heart.’’

‘’My fragile little heart can take it. But what it cannot and will not tolerate is how you handled last night. I don’t want to see you unless you want to apologize.’’ With that, you pushed gaping Rhysand out of the door and smashed it in his face. He didn’t deserve any more of your time after the stunt he pulled.

The sound of a motorcycle pulled you out of your trance. ‘’Shit.’’ You gathered yourself from the floor wiping the tears and running to the bathroom to spray cold water on your face to help with the puffiness.

‘’I’m back!’’ Azriel yelled as you wiped your hands dry.

‘’Would you believe that he was not there? Also, Cassian says hi. He was very dramatic about me moving out.’’ You could hear the chuckle from your bedroom. He opened the door to your bedroom, his expression falling after taking just one look at you.

‘’Hey, hey…What’s wrong, love?’’ He crossed the room swiftly, his hands gently coming up to your face. You signed at your unsuccessful attempt to hide your emotions from him. He was always great at finding out other people’s secrets.

‘’I would imagine he was not there when he was here.’’ You whispered unwilling to hold his gaze, looking at anything else but him.

‘’What did he say?’’

‘’Pretty much the same as yesterday. He’s such a child, Az.’’ You said in a defeated tone. ‘’I’m so sorry, sweetheart.’’ He caressed your cheek finally making you lift your gaze to him to see the small smile he offered.

‘’No, it’s not your fault. Can we just…Not talk about this? Please. I want some sense of normalcy back.’’ Your tired eyes closed for a second to collect your thoughts.   

‘’Well, I did get you something I know you would like before coming back.’’ That made you open your eyes, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

‘’Really?’’ Your eyes shined which in return made his smile grow even bigger. ‘’Mhm.’’ He nodded, turning to pick up the bag off the floor. As he took the items out, a smell of fresh pastries filled the whole room making you melt instantly.

‘’You got me strawberry shortcake?’’ You squealed like a little child on Christmas day.

‘’From your favorite pastry shop.’’

‘’But that’s on the other side of the city.’’

‘’And? I would go to the end of the world just so I could see this smile.’’ Your lips wobbled tears threatening to spill out of the corners of your eyes. You launched at him nearly knocking him to the floor. He laughed catching you in a tight embrace.

‘’Thank you, Az.’’

‘’Don’t mention it.’’ You looked up eyes filled with tenderness reserved just for him.

‘’I love you, you know that?’’ His thumb found your cheek to caress it. ‘’I love you too, sweetheart.’’ He kissed you deeply, and every worry melted away just for a while.

It had been two weeks since the incident at the game and Azriel was still living at your apartment. The girls were not ecstatic at first, but his breakfasts with excellent coffee changed their minds rather quickly. You had fallen into a routine getting used to having him around and waking up next to him. It was nice, you could even imagine yourself one day living with Azriel in quiet suburbs.

‘’Velaria…’’ A voice interrupted the trail of your thoughts as you moved through the crowded halls of the campus. ‘’No, I don’t want to hear it.’’ You continued walking trying to ignore him. The day started great and you intended to keep it that way without Rhysand interfering.

‘’Please-, come on, stop. Please. You were right, okay? You were right and I want to apologize.’’ You halted, your eyebrows shooting up. Rhys had a personal problem with apologizing so this came as a surprise.

‘’I’m listening.’’ You sized him up not willing to give him anything for free.

‘’I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. It wasn’t my place. I shouldn’t have said those things about Azriel. He is my friend and if anyone is right for you, it would be him.’’ He stopped as if he was gathering his thoughts. ‘’I…I want you to know, that I do trust your judgment. I was just scared. You’re all grown-up but to me, you’ll always be my little sister, who needed my protection from spiders and snails.’’ Rhysand, unlike you, always looked everyone in the eyes. It may have been an intimidation tactic in most cases. But not to you, never to you, in this case, you believed he wanted you to see the regret in his eyes. And it worked because your own softened unwillingly.  

‘’Rhys…You know I will always need you. But this whole thing. You can’t do that. Ever.’’

‘’I know. And I am incredibly sorry I did, I can’t take it back even if I wanted to. And trust me, I wish I could.’’ You simply nodded thinking over his apology. ‘’I think I still need time. It hurt me what you said.’’ Resting a hand on his shoulder you gave him a light squeeze.

‘’Could you ask Azriel to stop by? I want to apologize to him, too. But I can’t seem to get hold of him. It’s like he knows how to blend in with shadows.’’ You chuckled. Azriel did have that superpower. He told you he was trying to stay out of Rhysand’s radar to not cause a bigger rift between the two of you.

‘’I’ll try my best. If you promise to let him be on the team again.’’ You bargained knowing fully well that Azriel would probably refuse a couple of times, but eventually, he would relent. He missed the rink and his teammates way too much to not come back.

‘’That’s a given. I shouldn’t have kicked him off in the first place.’’

‘’Exactly. Now I would love to chat, but I do need to get to biophysics, or the professor will kick my ass.’’

‘’We wouldn’t want that.’’ He chuckled. You hesitated for a little bit before offering him a quick hug. ‘’I missed you.’’ He smiled, he wasn’t willing to let you go, but you weren’t there quite yet, so he reluctantly let go. ‘’I missed you, too.’’ He returned the sentiment as you hurried through the halls to get to your seminar.

The last game of the season was in full swing. The winner of this game would take home the title of Champions and they were so close to claiming it. We were winning only by one goal courtesy of Rhys, but there was still one minute left and the opposing team was eager to score to at least tie the game, leaving their net empty. They were close to scoring, but then Cassian interjected their shot sending it to the middle where Rhysand was. He literally dived for the puck hitting the ice and barely pushing it with his stick in Azriel’s way who skated as if his life depended on, the other player right on his skates. He didn’t hesitate as he shot the puck into an empty net. The crowd erupted in cheers as did the commentators.

‘’They did it!’’ You squealed in cheer, jumping up, and hugging Nesta who was now on her feet as well. She smiled proudly hugging you back. ‘’Thankfully. I couldn’t handle their whining if they didn’t.’’ She rolled her eyes as you laughed. Looking back to the ice when Rhys hugged Azriel and Cassian ruffing their hair. You smiled fondly. Everything turned out great in the end.    

Taglist: @lilah-asteria , @fourthwing4ever , @acourtofbatboydreams , @kylaisra , @starswholistenanddreamsanswered, @honethatty12 , @acrawford6173

[ranikyani]

Semper Fidelis

Summary: Your husband and high school sweetheart joined the Marines immediately after graduation. After over 10 years of service you’re ringing in the new year celebrating his accomplishments and saying goodbye to the life of a military wife.

Note: This is my first time writing anything and I need a major distraction after Aaron's spirit tunnel. 🫣 open to constructive criticism. Word Count: > 1k

Read Volume II

The grand room on the rooftop of their luxury apartment needed minimal decorations as the floor to ceiling windows provided the perfect view of the inner harbor. From this high up they’ll be able to see all the fireworks in the city. The music is bumping, champagne is flowing endlessly, and everyone is dressed in their absolute best. Waiters circle the room passing out hors d'oeuvres and refilling any empty glasses. Between the drinks and the good food she knows tonight will be a night that many will remember for years to come.  

The audience’s applause fills the room as Andrea steps up to the podium. A wave of warmth and nerves swelling in her chest. She takes a deep breath to ground herself as she looks out over the sea of faces gathered to ring in the new year and celebrate her husband’s retirement from the Marines. After over 10 years of dedicated service, Terry is finally transitioning to civilian life. A life she’s dreamed of sharing with him, complete with new memories, new beginnings, and hopefully children they’ve both yearned for. 

“It’s almost time to ring in the new year! As the year begins anew and we prepare to step into this new season I’d also like to thank you all for gathering here today to celebrate my husband’s incredible military journey and honor him as he embarks on his next adventure,” she begins, her voice steady yet tinged with emotion.

“But let me tell you,” she says, her tone turning playful, “of all of his accomplishments, the best thing Terry ever did wasn’t on the battlefield. And it wasn’t in the line of duty. No, his greatest feat was finally asking me on that first date. Now, that took some serious bravery! It took a while but I’m glad you finally mustered up the strength, Honey - Now look at us!”

The room laughs, and Terry shakes his head with a sheepish smile, his cheeks tinged with a bit of color as he makes his way closer to the podium in the middle of the room to take in his wife’s speech. 

“Thirty Two years young, and he’s already achieved so much in service to his country.” 

Her words echo across the room, met by another wave of applause as everyone in the room shows their admiration. As the applause grows, Drea’s eyes search the crowd and find Terry’s.

For a brief moment, the noises from the crowd fades, leaving just the two of them. She sees his familiar green gaze, filled with warmth and quiet pride, behind it, the future she’s imagined for so long - a home filled with trinkets from vacations they will take, laughter, children, and new dreams they’ll finally have the time to pursue together. Smiling, she blows him a gentle kiss, an unspoken promise, before turning back to her speech. 

“He’s leaving behind some wonderful colleagues who I’m sure he’ll miss, and I especially want to thank Lieutenant Mark Andrews for always being there for him to ‘watch his 6’ and make sure he made it home to our family.” She looks over to the right of the room where Mark stands. He bows, thens places his hands on his chest in appreciation of his shout out. 

“and Colonel Amara Knight who’s been more than a colleague and a partner - she’s become a true friend! ” glances over to her left to Colonel Knight, who smiles warmly, half raising her glass in a silent toast as she dabs an imaginary tear from the corner of her eye gaining a few chuckles from those standing closest to her. 

As Drea reaches for her own glass, an unexpected murmur drifts up from a corner of the room and she locks eyes with Mark. She freezes, catching the words that cut sharply into her thoughts. 

“Yeah she’ll be missed more, because they’ve been fucking.”

He was drunk, and He whispered, but you heard it. 

Drea’s hand stills around the glass stem as the words echo in her mind. For a moment, everything blurs - the bright lights, the murmurs of the crowd, the pre-mature explosives coming from the city below, and the warmth of the celebration. Her heart races, but she forces herself to keep her composure, her mind racing. Is this a cruel joke, a rumor, jealousy, or something more?

With a deep breath, she brings her champagne glass to her lips and raises it high

“To new beginnings, and to the countless sacrifices he’s made for all of us.” she says with a voice that is calm and unwavering, masking the storm brewing beneath,

“To Terry!”

As the crowd echoes her toast, she glances back at Terry, searching his expression. There in his eyes, is everything she’s ever known about him - strength, loyalty, and love. But she can’t shake the flicker of doubt that Mark’s words planted.

How well does she really know the man she loves? 

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

Thank you for reading my little short. ✨ I have another story I'm scribbling up lmk if you want to be tagged or have any feedback for me.

I'm gonna go scurry off with all the ideas I have swirling in my head about this man and watch that spirit tunnel video 626 more times. 👀

K. Thanks. Byeeeeee. 🏃🏾‍♀️💨

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

8: HOMECOMING

Chapter 7 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 9

SUMMARY: To your surprise, the Winter Soldier finds you in your home.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warning: SMUT: Breeding kink, penetrative sex, possessiveness — If there is any more you find not listed here please be sure to let me know so I can add it.

As you waited with bated breath for Soldat to emerge from the stasis chamber once more, you seized the opportunity to delve deeper into the mysterious man's past. Eager to uncover the truth behind the silent, deadly assassin you had grown so inexplicably attached to, you set out to meticulously comb through the vast trove of Hydra's classified files. What you uncovered left you utterly stunned - the man you knew as Soldat was in fact none other than James Buchanan Barnes, the revered and loyal best friend and comrade-in-arms of the legendary Captain America himself. 

Falling down the rabbit hole of research, you became enthralled as you pieced together the story of Bucky Barnes' history. Articles and military records painted a vivid picture of the brave young man who had fought side-by-side with Captain America during the war, his steadfast dedication and skilled marksmanship making him a formidable asset on the battlefield. By all accounts, Bucky had been a faithful and unwavering companion to Steve Rogers, providing moral support and watching his friend's back through even the most harrowing of missions. The two were spoken of as an unbreakable duo, their bond of friendship forged in the crucible of combat. 

As the weeks passed in a blur, you found yourself consumed by your investigation, devouring every scrap of information you could uncover about this legendary figure. The more you learned, the more your respect and admiration for Bucky Barnes grew. He was a true hero, a man of honor and courage who had sacrificed everything in service of his country and his best friend. And now, that very same man lay frozen in Hydra's grasp, his true identity and heroic past obscured by the dark mantle of the Winter Soldier. Your heart ached at the thought, spurring you on in your quest to uncover the full truth and, perhaps, find a way to restore Bucky Barnes to his former self.

As you delved deeper into your research, you finally came across the most tragic event in Bucky's history - his apparent demise during World War II. According to the historical records you uncovered, Bucky had been on a crucial mission with Captain America to stop the nefarious plans of HYDRA when disaster struck. Amidst the chaos of battle, Bucky fell from a speeding train, plunging hundreds of feet to what was presumed to be his untimely death. This devastating event had been a crushing blow to Captain America, who was left to mourn his closest friend and most trusted ally. Bucky Barnes was mourned as a fallen war hero, a true patriot who had given his life in service of his country. 

Your research allowed you to meticulously record every tidbit of information you could find about this enigmatic figure. You documented his impressive background, learning that Bucky had been an exceptionally skilled marksman and hand-to-hand combatant, honing his abilities through rigorous military training. His physique was described in vivid detail across various accounts - tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair that often fell across his piercing, steely eyes. These eyes concealed a complex duality, for while they could be cold and distant when Bucky donned the mantle of the Winter Soldier, you had also witnessed them spark with warmth and raw emotion, a testament to the man he had been before his apparent demise.

Beyond the cold, hard facts, you also recorded your own personal thoughts and feelings about Bucky Barnes. His brusque exterior and guarded nature initially made him seem unapproachable, but you had glimpsed the depth of his loyalty and the fire that burned within him. He was a man who had sacrificed everything, even his own life, to protect those he cared about, and the tragedy of his loss continued to weigh heavily on your heart as you delved deeper into uncovering the truth behind his fate.

As you packed up your belongings and prepared to leave the facility for the night, a sense of melancholy washed over you as you thought about Soldat, or rather, Bucky. You knew he had been dispatched on a crucial mission, one that would likely keep him away for several days. With a pang of disappointment, you resigned yourself to the reality that it would be some time before you would see him again. The sudden, abrupt nature of his departure had left you little opportunity for any meaningful goodbyes or parting words. All you could do now was wait anxiously for his safe return.  

Bidding a somber farewell to your colleagues, you stepped out into the cold, dark night, the chill in the air matching the emptiness you felt within. As you made your way home, the rich, earthy aroma of borscht suddenly filled the air, enveloping you in a comforting blanket of familiarity. Despite your lack of appetite, you found yourself drawn to the hearty soup, serving yourself a small portion and savoring the way it warmed you from the inside out as you settled into the quiet sanctuary of your own apartment. 

Cradling the steaming bowl in your hands, you allowed yourself a rare moment of relaxation, the soft sound of your own breathing the only thing interrupting the stillness. Your eyes drifted to the battered notebook resting on the table beside you, filled with meticulous notes and observations about Bucky, your most precious possession. Tracing your fingers over the familiar lines of your writing, your thoughts inevitably wandered back to the last time you had seen him, the memory of his abrupt departure still lingering painfully. With a heavy sigh, you steeled yourself to wait patiently for his return, your heart aching with the knowledge that it may still be some time before you would lay eyes on him again.

The emptiness in your chest felt like a physical ache, a hollowness that seemed to reverberate through your entire being. As hard as you tried to ignore it, Soldat’s absence felt like a constant, gnawing sensation, a void that no amount of distraction could fill. In quiet moments, when your mind was allowed to wander, the memory of his unexpected tenderness would loom largest, playing on a bittersweet refrain.

Despite the taciturn exterior and the ever-present aura of stoicism that surrounded him, you had been privy to those rare, fleeting instances when the icy walls he had so meticulously constructed would crumble, revealing a softness and vulnerability that had touched you to the core. The gentle brush of his calloused fingers against your skin, the comforting press of his solid frame against yours - these moments of intimate connection had left an indelible mark, awakening a deep, primal yearning within you. You found yourself constantly chasing the elusive high of those tender interludes, craving the warmth and security they provided in contrast to his usual aloof demeanor.

