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seafarersdream · 4 months ago

Note

Cregan x reader where the reader is betrothed to him but he gets close to Alysanne Blackwood and she feels insecure. But he then reassures her that he loves her. Could be fluff or smut, whatever you feel fits

Big Bad Wolf | 18+ (Cregan Stark x Y/N)

Y/N knows exactly why she has been sent to the frigid North: her grandsire, Otto Hightower, intends for her to secure Cregan Stark’s loyalty to the Greens with a proposed betrothal. A union that would bind the North to her family’s cause and strengthen her brother’s claim. She can’t help but wonder what he would sees in her—a willing pawn, a coveted prize, or perhaps, an unexpected adversary?

TW // Strong language and profanities, mild sexual content, mention of injuries and wounds, slow burn romance.

Note: I took a slightly different approach than originally requested to better align with my brainstorming ideas. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! And fair warning—it ended up being around 10k words because I got carried away and so into it😂

The wind howls around her like a beast, its icy fingers clawing at her cloak, desperate to strip her bare. Y/N Targaryen pulls the fur-lined fabric tighter around her shoulders, her silver hair whipping against her face as she stares out into the endless expanse of white that is the North.

The cold is sharp, biting against her skin, a relentless assault unlike anything she has ever felt in King’s Landing. There, the sun always warmed the walls of the Red Keep, the gardens bloomed with vibrant flowers, and the salty sea breeze carried the smell of soils from distant lands. Here, in the North, all of that feels like a distant memory—a dream now buried under layers of snow.

She shivers, and not just from the cold.

Being a Targaryen means something. Being a Targaryen princess means the realm is her oyster. She has always known this. The daughter of the late King Viserys Targaryen and the sister to the current ruler, Y/N has never wanted for anything. Born under the banners of black and red, her birthright is as weighty as it is illustrious. In the courts of King's Landing, her name alone is a force that can command, bend, and break. The Valyrian blood coursing through her veins has bestowed upon her an otherworldly beauty—hair the colour of moonlight, eyes that burn like molten silver. She is used to men and women alike vying for her favor, hanging on her every word, their desires evident in their eyes. She is used to being adored, admired, even envied.

But here, in the North, none of that means a thing.

The North is a different world, an ancient one with a heartbeat of ice and snow. It is a world where the name Targaryen carries little weight, where dragons are the stuff of nightmares, not symbols of power and strength.

For thousands of years, the North stood as its own kingdom, ruled by House Stark of Winterfell—a house older than her own, as old as the First Men themselves. The North submitted to Aegon the Conqueror’s rule, but submission is not the same as surrender. She can feel the weight of that history in every flake of snow, every gust of wind that threatens to unseat her from the back of her horse. The North remembers.

And the North does not care for Targaryen princesses.

The men and women who stare at her from the edges of Winterfell’s courtyard do not see a daughter of kings. They see a southerner, a foreigner, an outsider draped in silk and furs too fine for their taste. They see someone who has never felt the bite of a northern winter, who does not understand the constant struggle for survival that defines their lives. To them, she is the very embodiment of everything they disdain—the soft courtly life, the excesses of the south, the endless games of backstabbing and ambition that mean nothing in the face of a harsh winter. Her beauty, her title, her blood—none of it matters here. She is a stranger in a strange land, and they watch her with eyes that are cold and calculating.

It is a stark contrast to the life she has known. In King’s Landing, courtiers flocked to her side, eager for a smile, a kind word, a glance that might change their fortunes. But here, no one bows or scrapes, no one offers her flattery or fawning attention. Instead, they glance at her with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, their expressions as unreadable as the frozen ground beneath her feet. Even the cold here seems to seep into their bones, hardening their faces into masks of stone.

Her gaze shifts to the man standing at the center of it all—the Warden of the North, Cregan Stark. He is as unyielding as the walls of Winterfell, a man carved from the very ice that surrounds them. His dark hair is touched with frost, his grey eyes piercing through the flurries like a direwolf scanning the wood for prey. He regards her with a guarded expression, his features stoic, as though he is measuring the weight of her presence in his hall. There is strength in his stance, a raw, quiet power that seems to ripple beneath his skin like a river beneath ice.

She knows why she is here. Her grandsire, Otto Hightower, has sent her north with a proposal for a betrothal, hoping to secure Cregan Stark's allegiance to the Greens. A marriage alliance that would bind the North to her family, to her brother’s cause. But she also knows that such an alliance is easier proposed than accepted. The Starks are proud, stubborn as the wolves on their banners, and they are not easily swayed by promises or threats. She wonders what Cregan Stark sees when he looks at her—a pawn, a prize, a potential enemy?

Y/N squares her shoulders, forcing herself to meet his gaze with the same intensity. Her breath mists in the cold air between them, mingling with the snowflakes that drift down from the leaden sky. She is a Targaryen, born of fire and blood, and she will not be cowed by the cold.

She takes a step forward, her boots crunching in the snow, and inclines her head with a grace born of years at court. “Lord Stark,” she begins, her voice steady despite the chill that bites at her skin, “I bring greetings from my family and an offer that I hope will interest you.”

For a moment, there is silence, broken only by the distant howl of the wind. The Northmen are watching, waiting for their lord’s response. Cregan Stark’s grey eyes remain locked on hers, his expression unreadable, and she feels the weight of the North pressing down upon her.

“Princess,” Cregan replies at last, his voice a low rumble that echoes across the courtyard. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

And with those words, the game begins.

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Y/N Targaryen has always been more her grandsire’s granddaughter than her mother’s daughter—or her father’s, for that matter. Not that it has been much of a choice. King Viserys had been many things in his life—gentle, soft-hearted, more comfortable with scrolls and histories than with the complexities of ruling—but present, he was not. His love for Rhaenyra, his firstborn, was the love of a man whose affections had been spent long before Y/N was ever born. So, she learned quickly that if she wanted attention, guidance, or even a semblance of familial warmth, she would find none of it in her father.

Instead, she found herself drawn to Otto Hightower. He was a man of purpose, of ambition, of decisive action. With her mother’s soft words and frail smiles failing to shape her in any meaningful way, it was Otto who taught her the art of politics, of maneuvering through a court filled with predators. In him, she saw a mirror of her own aspirations—always looking forward, always plotting the next move. It was from him she learned that power is something you seize, not something you wait for. She knew he would never coddle her, never tell her she was beloved just for being herself; he only valued what was valuable, and that gave her a clarity she found comforting.

Her siblings, however, were a different matter entirely.

Aegon, her eldest brother, was a fool. Self-conscious, always craving their parents' love like a starving child reaching for a morsel of bread. For years, he had hoped to be the shining star in their father’s eyes, only to discover that no matter what he did, he would always be in the shadow of their half-sister, Rhaenyra—the daughter Viserys truly adored. That realization had driven Aegon to the brink. He had spiraled into self-destruction, numbing his pain with Arbor Red, drowning in the company of whores and sycophants who fed his illusions of being liked, respected even. She had watched him become a hollowed-out shell of a prince, playing at being a king among the rats and the vipers of the Red Keep. Aegon was a king now, a ruler in name, but he wore his crown like a noose.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a different creature. Where Aegon sought love, Aemond sought approval, validation—something to make the gods’ cruel joke of his birth order feel less like a curse. He set impossible standards for himself, always striving to outshine his elder brother, to rise above his station as the spare. He immersed himself in philosophy, warfare, Westerosi customs, determined to be the best in every field, the most learned, the most skilled. And yet, no matter how many strategies he mastered or how many books he consumed, he would always be the second son. Aemond may have won the favor of their grandsire, may have been admired by those who valued intellect and ruthlessness, but in the end, Aegon’s incompetence still carried the weight of the gods' favor. And that knowledge gnawed at Aemond like a wolf at a bone.

Helaena and Daeron, bless them, were different. Y/N could say nothing ill of those two. Helaena, with her strange, prophetic dreams and her love for insects, was perhaps the only light in their shadowed family. She lived in a world of her own, a world of strange riddles and hidden truths that no one else could see. Daeron, meanwhile, had been smart enough to remove himself from the poisonous atmosphere of the Red Keep, carving out a life for himself in Oldtown.

As for herself? Y/N had always considered herself a performer, a mirrorball reflecting the light of others, knowing exactly where to place her foot in every dance. She did not crave her parents’ approval or love; she never had. She knew her worth, not in how many times her father called her his precious daughter or how often her mother sighed with the weight of unspoken affection. No, her worth came from the power she had managed to accumulate on her own, the alliances she had forged, the influence she wielded like a blade. She had held her own court, commanded attention, respect, and fear. She had learned to survive, to thrive, to be more than just another pretty Targaryen face.

And now, she had none of it.

Here in this frozen wasteland, she was stripped bare of everything she had built. The North was a godforsaken, heretic country in her eyes—a land of rigid codes and old gods, where men did not bow easily, where words were weighed like precious stones, and secrets were buried beneath layers of ice and snow. She had no court, no power to wield, no influence to peddle.

And then, there was Cregan Stark.

A man whose reputation preceded him like a cold wind. Honorable, they said. A man of principle, a man who lived by his word, who believed in truth and duty as if they were his religion. There was no room for subterfuge in his life, no space for half-truths or hidden motives. His gaze was like steel, unbending and severe. It was almost appalling, really, how saintly he was. Mother above she thought more than once, he would be eaten alive in King’s Landing.

In the South, where smiles masked daggers and every word dripped with double meaning, a man like Cregan Stark would be a lamb led to slaughter. His sense of honor would be his undoing, his truthfulness a weapon turned against him. She had never met a man like him. A man who looked at her not with lust or ambition but with a quiet, steady gaze that seemed to see right through her. He seemed entirely unimpressed by her. It was infuriating and fascinating all at once.

Y/N squared her shoulders, determined not to let her irritation show. She would learn this place, learn its people, and most of all, she would learn Cregan Stark. She would find the crack in his armor, the flaw in his honor, the chink in his unyielding principles. Everyone had one; it was just a matter of knowing where to look, how to press, how to push. She was not here to be swallowed by the North—she was here to conquer it, one way or another.