Try as you might to tamp down these feelings, to convince yourself it was foolish to long for more, the memory of Soldat's unexpected displays of affection refused to be extinguished. They had wormed their way into the fabric of your being, becoming a source of both comfort and torment as you ached to experience that vulnerable intimacy once again. The emptiness in your chest was a constant, nagging reminder of what you had tasted but could no longer freely indulge in, fueling an insatiable desire to reconnect with the man who had so thoroughly captured your heart.

The sudden, soft clicking sound that shattered the quiet of your apartment sent a jolt of fear through your body, instantly snapping you out of your thoughts and putting you on high alert. Your muscles tensed as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end, your senses heightening as you turned to pinpoint the source of the unexpected noise. A surge of trepidation washed over you, your heart pounding rapidly in your chest as you scanned the dimly lit room, searching for any sign of an intruder or potential threat.

With a quick, practiced motion, you reached for the gun you kept stored nearby, your fingers wrapping firmly around the cool metal as you raised the weapon, taking up a defensive stance and aiming it squarely at the door. The adrenaline was coursing through your veins, heightening your awareness and priming your body for action. Every nerve was on edge, your breathing steady and controlled despite the palpable tension in the air. You were poised and ready, waiting with bated breath for the slightest hint of movement, prepared to neutralize any danger that dared to cross the threshold.

Then, suddenly, a familiar gruff voice called out from the kitchen, shattering the silence. "Kotyonok?" The sound of Soldat's voice caused your heart to leap in your chest, a surge of equal parts shock and relief washing over you as you turned to face him, your revolver still raised. In that moment, the hormone-fueled fear and apprehension melted away, replaced by the comforting realization that the source of the noise was not a threat, but rather your trusted companion.

For a moment, you stood frozen, the gun trembling in your hands. Your mind was a chaotic jumble of emotions - surprise, fear, relief… and maybe a hint of elation at his sudden appearance in your home.

How was it that Soldat stood in the shadows of your kitchen? His figure barely illuminated by the scant light filtering in from the other rooms. He was a ghost-like presence, a silhouette against the darkness, his features concealed under the cover of shadow.

You could just make out the vague outline of his toned physique, the breadth of his shoulders and the glint of titanium from his left arm. His eyes were like dark pools, their depths unfathomable in the dimness of the room.

“You don't need that.”

His voice was low and calm, the edge of a command beneath his words as he motioned to your revolver. You could feel a slight wariness settle over you as the situation sunk in. This was unprecedented. He was standing in your home, in your safe space, and you had no idea how he had come to be there. Why was he there? Were you in danger?

As you pondered these questions, a new thought popped into your mind. Did he know your name? You had always been ‘Kotyonok’ to him, never anything more. It felt strange, almost unsettling, contemplating how much he truly knew about you.

"You're safe.”

His words hung in the air between you, a statement of reassurance that sent a wave of peacefulness through you. You felt your heart rate beginning to slow, the initial rush of catecholamines slowly ebbing as his voice repeated: "You're safe."

It was strange, hearing those words from him, the Winter Soldier with his gruff exterior and his deadly past. But in this moment, standing before you in your own home, it felt true. For reasons you couldn't explain, you felt safe in his presence. Here he wasn't Soldat, he was Bucky.

You cast a quick, furtive glance towards the dining table, your gaze settling on the open notebook and the half-finished bowl of borscht beside it. A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you realized that your research and the meager supper you had hastily prepared were all out in the open. You wondered if he had noticed them, if he had seen the myriad of notes and tidbits about him that you had recorded in that notebook.

You felt a strange mix of anxiety and excitement as you stood there, rooted in place by the weight of the moment. You wanted to do so many things - show him the information you had gathered, offer him a seat and a warm meal. But somehow, the words wouldn't come. You were frozen, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to make a single move as his gaze bore into you from the shadows of the kitchen.

As you stood there frozen, an unfamiliar feeling took root deep inside you - a nagging, gnawing fear of losing him. The very idea that this enigmatic, complex man standing in the shadows of your kitchen might slip through your fingers if he discovered his past terrified you in ways you couldn't yet fully comprehend. The thought of him seeking out that lost piece of himself and abandoning you was more than you could bear in that moment, even if you couldn't fully understand why.

Soldat stepped out of the shadows, his muscular frame coming into view as he moved closer to where you were standing. Without the mask concealing his face, you could see his angular jawline, the sharp planes of his cheekbones, and the intense blue eyes that pierced through you like twin blades. He looked utterly exhausted, the weight of whatever mission he had been on etched across his features.

Your mind raced with questions as he stood before you, his unexpected presence in your home both startling and intriguing. "Why're you here?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could fully process the gravity of the situation. His arrival was shrouded in mystery, and you couldn't help but wonder what had compelled him to seek you out, risking exposure and potentially putting you both in harm's way.

He paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on yours, his expression unreadable. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes, something like hesitation, before he spoke. You could sense the weight of his words, the vulnerability seeping into his gravelly, low voice as he uttered the simple phrase, "Needed to see you." The admission hung in the air, a silent plea for understanding, for acceptance, for the comfort and solace that only your presence could provide.

Your mind whirled with a torrent of questions - how had he found you? Was he in danger by being here? What would happen if the ruthless organization he was a part of, Hydra, discovered his unauthorized visit, his defiance of their control? The implications were staggering, and you struggled to articulate your thoughts, your eyes never leaving his, the mixture of confusion and concern etched across your features.

“But-” You started.

Before you could get another word out, his lips were on yours, cutting off any line of questioning with a swift, unexpected kiss. His mouth was rough against yours, his lips slightly chapped but warm and firm, as he held you tightly against him, his arms encircling you in a desperate embrace. He drank you in like a man starved for water in the desert, the kiss conveying a depth of emotion that words could not capture.

"Just need you," he murmured, his voice thick with vulnerability and longing, a silent plea for the comfort and solace that only you could provide in this moment of uncertainty and danger.

His words, simple yet laced with a rawness that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a note of desperation in his voice, a need that went beyond mere physical attraction. He pushed you firmly against the nearby wall, his body pressing against yours as he continued to speak, his lips hovering just above yours.

“Needed to see you. Need to feel you. Can't control myself anymore.”

He buried his face in the crook of your neck inhaling your scent, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispered those words in your ear. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the barely restrained desire coursing through his veins like fire.

His hands were everywhere suddenly, fingers running along your sides and gripping your hips as if he couldn't get enough of your touch. He let out a low, guttural groan as you encircled his neck with your arms, his body pressing you even more firmly against the wall. His hands found your thighs, gripping them tightly as he lifted you up, pinning you in place between his muscular frame and the solid wall behind you. His lips trailed along your jawline, kissing and nibbling at your skin with a desperate need that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.

As he pulled back slightly, his gaze hungrily roamed over your body, taking in every detail of your casual, comfortable appearance. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, as if he were seeing you anew, a fresh perspective that seemed to stir something deep within him. His hands slid along your sides, caressing the gentle curves of your figure as he spoke again, his voice rough with a raw, primal want tinged with something even more profound.

"You look... different." 

His eyes raked over you, drinking in the sight of your plaid pajama bottoms, the snug, soft tank top that hugged your frame, and the cozy boyfriend cardigan that enveloped you in its comforting embrace. Your freshly-washed hair framed your face in soft, alluring waves, the silky strands tantalizingly close and smelling of your favorite lily & amaranth shampoo. His gaze flicked from your hair to your outfit and back again, his eyes darkening with each passing moment as he took in every inch of you. There was something in his expression - a mixture of ravenous hunger and almost disbelieving awe at your appearance - that sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

"Different how?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He was silent for a moment, his eyes roaming over your form as if he were trying to find the precise words to capture the shift he was witnessing. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with a tangle of emotions.

"You... you look warm. Soft. Safe." His fingers traced along the edge of your tank top, just grazing the bare skin underneath as his eyes met yours, burning with an intensity that stole your breath away. "You look like... home."

He gazed at you intently, his eyes roved over your face as if he were committing every detail to memory - the curve of your cheek, the delicate sweep of your lashes, the soft fullness of your lips. There was a flicker of something tender and almost reverent in his eyes as he repeated the word again, almost to himself: "Home."

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing along the gentle line of your jaw as he held your captivated gaze. He repeated the word once more, a soft, reverent whisper that seemed to have been torn from the very depths of his soul, resonating with a profound longing and a sense of profound belonging.

"So beautiful.”

His hands explored your body with a fervent, almost desperate intensity. Every touch was charged with a raw, primal hunger that made your breath catch in your throat. His fingers traced the delicate curves of your breasts, caressing the soft, supple skin with a reverence that bordered on worship. As they drifted lower, tracing the gentle slopes of your stomach, you could feel the tension thrumming through him, a coiled spring of restrained desire. It was as if he was fighting a losing battle to maintain his composure, his control hanging by a thread as he struggled to keep his touch gentle and measured. His eyes, dark and smoldering, locked onto yours, and in their depths you glimpsed a storm of emotion - lust, need, a hint of vulnerability. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse, ragged whisper that sent shivers racing down your spine.

"Don't think I can control myself anymore." The words were laced with a raw, primal hunger that made your heart race. 

"Is that all you want from me?"

Your own question, spoken in a moment of sudden clarity, hung in the air between you  and you watched as something flickered in his expression, a chord struck deep within him. He pulled back slightly, giving you a brief respite even as he continued to pin you in place, his body a tantalizing, unyielding presence. For a heartbeat, his features softened, the fierce desire tempered by something else - a tenderness, a need that went beyond the physical.

And then, with a single word, he laid bare the truth. "No."

His hands moved to your sides, holding you gently now, a stark contrast to the desperate, gripping way they had clung to you just moments before. 

"Then why? Why me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper as you searched his face, seeking answers to the questions that burned within you. 

He paused again, that familiar stoicism faltering as he struggled to find the words to express the tumultuous thoughts and feelings swirling inside him. This man, so often in complete control, now appeared almost lost, grasping for the right way to articulate the intensity of what was unfolding between you. 

"Because I..." he began, only to shake his head, the words failing him as he moved closer, his body pressing against yours, his hands wrapping around your waist as he finally spoke. "Because it's always been you.”

The weight of his declaration hung in the air, leaving you stunned.

"You don't even know me,” you countered, unwilling to accept the notion that this man, this virtual stranger, could feel such a profound connection.

Yet, the soft, dry chuckle that escaped his lips held a world of meaning, as if he was privy to a secret that you had yet to uncover.

"Don't I?" he asked, his fingers tracing delicate patterns across your skin, his eyes drinking in every detail of your face, as if committing it to memory. "I know you better than you think, Kotyonok.”

Instead of voicing his thought, he leaned in, his lips brushing against your neck in a feather-light kiss, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. He pulled back again, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes a deep, tumultuous sea of blue and gray.

"And I know-”

He cut you off before you could continue, his hand coming up to rest against your lips, shushing you gently. He didn't need to hear the rest of your sentence. He knew what you were going to say. Or rather, he knew what you thought you knew.

"That's where you're wrong. You think you know, but you don't.”

His words were spoken with a raw honesty that seemed to surprise even himself, and they hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken truths. When he took your chin in his fingers, gently tilting your face up to meet his gaze, you were struck by the complex emotions swirling within his eyes, a blend of hardness and gentleness, a lifetime of experiences and revelations etched into their depths. You frowned but he kept on. 

"I want it all. Everything. With you.”

In that moment, it became clear that his understanding of you ran far deeper than you had ever imagined, and that he harbored feelings and desires that he had kept carefully guarded, until now.

“With me?”

He shifted you in his arms, adjusting his grip on you so he could press you closer against him. His fingers moved to your hair, combing through the soft strands as he spoke again, his voice deep and rough with emotion.

“Yes. With you. Always with you.”

You wanted to tell him what you had found but he moved with a controlled precision, his strong arms lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, the action feeling both natural and yet incredibly intimate as he carried you across the room. Without a single thought of consequence, he pushed everything off the dining table. Your half eaten soup and your precious notebook sent clattering to the floor. But with him between your legs, you couldn’t find it within you to protest his actions.

He lowered you gently onto the table, the soft thump of your body against the hard surface sending a jolt through your core. He stayed standing, his eyes roaming over you hungrily as he loomed above you, the intensity in his gaze making it clear that he wasn't done yet. 

"Every part.”

He took his time, slowly removing your pajama bottoms, his hands trailing over your skin as if he were mapping every inch of you. His touch was both gentle and possessive as he pulled the fabric down your legs, leaving you exposed to his gaze.

“Every piece.”

He began stroking your thighs, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles along your sensitive skin. His eyes never left your face, watching your expressions intently as he continued his slow exploration of your body.

“All of you.”

He continued to touch you, his hands roaming over your bare skin in slow, deliberate movements. There was an intensity in his gaze, a raw need that went beyond mere desire. A need to not just take from you, but to give, to share, to make you his completely and utterly. But not just physically. He also craved something deeper, something that went beyond the physical. He yearned for your trust, your everything.

He shed his pants with practiced ease, the fabric hitting the ground in a heap. As he stepped closer to you, you could feel his body heat radiating against your skin. Shirtless, you could see his scars and the muscles of his chest on full display, the shadows cast by the dim light making him look even more formidable than usual. His hands came to rest on either side of you, his arms caging you in, his body pressing against yours. He was so close you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and rough and ragged as he watched your expression, his eyes drinking in every reaction.

"You're perfect," he crooned, his hands not completely idle, gently stroking himself as he held your gaze. "I need you."

There was no mistaking the longing in his words, the sheer desperation that seemed to emanate from every syllable. It was as if he were a man starving, and you the only thing capable of satisfying his hunger. He gripped your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. His strength was evident in the way he moved you, his hands holding you effortlessly in place as he positioned himself between your thighs.

His eyes met yours again, their intensity almost scorching in their heat. "Can't wait any longer.”

But he took his time, sinking into you slowly, inch by inch. His eyes never left yours, watching your expression as he entered you. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched as he fought to maintain his control.

“Feels so good inside you, Kotyonok. Look at you, look how you take me so well. Looking so pretty with my cock in you.”

The words escaped him in a broken litany, a mix of adoration and raw desire, his voice thick with the effort it took to keep himself reigned in.

The way he uttered that single word, ‘Kotyonok’, sent shivers down your spine. His deep, velvety voice caressed the syllables, imbuing them with an almost affectionate, intimate quality that made your heart race. As his piercing gaze locked onto yours, you felt utterly captivated, your breath catching in your throat. The intensity of his stare and the weighted meaning behind his words left you trembling, your mind whirling as you struggled to process what was happening.

When he lavished praise upon your appearance, calling you beautiful, it only heightened the overwhelming sensations coursing through you. And then came the shocking question, a bold proposition that struck you like a bolt of lightning.

"You look so beautiful. Just like this. Want to be a mommy? Hmm, Kotyonok? Have my babies? Is that what you want?”

The very idea sent your pulse skyrocketing, your head spinning as you grappled with how to respond. His words echoed in your ears, resonating deeply within you in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling. As he continued his advance, his touch igniting sparks of sensation across your skin, you found it increasingly difficult to think clearly. The sheer intensity of his presence, the unwavering determination in his gaze, and the relentless press of his body against yours threatened to drown out all coherent thought. 

"Relax Kotyonok, you're so tight. Let me in,” he murmured, his movements slow yet utterly unstoppable as he filled you completely. The strange, alien nature of his words only heightened the potent sincerity with which he spoke them, as if unveiling long-buried truths. And through it all, his metal palm kneaded your breast, a tactile reminder of the primal, unyielding nature of his desires.

“Wanna see these tits all full, gonna milk them dry.”

His eyes took on a feral gleam as he watched your reaction. Each thrust eliciting a new reaction for him to revel in. He was taking in every shiver, every gasp, every expression that passed over your face. He was reading you like a book, studying in every nuance. Yet there was a paradoxical safety in his presence, an almost primal protection that belied his predatory demeanor. 

“Gonna look beautiful, carrying my baby in that pretty belly. So big and round and gorgeous. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Kotyonok?”

His words, so raw, sent a shiver through your entire body, his voice and touch setting your skin alight with desire. There was a part of you that felt exposed, vulnerable, yet at the same time you felt strangely safe in his presence.

"Yes, yes I would." The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, a breathless affirmation of his desires.

"Yes, you would.” The rough, rumbling chuckle that reverberated from his throat sent fresh tremors of desire coursing through your entire body. He was enjoying this, enjoying the effect he was having on you, the way his words and touch were driving you wild. His hands were roaming over your body again, mapping out every inch of you with a possessiveness that felt almost like a claim.

“You like that, Kotyonok? You like that I want to knock you up?” His voice was a low, rumbling purr, dripping with a carnal need that set your nerves alight. “You'd be so pretty carrying my kids. I'm going to put one in this precious pussy. Right now, I'm going to cum. Legs up, just to make sure.” The words were a promise, a declaration of his intent to claim you, to fill you with his seed and make you his in the most primal of ways.

Your mind was still reeling, unable to fully process the onslaught of sensations and emotions washing over you. It was like being caught in a storm of desire, the intensity and passion between you both threatening to drown you completely.

“Please. I need to feel you cum inside me,” you begged, your voice thick with need. And as he buried his throbbing cock deep within your welcoming heat, waves of pleasure crashed over you, your body clenching around him repeatedly in the throes of ecstasy.

“Oh Kotyonok, look at you, milking my cock so fucking good,” he growled, his voice low and rough with need. The sensation of him filling you, stretching you to your limits, was almost too much to bear. You teetered on the edge, balancing precariously as the coil of pleasure wound tighter and tighter inside you. “Want me to fill you up? Want me to stuff you, til you're so fucking full that you can't hold it in?”

His words were a siren's call, luring you deeper into the depths of ecstasy. You could feel yourself unraveling, your thoughts swirling like a hurricane as the pleasure threatened to consume you.

“Take it for me, I know you can,” he urged, his hips snapping against yours with a bruising force. 

Your body was a maelstrom of sensation, every nerve ending firing at once as he continued to move against you, his touch became too painful to endure. The world narrowed to nothing but the two of you, locked in a dance of passion and desire. He could sense the moment when you reached your limit, the moment when the sensations became too much to bear. His movements slowed as he watched your expression, his hands moving to your hips as he stilled inside you.

"Are you alright, Kotyonok?" he asked, voice laced with concern, though the hunger in his gaze betrayed his true desire.

He took a deep breath, his chest heaving steadied himself. He was still inside you, still pressed flush against you. He watched you for a moment, his eyes roving over your face, searching for any sign of discomfort or distress. A flicker of relief washed over him as you uttered those reassuring words - “Felt good, Soldat.”

He allowed the hint of a satisfied smirk to tug at the corners of his mouth, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of desire and the knowledge that he had pleased you. With a gentler tone, he reaffirmed his intent, his voice still carrying a gruff edge but now tinged with a newfound softness. “Good. I want you to feel good. Just a little more. You can take it.”

As he spoke, he shifted his hips, testing the boundaries, gauging your limits, before beginning to move again, his pace slow and purposeful at first, building gradually as he watched intently, drinking in every gasp and shiver that escaped your trembling form beneath him.

With a deep, guttural growl, he repeated the words, "just a little more," his voice growing increasingly hoarse and strained as his primal need and desire consumed him.

He was pushing you again, testing your limits once more, his need and desire overriding his restraint. The feeling of you clenching around him was enough to send him over the edge, his body shuddering as he came, a low growl escaping his lips as he buried his face in your shoulder. He held onto you tightly, his arms encircling you, as if trying to keep you as close to him as possible. He was quivering, his chest heaving with each labored breath as he tried to catch his own breath.

“Tell me what you are.” He growled the words, his voice deep and guttural, a demand more than a question. There was no mistaking the authority in his tone, the possessiveness in his eyes as he looked at you.

“Yours.”

"That's right, mine," he whispered harshly, the words spoken with an animalistic ferocity. "Mine to touch, mine to take, mine to claim.”

In the aftermath, he moved with a deft, practiced efficiency, dressing himself with the same dexterity one might expect from a seasoned military veteran. But when he turned back to you, his eyes skimmed over your still-naked form, and for a moment, the harsh, unyielding facade softened. It was not a leering, lustful gaze, but rather one of genuine appreciation, as if he were admiring a work of art. And then, with a surprising tenderness, he reached for your discarded cardigan and carefully draped it over your shoulders, shielding your exposed skin from the chill.

As the washcloth made contact with your skin, a wave of relief washed over you. The soft, moist fabric was delightfully cool against the heated, sensitive areas he was so tenderly tending to. His touch was feather-light, his movements measured and deliberate, as if he were handling the most precious of treasures. There was a look of intense focus etched across his features, his brow furrowed in concentration as he meticulously cleaned you up. Yet despite the intensity of his gaze, his fingers remained remarkably gentle, caressing your skin with a care and reverence that bordered on reverent. 

When he finished, he lifted you effortlessly into his strong, steady arms, cradling you against his chest as if you weighed no more than a feather. His grip was firm yet tender, his muscles flexing subtly beneath your weight. As he carried you the short distance to the bed, you couldn't help but marvel at the sheer power contained within his frame, and the remarkable control he exerted to temper that strength into something so delicate and soothing. 

Laying you down upon the mattress, he handled you with the same delicate precision, as if you might shatter at the slightest misstep. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he noted your expression, his hand slipping beneath your hips to gently position the pillow, the action almost casual in its familiarity. Yet there was an undeniable possessiveness to the gesture, a silent claim of ownership that sent a thrill racing down your spine. In that moment, you knew with absolute certainty that you were his, and his alone, a precious treasure to be guarded and cared for with the utmost devotion.

“Just to be sure.” He murmured the words softly, his deep voice rumbling with a hint of satisfaction. A small, self-assured smile played on his lips as he gently caressed your stomach, his calloused fingers skimming over your soft skin. He seemed pleased with himself, clearly enjoying the idea that he had left some kind of permanent mark on you, a tangible reminder of your intimate encounter. Of course, he was blissfully unaware that your IUD made the prospect of conception impossible, no matter how ardently he may have wished to impregnate you.

His hand trailed higher, stopping just above the pillow he had thoughtfully placed beneath your hips. His brow furrowed slightly, as if he was envisioning a very different scene playing out in his mind, one where his seed had taken root and begun to grow within you. The notion seemed to captivate him, his gaze growing distant and pensive as he contemplated the possibility.

Oblivious to his musings, you drifted off into a peaceful sleep, your body sated and satisfied from the ardent love making that had come before. Soldat watched you slumber, his keen eyes tracing the delicate contours of your face, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed. He was acutely aware of you, his senses attuned to even the slightest movement or change in your demeanor. It was as if he was standing guard over you, even in sleep, his protective instincts firmly in place. A silent sentinel, vigilantly ensuring your safety and well-being, even in the most intimate of moments.

As the blaring alarm shattered the stillness of the morning, your eyes fluttered open, momentarily disoriented as the haze of sleep slowly lifted.  For a fleeting instant, you found yourself dislocated from reality, the events of the night before a distant, dreamlike memory.

You rolled over in the bed, expecting to find Soldat still lying beside you. Instead, you were met with an empty space where he had been. You sat up, disoriented and a little lost. There was a brief moment of confusion, a pang of disappointment at the realization that he was gone, the sheets were cold where he had vacated them. It was as if he had vanished in the night, leaving no trace of his presence behind.

The emptiness in your heart was palpable, a sense of loss and longing settling in your chest. The thought crossed your mind that it had all been a dream, a vivid and realistic illusion. But the lingering feeling of his touch and the soreness between your thighs reminded you otherwise.

Chapter 7 <MASTERLIST > Chapter 9

[warwickroyals]

Sunderland's Royal Jewel Vault (51/∞) ♛

↬ Princess Elizabeth's Sapphire Scroll Tiara

As the elder daughter of George II and an aunt of Louis V, Princess Elizabeth was an uncontroversial member of the royal family with a remarkable jewellery collection; including her great-grandmother’s sapphire tiara, a fringe tiara, and this sapphire scroll tiara. Comprised of a large detachable sapphire brooch, the tiara is said to have originated from Imperial Russia. Like many Romanov jewels, it was smuggled to Sunderland to escape the Bolsheviks. It was snapped up by Queen Matilda Mary for an unknown price shortly after that. The jewel lingered in the vault for a time before it was gifted to Matilda Mary’s eldest granddaughter, Princess Elizabeth, ahead of her debut in the mid-1930s. By then, the seventeen-year-old princess was the only child of George II and Anne to remain at home with her parents. Elizabeth's brothers were undergoing military training, and her only sister, the pugnacious Princess Alice, had been sent away to boarding school. Elizabeth led a lonely adolescence at Chester Palace, never showing an interest in court life or art, to her mother's great chagrin. "Her Majesty treats the Princess Elizabeth more like a pet than a daughter," a family acquittance noted. "She has a little bell to ring whenever she wants Elizabeth to fetch something or do some minimal task. Mostly Elizabeth just stands there with her hands at her side . . . as if standing at attention." Elizabeth married "silently" in 1942. Her husband, a reclusive but wealthy earl, was fifteen years her senior, but Queen Anne remarked that Elizabeth "seemed to like" him. The Queen was equally pleased when Elizabeth gave birth to a son, the first grandson of George II, less than a year into the marriage. Elizabeth's monotonous domestic life was briefly interrupted when Sunderland declared war on Nazi Germany, formally entering the Second World War. Elizabeth worked with the Red Cross and funded welfare projects to support the families of conscripted soldiers. The Princess maintained her public duties after the war, but interpersonally, she remained distant and "chronically unamused." "She is a Hohenzollern to the core & with the personality of a lemon that has been sucked dry," Queen Katherine later wrote. "Always muttering under her breath. Too much of her grandmother's dreadful disposition! Awful." Throughout her years of public service, Elizabeth wore her sapphire scroll tiara to many important events, including the enthronements of her brother, James II, and nephew. After Elizabeth died in 1995, her surviving son sold most of her jewels, including the tiara, which fetched a staggering $18,200 in 2000. Creation: Unknown Provenance: 1) Queen Matilda-Mary 2) Princess Elizabeth of Sunderland 3) Private owner Status: Sold

[lovelykhaleesiii]

Lactation kink aegon? You can add this into any other plot but I just need more of this 😚

aegon x lactation kink has me crying, (s)creaming, throwing up!!!!

Wet Dreams

PAIRING: King!Aegon ii Targaryen x WetNurse!fem!Reader

WORDS: 1,661.

WARNINGS: wet nurse references, breastfeeding, mentions of an affair, lactation kink, Daddy kink, degradation kink, female receiving (fingering), breast play, swearing.

A/N - I kind of went feral, this was meant to be a very small blurb... whoops!

Since the royal twin heirs, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, had been born lively to King Aegon, the Second of his Name and his sister-wife, Queen Helaena, the realm had rejoiced in joy and excitement. Gratefully appointed by the Dowager Queen herself, to be a fellow wet nurse for the twins, following the ancestral footsteps of your mother, who nursed Laena and Laenor Velaryon, and your grandmother before who nursed the many royal offspring of the Old King and his Good Queen wife, before being relieved of their duties.

You were quite younger than your predecessors when being anointed as a fellow wet nurse, however, Queen Alicent saw it fit that the younger the woman in the peak of her youthful maidenhood, would in return have the better production of the milk. Trusting that it was naturally in your genes to produce. Not to mention, you would be relative for quite some time to the royal couple, starting off in your young adulthood.

Nonetheless, as the twins grew familiar around your tits, latching on more comfortably, their repetitive suckling motions began to show results. Your tits had swollen abundantly with milk in vast supply, often at times leaking, if they were not in use. You were relieved from the burden, as was the Dowager Queen and her beloved daughter, satisfied with your loyal services... And yet it seemed that you had caught the lurking eyes of the King himself.

From time to time, when Helaena had delivered or called upon for your presence to nurse her newborns, Aegon remained solemnly distant in the background, yet ever so present. Never uttering a word, nor showing an ounce of acknowledgement for the intimate yet crucial service you provided to his children, and yet, his violet eyes would loosely ponder over you. Whenever you meekly entered their chambers, your eyes would inevitably meet in mutual focus, before forcing to resume your undivided attention unto the newborn babes. At one point, he was so drawn to your readiness to provide for his children, mindlessly caught in his own, unfathomable thoughts, that it took his sister-wife to hastily tug on his arm, harshly pulling him away to be drawn back to reality.

Having grown accustomed to his children's feeding times, he knew that you would reliably arrive on time in the early morrow, to feed the babes, whilst their mother and the rest of the royal family would attend their own breakfast feasts.

And he remarkably knew this would be the perfect time to strike...

Just as you faintly swayed and nestled little Jaehaera back into her crib residing with her asleep elder, the sudden knock on the door startled you vividly. As you hastily turned towards the direction of the abrupt sound, so anxious that the children did not stir awake, as your focus reluctantly panned from them still deep in slumber, did you meet the familiar, unnerving gaze of Aegon.

"M-My King, th-the babes have just been fed and put to bed. Queen Helaena is not here, I-I can fetch her for you, i-if you wish-"

Aegon remained dead silent, only taking a few slow paces towards your rigid state in front of the cribs, only inches apart before having the decency to respond.

"I have no need for my sister. Nor do I intend to wake the babes... I am here for one other matter, that is," He lowly uttered, his voice deep yet clear and stern, those formidable violet eyes tainted over you, lingering from head to toe and back.

"Mayhaps, I-I can help you, your Grace," You anxiously stutter: yet a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach began to churn, the feeling gradually extending between your inner thighs, that began to intensely throb, each passing minute the King blessed you with his attention.

"In fact you can... Get on the bed."

His serious tone was cold, you obeyed the command as you obeyed all your previous doings, and yet, this was one that should not have been taken lightly. Glancing at the sleeping babes one last time before the frame of the crib hid their tiny bodies, some comfort was provided knowing they remained peacefully unstirred in a deep slumber. The voice of their father not stirring them awake, even though Aegon spoke an octave above a whisper.

Following you closely behind, you could almost sense him inhaling your natural scent, sensing the fear oozing from your every fibre.

"Lay down," He further instructed, as you continued without hesitation in abiding by your Grace's honour. How could you defy the King? The consequences would have been detrimental, even so, fatal, to your very unimpressive existence...

Making yourself somewhat comfortable, despite the tension in your body from the uneasiness of the situation, Aegon knelt above you, each thigh in level just below your waistline as his knees sturdily supported him, his large hands began to snake their way up towards your body. Heavily breathing, the tight fabric felt suffocating, as you felt the foreign touch of his hands gliding over your body frame, gently tracing over the curves of your waistline, up until it reached your ample bosom.

"Hmm-" As the grazing touch of his soft lips glazed over the skin of your cleavage, you swore you could feel the ripples of his deep growl vibrating over you.

"So these are the fruitful gifts the Gods have blessed you with, that feed my very babes. Fuck, how I have been envious of my own seed-" Aegon lustfully whispered, with each breath taken and word spoken, his eager mouth latched to your skin, suckling leaving a moist trail of his trace over you.

"How they cry for your tits day and night. How they suck on these, taking in your taste with every mouthful. Favouring each swallow... Now it's my turn."

The foreign feeling of Aegon's thick, probing cock pressing down against you, just directly above the clothed entrance of your cunt, sent an exhilarating thrill through the entirety of your body, stemming from between your thighs. You had never truly been with a man before, let alone, your first being with the King himself. Nonetheless, you naturally dismissed all self-control, moaning and whimpering for Aegon's touch and more, your eager sounds brewing, louder in volume.

"Shush, shush, my pretty whore. My babes are fast asleep, perhaps milk drunk from you. We must keep quiet, nonetheless."