She knew that the path to Lord Cregan Stark’s cold, cold heart was not a direct one. It was not a road paved with smiles or adorned with sweet words. It was a labyrinth, and the only way through it was by understanding his people.

She had watched him long enough to know this much: Cregan Stark was a man who put his people above all else. The North had a way of making even its leaders humble before it. They were not like the nobles of King’s Landing, always scheming for personal glory or clawing at each other’s throats for favor. Here, in this frozen hell, survival depended on something far simpler, far more primal—on loyalty, on unity, on trust.

So, she began to snake her way into the hearts of his people.

It started small, with gestures they would not expect from a southerner, least of all a Targaryen princess. She knew how they saw her—pampered, delicate, with hair too fair and hands too soft to have ever known true work. She could feel their eyes on her wherever she went, could hear the whispers as she passed by, wrapped in her fine furs, a dragon in the land of wolves.

The courtyard was busy that morning, the ground slick with melting snow and the air thick with the sounds of work—axes splitting wood, the clang of blacksmiths’ hammers against anvils, the shouts of men and women hauling barrels and crates. She approached the group of women gathered near the cookfires, a mixture of curiosity and skepticism in their gazes. Y/N took a deep breath, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and stepped into their midst.

“Is there something I can do?” she asked, her voice clear and carrying over the noise. A few heads turned, eyes narrowing in surprise. She saw a woman in her middle years, broad-shouldered and with arms like tree trunks, squinting at her as if she were a curious animal. The others paused, their hands stilling in their work, glances exchanged.

The woman, who she had come to learn was named Mildred, finally spoke, her tone rough as gravel. “Princess,” she drawled, dragging the word out like it was something distasteful in her mouth. “I don’t think there’s much here a royal lady can handle. Unless you’ve got a mind to ruin that fancy cloak of yours.”

Y/N smiled. “I’ve more cloaks, Mildred. And if it gets ruined, well, I suppose I’ll just have to make do with another one, won’t I?”

A snort came from somewhere in the back of the group, and Y/N’s eyes flicked to the source—a younger woman with a mess of red hair and a skeptical expression. Y/N kept her smile, but she let a hint of a challenge creep into her tone. “Besides, I’m not afraid of a little dirt.”

The women exchanged glances, weighing her words. Mildred shrugged at last, tossing a hunk of dough onto a wooden board. “Fine then. Let’s see how you fare kneading bread. Got to feed half the damned keep today, and we’re short on hands.”

Y/N stepped forward without hesitation, rolling up her sleeves. The cold bit at her exposed skin, but she ignored it. Her hands, unused to such labor, moved awkwardly at first, pressing into the dough with less confidence than she wanted. Mildred watched her, arms crossed. “Too gentle,” She grunted. “You’re not petting a dragon. Put your weight into it.”

Y/N did as instructed, leaning into the motion, feeling the resistance of the dough against her palms. It was a small thing, this task, but it was a start. She could feel their eyes on her, hear the whispers quieting, turning into something more like curiosity than derision.

Hours passed, and the smell of freshly baked bread filled the courtyard. The women began to loosen up around her, laughter breaking out now and then. She let herself laugh with them, leaning into their banter.

Days turned into weeks, and Y/N made it her mission to weave herself into the fabric of Winterfell. She found her way to the blacksmith's forge, where the air was thick with smoke and the clang of metal. She watched as the smiths worked, their faces streaked with soot, and asked questions—many, many questions.

“Why do you use that angle with the hammer?” she asked one of the younger smiths, a boy not much older than.

The boy, startled at first, blinked at her, then answered, “To shape the steel, Princess. To make it stronger, to give it an edge that lasts.”

She nodded, watching his hands. “Show me,” she demanded. The boy hesitated, glancing around nervously, but she stepped forward. “Don’t worry. I can hold a hammer.”

He did as she asked, and soon enough, she was holding the hammer herself, mimicking his movements. Her strokes were clumsy, awkward at first, but she learned fast, and with every thud of the hammer, she felt the eyes of the smiths soften just a little more.

In the great hall, she would sit with the lords and their wives, listening to their woes, their concerns, their petty grievances. Y/N had a mind sharpened by the best—her grandsire, Otto, had seen to that. She listened carefully, offering her thoughts, her solutions, often to the surprise of those around her.

“The river’s dammed up, and it’s ruining the fields,” one lord grumbled, a beefy man with a thick beard.

"Then undam it," she replied, her tone smooth. "Divert it, instead of letting it run its course. Build channels to guide it where you want it to go."

The man blinked at her, surprised. “Aye, well… that could work.”

“It will work,” she replied, a small smile playing at her lips.

She advised them on how to better store grain, how to rotate their crops, and how to reinforce their defenses with minimal resources. She made suggestions that saved money, improved efficiency, and most importantly, earned her a grudging respect. To her, these Northerners were like sheep, clueless and slow-witted. But she smiled, she helped, she solved their problems. She was always in the middle of things, her presence a constant in the great hall, the courtyard, the kitchens, the stables.

She even joined the hunts. The Northmen had mocked her at first for daring to ride out with them. “A princess in the snow?” they laughed. “She’ll freeze before we see a single stag.” But she proved them wrong. Her dragon’s blood kept her warm, kept her defiant in the face of the bitter cold, and she was the first to draw her bow, the first to bring down a deer.

“By the gods, she’s got a steady hand,” one of the older men muttered to Cregan as they dragged the deer back to Winterfell.

Cregan’s gaze had flicked over to her, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there had been a flicker of something there. Amusement? Respect? She couldn’t tell, but it was enough.

Bit by bit, she felt the change. The Northmen, these stubborn, superstitious heretics, began to soften, to open up to her. They began to speak to her not with suspicion but with interest, their words less guarded, their gazes less cold. They valued her now, saw her as something more than just a prim and proper southerner.

It was at a feast that she noticed it—how the lords and ladies began to speak of her in hushed, respectful tones, how they sought her out for advice, for a kind word, for counsel. She saw how Cregan watched from across the hall, his grey eyes narrowing, the faintest flicker of something akin to admiration crossing his face.

She caught his gaze, held it across the room. He didn’t look away. Instead, he raised his cup to her, a silent acknowledgment. A challenge, perhaps.

Y/N raised hers in return, a smile playing at her lips. The North had begun to bend, and soon enough, so would he.

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One afternoon, Y/N had just returned from Winter Town, cheeks flushed from the biting wind and the smell of pine and smoke still clinging to her cloak. The snow had begun to fall heavier now, thick flakes drifting down like soft feathers, blanketing the world in a quiet that felt almost sacred. She pushed back her hood as she stepped into the warmth of the great hall, her eyes scanning the room out of habit, looking for something—anything—that could further her cause.

She spotted a cluster of handmaidens seated by the hearth, their heads bent in concentration. They were mending and embroidering clothing, fingers working deftly with needle and thread. Y/N noticed the familiar shapes taking form on the fabric—the direwolves.

She glided toward them, her steps light, her expression warm and inviting. She had perfected this look over years at court—the doe-eyed charm that could disarm even the most hardened of men. “Oh,” she said with a bright smile, her voice a melodic lilt, “working on the Stark sigil, are we?”

The handmaidens looked up, a bit startled at her approach. They were used to her presence by now, but not so much to her sudden interest in their needlework. A girl named Caragh, her brown hair tied back in a braid, nodded. “Aye, milady. Lord Cregan’s cloak was torn on the last hunt, and his tunic needs a new embroidery. Wolves, of course.”

Y/N tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with interest. “How lovely,” she murmured, kneeling down beside them. “May I see?”

They hesitated for a moment but eventually passed her the cloth, the direwolf stitched in silver-grey thread standing fierce against the dark fabric. She studied it with a discerning eye, her fingers tracing the lines of the stitches. The work was good, but plain—functional, as was the way of the North.

A smile danced on her lips as an idea took shape. “Do you know,” she began, her voice soft and conspiratorial, “I’ve always been rather good with a needle myself. Perhaps I could try my hand at it? Just a little, of course. I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

The women exchanged glances, unsure, but intrigued. “Princess, you’d do that?” asked Caragh, her tone curious. “We’d be honored to see southern stitchings. They’re said to be… well, far more intricate than ours.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound like a chime in the quiet hall. “Oh, we do have a flair for the elaborate, it’s true,” she agreed. “But I promise, I won’t change it too much. Just add a bit of finesse.” She reached for the thread, selecting a shade of grey that was just a touch darker than the one they had been using. “Here,” she said, threading her needle with practiced ease, “let me show you.”

She set to work, her hands moving with ease. Her stitches were tiny and precise, the needle dancing in and out of the fabric as if it were silk and not the heavy wool of the North. The handmaidens watched her, their eyes wide with fascination as she added delicate touches to the direwolf—tiny knots that gave the illusion of fur, subtle shadows that made the beast look as if it might leap from the cloth at any moment.

“How do you make it look so… alive?” one of the younger handmaidens breathed, her cheeks flushed with awe.

Y/N smiled, enjoying their attention. “It’s all in the details,” she said with a little wink. “You have to see the wolf in your mind first, imagine the way its fur moves, the way its muscles shift beneath the skin. Then, you just… follow the thread.”

The hours passed, and the handmaidens were more than happy to let her work, their questions and chatter filling the space around them. They asked her about King’s Landing, about the fashions of the court, about the kinds of silks and velvets they had only heard of in stories. She answered them with good humor, spinning tales of the South that made their eyes shine with wonder. And all the while, her needle moved, faster and faster, until the direwolf on the fabric seemed to almost snarl, its eyes fierce and intelligent, its body coiled as if ready to pounce.

By the time Cregan Stark returned from a hunt, the hall was warm with the crackle of the fire and the murmur of soft voices. He strode in, snow still dusting his dark hair, his cloak heavy with ice. His boots left wet prints on the stone floor as he shook the cold from his shoulders and glanced around.

He stopped short when he saw her—Y/N, seated among his handmaidens, needle in hand, a small, satisfied smile on her lips as she worked on his clothing. His eyes narrowed, and he made his way over, curious despite himself.