Instinctively, despite your mind pathetically trying to fight against the urge, you felt yourself keen for more. Hips lifting forwards, burying his stiff, pulsating cock further down into you. Immediately noticing your advances, you felt Aegon's hand reaching beneath, hastily pulling your gown length up, as his rough fingers sneaked tugging beneath your undergarments, teasing your silky folds.

"It seems someone is needy for their King... Have you been desperate for me, my pretty whore? Want Daddy to spoil you too, huh?"

"Y-Yes-" Breathless and yet inclined, your mind a haze, you shut your eyes closer, as Aegon's fingers delve deeper between your velvet folds, his fingers moving in slow, sensual motions stretching you out.

"My pretty whore, gonna be such a good girl for Daddy, yes? Gonna take good care of me, just like you care for my babes, hmm."

"Y-Yes Daddy."

His low, growling chuckle reverberating from his throat, was soon interrupted, as those violet eyes once more fixated firmly on your bosom, tutting at the sheer sight before him.

"Look at you, so fucking full of that sweet, sweet milk, you are practically leaking through your clothes, angel. Have my babes not drunk their full? Not taking advantage as their father would. Mayhaps, your needy body is producing ample supply for my take now."

His hand that had been eagerly venturing between your innocent walls, sprung free, as he began to unloosen the strings of your gown at front, ripping apart the fabric to expose your sensitive, swollen tits.

The appetising sight, nipples red and raw from feeding his babes, oozing with a white, milky substance that drizzles across your stretched skin. His thumb grazing and flicking over it was enough to make you moan in an agonising excitement, back arching hopelessly sulking for more.

"Look at the fucking mess you have made, and in front of your King. Have you no shame, whore? Need Daddy to make you feel better, want me to ease the pain, hmm? All you need to do is ask with that pretty mouth of yours."

"Uhh- Y-Yes, Daddy. P-Please, I'm s-so fucking full."

A growling groan echoed through his throat, before his mouth keenly opened, latching over one tit, as his hand massaged the flesh of your breast. Alongside his suckling movements with the kneading motions, the milk poured lusciously into his mouth, harsher and hastier than the babes, his mouthful took more, as his breathing hastened, his broad chest heaving deeper.

"Mhmm, hmm-" Once more that same hand found its way impressively down to your wet cunt, shoving his thick digits deeply inside, as he began to pump his hand backwards and forwards, almost in rhythm with each sucking motion. His tongue swirled over your nipple, causing you to convulse and jerk beneath him from the tenderness.

"Fuck, you taste divine... My babes are truly spoiled and will grow healthily with your milk. Now I know why they cry for these ardently-"

"It-It is my duty, your Grace. B-But it is my honour, to f-feed my King w-whenever your Grace n-needs me."

"That's right, whore... At my beckon call now. Perhaps I may fuck some bastards into my pretty whore's cunt, keep her filled so these tits keep swelling with milk, leaking for Daddy to relieve."

The milk dribbling off his soft lips was enough to send you into an oblivion, as his tongue hungrily lapped the substance lingering over, before it could trickle down.

"Y-Yes, Daddy. W-Whatever you see fit."

"Good girl, my good whore... So obedient for Daddy, we are going to have fun, indeed..."

general taglist [bold means I could NOT tag] - @evenstaris @bel-bottoms @fan-goddess @malfoytargaryen @hightowhxre @bibli0thecary @m1ndbrand @connorsui @elegantsplendour @randomdragonfires @sylasthegrim @arcielee @s-we-e-t-t-ea @sahvlren @aemondtargaryensrider @watercolorskyy @hypnos-daughter-certified @urmomsgirlfriend1 @backyardfolklore @snowprincesa1

Aegon ii taglist - @who-told-you-this-was-butter @f4ll-for-you @amiraisgoingthruit @bucknastysbabe @jawline-of-steel

credit for divider - @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[retrocgads]

USA 1990

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon II Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Five

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: Hello everyone! There's nothing like an update six months later... I appreciate everyone's kind words and patience regarding the writer's block I was dealing with. I tried many things to help me get out of that funk, but nothing worked. Until one day, I was like, "You know what? I'm just going to write," and here we are! I hope you enjoy this chapter. We're slowly inching closer to the grand finale!

A sense of weightiness hung within the Tower of the Hand. Queen Alicent, her loyal protector, and the Lord Hand were seated in the softly illuminated chamber as the afternoon sun filtered through the leaded glass windows. The Queen absentmindedly picked at her fingers, her restless body betraying her unease, while her eyes flitted anxiously around the room. An unexpected sound finally shattered the oppressive silence, prompting all present to turn their gaze towards the speaker.

"This is but a temporary visit. We must encourage Prince Daemon to take the Princess back to Dragonstone as soon as possible," Otto Hightower said, two sets of brown eyes focused on him as he stroked his course beard. "You have done well, Alicent, but you must know this solution is not long-term. Fear and respect go far until there is someone who inspires more."

His daughter responded with a silent nod, her full lips forming a slight frown as her attention shifted back to her fingers.

"He must not discover her relations with Aegon nor the fruit of it. Not only would it be an insult to our House but to the realm, duty, and the Gods," Otto declared, the metal lapel of the Hand shining in the daylight.

"I understand," the Queen answered as Ser Criston followed suit, offering his services to guard your chambers and lend another helpful eye.

Daemon would find himself in a predicament where he had no choice but to yield to their demands, as refusing would paint him as a traitor. The group was committed to ensuring Daemon was nowhere near them should the Stranger decide to claim a soul. If it meant casting the Rogue Prince in the light of an overly protective, perhaps irrational, father, they believed it to be justified by the divine will of the Seven.

After your father's tears had long dried and you were in the deepest depths of sleep, he stood on numb limbs. He no longer desired to be alone with his thoughts, feeling weak for having broken down in the presence of another man. He did not know when you would awake as your snores carried off into mid-day, so sound asleep that not even the mournful songs of your dragon woke you.

Daemon's eyes never left the cut on your temple nor the bruise beside it that bloomed. It stirred an uneasy feeling in his gut, mind reeling into conclusions and connections to things as Ser Criston Cole posted at the exit, his presence an ever-watchful eye for his Queen. The knight irked Daemon from when he was forced to yield against the Dornish man all those decades ago at a tourney for the deceased Prince Baelon. He had let things go seeing as Criston was Rhaenyra's protector and that he knew his niece's genuine desire was her uncle, but as the years went by, the man grew more insufferable, practically sucking on the Queen's teats wherever he went.

It was no coincidence that the White Cloak was here now instead of Ser Arryk, the man you chose to be your sworn shield. As Daemon studied the contents of your room, the dust on your bookshelves, the mended garments thrown on your chairs, and the overflowing ash lying in the fireplace, he could guarantee that none of your servants, whether it be knight or maid, had been allowed to do their duty for quite some time. The only people Daemon had seen in your chambers since he arrived were Maester Orwyle and Cole.

"May I ask, Ser Criston?" Daemon announced, breaking the silence as his violet eyes left your listless form and strolled away from the bed, "where is my daughter's knight?"

Criston straightened his posture, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as his dark eyes bore into light ones. "He's been punished for failure of duty. Ser Arryk allowed the Princess to be maimed under his watch and must suffer the consequences of such an offense."

"I see," your father hummed, leaning his hip to the side as he examined the unforgiving nature of this man. "And that of her maids? Jeyne and Fiora, if I remember correctly."

Ser Criston's face was impassive, leaving nothing but a stone slate as he swallowed. "The Hand deemed those of highest suspicion to be kept away from her Highness," he answered.

"Is that so?" Daemon sneered, brows raised in disbelief. "Bedmaids and knights are the only suspects?" Criston gave no reply, silver armor glinting in the daylight peeking from your curtains. "Otto Hightower is as useless as he's always been. Where are her maids now, then? In the cells being interrogated, I presume."

"No, my Prince," Criston answered without emotion. It seemed as if the knight did not care whether a member of the royal family died so long as it was not one of Alicent's. This infuriated Daemon beyond measure. The impulse to commit violence that haunted him itched to be free, and his fingers curled into fists to keep it at bay.

If he so wished, he could bash Criston's face as he did to the squire friend of Laenor Velaryon the night of his wedding feast. No consequences were divided out then, so what was stopping your father from doing the same now? He heard your quiet moan then, a soft sound of one in a dreamy sleep they could not wake from, and reminded himself of the cost.

Daemon was more pragmatic than people allowed themselves to believe. He did not always desire bloodshed, though the lust for it existed. He recalled your letter then, remembering how he clung to every scrawl of ink as if it were to be the last you would write. The previous correspondence you had echoed in his head. The prose was much more upbeat, as if you were speaking to Daemon in person instead of through parchment. It mentioned the bright outlook for the future and how you could feel that Rhaenyra's succession would not be as troublesome as your father worried it would be. If Daemon had put your trust in him and your faith, all would be well.

Several lines echoed in his mind, seeing the High Valyrian as if it were in front of him again atop his writing desk illuminated by the glow of melting candles.

"Aegon has no desire to rule, nor does he think he is fit. He loves his mother and is sympathetic to the path ahead of her, but one can never be sure. However, I believe that Aegon is, at the very least, more sympathetic to me."

Daemon felt a smirk stretching his thin pink lips. Perhaps he should visit the drunken Prince.

"Let us round the maids up then, question them, and if they do not cooperate, leave them to the Lord Confessor," the Prince demanded, leaving no room for counterarguments.

Criston visibly balked at the idea, his stony visage turning white as snow, but he swiftly recovered. He bowed his head and whispered, "As you wish." Then he stalked off to inform the Queen and the Hand of the new progression.

Daemon would not be played a fool in his own home. He knew your maids would never try such a thing. They were chosen by the Rogue Prince himself before you arrived at the Red Keep. He could not allow just any person into a place where valuable information would be provided, so he tasked his previous mistress, Lady Misery, as she was now called, to find the most trustworthy servants for your service, to care and protect where he could not.

But even then, that was not enough. Daemon pulled strings, whispered honeyed words into people's ears, and made handsome payments, but still, it did nothing. He had never felt so powerless, inadequate, or inept as a new wave of shame washed over him.

He decided he would speak to Aegon, though he felt conversing with such a wastrel was below his worth. Daemon would stop at nothing. He would walk through the trenches in the Stepstones, bribe and steal, even marry his Bronze Bitch again, so long as it meant that you were safe and well back in his arms.

The castle's corridors were dimly lit in the early dawn, shadows stretching long and thin as Prince Daemon Targaryen paced outside his daughter's chamber. The scent of bitter herbs and smoke wafted from within, where the maester worked to keep the girl from slipping further into a restless sleep. A near-silent rage simmered within Daemon. His daughter's pallid face and the shallow rise and fall of her chest were enough to make him thirst for blood. But vengeance required clarity, and he needed answers first.

He turned sharply toward the two maids whom his guard had summoned. They stood quietly, trying to mask their worry under the Prince's intense scrutiny. These two had attended her, he thought, his gaze narrowing. He suspected them both, or at least wanted to, for they were the last to have touched his daughter's food, and every fiber in him sought to lash out.

Jeyne, with her silver-streaked hair, moldered her chin high as she looked back at Daemon with an unwavering gaze. Years of service to House Targaryen hardened her demeanor, giving her the poise of a knight facing a charging army. Fiora was pale and trembling, her fingers fumbling with the edge of her yellowed apron as she sniffled. Daemon's stare pierced her, and she seemed ready to bolt had Jeyne not placed a steadying hand on her arm.

"Who did this?" Daemon demanded, his voice a blade of cold steel slicing through the silence. He did not flout around words or purposes in favor of courtly manners.

Jeyne's expression remained resolute. "Not us, my Prince. We have served the young Princess faithfully. We would have warned someone if we thought her drink was tainted."

Daemon took a step closer, his tone dark. "And yet she is lying there, fighting for her life. She did not miraculously become ill. She was poisoned." Fiora flinched at Daemon's cold stare, hands clasped at his waist. Jeyne tightened her hand on Fiora's crimson sleeve.

"My prince," Jeyne said carefully. "We would never harm her. Young Fiora brought her fresh water and some fruits before she dismissed us that evening, nothing more."

He studied them both, searching for a flicker of guilt, the shift of eyes, but there was only worry and steadfast resolve. He could tell the older woman was offended by his accusation, but she held her tongue, deferring to him without wavering from her conviction.

"Why should I believe you?" Daemon asked, softer this time but no less menacing. "These Green cunts have placed staff sympathetic to their ambitions."

Jeyne's voice flowed calmly through the air, a soothing melody amidst the charged silence surrounding them. She leaned slightly closer to her fellow maid, her expression softening with empathy. "Because we love her too, my prince," she said, her words imbued with a deep sincerity. "She holds a place in my heart as dear as family."

Her gaze shifted toward Fiora, whose face streaked with tears that glistened like crystal in the dim light, revealing a raw vulnerability beneath her frightened exterior. Each gentle quiver of Fiora's lips betrayed her fear, and Jeyne couldn't help but feel a pang of protective instinct rise within her.

"And I know this girl," Jeyne added, her voice still steady but now laced with urgency, "is far too terrified to lie to you." She took a breath, feeling the weight of the moment. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she witnessed Fiora's anguish. The air felt thick with emotion, and Jeyne hoped her conviction would reach him, bridging the divide between fear and trust.

"Her Highness has a kind soul that is rare to find. I would gladly have my life taken instead of hers," Fiora expressed with a tremble, yet an unwavering conviction laced her tone.

Daemon narrowed his purple eyes, his anger dimming as his tactical mind began to turn. They spoke plainly, unafraid to meet his gaze when the time came. The poison was efficient, the kind that took mere moments to weaken a body and soul. No maid would have easy access to something deadly, nor the knowledge. His suspicion was confirmed without a doubt that the assailant was those with means, resources, and motives.

Jeyne inclined her head, inhaling an offensive breath as she prepared for Daemon's wrath at her following words. "My prince, we would never harm her. I swear it on my honor. But... there is something you should know." She glanced at Fiora, silently urging her to speak.

Fiora flinched under Daemon's scrutiny but nodded, her voice trembling as she began. "It-it was the Queen, my prince. Queen Alicent herself. She ordered the Maester to keep the Princess on the Milk of the Poppy."

Daemon's grip tightened on his sword, the veins in his hand standing out starkly against his pale skin. "Why?" he demanded, his tone like the low growl of an approaching storm.

Jeyne's expression was resolute, but a flicker of regret crossed her face as she answered. "To keep her quiet, my prince. The Princess was... accusing her majesty. Speaking of things that might have implicated the Queen. That this is what her grace wanted because she had ordered her to leave King's Landing."

Fiora sniffled, tears spilling down her freckled cheeks. "I didn't understand at first, my prince, but now I do. The Queen didn't want her to speak. That's why they gave her the milk."

Daemon's gaze darkened, his fury palpable as he stepped closer, looming over the maids like a dragon preparing to strike. "And yet you said nothing. You let them silence her under my House's roof."

Jeyne held her ground though the faintest hint of guilt shadowed her features. "We did not know the full extent until now, my prince. We are but servants. To speak against the Queen without proof..." She shook her head. "It would have been our heads."

Fiora sobbed softly, her voice breaking. "I only wanted to help her, my prince. I swear. I... I didn't know."

Daemon exhaled slowly, a heavy cloud of tension escaping his lips. The fury within him ignited like embers in a dying fire yet restrained from erupting. He scrutinized the two before him, his piercing gaze probing for any hint of betrayal, only to find a stark absence of dishonesty in their expressions. The fear etched on their faces was palpable, mingling with a deep, sincere remorse that hung like a thick fog.

"Jeyne," he said, his voice low and menacing, "if you value your life, you will do as I command. From this moment forward, you will watch the Queen. Every word she speaks, every order she gives. I want to know what she plans before she does."

Jeyne nodded solemnly, her expression unwavering as she searched Fiora's eyes for reassurance. The weight of her decision pressed heavily on her shoulders, but determination ignited within her. "You have my unwavering loyalty, my prince," she declared, her voice steady and resolute. "We will carry out whatever must be done."

"And you," Daemon said, glaring at Fiora, "stop sniveling. You will do the same if you wish to atone for your cowardice. Serve her, but serve me first."

Fiora pressed the rough fabric of her apron against her eyes, desperately trying to stem the tears that blurred her vision. Her heart raced as she nodded vigorously, her voice trembling with emotion. "Y-yes, my prince. I would do anything for the Princess," she declared, determination shining through her sorrow.

Daemon's lips curled into a grim smile, stiff shoulders slightly relaxing. "Good. If either of you falters, I will ensure you pay the price."

The maids nodded in unison, their faces pale but determined. As Daemon turned back to his daughter, his expression softened, though his fury simmered beneath the surface. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his heart aching at your vulnerability.

"Rest, little dragon," he murmured. "They will not harm you again."

Behind him, Jeyne and Fiora exchanged glances, understanding the weight of the task ahead. As Daemon exited the room, his steps purposeful and deadly, they knew the storm was far from over. The Queen's court would soon feel the wrath of a father scorned. In the coming days, Jeyne and Fiora would do their duties with quiet diligence, and their loyalty was divided between the Queen and Prince. Jeyne's sharp eyes would note every whispered conversation and carefully hidden glance. The more the maids observed that day, the more they noticed Queen Alicent's face, so often painted with politeness, seemed to crack at the edges whenever he looked at their Princess lying in her sickbed, nails bit down to the quick.

The servants' vigilance would become Daemon's advantage. They would watch the shadows where betrayers might lurk while he stood ready to bring the fight to those who dared threaten his blood.

Aegon stood within the hallowed confines of the Sept of Baelor, the weight of uncertainty pressing heavily upon him. His back leaned against the cold, wax-covered altar, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. The air was thick with the aromatic blend of frankincense and myrrh, a bittersweet scent that wrapped around him like a shroud, stirring cherished and painful memories. In this sacred space, he often sought refuge in times of turmoil, a jug of rich Arbor Red clutched tightly in his hand, its crimson hue reflecting his troubled thoughts.

The familiar embrace of the Sept's walls surrounded him as he felt an emptiness beyond physical solitude. He wasn't searching for solace from the deities said to dwell in these ancient stones. Instead, he pondered the lingering influence of his mother, whose shadow seemed to loom more prominent with each passing moment.

The Prince's sworn protector had left him to his own devices as he often did, yet keeping a close eye on things should the need for Erryk's presence arise. There was no point in shepherding Aegon, that much the knight knew after years of service.

Aegon was alone with his thoughts as the hours ticked and the sun lowered over the horizon.

Was his life not built on foundations that would surely crumble? Living a life of poorly planned architecture built by arrogance next to a rising tide that would sweep it away should the sea decide to do so. Often, Aegon wished that the waves would swallow him whole, take him out into the vast ocean, and let him sink deeper and deeper into the depths until he felt the brine on his tongue and salt burning his lungs. And just when he felt the urge to swim, to not succumb to the cold and murky waters below, the same people who sculpted his being called the waves to rise.

Numbing the relentless ache that gnawed at him was his sole refuge, the only path to liberating himself from the suffocating weight of his despair. Whether it provided a fleeting respite or the promise of eternal silence, it was a desperate grasp at freedom from the torment that consumed him.

Aegon remained blissfully ignorant of the muted echoes of finely tailored boots trudging through the wet sand, his senses dulled by the relentless tide that filled his water-logged ears. Towering above him was Daemon, his posture exuding a quiet authority, an arched brow hinting at both curiosity and disdain as he surveyed the disheveled state of the drunken Prince sprawled carelessly on the shore.

"Get up," the Rogue Prince commanded, kicking his leather shoe into Aegon's thigh.

The Prince groaned in response but refused to move, slightly adjusting his reclined position.

Daemon heaved a sigh, the weight of nostalgia pressing down on him. He reminisced about countless nights lost in a haze of drunkenness, where the world around him faded away like the flickering candlelight in a dimly lit tavern. Memories of his days spent lurking in the shadowy presence of Otto Hightower and the haunting specters of deceased children lingered sharp in his mind, a constant reminder of his perceived failings. The sting of being overlooked by his niece gnawed at him, a wound that never truly healed. In his search for solace, he turned to the embrace of women and the warm allure of fine wine, crutches passed down through the generations, a familiar way of coping with the burdens that weighed so heavily on his soul.

The Rogue Prince had little patience for the feeble-minded and cowardly. In a moment of reckless inspiration, he seized one of the flickering candles from the altar, its flame dancing wildly in the dim light. With a deliberate tilt, he allowed the molten wax to spill forth, a glistening stream of warmth cascading down onto Aegon's forehead.

The Prince's body reacted instinctively and jolted, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as the searing liquid made contact. Swiftly, he raised a hand, frantically wiping away the viscous substance before it could burn him further, leaving behind a shimmering wax glistening in the muted glow of the altar.

"Wha-" he stammered, violet eyes bleary.

"Get up."

Aegon continued to stutter, his head filled with cotton as he swatted at his imaginary foe. Daemon thought it amusing yet pathetic to see his brother's eldest son, whom everyone whispered about becoming king, reduced to a blubbering mess.

"Get up, you wastrel," the Rogue Prince commanded, his voice a mix of irritation and authority.

He did not give his nephew a chance to respond or make an attempt to rise. Instead, with a swift motion, he seized the collar of the young man's tunic, yanking him upward with a firm grip that betrayed both frustration and resolve.

Groaning in discomfort and annoyance, Aegon stood on unsteady legs, using his uncle's weight to stay upright. "What? Have you got more wine for me?"

Daemon rolled his iridescent purple eyes, a gesture filled with disdain as he forcefully shoved Aegon against the cold, stone altar. The impact sent a few flickering candles toppling over, their flames sputtering and extinguishing in a puff of smoke.

"You're utterly pathetic," Daemon declared, his voice dripping with contempt as he released his grip, leaving Aegon gasping for breath. "I cannot fathom why my daughter would ever find fondness in someone like you."

Aegon's swirling mind focused on his uncle's words, tilting his head to clear his blurry vision at the notion of you. He blinked, the words slow to make sense in his clouded mind. He was still drunk, still floating in a haze of self-loathing and wine, but there was something about Daemon's tone that cut through the fog. The mention of you... It lingered in the air like a physical presence, a sharp, biting reminder of the past days.

Aegon's hand went instinctively to his forehead, wiping away the remnants of hot wax that had burned him just moments before. He could feel the sting, but it was nothing compared to the sensation in his chest—the twisting, gnawing ache that had settled there since he had last seen you, injured and silent.

"Your daughter?" Aegon repeated, his voice slurred but with a strange acerbity beneath it. He forced himself to stand straighter despite his swaying body. "Why do you care? You left her in the viper's den to get bit, and now she has."

Daemon's lips curled into a sneer, eyes narrowing with that sharp, calculating look that had made him both feared and revered. "You know who did this?" he shot back, his voice low and venomous. The Prince was silent, a brief war of loyalty and honor raging inside his mind. "Do not fool yourself into thinking you can hide behind your wine and self-pity, Aegon. If you truly cared about her, you wouldn't be here, drunk and useless. You'd be at her side, ensuring she's safe and her assailants are brought the sword."

Aegon's heart skipped a beat, the words slicing through him like a dagger, sharper than the pain of the wax on his skin. He tried to swallow the bitter lump in his throat, but it stuck there, choking him.

"I didn't know," Aegon muttered, almost pleading as if he needed to convince himself as much as Daemon. "I didn't know what happened... I didn't know she was in danger." He winced at the admission, though his voice was thick with guilt. "How could I have known? How could I-"

"You should have known." Daemon's voice was as cold as the stone beneath their feet, his words brutally cutting off Aegon's excuses. "You're the one who's supposed to protect her, aren't you? You love her, after all. Yet you failed her when she needed you most."

Aegon's chest tightened at the notion that you had told Daemon of your secret vows, his throat constricting with the weight of his uncle's words. The guilt that had always gnawed at the back of his mind, the feeling of being a deficient imitation of the strong eldest son, a poor excuse for a man, overwhelmed him, threatening to drown him in its suffocating grip.

Daemon observed him, his gaze unwavering. "You think I do not know what it's like to be trapped in a world of expectations and failure?" he continued, his voice softer now but still edged with a quiet fury. "I have walked that path. I've suffered for it but never let it weaken me. And neither should you."

Aegon's hands tightened into fists, the tips of his nails pressing painfully into his palms, each pulse of agony sending a jolt through his senses. He stood there, frozen, grappling with the weight of his thoughts, unable to articulate the turmoil inside him. Every misstep, every moment of indecision chained him to this place, facing Daemon, the man who was meant to be family, yet felt like an unsettling specter from a distant past. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, a stark reminder of the chasm that grew between family.

"Tell me what I'm supposed to do," Aegon finally whispered, the words hanging between them like a fragile plea. "Tell me how to fix this... before it's too late."

For a long moment, Daemon said nothing. He studied Aegon with that piercing gaze of his, the kind that made even the bravest men falter. Then, with a soft snort of derision, he stepped back, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"There's no simple answer, Aegon," Daemon said, his voice laced with a bitter edge. "You can't undo the past and erase your mistakes with a few words. But you can do something. You can be something more than a drunken waste of space hiding behind the throne your mother wants you on."

Aegon felt a lump rise in his throat, the enormity of Daemon's words bearing down on him as if he were trapped beneath a heavy weight.

"But I'm not like you," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, tinged with a flicker of resentment that colored his tone. A shadow crossed his face as he struggled to articulate the profound loss, tears glistening on his porcelain cheeks. "I don't possess your force." He paused, his gaze drifting to the ground as the memory surged. "She was carrying our child," Aegon added, pain lacing his words, "but it... it didn't survive," Aegon's voice faltered, and he grasped for the courage that seemed to elude him.

Daemon's heart plummeted like a stone at the weight of the revelation, each word cutting through him with a searing clarity that left him breathless. Anger bubbled within him at the thought of you and Aegon, reckless in your union, seemingly unaware of the consequences that loomed over such a decision. Yet, alongside that rage, a deeper, more profound sorrow enveloped him, tugging at his very soul as he thought of his child. The anguish of your loss struck him hard; the pain of a mother who had endured the shadows of childbirth only to mourn a child stolen away too soon—a tragedy that claimed the lives of many women who faced such grief.

This took him back through the corridors of his mind to the haunting memories of his late wife and mother, lives extinguished too early. An unsettling question gnawed at his heart, one that had plagued his mind for decades. Was it his fate, cursed and unyielding, for the women he loved to endure suffering and despair in the birthing bed? The thought twisted like a dagger in his chest, leaving him to grapple with the weight of his legacy and the maternal heartache that seemed inextricably woven into it.

"No one is born with strength, Aegon," Daemon declared, his voice sharp. "Strength is something you earn by facing the things you're afraid of, by doing the things no one else will do. I did not get where I was by sitting around waiting to follow orders. And neither will you."

Aegon looked at his uncle, the silence stretching between them, filled with an uncomfortable tension. His uncle's eyes were colder now, harder, like the steel of his sword.

"I don't have the luxury of time, and neither does she," Daemon continued, his voice quieter but no less intense. "So listen well, Aegon. You may not be ready to defy your family, but you will if you love her like she claims."

Aegon swallowed, the weight of Daemon's words sinking in, pressing down on his chest until it felt like he could hardly breathe. But there was something else there, too, something more profound than anger or resentment. There was a strange, unspoken understanding, an acknowledgment that neither was truly free from their past and mistakes.

And in that silence, Daemon's voice softened, though still edged with a hard truth. "You want to fix this?" he asked. "Then start by bringing those to justice."

Aegon felt the weight of those words, of the expectation in his uncle's gaze. He didn't have the answers and didn't know what would come next, but one thing was clear: if he were to ensure your future together, he would have to start now.

For the first time in the Prince's life, Aegon felt the faint stirrings of a purpose. Something outside of himself. Something worth fighting for.

"I will," he said, his voice firm despite lingering uncertainty. "This was my mother's doing, but I cannot prove it with her hounds and my grandfather so diligently by her side."

Daemon nodded once, satisfied for the moment. While he could not prove the Hightowers were the cause, he understood that having their kin loyal to him and his daughter would serve greater justice when Viserys met the Stranger. "Good. Then, prove it when the time comes, and she will be by your side again."

With that, the Rogue Prince turned, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of the Sept as Aegon remained behind, staring at the flickering candles, his mind already moving forward. He wasn't sure how he would fix everything, undo the damage, and make things right, but Daemon had given him something more than just words.

He had given him a chance. Now, it was up to Aegon to take it.

The heavy, oppressive silence of the dungeons seemed to wrap around Ser Arryk Cargyll like a shroud. His once-pristine white cloak, the proud symbol of his service as a Kingsguard, was now dirtied and torn, a reflection of the disgrace he now carried. Shackled to the cold stone wall of his cell, he sat hunched in the corner, his mind a labyrinth of guilt, regret, and anger. His failure still burned through him like a wound that wouldn't heal—the inability to protect the Princess due to his hubris.

He could hear the whispers of the guards in the corridors, the occasional clink of keys or boots on stone, but none stopped. No one came to offer him solace. He had betrayed his vows, and now he was paying the price.

There was no doubt in Arryk's mind about what awaited him. The Rogue Prince would not be merciful. He would die here, alone in this dark cell. Or worse, he would be forced to suffer before his inevitable death—a public disgrace, a mark on his and Erryk's name that would never be erased.

The sound of footsteps approaching snapped Arryk out of his thoughts. His heart sank, but not out of fear. He knew who it was before the man appeared in the dim light of the dungeon corridor.

Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince, the shadow that hung over the Targaryen family.

Arryk didn't rise from his sitting position. There was no need for any formalities. His failure had already stripped him of his dignity.

Daemon didn't say a word at first. He stopped before the cell, his violet eyes glinting in the dim torchlight as he studied the disgraced knight. He gave Arryk a long, pointed look of disgust and amusement.

"Ser Arryk," Daemon's voice was low, dripping with disdain. "You've fallen far, haven't you?" He stepped forward, his boots echoing in the cold, cavernous hallway.

Arryk didn't respond. What was there to say? The facts were clear. He failed in his sacred duty. No words could change that.

Daemon studied him for a moment longer before he smirked, the cruel twist of his lips never reaching his eyes. "You were meant to protect the blood of the King, Ser, and yet, the very Princess you were sworn to guard was nearly killed right under your nose. Tell me, how does that feel?"

Arryk's chest tightened, his hands clenching in the chains that bound him. He didn't have the strength to defend himself anymore. He didn't deserve to. "I failed," he whispered, voice rough from days of silent anguish. "I failed my oaths."

Daemon's smirk widened as if pleased by the admission. "Yes, you did. And now, the question is, what happens next?"

Arryk's head jerked up, his eyes locking with Daemon's. He saw no pity in those eyes. No mercy. Just the cold, calculating gaze of a man who had long since discarded any pretense of kindness. "What happens to me?" Arryk's voice was hoarse.

Daemon's lips parted in a faint, humorless chuckle. He pulled a dagger from his belt—simple, sharp, and deadly, the hilt made of dark iron. He dangled it in front of the bars, allowing the torchlight to catch the gleam of the blade. "You'll pay for your failure, of course. I will ensure that much." Daemon's tone was almost light, as though speaking about a matter of no importance. "But my punishment won't be death at the hands of another."

Arryk's heart skipped a beat. He couldn't speak. The weight of his fate seemed to settle in his chest.

Daemon raised an eyebrow, watching the knight's reaction. "You see, I am not as quick to kill as the people of your ilk might expect. No, I'll have you suffer. Perhaps I shall keep you locked away for the rest of your miserable life, a reminder to every knight in the Keep that failure is not tolerated." Daemon paused, allowing the words to sink in.

The pain of the thought was almost unbearable. Arryk had never thought of a fate worse than death, but now he could see it—an eternity of being nothing but a stain on the honor of his House.

A shadow.

Forgotten.

Daemon's voice lowered again, and there was now a weight to his words, a deliberate finality. "But that is not what I have come to offer you, Ser."