“Princess,” he greeted her, his voice a low rumble, “I see you’ve taken to mending clothes now?”

Y/N looked up, her expression unruffled. “Lord Stark,” she replied, her tone light, teasing almost, “I thought I might be of some use. Your handmaidens were kind enough to let me practice a little of our southern needlework.” She held up the fabric for him to see, the direwolf now a striking, almost lifelike creature that seemed to leap from the fabric with a ferocity that had not been there before.

Cregan’s eyes widened, just slightly, his gaze moving over the stitching, his expression unreadable. “It’s… well done,” he said finally, and she could hear the surprise in his voice, grudging though it was.

She smiled, pleased. “You sound surprised, my lord. Did you think a Targaryen’s hands were only meant for taming dragons or holding goblets of wine?”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound like gravel grinding together. “Not surprised,” he corrected, his gaze meeting hers, steady and unyielding. “Impressed. You’ve a fine hand.”

Y/N's smile widened. “Why, thank you, Lord Stark. I’m glad my work meets your approval.”

He nodded, his gaze still on the cloth, the direwolf that now seemed to pulse with life. “Aye, it does,” he admitted. “Though I wonder, Princess… are you looking to become a seamstress now?”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the hall. “No, my lord. I’ve no desire to take up a needle permanently. But I do find it’s useful, from time to time, to show that a princess’s hands can be skilled in more ways than one.”

His eyes flicked up to hers, a challenge in them. “Is that so?” he asked quietly. “And tell me, Princess, what other skills do your hands possess?”

Y/N’s smile did not waver. “Oh, many things, Lord Stark,” she replied softly. “Many things indeed.”

He held her gaze for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his eyes, before he nodded again. “Well,” he said, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

And with that, he turned away, but not before she caught the slightest curve of a smile on his lips. She watched him go, feeling a thrill of satisfaction course through her veins.

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Her scheme had worked flawlessly. Piece by piece, the North was falling into place just as she’d planned. The people were warming to her, Cregan's gaze was lingering a little longer than before, and Y/N could feel the iciness of Winterfell slowly starting to melt in her favor. Everything was moving toward the outcome she desired.

Well until it wasn't.

The disruption arrived in the form of Alysanne Blackwood—Black Aly, they called her. Y/N watched her ride into Winterfell with a certain swagger, a confidence that bordered on arrogance. A member of House Blackwood, the aunt of young Lord Benjicot Blackwood, Alysanne had come north under some pretense Y/N didn't care to know about. At the time, it had seemed inconsequential. She had dismissed it, too caught up in her own plans to pay attention to this new player on the board.

A mistake. A rare, foolish mistake. Her grandsire would have scolded her for being so pliant, so hasty, so unguarded. Never underestimate a rival, he would have said. Never take your eyes off the board. And Y/N had done just that.

She should not have misconstrued this woman.

Alysanne was everything Y/N was not. Tall and lean, with thick black curls that tumbled past her waist, she had a wildness to her that seemed to embody the very spirit of the North. Her long legs and strong arms marked her as a woman who spent more time in the saddle than at a hearth, more time holding a bow than a needle. She wasn’t beautiful in the conventional sense—her features were sharp, her smile wide and often mocking—but there was something about her. Something raw and fearless, a fire that seemed to burn just beneath her skin. And that smell…woodsmoke. It clung to her like a second skin, as if she had been born in the midst of a bonfire.

Y/N had heard the whispers—how Black Aly was a legend in the North. An excellent hunter, a horse-breaker, an archer with a keen eye. She was bold and outspoken, with a tongue sharp enough to cut through steel and a wit that could match the sharpest of minds. The Northerners adored her. They loved her for her wildness, for her lack of pretense, for the way she embodied everything they valued: strength, courage, a disregard for the fripperies of southern court life.

She could see it in their faces as Alysanne moved among them, laughing and jesting with the men, sharing bread and soup with the women. Y/N could almost feel the tides shifting, the winds changing, as this woman—this picture-perfect embodiment of Northern virtues—threatened to ruin everything she had worked for.

Cregan Stark took to Alysanne immediately. Of course, he did. Why wouldn’t he? He took her hunting, riding out into the forest with her at dawn while Y/N was left behind to smile and make small talk with his bannermen. He brought her to his war councils, included her in his patrols, took her to meet the northern lords. Wherever he went, Black Aly was at his side, her sharp, barking laughter echoing off the walls of Winterfell.

Y/N could see it in the way he looked at Alysanne—a gleam of admiration, of respect, of something deeper, something raw. He valued her opinions, sought her counsel. And that stung more than Y/N cared to admit. Did it truly come down to this? Y/N Targaryen, a princess of the realm, having to compete with some backwater nobody?

She could feel her temper simmering beneath her skin like a slow-burning fire, the frustration building with each passing day. She thought of confronting Cregan directly, her hands curling into fists as she imagined the scene. She would demand to know why he spent so much time with that woman, why he found her so intriguing, so worthy of his attention. But no—she knew better than that. She couldn’t afford to appear desperate, to show him how much this rankled her. Instead, she kept her face a mask of calm, her smiles as practiced and serene as ever, even as she felt herself cracking.

One evening, as Cregan returned from yet another outing with Alysanne, Y/N was waiting for him in the hall, her posture regal, her eyes gleaming in the dim firelight. “Lord Stark,” she called out, her tone light but firm. “You’ve been busy.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her, his expression unreadable. “There is much to do, Princess,” he replied evenly. “The North doesn’t rest.”

She offered him a smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “So I see. And it seems you have found quite the companion to help you with your duties.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Alysanne is a trusted friend,” he said. “She knows these lands as well as I do.”

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation but kept her voice smooth. “Of course. She is a fine… huntress. But surely, you don’t need her for every task, my lord. I’m certain there are others who could serve just as well. Perhaps even better.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his grey eyes searching her face. “Are you offering to join me on my next patrol, Princess?” he asked, his tone challenging, with the faintest hint of amusement.

Y/N’s smile didn’t falter, but inside, she felt a surge of frustration. “If you think my skills would be of use,” she replied, matching his tone. “I am, after all, more than just a… court ornament.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made her skin prickle. “I’ve never doubted that,” he said softly. “But the North is not a place for games or tricks. It demands strength and a willingness to face the unknown without fear.”

Her smile wavered, just a little. “I am not afraid of the unknown,” she replied, her voice edged with steel. “Nor am I afraid to prove myself.”

Cregan’s eyes softened, just for a moment. “I don’t doubt that,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate. “But Alysanne… she knows this land, these people. She knows how to speak to them, how to move among them. That is not something you can learn in a few weeks.”

Y/N felt the sting of his words, but she masked it with another smile, her eyes flashing. “Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I have learned much in a short time. And I am still learning, Lord Stark. Every day.”

Cregan nodded, as if considering her words. “Then learn, Princess,” he said quietly. “But do not think you must compete with Alysanne. She is… unique, yes. But so are you.”

The words were meant to placate, to soothe, but they only made her feel more cornered.

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The doors to the great hall swung open with a loud creak, and a chill wind swept in, carrying with it the scent of snow and iron. Y/N turned, her eyes narrowing as she saw the commotion. Cregan Stark had returned, his presence commanding attention even as he limped slightly, his dark hair damp with sweat, his face streaked with mud and blood. His men flanked him, some of them leaning on one another, their expressions grim, their clothes stained with the same mixture of dirt and crimson.

Her heart lurched at the sight, but she quickly schooled her features into a mask of cool indifference. The skirmishes with the wildlings had been growing more frequent, their raids bolder, and it seemed today had been no different. The maesters were already scrambling, rushing forward with their apprentices and assistants, trying to assess the most grievous injuries, their faces set in strained concentration.

Y/N took in the scene with a practiced eye, her mind already calculating. There were too many injured, too much blood soaking into the stone floor of the hall. She could see that the maesters were stretched thin, their resources and patience fraying at the edges. Cregan, of course, was insisting on helping his men, despite the fact that he was clearly favoring his left leg, a nasty gash visible on his right thigh, and his arm hung a little too limply at his side.

Typical. The man was as stubborn as a mule.

She moved closer, catching sight of the way he clenched his jaw against the pain, his brow furrowed in a way that made him look older, wearier. He was trying to wave off a young apprentice who was attempting to guide him toward a bench.

“I’m fine,” he growled, his voice low and rough. “See to the others first.”

The apprentice looked helplessly at Cregan, clearly torn between obeying the Warden of the North and following the orders of the maesters. Y/N, sensing an opportunity, pushed through the crowd, her chin tilted upward, her eyes sharp.

“Really, Lord Stark?” she called out, her voice loud enough to carry over the clamor. “You look about as fine as a roast pig on a spit.”

Cregan’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing at her. “Princess,” he said, his voice edged with irritation, “this is no place for jesting.”

She smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “No, but it is a place for common sense. Something you seem to be sorely lacking at the moment.” She turned to the apprentice and gestured toward the other men. “Go. Help the others. I’ll take care of your lord.”

The apprentice hesitated for a moment, glancing between them, but then scurried off, clearly relieved to be free of Cregan’s stubbornness. Y/N stepped closer, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze fixed on the injured lord.

Cregan grunted, his expression darkening. “I don’t need your help, Princess. I’ve had worse than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you have,” she replied. “But forgive me if I don’t trust your judgment on your own health, seeing as you’re bleeding all over the floor and insisting you’re perfectly fine. Very lordly of you, I’m sure, but also incredibly stupid.”

He scowled at her, a deep line forming between his brows. “I can take care of myself.”

“And yet,” she countered, stepping even closer, “you’re not doing a very good job of it, are you? Sit down, Cregan, before you fall down and make an even bigger fool of yourself.”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue further, but then he winced, a flash of pain crossing his face, and Y/N seized the moment. She reached out, gripping his uninjured arm with a strength that belied her slender frame, and guided him toward a nearby bench. “Sit,” she ordered, her voice firm, and to her surprise, he obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

He dropped onto the bench with a huff, glaring up at her. “I don’t need a nursemaid, least of all a princess from the South who’s never seen a real fight.”