The dagger was placed on the cold stone floor beyond Arryk's reach. Daemon gave him one final look—measuring, unblinking. "The honorable thing, Ser Arryk, would be to take this dagger and end it yourself." He let the words linger in the air, heavy as iron. "That way, at least, you'll die with some dignity. You'll not be remembered as a coward too weak to take responsibility for his failure."

Arryk's eyes flicked to the blade, and his breath hitched in his throat. The thought of it, the sharpness of the steel, and the cold weight of the hilt in his hand comforted him in the depths of his despair. Death was swift, easy. And in some ways, it would be a release.

Daemon studied him for a long while before he spoke again. "If you choose to live, it will be a life spent in humiliation. I will never allow you to forget what you've done. You will be a shell of what you once were, and your name will be erased from the annals of honor. You will have nothing left."

Arryk's heart hammered in his chest as his eyes remained on the dagger. His failure had broken him. His soul felt heavy, burdened with the shame that would haunt him for the rest of his days. But could he end it? Could he choose death over a life of misery?

Daemon didn't move as he let the silence stretch on. "It's the honorable thing to do, Ser," he said quietly, almost as a command. "You know it as well as I do."

Arryk swallowed hard, his mind a whirlwind. He had failed so completely that nothing left for him was shame or death. He reached out a shaking hand, and his fingers brushed the cold steel of the dagger, the reality of the decision settling in his bones.

Daemon stood, watching, his arms crossed over his chest. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only the cold certainty that Arryk had already made his choice, whether or not he realized it yet.

"Make it quick, Ser Arryk. I won't grant you such a mercy again," Daemon added, his voice low and final.

And with that, the Rogue Prince turned and left the dungeons, leaving the dagger behind as the only reminder of the honor that had once been and the shame that would now define him.

The air in your bed chamber was thick with the pungent scent of incense. The faint orange glow from the setting sun filtered weakly through the heavy velvet curtains, casting a dim, feverish light over the room. The dim glow of the hearth cast wavering shadows across the opulent green decor, the only light rivaling the room's heavy tension. Daemon Targaryen stood at the foot of his daughter's bed, his jaw set like granite, his lilac eyes aflame as they bore into the two figures before him. Queen Alicent Hightower, clad in a gown of deep emerald, held her composure, her hands clasped before her as though she were at prayer. Beside her, Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, straightened his posture, his sharp features betraying only a hint of disdain.

On the bed, the pale and fragile form of Daemon's youngest daughter lay motionless, her breath shallow and her lips tinged with an unnatural stillness. A half-empty vial of milk of the poppy rested on the bedside table, its glass catching the flicker of the firelight.

He could see your face now, pale and drawn, your lips dry and cracked, and your breathing shallow. Your hair clung to your forehead, damp with sweat. You had barely roused since he returned to the Red Keep. The wound on your temple, the poison that still coursed through your veins, all of it seemed to pull you deeper into the shadows.

Daemon broke the silence first, his voice low and venomous. "How long?" he demanded, his hand clenching the hilt of Dark Sister. "How long has my daughter been your prisoner in her skin?"

Alicent raised her chin, her voice measured but with an edge of exasperation. "Daemon, your accusations are baseless. She is not a prisoner. The maester prescribed milk from the poppy for her comfort."

"Do not dare!" Daemon snarled, taking a step forward. "Do not dare speak to me of comfort while my daughter lies here, drugged into silence. Fragile, you say? What lies beneath your 'comfort,' Alicent? What truth were you so afraid she would speak?"

Otto stepped in, his tone dripping with authority. "Prince Daemon, you insult Her Grace and the King's council with this madness. Your grief clouds your reason. Do you hear yourself? These are the ravings of a man desperate to find enemies where none exist."

Daemon's laughter was cold and mirthless. "Oh, there are enemies aplenty, Lord Hightower, and none closer to my family than you." He pointed a finger toward Alicent. "Do not think I am blind to your schemes. Drugging my child, is that not desperation enough? Or would you rather have me believe that poison is beyond your reach?"

Alicent flinched, but only slightly, her calm demeanor hardening. "You think us capable of such atrocity? We seek only peace in the realm. Your daughter's well-being has always been our priority."

"Peace?" Daemon hissed, circling them like a dragon sizing up its prey. "Peace through silencing the truth, you mean. And what truth terrifies you so, Alicent? That your precious Greens are losing their grip on the throne? That your Targaryen children will not be your puppets?"

Otto's voice cut through the air, sharper now. "Enough! You speak treason, Prince Daemon. Were you not her father and brother to the King, I would have you dragged from this room in chains for such slander."

Daemon's grip on Dark Sister tightened, his knuckles whitening. He leaned in closer, his voice a deadly whisper. "And were she, not my daughter, I would have your head for daring to lay a finger upon her fate. Tell me, Otto, if the Greens are desperate enough to keep her tongue tied, are they desperate enough to steal her life?"

Alicent stepped forward, her expression resolute. "Daemon, this is your grief speaking. You imagine plots where none exist. Please, for her sake, do not let your paranoia destroy what remains of your family."

"My family?" Daemon barked, his eyes narrowing. "You have no claim to speak of my family, Alicent. The blood of the dragon burns brighter than the shadows you and your father cast. But be warned, if I uncover a single thread of truth behind this betrayal, I will burn every last one of your schemes to ash."

The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the faint, shallow breathing of the girl on the bed. Alicent and Otto exchanged glances, their faces masks of composure but their eyes betraying unease.

Daemon stood firm, a tempest barely restrained, his gaze never leaving them. He spoke once more, quieter now but no less dangerous.

"Leave this room. Leave her side. And pray, for your sakes, that the truth never comes to light."

Alicent hesitated, but Otto placed a firm hand on her arm, guiding her toward the door. They exited without another word, the heavy oaken door closing behind them with an ominous thud.

Daemon walked silently toward your bedside. His strong hands, so accustomed to wielding swords and bending the wills of others, now trembled as they reached for your delicate, limp fingers. The quiet vulnerability of this moment struck him more than any battlefield ever had. His daughter, the one he had sworn to protect, was broken, and he was powerless to do anything but watch. He gently curled his fingers around yours as if holding on to whatever little remained of the angry girl he had raised.

The Rogue Prince turned back to his daughter, kneeling beside her bed, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from her face. "They'll pay for this, little one," he murmured. "I swear it on my blood."

You shifted slightly, just enough to draw his gaze as your lips parted gently. Your eyes fluttered open briefly, sparkling with a soft, dreamy awareness that hinted at the depths of your thoughts.

"Father?" Your voice emerged as a fragile whisper, barely lifting above the air around you. The sound seemed to fracture something deep within Daemon, a tiny shard of his once-impenetrable heart splintering into pieces in his chest.

"Shh, don't try to speak," he murmured, brushing your damp hair back from your forehead with a tenderness he didn't often show. His eyes were wet with the tears he hadn't allowed himself to shed until now.

In return, you weakly squeezed his hand, your gaze struggling to focus through the Milk of the Poppy. "I... failed, didn't I?" you whispered, voice cracking. "I couldn't stop it... Couldn't stop the Greens."

Daemon's heart clenched. He could feel the depth of your regret, the weight of your self-doubt in those simple words. His mind flashed back to the fateful days that brought you to this point.

Sending you to King's Landing was the plan you had agreed upon, knowing it was dangerous. You would infiltrate the very heart of the enemy and make a place for yourself at court. You would seduce Aegon, the eldest son of Queen Alicent, a man with no taste for power and no ambition beyond the pleasures of the flesh. You would make him fall for you, win his favor, manipulate him, and stop the usurpation. You would ensure Rhaenyra's crown was secured and that Aegon would never take what was rightfully hers.

But everything had gone wrong. Daemon underestimated the treacherous nature of the court, the depths to which the Hightowers would go to secure the throne for their own and your young, bleeding heart. He had failed as a father, as a man. And now, his daughter, his precious girl, was paying the price.

Daemon swallowed the lump in his throat. He took a slow breath, trying to steady the fury that threatened to consume him. "You did what you could," he whispered, his voice breaking on the words. "You were brave. You were everything I asked of you and more."

You stirred again, your brows furrowing as if in pain, and lips parted to speak, but the words faltered.

"Father, if I fail... if Aegon becomes king..." you whispered hoarsely, struggling to stay conscious. "Leave me to die in the forests of the North. A pack of hungry wolves would be kinder than what he will do to me."

Daemon's hand clenched around yours, and his heart shattered at the words. He knew what you meant. Aegon, a man who would become consumed by the luxuries that power had brought, could never be a better man. He would use his newfound strength to break his enemies and your family, bend them to his will, and crush them beneath the weight of his crown.

Aegon would not cease until you were by his side, even if it meant the destruction of House Targaryen and the kingdom. If he were to ascend to the throne, it would be the end of you.

You closed your eyes again, your body sagging slightly as the feverish haze claimed you again.

Daemon sat beside you on the mattress as it dipped with his weight, holding your hand in both. The stench of a floral musk that reminded Daemon of Viserys wafted through his nose as a sudden realization came to mind. His breath came fast, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts, but it was all drowned in his overwhelming rage and helplessness at the world's cruelty.

His daughter, his favorite daughter, was so close to death, and there was nothing he could do to save her. His mind began to work, to churn with decisions that could shape their future.

He will not let you die here.

"No," Daemon whispered to your sleeping form, his voice thick with emotion. "I will not let them do this to you. Not while I live." His hand trembled as he stroked your hair, his heart shattering again as he looked at your pale, suffering face.

He stood slowly, but his movements were sharp and purposeful now. The anger and sorrow had merged into a singular driving force as he turned to the window, glancing out at the fading light of the day. There was only one place he could take you, one where you might have a chance to heal and one where you would be safe, but at the potential cost of the throne.

"Prepare a ship," Daemon ordered to the guards outside the door, his voice hardening as he straightened, the weight of his promise pressing down on him. "Get it ready. We leave for Dragonstone tonight."

Turning back to the bed, he gently lifted you into his arms, carefully cradling you as though you were the most precious thing in the world. You were frail, but still his daughter—the fire from his blood, the only legacy worth fighting for. He kissed your forehead, the promise in his heart now fully formed.

"Do not fear," he whispered, more to himself than you. "You will be free. You have not failed. I will ensure you are never hurt again once we return to Dragonstone."

The ship would be ready by the hour of the owl, and Daemon would take you and leave the city behind. The politics, selfish intrigue, and Hightowers were all irrelevant now. The only thing that mattered was his daughter's life. The rest of the realm could burn for all he cared so long as you lived.

Masterlist of Series

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We all want heads to roll, but we must let them have their moments. Otto, Alicent, and Larys will eventually get what's coming. I have about ten or eleven more chapters to go!

Tagged Peeps: @zeennnnnn, @malfoytargaryen, @targaryencore, @justasmallbean, @omgsuperstarg, @sommornyte , @silverslive , @prettykinkysoul , @duesobabe, @legolas017, @iiamthehybrid , @dd122004dd , @ladybug0095 , @millies0bsimp , @kalfild , @sheislonelyalways , @tempt-ress , @minttea07 , @trikigirl271 , @esposadomd , @prettywhenicry4 , @justarandomflowerchildofthenight , @partypoison00 , @please-buckme , @pastelorangeskies , @existential-echo , @priyajoyy , @valaenatargaryensdragon , @merovingianprincess , @candy12110 , @w3ird11 , @ruhjkie , @somemydayy , @marikkjj , @zillahvathek , @sunfyresrider , @heavenly1927 , @hjgdhghoe , @im-sidney , @aurorathi , @marihoneywk , @xitsemm , @justbelljust , @qardasngan , @shari-berri , @tomgcmrs

Bold means I couldn't tag you •́⁠ ⁠ ⁠‿⁠ ⁠,⁠•̀

[syluss-karaoke-teacher]

Love and Deepspace - Nightly Rendezvous - Part II, Zayne

As promised, here is the second part of the short smut series inspired by the new quad banner~ I began writing Xavier and Zayne's parts after the teaser dropped but before the cards came out, so that's why it's not a faithful retelling of the plot. Especially since I found the premise of Zayne getting *that* drunk off ONE chocolate so outlandish lol.

Word count: 2286 words

MDNI! Main text under the cut. You have been warned.

NOTE: This fic is only posted on tumblr and on AO3 under the pseud Yuli_Hunter. All other uploads on any other websites are non-authorized. I do not own any part of Love and Deepspace as an IP, but I do own this piece of fanfiction, and you are not allowed to repost it, copy it or otherwise claim it as your own.

That's it, enjoy! ❤️

Tags: reader!MC, fem!reader, PWP, fingering and oral (f!receiving), PIV, Zayne is a lightweight, tipsy and neglecting his doctorly duties lmao

Not beta-read we die like Grandma

You had hoped that finally, after so many weeks of the two of you running yourselves ragged at work this short work trip together would at least help you spend a night together. For Zayne there was a medical conference to attend, and for you a chance to aid your neighboring city’s Hunters by being on-call as backup for the preparations of a local festival. Nothing too intensive, maybe even time to have a nice long dinner together.

Alas, from the moment you arrive at the hotel hosting Zayne’s medical conference he gets swamped by his colleagues from all over the country. As you converse with the front desk staff Zayne is soon engaged in small talk from all sides, and slowly but surely gets walked towards the conference hall. Your boyfriend looks over his shoulder and offers you an apologetic frown. You wave back at him with a small smile, trying your hardest to not let your disappointment show. That’s what you get for having such high hopes.

The suite Zayne had reserved for you two is nice, but it feels so very empty with only you occupying it. As Zayne’s day at the medical conference drags on your Hunter’s watch stays silent, and by the time your on-call shift ends, you place an order to the room service. After a moment’s consideration, you add a bottle of wine to the order, in case Zayne only arrives back during late hours of the night.

As you wait for the food you fix your hair and makeup and try on some of your newly bought clothes to pass the time. If there is a chance that Zayne arrives early you want to surprise him. You end up choosing a sleeveless silk top with floral designs and barely-there black shorts. You tie your hair in a high ponytail to show off your shoulders and dab your pulse points with a jasmine-scented perfume. Satisfied with your look you take a few mirror selfies, and on a whim decide to send them to Zayne, thinking he would only look at his phone after his panel talks are over.

The food finally arrives, and you help yourself to a glass of wine as the staff sets up a table for you. Just as you are thanking them your stomach growls loudly, and you see the staff out the door with a sheepish smile. Afterwards you dive into the food, practically devouring the delicious truffle pasta. You make a mental note to have it again with Zayne before you return home.

As you reach for the dessert, a generous slice of dark chocolate cake, you hear the door open. You set the cake and your wine glass back on the table and hurry to the front door, where you are met with a tired looking Zayne.

You frown a bit as you notice how visibly tense Zayne is, even a bit irritated. However, the moment he sees you his pupils widen as he takes in your appearance. He barely notices you trailing your hand up his chest, and he doesn’t register your concerned voice as you ask about his day.

“Zayne?” you repeat, and he finally snaps his focus back to your eyes. That’s when you notice that they are glossed over, unfocused. You lean toward him and as he wraps his arm around you, you notice a faint fruity scent.

“Have you been drinking?” you ask in amazement. Zayne never drinks alcohol, citing the endless health hazards and the ever-present possibility of being summoned to handle an emergency at the hospital. Yet now Zayne merely hums and traces your cheek with his fingertips.

“I had a cocktail or two in the lounge. Some of my work colleagues were… quite insufferable, not letting me get back to my room.”

A surprised gasp escapes you as Zayne suddenly pulls you flush against him.

“I was waiting for a call from the hospital, to get an update on next week’s surgery,” he says as he buries his face into the crook of your neck. His other hand slides down the slope of your back to rest on your ass as the other one tangles itself into your hair.

“So, imagine my surprise when I check on my phone and find your pictures there instead.”