She laughed, a sharp, sarcastic sound. “You’re right, I’ve never fought wildlings or raiders. But I have spent plenty of time in the Red Keep watching men bleed out because they were too stubborn to accept help. So, unless you want to be one of those men, shut up and let me work.”

His gaze flickered with something between annoyance and grudging respect. “Fine,” he muttered, “but make it quick. I have men to see to.”

“Quick?” She snorted. “You don’t give orders here, Stark. Not while you’re under my care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Your care? And what makes you think you’re qualified?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she grabbed a nearby cloth, soaked it in a basin of water, and began to clean the wound on his thigh with swift, precise movements. Cregan hissed through his teeth, his muscles tensing beneath her hands, but he didn’t pull away.

“I’ve shadowed Grand Maester Orwyle countless times,” she said as she worked, her voice steady. “I know what I’m doing. And more importantly, I’m not about to let you bleed out just because you’re too pigheaded to admit you need help.”

He grunted again but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight. She could see the pain in his eyes, the way his shoulders stiffened with each touch, but he stayed still, letting her do her work. She carefully cleaned the wound, her hands moving with a skill that surprised even herself, then reached for a needle and thread.

“This will hurt,” she warned, threading the needle with practiced ease.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Of course you have,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it after I’ve saved your life.”

His lips twitched, almost as if he were fighting a smile. “You’ve a sharp tongue, Princess.”

“And you’ve a thick skull, Lord Stark,” she shot back. “Now hold still.”

She began to stitch the wound, her needle moving with swift, precise strokes. Cregan watched her, his eyes dark and intense, but she didn’t falter. For once, she was not the southern courtier, the diplomatic princess with honeyed words and gentle smiles. She was herself, sharp and unyielding, meeting his stubbornness with her own.

When she finished, she tied off the thread with a quick, efficient knot and sat back, wiping her hands on the cloth. “There,” she said, satisfaction in her voice. “You’ll live to fight another day.”

He stared at her, a mix of surprise and grudging admiration in his eyes. “You did well,” he said finally, his voice softer than before.

She arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. “Was there ever any doubt?”

He chuckled, the sound rough but genuine. “Plenty,” he admitted.

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Winter is coming.

No, not the Stark words, spoken like a prayer or a warning. Winter is truly coming, and Y/N can feel it deep in her bones, creeping through the stone walls of Winterfell like a living thing.

The air has grown sharper, biting at her cheeks with every gust of wind, and the snow falls thicker now, each flake heavy and deliberate. The trees are bare, their branches skeletal against the grey sky, and the cold seems to press down on her, seeping into her skin with a relentless chill. It is a different kind of cold than she has ever known, a cold that seeps into her lungs and settles there, making each breath feel like an effort.

The North has always been harsh, but now it feels like it is preparing for something more—something darker, more unforgiving. Even the men and women of Winterfell, who have spent their entire lives in the shadow of winter, seem more guarded, more wary. There are murmurs in the great hall, anxious whispers in the corridors. Wildlings have been sighted more frequently, their numbers growing bolder and more desperate as the long night approaches. The skirmishes along the Wall have increased, and the night fires are lit earlier and burn longer.

Y/N pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she crosses the courtyard, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She knows what is coming. She can feel it in the very marrow of her bones. Winter is coming, and with it, something more—a tension that hangs in the air like a drawn bowstring, taut and ready to snap.

That night, as she sits by the fire in her chambers, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the window, its wings dusted with snow, a rolled parchment tied to its leg. Y/N takes it with a frown, untying the message with cold fingers, her eyes narrowing as she recognizes the seal. Hightower.

She unfurls the parchment and reads the message, her eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of unease.

Return to King’s Landing at once.

The words are simple, direct, and she can almost hear Otto’s voice behind them, calm but commanding. He has received reports of the incoming long winter, of the increasing sightings of wildlings, and he deems it no longer safe for her to remain in the North. He urges her to leave before the roads become impassable, before the snows deepen and the wildlings grow more desperate.

Y/N exhales slowly, a plume of breath escaping her lips in the cold air of her chamber. She should feel relieved. Glad, even. No longer required to linger in this frozen wasteland, where the people are as hard as the ground they walk on, and her plans have slowly unraveled like thread from a worn tapestry. She should be glad to return to the South, to the warmth and intrigue of King’s Landing, where the games are played on her terms.

But instead, she feels a sharp sting of frustration. She berates herself for failing to secure the North for her family, for not weaving a strong enough web to catch the loyalty of these proud, stubborn people. A true Targaryen, she should have bent them to her will, but the North is as unyielding as its lord, and she has not succeeded in making it hers. It is a bitter pill to swallow.

“Failure,” she murmurs, her voice a low hiss in the dim light of her chamber. “And what would you say to that, Lord Hand? That your granddaughter, for all her cleverness, could not win the North?”

She lets out a soft, mirthless laugh, crumpling the parchment in her hand. “It’s a matter for another day,” she tells herself. She will return to King's Landing, regroup, plot anew. There are always other pieces to play, other moves to make.

Yet, her thoughts drift back to Cregan Stark. The brooding wolf of the North, with his grim expression and unyielding sense of honor. She won’t admit, even to herself, that she is fond of him. Or likes him. Or anything of the sort. No, certainly not. But… there is something about him that lingers in her mind like a half-remembered dream, something she can’t quite shake off.

After being surrounded by the snakes of King’s Landing, the liars and flatterers, the power-hungry and the depraved, she finds something strangely compelling in Cregan Stark’s righteousness. It comes to him as naturally as breathing, as naturally as wielding that massive Valyrian steel sword of his, the one he calls Ice.

She has seen him wield it with ease, watched him cleave through the air with a power that seems almost otherworldly. She has watched him ride out with his men, fearless and unyielding, his face set in determination. There is a strength in him that is not just physical, but something deeper, something that runs to his very core. A strength that does not waver, that does not bend, even under the weight of the North’s endless cold.

And she hates it. She hates how it seems to make everything about him… uncomplicated. How he carries his honor like a shield, how he speaks his truth without hesitation, without guile, as if the very concept of deception is foreign to him. It is infuriating. It is intriguing. And it has left a mark on her, whether she likes it or not.

Y/N folds the letter and tucks it into the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the soft fabric for a moment longer than necessary. She knows what she must do; her place is back in the South. But as she rises to her feet, her eyes drift around her room, taking in the rough-hewn walls, the cold stone floor, and the fur pelts draped across her bed. There is a part of her—small, quiet, but undeniably present—that resents leaving this place. Resents leaving him behind.

She sighs, pushing the thought away, and begins to gather what little she had brought with her. No handmaiden to help her, not that she would ask. She has always preferred to do things herself when it comes down to it. She moves about the room with a swift efficiency, her hands quick and sure as she folds her scarves, places them neatly in her travel bag.

She is in the midst of folding a deep green scarf, the color of pine needles, when a knock sounds at her door. She freezes, her fingers still gripping the fabric, and for a moment, she considers ignoring it. But then she rolls her eyes at her own hesitation and strides to the door, swinging it open.

Cregan Stark stands on the other side, looking as rugged and battered as ever. There is a bandage wrapped around his arm, another at his side, but he stands tall, his posture straight, his face unreadable. He looks better than he had when she had tended to him earlier, but not by much. His grey eyes flick to her, and she can’t quite read the expression in them.

“Lord Stark,” she greets, her voice carefully neutral. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He inclines his head slightly. “I came to thank you,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “For earlier. For tending to my wounds.”

She raises an eyebrow, surprised. “Oh? Didn’t think you’d bother with gratitude.”

He snorts softly. “I’m not so stubborn as to ignore a kindness when it’s given.”

“A kindness?” She smirks, leaning against the doorframe. “I think you’ll find I had very little kindness in mind when I forced you to sit down.”

His lips twitch, just slightly. “Perhaps not,” he concedes. “But you did help. I owe you that much.”

Her gaze softens, just for a moment, but before she can reply, his eyes shift past her, taking in the half-packed bags and scattered belongings strewn across the room. His brows knit together in a frown.

“What is this?” he asks, his tone sharper than before.

Y/N shrugs, affecting a nonchalant air. “I’m going home,” she replies, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “A happy bit of news for you, I’d wager.”

He is silent for a moment, his frown deepening, his eyes fixed on hers. “No,” he says finally, his voice low and steady. “I take no joy in this news.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard. “No? I thought you’d be delighted to see the back of me.”

His expression softens, and he steps further into the room, his gaze never leaving hers. “Believe it or not, Princess, I’ve grown accustomed to your… presence.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you on about?” she demands, her voice sharper now, a hint of frustration creeping in. “Don’t tell me you’ve developed a fondness for me, Cregan Stark.”

He hesitates, then, with a sigh, says, “Perhaps. Or maybe I’ve simply developed a soft spot for your relentless stubbornness.”

She scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. “Oh, do spare me,” she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “The Wolf of the North with a soft spot for a Targaryen? Is that supposed to flatter me?”

He gives a half-smile, his eyes holding hers. “It’s not meant to flatter, just the truth.”

She rolls her eyes, exasperated. “Right. And I suppose this has nothing to do with your other northern… interests?” She tilts her head, her voice laced with mock sweetness. “Surely, Black Aly is more up your alley?”

His face hardens slightly, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Alysanne is a friend,” he replies, his voice calm. “A trusted one. But you—”

“But me?” she interrupts, stepping closer, her eyes blazing. “But what, Cregan? Do you think I’m going to stay here in this frozen wasteland to be your latest curiosity?”

He shakes his head, his voice rising just a fraction. “No, that’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” she snaps. “Because I have no desire to dance around whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

He exhales, frustration lining his features, but there’s something softer there, too. “I meant,” he says slowly, deliberately, “that I have come to respect you, Y/N. To… care for you, in ways I did not expect.”

She laughs, sharp and incredulous. “Care for me? Truly? You’ve a strange way of showing it, taking Black Aly on all your little adventures while I’m stuck here playing house with your bannermen.”

Cregan’s eyes darken, his expression turning serious. “It wasn’t meant to slight you.”

“But it did,” she fires back, her voice lower, more intense. “It did. And now, you stand here, acting like you don’t want me to leave, when all you’ve done is—”

“I don’t want you to leave,” he cuts her off, his voice firm, his gaze unyielding. “Not now. Not like this.”

There is a beat of silence, the air between them taut and electric. Y/N feels something twist inside her, something she doesn’t want to name.

“Why?” she finally asks, her voice almost a whisper. “Why, Cregan?”

He takes a step closer, so close she can feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. “Because,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper, “for all your southern games and sharp words… you’ve gotten under my skin, Y/N Targaryen.”

She meets his gaze, searching his face for any hint of a lie, any trace of deception, but finds none. She swallows, her throat tight. “And what do you suggest I do about that?” she asks, her tone still edged, but softer now.

He glances around the room at her half-packed bags, and then, with a determined expression, begins to pick up her things, placing them back where they were. “For a start,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, “you can stop packing.”

She watches, incredulous, as he calmly folds one of her scarves and places it back on the table. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands, even as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

He looks up at her, his eyes twinkling with a challenge. “Undoing a mistake,” he replies simply.

She shakes her head, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You’re very difficult, you know that?”

He grins, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “So I’ve been told.”

They stand there, close enough to touch, the tension between them crackling like a fire waiting to ignite. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick, charged with something that neither of them can quite name. She lets out a sigh, breaking the silence that has settled over them.

“My grandsire has called for me,” she says finally, her voice softer than before. “It’s more of a command, really, than a request.”

Cregan’s brow furrows, his grey eyes narrowing slightly. “Is Otto Hightower the King of the Seven Kingdoms now?” he asks, his tone dry, laced with a hint of disdain.

Y/N chuckles, a low, throaty sound that sends a shiver through him. “He might as well be,” she replies, a faint smile playing on her lips. “He certainly acts like it.”

“Seems he’s got a hold on you too,” Cregan mutters, his gaze never leaving hers.

She shrugs, a half-smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t survive a winter here, would I? You said so yourself, Lord Stark. Even Vermithor and Silverwing refused to fly beyond the Wall of their own accord. Those ancient, powerful creatures wouldn’t dare. So whatever lies out there…” Her voice drops to a whisper. “It must be damning.”

Cregan’s expression is unreadable, his jaw tightening for a moment. “I can keep you safe,” he says quietly, but there’s a firmness to his voice, an unyielding resolve that makes her chest tighten.

Y/N raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a teasing smile. “Oh, how kind of you, my big, bad wolf,” she drawls, her tone mocking but playful, her fingers reaching out to brush lightly against his arm. “But how about you start with something simple?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Simple?” he repeats.

She steps closer, so close that her breath mingles with his, the warmth of her skin brushing against him. “How about, for starters, you try keeping me warm?” she murmurs, her voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carries between them like a challenge. “It is awfully freezing here… Can you do that for me, Lord Stark?”

For a moment, Cregan says nothing. His eyes search hers, as if trying to discern whether she’s serious, or just toying with him as she so often does. Y/N isn’t expecting much—she knows the Northerners, with their prudish notions of honor and virtue, probably see this as a surefire way to eternal damnation. She expects him to laugh it off, to turn away with a huff, to remind her, once again, that he is not some Southern lord to be trifled with.

But he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t turn away. Instead, his gaze darkens, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips, the line of her throat. He takes a step closer, his body towering over hers, and she feels the heat radiating from him, the intensity in his stare. Her breath catches in her throat, her heart thundering in her chest as he reaches out, his hand cupping her chin, tilting her face up toward him.

“Is that what you want?” he murmurs, his voice a low, rumbling growl that sends a thrill down her spine. “For me to keep you warm?”

Y/N swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected the Wolf of the North to respond to her challenge with anything but stern disapproval. “I—” she starts, but the words catch in her throat as his thumb brushes over her lower lip, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her.

He leans in, his breath warm against her skin, and she feels the heat of his body pressing against hers, the rough fabric of his tunic brushing against the softness of her gown. “Say it,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Say what you want, Y/N.”

Her heart pounds, and she feels a rush of something she can’t quite name—fear, desire, defiance—all mingling together in her chest. “I want…” she begins, her voice wavering, but then she catches herself, lifts her chin, her eyes flashing. “I want you to keep me warm, Cregan Stark.”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile, and before she can draw another breath, his mouth is on her throat, hot and insistent. She gasps, her hands instinctively flying to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tunic as he kisses her skin, his mouth trailing down to the hollow of her collarbone, his teeth grazing against her pulse.

“Gods,” she breathes, a mixture of surprise and pleasure washing over her. She hadn’t expected this—not from him. But he is relentless, his mouth moving against her skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive flesh, his tongue tracing patterns that make her shiver. He smells of the woods and leather, of smoke and something wilder, something purely him, and it makes her head spin.

She feels a hot rush of sensation flood her body, a fire igniting deep within her belly as he kisses and nibbles at her neck, her collarbones, his hands sliding up her back to pull her closer. “I didn’t think you had it in you,” she gasps, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging just a bit.

He chuckles against her skin, the sound vibrating through her, and she can feel his grin. “I am good at playing my part too, Princess,” he mutters, his voice rough, raw with hunger.

She arches against him, feeling the warmth of his breath, the roughness of his beard against her skin, and something inside her snaps. She doesn’t care about the cold, or the North, or even the damned wildlings anymore. She only cares about the way his mouth feels on her, the way his hands move against her, the way he’s suddenly, inexplicably, decided to abandon his precious restraint.

“Oh, so you’re not a prude after all?” she teases, her voice a breathless whisper, but there’s a tremor in it she can’t quite control.

He bites down gently on her shoulder, making her gasp, and she feels him smile against her skin. “Careful now,” he growls softly, his lips trailing up to her ear. “You might just find out how much I’m not.”

She laughs, a low, sultry sound that makes his grip tighten. “Well then, Lord Stark,” she murmurs, her voice daring. “Show me.”

And he does. All night long.

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The next morning, chaos erupted in Winterfell. The dawn broke over the snow-covered battlements, but there was no sign of the Lord of Winterfell. Cregan’s chamber was found empty, his bed undisturbed, and his bannermen immediately feared the worst. The cold winds carried whispers of possible attacks, of kidnappings, of wildlings breaching the walls in the dead of night.

“Where is he?” one of the lords muttered, his voice tight with worry. “I saw him head to his chamber last night. He should be there!”

“But he’s not,” another snapped, his face pale. “And there’s no sign of a struggle. Nothing.”

Maids and guards exchanged nervous glances, and the tension in the great hall thickened like smoke. Servants hurried through the corridors, peering into every nook and cranny, while a group of bannermen began to search the grounds, checking the stables, the armory, anywhere he might have gone.

The panic spread quickly, growing like wildfire. Hushed voices turned into frantic shouts, and soon enough, a full search was underway. Every room, every corridor, every shadowed corner was combed through with increasing urgency.

“Maybe he’s gone to the Godswood?” one bannerman suggested, and a group ran in that direction, boots crunching against the snow.

“What if he’s been taken?” another whispered fearfully. “The wildlings—”

“No, he’d never be taken without a fight!” a grizzled old warrior barked, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. “Keep looking!”

And so they did, their desperation growing as each minute passed without a trace of their lord.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, one of the servants hesitantly approached the door to Y/N’s chamber. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the handle as if unsure whether he should dare to disturb a Targaryen princess. But with his heart pounding and knowing that all of Winterfell was searching, he pushed the door open.

There, in the soft light of dawn that filtered through the small window, they found him.

Cregan Stark lay sprawled across the bed, still deep in sleep, his dark hair tousled, a faint smile playing on his lips. His arm was wrapped tightly around Y/N Targaryen, holding her close against him as if she were the most precious thing in the world. They were entangled in the furs, his body curved protectively around hers, their legs entwined, her head resting on his chest.

For a moment, the servant could only gape, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Then, finding his voice, he croaked out, “Lord Stark!”

Cregan stirred, groaning softly, his eyes blinking open in the dim light. He looked down to see Y/N still nestled against him, her silver hair a soft halo on his chest. For a brief, confused moment, he forgot where he was, why there were voices at the door.

Then he heard the shocked gasp of the servant, and it all came rushing back.

“What’s the meaning of this?” a bannerman’s voice boomed from behind the servant, and within seconds, the doorway filled with faces, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Cregan rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, his hand still cradling Y/N. He glanced over at the doorway and saw the crowd of his bannermen and servants, their expressions ranging from horrified to amused to utterly scandalized.

“Well, it seems I’ve been found,” he muttered, a grin spreading across his face as he looked down at her, still half-asleep beside him. “So much for a quiet morning.”

Y/N stirred, blinking up at him, and then she saw the small crowd gathered in the doorway. Her cheeks flushed, but her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “Good morrow, gentlemen,” she purred, propping herself up on her elbow. “Is there something you’re looking for?”

The bannermen stood frozen for a moment, then the old warrior who’d been leading the search cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed red. “Lord Stark, we thought… well, we feared the worst.”

Cregan’s smile widened, his hand brushing a strand of silver hair from Y/N’s face. “No need for fear, Wylis,” he replied, his tone far too amused. “As you can see, I’m very much alive. Just… occupied.”

The servant who had found them couldn’t suppress a grin, though he quickly ducked his head to hide it. The bannermen, on the other hand, exchanged awkward glances, shifting their weight, unsure of what to say.

Y/N looked up at Cregan, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Seems you’ve caused quite the stir, my lord,” she murmured, teasingly. “Should I be worried that your men are so eager to find you?”

Cregan chuckled, pulling her closer, ignoring the gaping faces in the doorway. “Let them talk,” he murmured, his voice low and affectionate. “I have everything I want right here.”

And as the bannermen mumbled and fidgeted, trying to find a way to excuse themselves from the room without causing further embarrassment, Cregan leaned down to kiss her forehead, his smile never fading. “Let them see,” he whispered. “Let them know.”

Y/N laughed softly, rolling her eyes. “As you wish, wolf.”

And with that, he pulled her back into the warm cocoon of furs, ignoring the murmurs from the doorway, perfectly content to remain exactly where he was.