You are about to apologize when he lays a heated, open-mouthed kiss on your neck, and your words die out in a moan. Zayne starts walking you backwards, kissing up your neck as he does. Soon your back meets the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, and at that moment Zayne claims your lips with fervor you have never seen from him. He slips his tongue into your waiting mouth, sharing the sweet taste of the fruit cocktail with you as he presses his thigh between your legs. When you finally part you barely recognize Zayne with his eyes so cloudy and dark, his glasses misted up and his breathing ragged.

“I might have been able to endure my colleagues and the inevitable phone call if I was by myself… But knowing you would be here, looking like this—” he groans and slips his hand further down to grab your ass better, “it was too much. You are too much. And here I am, falling to pieces while you stand there so… unaffected,” he says, and sounds almost angry as he does.

“Zayne—” you don’t even know what you want to say. It doesn’t matter, as Zayne claims your lips once more. He grinds you against the window while cupping the back of your head so as not to hurt you. There’s a slight wobble to his movements, induced by the alcohol he so rarely drinks, and as you slip your hands down his abdomen to caress the growing bulge in his pants, you feel him unravel. Zayne moans loudly in your mouth, and before you have a chance to react, you are swooped up by him and carried to the living room work desk.

Zayne has apparently decided that the bedroom of the suite is too far away, and he pushes the stationary items off the table and settles between your thighs. You bite your lip as you gaze upon his face: his cheeks flushed from both the alcohol and the naked desire, his eyes shining as he maps your kiss-swollen lips, and his labored breathing as the jasmine perfume pushes him ever deeper into delirium.

“Don’t try to escape me, please,” he murmurs as he peppers your lips with more kisses, “it’s been far too long since I had you like this. It’s like the universe itself is mocking me by keeping you away from me. And the pictures…” he sighs and squeezes your naked thighs before sliding his hands further up. You tremble as his thumbs circle closer and closer to your core under the fabric of your shorts.

“I’m not going anywhere Zayne,” you sigh and tilt your head to the side to give his mouth a better access, “I’m all yours.”

Just then you two hear a buzzing noise. It’s coming from Zayne’s phone that’s still in the pocket of his slacks. You sigh and squeeze your eyes shut, preparing to wind yourself back. You open your eyes just in time to see Zayne fish the phone out of his pocket—

And chuck it somewhere on the floor before slipping his hands under your shirt. The phone keeps buzzing incessantly on the floor as Zayne gets back to making out with you, his hands deftly undoing your bra and unbuttoning your shirt. You wait for the phone’s voice mail to prompt Zayne to leave the room in a hurry, but all you get are intermittent messages notifications, and after Zayne manages to unzip your shorts and slide his fingers into your panties, the phone sits silent and forgotten on the floor.

You wrap your arms around Zayne’s neck as he rubs your clit in slow, sure circles. His lips are tethered to your neck and shoulder, kissing, licking and nipping the tender flesh. You try to pay him back by lifting your leg and pressing your shin against his groin, but instead of faltering in his ministrations Zayne merely groans and slips two fingers inside your slick heat, curling his fingers just right to make you gasp and tremble in his hold.

“Z-Zayne, more—” you whine and try to shimmy your shorts off. Zayne pulls his fingers out, but instead of helping you out of the last pieces of your restricting garments, he pulls your shorts and panties just barely halfway down your thighs and then pushes your knees towards your chest. A scarlet blush overtakes your face as you realize how lewd a position your usually well-mannered boyfriend has just put you in. Zayne leaves you no time to protest as he pushes his fingers inside of you again. You quickly grab your thighs as Zayne starts a fast rhythm, rubbing incessantly against the sweet spot inside you while the thumb of his other hand teases your clit. Zayne stares at the spot where his fingers disappear into your wet heat, and you catch him licking his parched lips.

“Do you want to taste me, Zayne?” you ask him, widening your thighs as you struggle to temper the flames of your arousal. The sight of Zayne being so utterly mesmerized by you is unbelievably arousing. His pupils dilate at your suggestion, followed by a goddamn whimper, and you feel yourself squeezing down on his fingers.

Zayne grabs his glasses and places them on the desk with more force than necessary. Then he drops to his knees in front of you, still pumping his fingers at a steady pace. You spread your thighs impossibly wide and whine as you feel his warm breath on your pussy. Your core pulsates with need, your heart jumps wildly in your chest, and as his lips connect with your heat you feel yourself shaking to the core. You moan, deep and desperate, as it takes no more than a few precise licks to make you cum all over Zayne’s awaiting mouth. The desk creaks under you as you do your best to keep your balance with your hips bucking wildly into the wet softness.

You don’t hear the noises Zayne makes over your own, but as you come down from your high you feel Zayne’s fingers slipping out of you and grabbing your thigh. You open your hazy eyes and see Zayne staring down at you, panting hard as he blindly reaches for his zipper. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and finally push your shorts and soiled panties off. You wince inwardly at the feeling of the expensive wood of the desk being soaked in your juices, but before you can comment on it, much less do anything about it, you feel Zayne’s arms winding around you once more. You are hauled up and against him, your sweat slicked skin pressed into his expensive vest as he balances you on one arm. You expect him to carry you to the bed, or at least the couch, but then you hear the sound of his metal belt buckle hitting the floor. Your eyes widen as you feel him widening his stance.

“Hold on tight,” he murmurs, and you scramble to hook your arms around his shoulders as you feel him guide his weeping cock to your hole.

“Zayne, oh, fuck—” you manage to exclaim before he sinks into you. He is rock-hard, filling you up inch by inch. Your jaw grows slack when his tip slides against your sweet spot torturously slow. You lock your ankles behind his lower back and hold onto dear life as Zayne begins bouncing you up and down.

“So tight and sweet for me darling, just as I remember,” he pants against your neck, and you respond by squeezing his cock even harder. You can feel him pulsing inside you, his release not far off. You mewl into Zayne’s ear, licking the lobe to tease him as his grip on your hips tightens.

“Only for you Zayne, only ever for you.”

Zayne sucks in a breath and slowly kneels on the floor in a way that makes you quietly marvel the strength of his thighs. The position makes it easier for him to thrust into you, and soon you are little more than a ragdoll in his lap with Zayne fucking into your weeping pussy hard enough for the slapping of your hips to echo around the suite. You bite into his shoulder and feel his cock throb in response.

“Come into me Zayne, fill me up nice and good,” you whisper and give his earlobe one final teasing lick that’s enough to make him come undone. Zayne groans as he stills inside you, the head of his cock pulsating against your sweet spot. You reach for your clit and rub it as you swivel your hips, soon following him over the edge and milking him even further as your own orgasm wrecks through your body.

As you ride out your release on his lap Zayne reaches his fingers behind you and circles your leaking hole, slowly pushing your mixed juices back in. You hiss at the intrusion that’s almost too intense to bear, but then you pull yourself back to see that the intense heat in your lover’s eyes has not faded. You feel any objections die on your tongue as Zayne continues to ease two fingers inside you with his still semi-hard cock filling you.

“I’d hate to leave things half-way,” Zayne murmur against your lips, “won’t you let me continue? Just for a little while?”.

[ladylokianna]

"The Cargyll Arts & Crafts Workshop"

Pairing: Helaegon. My beloved Helaegon. Characters: Helaena, Aegon II, Aemond, Ser Erryk and Arryk, Ser Criston (just a cameo, because he had something way important to do) and my beloved kids Jaehaera, Jaehaerys and Maelor. Warnings: fluff, basically. A bit of comedy here and there. Aegon being a loving dad and Aemond a somewhat caring uncle. Word count: 4185 Beta: the lovely @lyssaelisa that helped me exiting a bad writer's block with the idea for this story and for helping me with suggestions and corrections. And obviously thanks also for the awesome title! Dividers: @zaldritzosrose Also on Ao3

Aegon lazily stretched his arm towards the other half of the bed, moving his hand over the crumpled sheets and finding them, to his dismay, empty.

He huffed in annoyance, running a frustrated hand through his already disheveled, tangled hair. He’d completely forgotten, lost in the pleasant memory of Helaena’s sleepy smile, that year her nameday coincided with the seventh day of the week.

That effing seventh day.

The day meant for the services at the Great Sept, a non–negotiable commitment in the eyes of the Hightowers, and by extension, their mother. Which in turn meant that Helaena must have accompanied her to the aforementioned Sept as always.

And lastly, the most infuriating consequence of all, that unfortunate coincidence had just utterly ruined all of his carefully (well, somewhat carefully, honestly speaking) laid plans for her nameday.

The slow decadent morning, the lavish breakfast consumed while lingering in bed with her (he'd even instructed one of the cooks to prepare her favourite lemon cakes –the ones with extra icing–), the idea of showering her with attentions and whispered compliments followed by a slow, tender lovemaking, abruptly swept away. His gift, a beautifully carved ivory hair comb with an exquisite and colourful blue butterfly, would remain locked in the drawer until evening.

That's it. All gone.  

He grabbed a pillow and sank his face into it, stifling a cry of frustration.

He had even thought to suggest to her a ride on their dragons, a shared flight above the city, a rare moment together far from the bustle of court.

Maybe there was still time to save their private dinner, away from the prying eyes and tedious conversations, perhaps with just their children, their innocent joy a welcome contrast to the usual courtly fanfare.

Perhaps, perhaps...

Instead of a day filled with their own quiet intimacy, Helaena would be spending hours in the dimly lit temple, listening to annoying sermons and engaging in pious rituals alongside their mother.

It seemed his attempts at a romantic nameday celebration were once again thwarted by the unwavering devotion of the Hightowers to their Gods.

"Oh, for fuck's sake…" he sighed again. A deeper, more resigned sound this time.

Something sharp tore him from his thoughts, starting to press insistently on his stomach and causing him to let out a half-smothered grumble of protest from a pair of small hands that had unceremoniously settled on his face, smacking it.

"...ouch!" he protested, managing to grab his attacker's hands and stopping them: Maelor's chubby, toothless face entered his vision, followed by Jaehaerys’.

"Wake up Daddy!" Jaehaerys’ impatient voice overpowered his little brother's babbling. "Wake up!"

"Daddy!!!" echoed Jaehaera, her little silver head appearing beside her brothers’. His daughter, with her inexhaustible energy, was still hopping merrily on his stomach.

"I'm awake!" he muttered, feeling the bed sway under the weight of his children. "Ouch!!! I'm... awake!"

He silently thanked the heavens that he had at least kept his breeches on, and sat up, supporting Maelor with one arm.

"A-ha! So it was your  knee that woke me up." he grinned, grabbing Jaehaera's foot with his free hand and tickling her as punishment for waking him up like that, delighting in his little girl's giggles.

A smile involuntarily painted itself on his lips, despite the abrupt interruption of his plans.

"Your brother is still a baby, Jaehaera, you should be very careful when you pick him up from his cradle." he explained softly, gently settling Maelor in his lap. The little boy gurgled contentedly, his chubby little hands reaching out to grasp the golden embroidery of the sheet. "See? Like this, you have to support his head or he might get hurt. Whatever, what can I do for you, you little scoundrels?" he continued, his tone back to his usual demeanor, adjusting Maelor in his arms with tenderness.

"We need your help, we want to build a present for mummy." Jaehaerys explained, fixing his gaze on him.

"Build… what?… you're asking me for help?!" Aegon exclaimed, raising his brows in surprise. "I don't even know where to start, dudes!"

"Oh papa please!" Jaehaera persisted, her lower lip trembling slightly. "We tried to ask Uncle Aemond as well..."

"And when? We all know that the best time to ask your uncle for something is when he's so dead tired that he can't say no..." Aegon added, with a grin. For a brief moment he pictured his brother, exhausted and wanting nothing more than silence, being cornered by his nephews and especially by Jaehaera's persistence; knowing then that she was Aemond's favourite, Jaehaera knew how to gain leverage over her uncle and sometimes took advantage of it, like in those cases.

"We've been to him before we came to you, daddy, but Uncle Aemond told us to come to you…." was Jaehaerys’ retort, who shrugged his shoulders as if he had done the most natural thing in the world.

Of course he did, that little… Aegon thoughts, with annoyance. Suddenly widened his eyes in disbelief, the grin quickly fading on his face replaced by a look of concern.

"... you were in his room?" asked then, his voice rising a bit.

"Yes, and he wouldn't wake up!" replied Jaehaera with indignation in her voice. "We called him over and over, but he wouldn't answer us."

In a tone filled with childish pride, Jaehaerys told of how they had evaded the nannies, sneaking into Aemond's rooms through the secret passages –a network of hidden corridors that he barely remembered existed– so as not to be stopped by Ser Criston, and how after several attempts to get his attention, at first whispering his name, than called out louder and finally after several attempts, they had literally jumped on Aemond, landing on his bed –and on his back–. He had only decided to pay attention to them when Maelor, deeply fascinated and captivated by the shiny sapphire in his left socket, had reached out his chubby fingers dangerously close to the gemstone.

"No, no, just a minute, hold on!!! What have you done?!"

Aemond snuck behind them silently, his tall frame moving with a predator's grace. The twins, still chattering excitedly with Aegon about their gift idea, didn't hear him until it was too late. With a swift movement, he scooped up Jaehaera, grabbing her around the waist and hoisting her onto his shoulder as if she were a weightless rag doll. For a mischievous moment, he held her upside down, her silver hair cascading towards the stone floor, a surprised squeal escaping her lips before he righted her and began to tickle her, just as he had done earlier in the relative privacy of his rooms, a faint, almost imperceptible smile wrinkling the corner of his lips as the little girl dissolved into fits of laughter.

"Kēpus, stop!!!"[uncle] she begged him there and then, her face flushed and red with the exertion of giggling, in a vain attempt to stop his relentless hand. He ruthlessly continued, a glint of amusement in his eye, heedless of Jaehaera's little hands grasping wherever she could find purchase tugging at his tunic, pulling gently at the strands of his hair.

"Ow!  ‘Twas not for that reason that I showed you the secret passages..." Aemond finally said, his voice a low rumble that was barely audible above Jaehaera's laughter. "Had I known you were going to use them to ambush me in the early morning..." he trailed off, a hint of mock exasperation in his tone.

"You would have set traps, wouldn't you?" finished Aegon for him, leaning against the headboard with a smirk.

"Good idea, indeed." agreed Aemond, turning his gaze again at the two little pests, Jaehaera now sliding off his shoulder and giggling uncontrollably on the floor. "So next time, when I woke up, I would find you all dangling by your feet, swinging from the ceiling like three bats." His gaze then softened as he looked at Maelor who, still sitting comfortably on his father's lap, clapped his little hands in amusement, his wide eyes fixed on his uncle. Aemond shot his youngest nephew a mock stern look, a playful furrow in his brow. "Well, let's say two and a half."

*  Aegon instructed the nannies to prepare the twins, then followed with a leisurely pace into the courtyard: as they stepped outside, they both began to diligently scour the flowerbeds and the edges of the paced walkways.

"I notice that the habit of looking for a present at the very last minute is an inherited issue." Aemond remarked, with a hint of amusement in his voice at his older brother's well-known procrastination.

"And yet you are wrong, for I have a gift for her." said Aegon, shooting him one of his usual sneers, puffing out his chest slightly with a smug look on his face. "And it's something spontaneous, natural. Something she will surely love because it comes from the heart. Too bad you can't understand it, since you don't have one."

Aemond shook his head, a hint of a smile ghosting on his lips. He arched his good eyebrow, slowly slipping on a dark leather glove.

Natural for sure, knowing him.

"Of course, let me guess. Another earthworm plucked randomly from the first flower bed that came your way. I bet it will be particularly slimy this year and will keep company to the previous years' ones."

"You always underestimate me." Aegon retorted, a touch of genuine offense in his voice. "Besides, look who's talking, you gifted her sewing materials last year! Sewing material! Who would give such things to a sister?"

"For your reference, it was fine silk from Qarth and pure gold thread, Aegon." Aemond corrected him, his tone laced with a glimpse of superiority. "The same thread, by the way, that Helaena used to embroider the magnificent portrait of Sunfyre on your favourite vest. So much for your earthworms." he scoffed, watching the twins searching for something on the ground.