#hotd #hotd fandom #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #house of the dragon #house of the dragon s2 #cregan stark #hotd cregan #cregan fanfiction #cregan x y/n #cregan x you #cregan x reader #cregan stark x reader #tom taylor

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misswynters · 1 month ago

Text

Ambessa spoiling her girly s/o just because

requested by. @seraphineandkamilahs2

Soft pink silks draped over a canopy bed, sparkling jewelry scattered across a vanity like fallen stars, and the gentle lyrics of your favorite song filled the air. Filling the room with color, looking like a kaleidoscope as the sound danced around the room. The new clothes Ambessa had bought for you were stacked neatly in boxes near the window, their luxurious fabrics peeking out like treasures waiting to be unveiled.

You twirled in the center of it all, your bare feet brushing against the plush rug, the silver bracelets on your wrists jingling with each movement. The world outside might have been grim, heavy with ambition and the weight of war, but in this moment, in this room, life was bright, simple, and carefree.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, a wide smile stretched across your face. “I love it all,” you whispered to no one in particular, your voice filled with joy. “She’s amazing.”

The music swelled, and you couldn’t resist. You danced with joy, your body swaying to the rhythm, your heart light. You were so lost in your little world that you didn’t notice the door creak open or the heavy footsteps that followed.

Ambessa Medarda stood in the doorway, her broad frame filling the space. Her usual imposing demeanor seemed more calm tonight, her face shadowed with exhaustion. The weight of her responsibilities clung to her like an invisible cloak, her sharp eyes dimmed with fatigue.

But as she leaned against the doorframe, watching you twirl and leap, something softened in her expression. You were radiant, your happiness infectious, and for a brief moment, the world’s burdens seemed a little less heavy.

“Enjoying yourself, I see,” Ambessa said, her deep voice cutting through the music.

You spun around, startled but delighted to see her. “Ambessa!” you cried, rushing toward her. Your arms wrapped around her waist as you buried your face against her chest. “You’re back!”

Her arms encircled you almost instinctively, though the gesture was far less enthusiastic. “Obviously,” she murmured, her tone weary. “I see you’ve been busy.”

You stepped back, gesturing toward the room. “Look at all of this! The dresses, the jewelry, you outdid yourself this time. I feel like a princess.”

Ambessa let out a low chuckle, her hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You are a princess,” she said simply, though her voice carried a hint of amusement.

Your smile faltered as you took in her tired features. The dark circles under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped just slightly—it was clear that the day had been long and grueling.

“Ambessa,” you said softly, taking her hand in yours. “Come here.”

“What are you—?” she began, but you were already tugging her toward the center of the room.

“Dance with me,” you said, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I don’t dance,” she stated firmly, though there was a faint hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Yes, you do,” you countered, pressing your hands against her shoulders to guide her movements. “Tonight, you’re going to dance with me. No excuses.”

Ambessa sighed, though it was more for show than genuine protest. “You aren’t going to stop asking, are you?”

“Nope,” you teased, stepping closer so your bodies were almost touching. “Now, just follow my lead.”

You swayed gently, your hands resting on her broad shoulders as you encouraged her to move with you. At first, her steps were stiff, her body hesitant, but slowly, she began to relax. Her hands settled on your waist, her grip firm yet tender, and soon she was matching your rhythm.

“There,” you said, grinning up at her. “Not so bad, is it?”

Ambessa shook her head, her expression softening as she looked down at you. “This,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a rare vulnerability, “this is why I fell in love with you.”

Your breath hitched at her words, your heart swelling. “Aw! Ambessa…”

“You bring light,” she continued, her gaze unwavering. “In a world filled with shadows, you’re the one thing that reminds me there’s still joy to be had.”

You reached up, cupping her face in your hands. “My strong anchor,” you whispered.

For a moment, the two of you simply swayed together, the music a gentle backdrop to the sweet chemistry between you.

As the song shifted to something slower, more intimate, you leaned your head against her chest, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath your ear. “You work too hard,” you murmured.

Ambessa huffed a quiet laugh. “Someone has to keep the world turning.”

“Well you can take a break from all that, y’know.” you said, pulling back to look at her. “Let me take care of you the way you do to me, please.”

Her hand came up to rest against your cheek, her thumb brushing your skin. “You already do,” she said simply.

Later that night, after the music had faded and the room had grown quiet, you sat together on the edge of the bed. You leaned against her side, your head resting on her shoulder as she absently played with one of your bracelets.

“You really like them, don’t you?” she asked, her voice low.

“I absolutely love them,” you said, smiling. “But not as much as I love you.”

Ambessa turned her head to look at you, her expression unreadable. “You are sweeter than a piece of candy,” she said finally.

You shook your head, reaching up to touch her face. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted in my life,” you said firmly. “And I’ll never mentioning it.”

Her lips quirked into a faint smile, and for the first time that night, the exhaustion in her eyes seemed to lift.She pulled you closer, curled you into her side, her arm wrapping around you protectively.

note. any mistakes let me know and i’ll fix it! thanks 🙏

taglist. @cestlaprincesa

banner @anitalenia

#arcane #arcane masterlist #ambessa x you #ambessa x reader #arcane fanfic #arcane x female reader #arcane x gender neutral reader #arcane x y/n #arcane characters #arcane x you #arcane x reader #arcane fic #arcane fandom #arcane fluff #arcane drabbles #arcane imagine #ambessa medarda

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twistedkittyart · 2 years ago

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Recycled sari silk and silver thread wrapped hoop earrings.

50mmx50mm.

Will be added to my Etsy store soon.

#Sari silk #Recycled #Hoop earrings #Fabric earrings #Silver thread #Goth #Witchy women #Boho

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randomdragonfires · 6 months ago

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Parallel Lines, Act I

Text Divider by @saradika-graphics

SUMMARY | He fears her proximity, and she fears his distance. As war looms, they’ll have to learn to make their marriage work to find comfort in each other.

Or at least, try.

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

WARNINGS | 18+; SMUT; Angst; Complicated Relationship Themes; Emotional Negligence; Infidelity; Major Character Death; Aemond and his issues are a warning on their own ok?

AUTHOR’S NOTE | All Valyrian lines were translated from english using a free online translator. They are likely to be grammatically wrong - but I don’t even know man. Yeah.

WORD COUNT | 9.5k - and not a single word is beta read. We die like warriors, I guess?

The moonlight spilled through the series of windows of her husband’s - not theirs, his - apartments in the Red Keep, casting a silvery glow over the austere elegance of the chambers. His wife stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the backdrop of the night sky, the soft rustle of her gown the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the dimly lit interior, taking in the cool, stone walls that seemed to absorb the flickering torchlight. She glided through the hall where intricate tapestries depicted dragons in flight, their scales shimmering with threads of gold and silver. The grand fireplace dominated one wall, the warmth emanating throughout the space from the burning logs within. She folded her arms into her chest, as if to preserve the heat as she shivered from the cold night - her thin nightdress didn’t help. Above the mantelpiece, Vhagar's fierce eyes followed her every movement, a fierce presence in paint.

Moving through the chambers, she passed through his personal library, every page a stern reflection of his interests. Shelves of dark, polished wood lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and scrolls, their faint scent of aged parchment and leather permeating the air.

He mostly smelled of smoke, fire and leather. Of books and dragons - both of which he is passionate about.

It makes sense then, that no one will ever catch a whiff of her perfume on him.

They were far from passionate, after all.

In the center, his heavy, ornately carved desk was strewn with maps and documents, a well-used quill and inkwell ready for his expert hand to wield. She leaned on the table to look at it all, and spun one of the wooden markers between her nimble fingers for a moment - as she had seen him do countless times - before leaving it back where she found it.

She stepped into the bedchamber, its stark stone walls softened by the rich, crimson fabrics of the large, canopied bed. Dragons were subtly woven into the bedspread and curtains, a constant reminder of the Targaryen lineage that she had married and given birth to.

How long has it been since she laid with him on this bed? More than a year, she surmised. They did their duty on their wedding night, and the Mother was graceful enough to make his seed quicken in her immediately. She laid with him for a few weeks after - and when the maesters made it known that she was with child, that had stopped.

A good wife knows how to keep her husband satisfied, they said. Her husband never sought her out. If the whispers of the few around her were to be believed, he frequents a whore in a Silk Street brothel.

Was she not a good wife then?

She gave him a son. He may be sickly, but he is a son nonetheless. Surely it must count?

With a weary sigh, her eyes shifted to the adjoining armory, where Aemond’s armor and weapons were meticulously displayed. This part of his room exuded an air of readiness, a silent promise of the warrior who would soon return to his space.

From the whorehouse, no doubt.

She turned back to the window, her thoughts as fluid as the shimmering waves below. The apartments were a microcosm of her husband's existence: regal yet austere, scholarly yet martial.

And no sign of marriage, leave alone happy or healthy. How could there be, when he doesn’t feel half the happiness with her that he does when left alone with his beast or books?

There was no hate between them, surely not. Her husband was agreeable, but that was that. There was never any doubt in her mind that he did not want her - or the idea of her - but had to marry her anyway. There was no passion, and she could count with two hands the number of times they have lain with each other in the past year that they have been married - even that was before she had become with child.

There was nothing, truly.

She tried with him, initially. But any illusion of interest that she thought he may grow towards her was shattered the moment she heard that the very night that she’d met him, he was seen moving out of the castle grounds and into the Street of Silk.

He didn’t even bother with making it discreet.

Their wedding was a morose affair. They were the very picture of a royal couple, but neither felt the part - more like a pair of chastised children made to listen after a screaming bout. Even when he took her, he took her from behind - and she was fully clothed. It was nowhere close to the slow exploration that some of her ladies promised. He’s a scholar, he’d be willing to learn for your pleasure, they had said. He’d not even kissed her after their wedding ceremony, not once - he simply demanded that she get on the bed, and took her like an animal while the Small Council and their families watched her eyes pool with painful tears.

What had she done to warrant such embarrassment? She didn’t know what she’d done to make him shirk her so, but it was the way it was. It just was.