Helaena had embroidered something for him too, overcoming his resistance –the gift was for her after all, she should have embroidered something beautiful for herself instead of wasting some of that precious and expensive thread for him– in the end he had accepted a small Vhagar's embroidery on the shoulder of one of his tunics to make her happy.

"Mama always says insects are beautiful and help nature. Don't you like earthworms, kēpus?" interjected Jaehaera, tilting her head and looking up at Aemond with wide eyes. Her small hands, still clutching a handful of colorful petals and leaves, were held out slightly, as if offering him a closer look at her findings.

Aemond tried unsuccessfully to suppress the shiver of pure, unaltered disgust that ran down his spine, at the mere thought of those slimy, wriggling little creatures so beloved by Helaena and, it seemed, also by Jaehaera.

Interesting? Certainly. Useful to nature? For sure.

The thought of their tiny, unseen legs crawling on him, the slick texture of their bodies leaving a trail of dampness, was enough to made him shudder inside. He swallowed hard, forcing a polite smile.

"I'm sure of it, my dear, but I prefer butterflies... at least they fly, they don't crawl on the soil." replied Aemond, his gaze drifting upwards as if already imagining the delicate flutter of wings. "Speaking of which..." he continued, his tone brightening with a sudden, almost palpable enthusiasm. "...I could go and find one that your mum doesn't have yet, a truly unique one. How does that sound?"

Aegon saw his daughter considering his proposal, her brow furrowed in thought for a few seconds before a wide smile spread across her face. She accepted it after a few seconds with an enthusiastic nod.

"Oh, yes please!" Jaehaera clapped her hands together, her earlier fascination with earthworms momentarily forgotten, the voice filled with hope. "Can you get me some wild flowers for mama's gift too, kēpus Aemond?"

"Of course." Aemond agreed instantly, his voice a little too eager. Any excuse to be gone, his hand already moving towards the reins of his waiting horse, swinging onto the back of it with one smooth movement.

"Look, Aem, I know what you're doing." Aegon muttered in his direction.

"And what am I doing?" Aemond asked innocently, settling on the saddle.

"You're running away."

"For once in my life I have to agree with you, you know?" Aemond chuckled, gathering the reins in his gloved hands, ready to spur the horse out of the courtyard gates and towards the relative peace of the open fields.

"You're such an asshole." Aegon called after him, though there was more fondness than genuine anger in his voice.

"...i know, i know." Aemond replied with a lazy grin, already urging his horse forward, leaving Aegon and the children standing in the courtyard.

An asshole and a coward.

Ser Arryk approaching, to remind him of the impending hearing, seemed to come at the right time.

"Ser Arryk, what a fortuitous coincidence!" Aegon exclaimed, with a wide, relieved smile spread across his face. "How are you at handywork?"

The knight, a man of few words and even fewer questions, looked at him questioningly, his brow furrowed slightly, not daring to reply with another question to his King.

"That depends on what you mean with that, Your Grace." Ser Arryk finally responded, respectful. "I can handle myself in many different things if the occasion requires it. Swords, lances, basic repairs to my armor..."

Aegon nodded, a look of vague satisfaction on his face, though it was clear he hadn't been listening to the whole answer.

"And your brother?"

"Much the same, Your Grace."

"Good." Aegon nodded again, clapping his hands together with an air of finality. "Children, listen. Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk have offered to help you with your gift. I... uh... I unfortunately have serious matters of state to attend to."

He walked swiftly away towards the throne room, entrusting the twins and whatever their idea was for Helaena's nameday, to the bewildered knights.

Half an hour later, the four of them were still locked in a heated, albeit hushed, argument in a quiet corner of the courtyard, surrounded by a scattered collection of leaves and twigs.

"A bat house?" proposed Erryk out of the blue. "It's small, they could hang it just outside their windows, and it would be... quite easy. Maybe."

"Bats feed on insects." Arryk reminded him, his voice flat. "In little more than a night they probably would decimate the queen's prized insect collection. Remember how upset she was when that green moth went missing?"

"Right, right." Erryk conceded, scratching his head. "A terrarium for spiders? Remember how happy our sister was when we built her one for her tenth nameday all those years ago? Kids love spiders!"

Arryk's eyes widened in alarm.

"You also remember what happened the last time one of the queen's spiders escaped from its case, don't you? The giant one, with the hairy legs?"

A collective shudder went through both knights as they recalled the chaos that had ensued. Aegon's screams in the middle of that fateful night, when the spider had decided to take a stroll right across his face, must have been heard most likely even from Astapor.

Erryk winced.

"Then I guess I'm out of ideas."

The twins, who had been listening to the knights' increasingly desperate suggestions with growing impatience, exchanged exasperated glances.

Ser Criston glimpsed them from behind, seated at a well-lit table near a huge window in the common room of the white cloaks, taking back his lecture right in time when he spotted the two children.

Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk were seated, surrounded by a chaotic assortment of leaves, twigs, and wilting flower petals. The twins perched on the edges of their seats, their expressions a mixture of frustration and determination. He had initially overheard Ser Erryk explaining something in a low, patient tone, but the knight's words trailed off abruptly when he noticed the Lord Commander approaching behind him.

"...a bug house is a nice idea, Your Highness." Erryk was saying. "But unfortunately, it's quite difficult to construct one properly, and we don't have much time before your mother's return..."

Ser Criston approached the table, his gaze sweeping over the scattered materials. He observed the twins' dejected faces and the two knights' increasingly harried expressions. With a sigh he addressed the children directly.

"Why don't you make it simple?" he suggested, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Just draw a very large butterfly on a parchment. You can use those wooden sticks for the body and the antennae, and then decorate the wings with the most colourful flower petals you can find. I'm sure your mother will love it."

Jaehaera and Jaehaerys exchanged a hopeful glance. They huddled together, whispering excitedly, their earlier frustration forgotten as they considered Ser Criston's suggestion. After a few moments of animated discussion, they both nodded in agreement: that would be perfect, their mum loved butterflies!

"Praise be to the gods." whispered Arryk, relieved. "Thank you, Sir. Three heads are definitely better than two in such a situation."

Ser Criston raised a stern eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Arryk.

"Three? Don't even think about it. I have guard rotations to organize."

* 

As promised, Aemond came back a couple of hours later convinced, with a certain smugness, that he had successfully escaped the crafting danger –without knowing that, in truth, he was about to walk right into it–, offering a rather convincing explanation about having preferred to let the rare, iridescent blue butterfly he had observed fluttering near the woods go free, claiming it was too magnificent to be confined.

"...but I got you flowers, these should be enough right? ...right?"

Aegon wandered back to the courtyard only to be told by a still-exasperated Ser Criston that the children had moved their project to the guards' common room, seeking a more stable surface and, presumably, more ideas. The sight that greeted him there was enough to make him stop in his tracks, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Perched rather awkwardly on a wooden bench, next to Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, sat Aemond.

His austere, always composed little brother, the usually stoic and proud dragonrider, the skilled and fierce swordsman, was surrounded by the twins, both of whom were meticulously fixing vibrantly colored flower petals onto a drawing of a rather lopsided butterfly with what appeared to be tree resin. His face as the knights offered him suggestions and advice about the correct way to glue the petals onto the parchment was priceless. Aegon couldn't help himself but bursting into a hearty laugh.

"Aemond the Fierce!" he chuckled, reaching out to leave a playful, slightly condescending pat on his brother's right cheek, completely ignoring Aemond's immediate and murderous stare. "Oh, come on, you don't know how cute you look right now!" *

It was already past noon when Helaena finally returned from the functions: Aegon had found himself eagerly peering at her return from a corridor window for a good half hour already, his brow furrowed and his hands drumming nervously on one of Maelor's little legs, his mind already projected forward to the quiet, intimate dinner that awaited them both in a few hours. He had spent much of her absence reviewing his plans while his sons had been with Ser Erryk and Arryk, trying to save at least their dinner from Alicent's clutches. Maelor rested his little hands on the historiated window pane and began to babble happily, heedless of his father's impatience.

"For Gods' sake, Aegon, you're making me seasick." huffed Aemond, lazily sitting by the fireplace, watching his brother pacing back and forth incessantly and impatiently, stopping occasionally to peek anxiously through the glass. "You'll end up digging a furrow in the floor. Besides, you know how our mother is, they will only return to the palace when the Septon will declare the service concluded. Not before."

Aegon thought about how many hours were wasted, in his eyes, for something that could be done in little more than an hour: after all, the Gods cared about the faith and truthfulness the believers instilled in their prayers, not the time it took them to do it. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, before stopping short and looking more carefully out of the window: in the distance, just beyond the main gate of the fortress, he finally glimpsed the unmistakable silhouette of the royal carriage.

"Hold him a moment." Aegon said in an excited tone, placing Maelor unceremoniously in Aemond's arms. The baby, caught by surprise, clung instinctively to his uncle's dark tunic. "I'm going forward to greet her, you lock yourselves in our rooms... when you see the door swung open, and only in that moment, you will all shout surprise! All clear, children?" he asked, also addressing the twins who were watching him curiously.

Aemond arched his good eyebrow once more, a wry half-smile creasing one corner of his lips.

"Thank you for explaining how to make a surprise, Aegon, apparently one never stops learning." he replied sarcastically, settling his nephew better in his arms and making sure his curious little hands stayed away from his eyepatch.

Helaena sighed as she stepped out of the carriage, the acrid, pungent smell of incense still clinging to her clothes, almost like a second skin. The stillness of the deserted courtyard at that hour was almost a balm to her ears after hours of prayers and rituals. She longed for a warm fragrant bath, something light to eat and, above all, the company of her beloved children.

"I was getting worried you'd lost your way home." grinned Aegon, extending his arm for Helaena to lean on.

"The Septon has been particularly talkative today." was her comment, accepting his arm and leaning lightly against him, smiling tiredly.

"I hope you're not overtired, I have something in mind for tonight..." murmured Aegon, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard by the guards, -although they kept a respectful distance as always- as he escorted her towards their rooms. His gaze grew full of longing, promising a different evening than the dull morning spent praying.

"Please don't tell me you've organised a ball, Aegon." replied Helaena, a little alarmed.

All right, it was her nameday, but she found the idea of spending time in the midst of large celebrations tiring.

"No no, don't worry." Aegon reassured her, squeezing her arm lightly. "You've been away all morning, what makes you think I want to share you with someone else the whole evening as well?"

Her rooms, which usually welcomed her with a soothing tranquillity and the familiar buzzing of her insects, came alive with a festive energy. A wide smile blossomed on her face despite her tiredness.

Jaehaera and Jaehaerys immediately came towards her, embracing her on the threshold without giving her time to enter the room completely: she instantly replied to their embrace, reading a certain excitement in their faces. She then approached Maelor, whom Aemond still held in his arms, and took him in her arms, silently thanking Aemond with a gentle squeeze on his arm in an unspoken exchange of brotherly affection, while the little boy clung to her, sinking his face against her neck.

The twins drew her attention loudly to something carefully hidden under a drape, their excitement now barely contained.

"Happy nameday mummy, we did it for you!" they said in unison, their eyes shining with pride.

Helaena looked admiringly at the large sheet of parchment on which they had carefully drawn the outline of a magnificent butterfly. Its wings were adorned with a vivid mosaic of coloured flower petals, carefully applied to the paper with what looked like tree resin. Tiny branches formed the body and delicate antennae.

She bent over the small table, carefully tracing the delicate petals with her fingertips.

"My little loves." she murmured, excited. "It's beautiful! The colours are so bright... it's perfect, thank you." she pulled them into a tight embrace, burying her face in their hair.

They described in great detail the afternoon spent with Ser Erryk and Arryk and how, at Ser Criston's suggestion, they had decided to draw her a butterfly. To Aemond's embarrassment, who clumsily tried to downplay it, they did not fail to tell how their uncle had procured those colourful flowers and resin for them from a Kingswood tree.

"So thank you too." smiled Helaena sweetly, her eyes shining with fondness as she turned to Aemond. She reached out a hand to gently caress his cheek, her light, caring touch causing him to faintly blush under Aegon's amused gaze. Aemond stiffened slightly under her touch, his eye lingering with embarrassment, but he did not shy away from her caress. A small, almost imperceptible smile grazed his lips.

Aegon decided to hand her his present later, in the privacy of their bedroom, preferring not to steal those moments from their children.

We have time, he told himself, looking forward to the evening that was slowly approaching.

[eskymoos]

Keegan P Russ As a Romantic Partner

Headcannons by Eskimos

I.  A Methodical Maestro with a Playful Twist

It's been confirmed that his personality type is ISTP, which means that his brain is his strongest weapon. He is methodical and very tactful with his language and would always offer a hand to you. Feeling lost? He's always there with a good solution. Feeling sad? He's the guy to ask for advice.

Even if he lacks experience in some fields he's very quick to learn and perfect them so I suppose he'd also be a bit competitive. Keegan doesn't miss an opportunity to beat you to everything you like. All while playing dumb in order to cherish the amazement on your end.

***

''How'd you do that?! Wow!''

''Just luck, I guess,'' he'd say with an indifferent shrug while a childish grin creeps onto his face.

***

II. The Jester of your Heart

Keegan is very reserved but he's a skilled people reader. He would quickly get used to your moods and soon you wouldn't even have to tell him when you're feeling sad. He just steals a glimpse and he already knows what to do.

However, sometimes the cocky side of him comes out in the most inconvenient time and things tend to get more spicy. Whenever you give him the silent treatment for no reason, he begins threading on thin ice with you.

***

''Whatcha want for dinner, sweet pea?''

*Silence.*

''What's wrong, my beautiful?'' He asks, coming closer to you. When you turn the other way to further provoke him, he guides his hands to your hips and presses the weight of his chest to your back.

''Funny little thing. Have you given a vow of silence? I like when we play this game, y'know.''

His hands drop lower and lower and his mouth comes to caress the back of your neck. His hot breath makes your hairs stand.

''Your heart's beating fast.''

III. Under the Hard Scales of His Heart

Independence is Keegan's last name. He never learned how to embrace the art of teamwork, though his job required it. At times he was too disconnected to properly do the job.

In a relatioship he might have some trouble turning to you for assistance. Whenever something is on his mind, he blocks out the world and faces it on his own. He's likely to turn down tips from other people.

Not from you though.

The first time you lent your hand for help, he was quite surprised and even a bit suspicious. It unlocked a part of him he never knew he had. He felt cared for and seen.

In time Keegan learned to trust your word and be less stubborn when you tried to aid him.

IV. Tsunami of Love

That's what he is. A natural disaster. A tornado of energy and a tsunami. Behind closed doors he is much less calm. His love language is mostly acts of service and physical touch but sometimes the two mix together into something even more grand.

If you happen to be struggling under a pile of undone work, he would find the perfect moment to distract you. Before you can even get a word out, he has already picked you up from the chair and carrying you to your room bridal style.

***

''What are you doing, Keegan?!''

He continues to march through the house and whistle proudly. Keegan tosses you onto the bed like you don't weight anything at all.

''Stay here.'' He commands, exiting and closing the door behind him.

In a few minutes time he comes back with your favorite chocolates and a beer for himself.

''I will be your only occupation today.''

***

V. The Kids' Favorite

The way I see it, Keegan would have very specific sense of humor. His jokes can be very sharp and borderline offensive but the moment a kid comes in sight he turns into a soft cinnamon roll.

He has this energy that kids absolutely adore because he's a great listener and adapts to the circumstances easily. There's something about the purity of the young generation that makes him feel protective.

***

One time you saw him play with a small group of children after a difficult operation. He was kneeling down in front of a little girl and his eyes glimmered as she tried to pronounce his name. The child obviously had rhotacism (cannot pronounce the letter r) and he found it quite adorable.

''Keegan Russ. Russ. Can you say it?'' Keegan bit his lip, holding back a chuckle.

''Keegan Hhhus.'' The girl tried to repeat it but failed terribly. Keegan burst out laughing.

''Rrrrrrrr,'' he growled playfully and she giggled at it.

''Grhhhrr!''

''Oh, you're growling at me now? Come here you.'' Keegan extended his arms to trap her in a harmless embrace.

There was something about his love for children that won your heart every time.

***