When he kept calling her back, he’d taken to offering her wine when they were finished. She didn’t linger when her goblet was emptied. She simply walked out, and wished him a good night.

He never once asked her to stay.

When the news of the babe in her belly had arrived, she’d been relieved - she’d never have to lay with a man who did not want her, ever again. He didn’t seem overjoyed either, and simply hummed with a hand on her belly.

“There is blood of the dragon in you now,” he said. And then he let his thumb run over her cheek. It was the softest he’d ever been with her, and she relished those few seconds. For a moment, he looked so peaceful and content… a stranger. That’s when it occurred to her that perhaps there’s more to Aemond than what he lets anyone see.

She could have fallen in love with him, if he’d cared enough to show her. But it seemed that he’d only viewed her as a duty and a burden.

The ghost of his touch lingered, and she brought her own hand to her cheek as though the warmth still remained. What did the whores have that she did not? Or was it the same whore each time?

Jealousy is unbecoming of a princess, she reminded herself. But so is unhappiness and a constant sense of dread, surely?

Her thoughts were interrupted as the door swung open. Her husband strode into the room, immediately aware of her presence. She felt the shift in the air and watched as the shadows of his boots slow, absorbing the sight of her. He removed his cloak with a fluid motion, letting it fall onto his chair before approaching her with the deliberate grace of a predator.

“Wife.” His voice was clipped and devoid of warmth, as though addressing a servant rather than the mother of his son.

She turned to face him, the pale moonlight highlighting the tension etched across her features. "Husband," she responded, mirroring his tone, though a flicker of hurt glimmers in her eyes.

Do you think of me as I think of you? Do you think of me at all?

A heavy silence settled between them, thick with unspoken words. Her gaze scanned his face, searching for any trace of the man whom she foolishly once thought would love her. Instead, she found only the cold mask he wore, a fortress against the world and his own buried emotions.

Against her.

“Has the council kept you long?” she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. They both looked outside the windows, with her leaning into the railing while he stood with his hands held back, ramrod straight.

Always on guard.

“Long enough,” he replied, his eyes drifting to the dark expanse of the bay. “There are matters that require my attention.”

“And our son?” she asked, a touch of warmth infusing her words at the mention of their child. “Will you see Aerys tonight?”

For a brief moment, something softened in Aemond’s gaze, a fleeting shadow of tenderness. She must have imagined it - it was too fleeting and quick to hold any kind of weight.

She was jealous of her own son, for he elicits more from Aemond than she ever has, as little as it is.

“Perhaps. If time allows.”

She nodded, turning back to look at him; to see him.

The weight of his indifference settled over her like a shroud. The Blackwater Bay stretches out before them, vast and unchanging, mirroring the growing distance between them.

“I worry for you,” she murmured, her voice almost swallowed by the night. “War will come to us soon, will it not?” If it hadn’t come so far, she knew it would now. Vaemond Velaryon’s rolling head and King Viserys’ worsening condition only made sure of it.

He stood rigid beside her, his posture unyielding. “It is my duty,” he said, as if that alone suffices.

“I know,” she replied, sadness threading through her voice. “But you are more than your duty, Aemond. You are Aerys’ father and my…”

The emotions were high tonight, higher than they’d ever been. She didn’t know why she sought him out. There has been ample evidence to support that he would not care, and yet here she was.

She wanted safety, and the only person she could approach is the one who has never made her feel welcome or safe in any capacity.

Who else do I have here?

The tears mangle her vision and she swallowed what threatened to follow.

“I have given you a son.” She trembled, her voice threatening to give way to s stream of tears. “The shadow of war looms upon us, and you’ve set me aside and I worry…”

He lifted his head just slightly as the words sank in, but she was too dejected to care about his acknowledgement. He may be cold, and his reactions to her come far and few in between - but she could not bring herself to mull over it too at the moment.

“War is coming. I am as certain of it as I am of the sun rising on the morrow and I know you are too -” He opened his mouth to interfere, but she was quick to not give him the gap to take over her speech. “Do not insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise.”

“I was not.”

She turned to face him, a whirlwind of emotions swirling in her eyes as she wondered why the Gods had not seen fit to give her a husband who loved her. He was beautiful, a cruel irony that made her anger flare even more. Despite all the hurt he had caused, she could not help but feel drawn to him. To hide her tears, she looked to the floor, trembling as she forced out her next words.

“I know you do not love me. I know you do not want me. But I… I have given you a son. An heir to continue your legacy, and that… I like to think that it would be reason enough to ask you to not forsake me. We have not supported each other all this time, but the least you can do is assure me that you will keep us safe.”

A flicker of something unrecognizable flashed in his eye, and he turned to face her fully, leaning against the window arch. “Did you… truly think that I would leave you to die if it came down to it?”

“You haven’t given me reason to believe that you’ll want me around.” Her voice was bitter, dripping with contempt.

He was ethereal as he reached out, holding her jaw between his thumb and finger, bringing her closer to his porcelain skin and alabaster hair. Her gaze flitted about chaotically, struggling to meet his eye. Her body shivered from the cold, torn between wanting him to let her go and needing him to hold her tight.

“You are my wife. I swore to the Gods that I would honor and protect you. You and Aerys are my family, and I would be slain a hundred times over before I see either of you hurt. I may not be… I may not be the man you want, but I can assure you that I am an honorable husband who will safeguard you and our boy.”

She did not know what she expected. A declaration of hidden love? Certainly not. But somehow, his assurances fell short. “Honorable.” She tested the word on her tongue, finding it the most bitter sound she had ever uttered. Her cheek alarmed him, and she spat venom. “Honorable?” His grip on her chin tightened, and she took it as a sign to continue.

“I know you frequent the Silk Street brothels. I know you’ve been going there since the very first day we met. Unless the professions of whores have changed, it is safe to assume that you are not honorable or loyal. And if you are, it is certainly not to me.”

A whore out there enjoyed her husband’s undying devotion, while she sat in the castle hoping and praying he would recognize her, let alone love her.

His expression shifted, a storm brewing behind his eyes, but he did not release her. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air, a chasm of pain pulling them apart. She met his intense gaze finally, tears brimming in her eyes, the anguish of their fractured bond laid bare for him to see.

He tasted of smoke and fire, and yet her mouth craved him anyway. He was an eternity away from her—always, always—and yet her fingers yearned to touch him.

“I do not go there for…” He took a long breath before completing his sentence, almost as if he needed his composure to simply survive.

Not there for what? Was he not fucking the whores? What else could he possibly do?

“Do you think I do not know the sacrifices you have made?” His voice was a harsh whisper, a mixture of anger and something deeper, almost pleading. “Do you think I do not feel the weight of our shared duty, the responsibility to our son? My responsibility to you?”

“But you have never shown me,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. “You have never given me a reason to believe that you care, that you see me as more than just a broodmare for an heir!"

For a moment, they stood frozen, the distance between them both physical and emotional. The moonlight casted a cold glow over their figures, highlighting the stark contrast between their proximity and their separation.

“It is not easy for me.”

“It should not be hard to love your wife. Or at the very least respect her.”

“I—”

She brought her hand up to stop him before any more of his lies spewed out and stepped away from him. She walked to the door at an amazing speed, her skirts swishing past as she tried to get out before her tears spilled out. In a late change of heart though, as her hand rested on the door latch, she turned.

“No lady should beg her husband to love her. No matter if he is a prince. It is beneath her, and I am no different. I will not beg…” If she had looked at him properly, she’d have noticed him flinch at her damning words.

“I will not beg you to love me after dismissing me all this time; I do have my pride. But I will beg you to save my life if it needs saving. That is all I ask.”

“You never had to ask.”

She took a breath and drank some leftover wine in the goblet next to her, not caring for whose it originally was. The thought would make her retch usually, but she was beyond caring.

“Your mother… she loves me surely, but I think she doesn’t like me very much. Your sister and I never managed to understand each other. Your brother… well he is a mindless lecher. I can’t quite figure out your grandfather at all. And you… you know what we’re like. I just… I worry that in this impending war within kin, I will be forgotten and left to die simply because my job is done with the birth of my son and I am too close to the storm and you don’t care and I don’t want to die. I don’t want anyone to die-”

“You are my kin.” he said. It made her smile, albeit a woeful one. “You may need to remind me every once in a while.”

He didn’t respond. She simply left.

And even now, he didn’t ask her to stay.

She wished he did.

Aemond stood by the hearth, cradling their feverish son in his arms.

Dressed in his somber blacks, he looked every bit the stern warrior, yet the gentle way he held Aerys belied that image. The babe was flushed and fretful, his tiny hands gripping Aemond’s hair and tugging insistently. Aemond hissed softly at the sharp pull, but did not dislodge the child's grip.

“Byka zaldrīzes,” he grumbles. It is strict, but not unaffectionate - she was familiar with that tone. She’d watched him use it with their son often when he thought no one was looking. [Little dragon.]

From the doorway, she watched them. They looked like a loving family - the devoted mother standing watch, her eyes filled with affection as she observed her husband and son. But appearances were deceiving, and both of them knew the truth beneath the surface.

Aerys, in his restless state, grabbed at Aemond’s eyepatch, tugging it down and exposing the scarred, empty socket. Aemond’s expression tightened as he shifted the boy from one arm to the other, quickly adjusting the patch back into place. In that brief moment, their eyes met, and she glimpsed the vulnerability he so meticulously hid. He seemed to close himself off even more, as if shielding his heart from her gaze.

It was a deep, almost dark blue. She noticed, she always noticed.

“I came to check on him before luncheon,” she said softly, breaking the silence that had settled like a heavy shroud. She always ensured that she made a solitary routine of her visits, ensuring that he’d have time alone with her son like he seemed to want. To be together - as a family - stumped her beyond belief, no matter how second nature it should be.

What was he doing here?

Aemond nodded, his voice measured as he recounted the maester's instructions. “The maester believes he will grow healthy with time. We must be diligent with the poultices and draughts.” His tone was clinical, as if discussing a strategy for battle rather than the wellbeing of their son.

She watched as he laid Aerys gently in the cot, the child’s feverish grip slackening as he drifted into a fitful sleep. She approached, brushing a strand of hair from Aerys’s forehead, her touch tender and light.

Aemond stepped back, retreating to the armchair close to the cot where a goblet of wine awaited him. He took a long sip, his gaze fixed on her as she sat at his foot, and peered in to take a look at their son. Facing away from him, she began to sing softly. Her voice, though tinged with sorrow, was soothing, and Aemond’s stern expression softened as he watched the scene unfold. For a moment, the room was filled with a fragile peace.

The Seven Gods who made us all,

are listening if we should call.

So close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

Just close your eyes, you shall not fall,

they see you, little children.

She didn’t say anything and let the silence engulf them both when she finished her song. She then turned around and sat on the floor near his feet, her back leaned against her son’s cot as she looked up to face her stoic husband. After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke - his words measured but with the intent of concern. He spoke them like he was testing them out on his tongue.

“The maesters… they say you’re being given herbs as well.”

She nodded, feeling the weight of her exhaustion in every fiber of her being. The birth had been horribly hard on her body, leaving her depleted and fragile. Only now was she beginning to regain her strength. The whispers of the servants echoed in her mind—comments about how all this suffering was for a sickly child. But those whispers meant nothing to her. She would move the ends of the earth for her son, no matter what anyone thought.

He was the blood of the dragon. Dragons do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep, and she would not allow her son to be any different.

“Ever since the birth, I have grown… weak,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Aerys took a toll on me when he came.”

Aemond’s eyes were detached, but she heard the slight concern and contemplation in his voice. “Were you in pain? In the days after?”

She hesitated for a moment, surprised by his sudden show of concern. “Yes,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I was. I still am.”

His questions were gentle, as if he truly cared, as if he genuinely wanted to understand what she had gone through. This unexpected tenderness from him was jarring, and it took all her strength not to withdraw. She had longed for this moment for so long, the chance to finally, truly connect with the man she had married.

And now that it was here, it felt as foreign to her as the other continents of the realm.

“I should have been there,” he said, his voice laced with regret. He didn’t look at her, head turned away as he spoke. “I should have been by you-”

She’d heard the rumors that her good mother worked hard to ensure she’d never hear. While she labored and went through all the Seven Hells giving birth to their son, Aemond was at a whorehouse, doing Gods know what.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “I don’t want to know,” she interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. “I’d rather choose blissful ignorance than a painful truth. Especially when it comes to you.”

Aemond nodded slowly, regality exuding from him even in his slightest movements. “I have failed you,” he confessed, his voice almost a whisper. He did not apologize, and she knew that he never would. This was the most she would get from him, and for now, it had to be enough.

It didn’t mean that it shocked her any less.

Summoning her remaining strength, she stood and moved toward him. She leaned forward, resting her hands on the armrests of his chair, bringing herself closer to him. The curve of her breasts nearly brushed his chin, and she could feel his breath, warm and shallow, on her skin. His goblet of wine lay forgotten on a nearby desk, the contents slowly going tepid.

He looked up at her, surprise and something deeper flickering in his eye. His expression was a mixture of pain and longing, as if he too yearned for what she did. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he moved his hand and covered hers with his. His touch was tentative, as if he feared she might pull away. But she held firm, her fingers entwining with his.

He was warm to the touch. She remembered that much from the first days of their marriage, but it felt better to be reminded of it this way. Almost as though he was tender towards her, like they never spent any time being purposefully apart from each other.

She felt like they were getting somewhere, a tentative bridge forming between their fractured hearts. Carried away by the newfound closeness, she hesitated only for a moment before reaching out, her hand trembling as it neared his face. Her fingers were delicate, soft against the rough texture of his skin as she traced the scar that marred his otherwise perfect visage.

Aemond’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing at the intimate touch. She moved slowly, her fingers gliding over the jagged lines. Her touch was feather-light, almost reverent, as if she could heal his old wounds with her tenderness.

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for any sign of discomfort or rejection. Instead, she saw vulnerability, a crack in his formidable armor that allowed her a glimpse of the man beneath the warrior’s facade. His eye, the one not covered by the patch, was wide and filled with an emotion she couldn't quite name - something between longing and fear.

With a gentle caress, her finger traced the path of the scar down to his cheekbone, lingering there for a moment before moving toward the eyepatch. She felt his breath warm against her hand, the rise and fall of his chest quickening as her fingers danced over the leather. The eyepatch was cool and rough under her touch, a stark contrast to the smoothness of his skin.

She paused, her heart pounding in her chest as she felt the tension coiling in him. Would he push her away? Would he retreat back into the cold distance that had defined their relationship for so long? But he remained still, his gaze fixed on hers, a silent permission in his eyes.

Encouraged by his silence, she allowed her fingers to explore the edges of the eyepatch, feeling the worn leather against her skin. Her thumb brushed over the strap that held it in place, her touch gentle and soothing. He shivered, a barely perceptible tremor that ran through him, and she felt a surge of something warm and hopeful rise within her.

His reaction was slow, almost imperceptible. He closed his eye briefly, as if savoring the sensation, then opened it to meet her gaze again. She could see the conflict within him, the struggle between the desire to protect himself and the yearning for this rare moment of intimacy.

She moved closer, her body almost pressing against his as she continued her exploration. The curve of her breasts brushed against his chin, and she felt the heat radiating from him, the tension in his muscles. Her fingers lingered on the eyepatch, tracing the lines where it met his skin, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath her touch. His hand reached up, covering hers. For a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, suspended in a fragile, tender silence.

“Will you let me see?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

His hesitance and silence said more than his words ever could.

The moment stretched, taut and fragile, until it seemed to snap under the weight of unspoken fears. She saw the flicker of rejection in his eye, a retreat behind the barriers he had so carefully constructed. Her face fell, the light of hope dimming as she realized she had pushed too far. But she understood; perhaps he needed more time. Withdrawing her hand, she felt the ghost of his touch linger on her skin, a burning reminder of the closeness they had almost shared.

He grasped her wrist gently, as if he wanted to ask her to stay, but the words remained unspoken. She did not want to stay unless he wholeheartedly asked her to. His grip was firm, yet she felt the reluctance in it, the silent struggle to decide whether to hold on and let go.

“I should go,” she said softly, gathering her skirts. “Your mother and sister await me at luncheon, and it would be unseemly to be late.”

He watched her walk away, her steps slow and measured, each one pulling her further from the fragile connection they had started to form. Left alone with his son, Aemond felt the weight of his failure press down on him, a cold, heavy burden that settled in his chest.

Aerys slept in the cot nearby, his tiny body trembling with each breath as if the sickness that plagued him might take him at any moment. Aemond moved his chair closer to the cot, peering down at the infant with a mixture of fear and determination. The soft tufts of silver hair marked him as undoubtedly his, a tiny mirror of his own lineage.

How many nights had she spent alone, watching over him like this? Scared that if she stepped away, Aerys may be gone?

In a quiet tone that would otherwise go unheard, he whispered to his son, his voice thick with emotion. “Ao kostagon’t tepagon bē va īlva, riñnykeā.” [You can’t give up on us, child.] After a moment of composure, he continued. “Ziry braved vīlībāzma naejot tepagon ao naejot issa. Gaomagon daor henujagon zȳhon.” [She braved battle to give you to me. Do not leave her.]

Aemond's voice trembled, the words almost breaking under the weight of his desperation. He held his son closer, cradling the tiny, fragile body against his chest. He thought of his wife's strength, the pain she had endured, and winced at the realization of how badly he had treated her. His neglect, his coldness - they had all but shattered her.

He had done enough to her. The last thing he wanted was to see her lose Aerys too.

The dim light of the chamber cast soft shadows on Aemond's face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrowed brow etched deep with worry. His eye, normally a piercing blue, now seemed almost muted, dulled by the depth of his concern. He reached out, placing a gentle hand on his son’s chest, feeling the weak but steady rise and fall of his breaths. Aerys stirred slightly, his tiny fingers curling around a strand of Aemond’s hair. The grip was weak, but determined.

“You are the blood of the dragon,” he continued, his voice a fierce whisper. “You will grow strong.”

The Dragonpit was packed, the air heavy with the murmurs of the gathered smallfolk and the flickering light of countless torches. She stood beside Aemond, her posture as straight and regal as she could manage, her heart pounding in her chest. The spectacle of Aegon's coronation was unfolding before her eyes, a momentous event that would shape the future of the Targaryen family.

Hers.

The ceremony began with the Grand Maester stepping forward, the crown of Aegon the Conqueror held reverently in his hands. The weight of history seemed to press down on the room, making every breath feel heavy, every movement deliberate. Aegon - looking more like a squabbling, crying child than a King - ascended the steps to the dais, his face a mask of acceptance.

And when her husband nodded to his new King, she bowed deep.

She watched as Aegon’s expression shifted from indifference to a flicker of recognition of the power now bestowed upon him. The crowd erupted in cheers, their loyalty and fervor palpable, yet she felt a pang of unease amidst the celebration.

Beside her, Aemond stood tall and vigilant, his eye never leaving the proceedings. She glanced at him, seeking comfort in his composed demeanor, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of chaos. The noise of the crowd swelled, and she could feel the anticipation hanging thick in the air, a tangible force that seemed to wrap around them all.

Aegon, now crowned, raised Blackfyre high above his head, the ancient sword gleaming in the firelight. The sight was awe-inspiring, a symbol of power and legitimacy. Yet, beneath the grandeur, she sensed the underlying tensions and overheard the words that Helaena kept mumbling.

There is a beast beneath the boards.

Her feet shifted, and she heard the hollow sound that the ground made when her shoe met the surface. A hollow sound that comes when feet meets -

The boards.

Suddenly, the ground beneath them trembled, a low rumble that grew into a deafening roar. Gasps of shock and fear rippled through the crowd, and she instinctively reached for Aemond’s hand. Before she could react further, the floor of the Dragonpit exploded upward, sending debris and chaos flying in all directions.

Rhaenys, astride her dragon Meleys, emerged from the smoke and dust, her presence formidable and terrifying. The dragon’s scales shimmered with an otherworldly glow, its eyes blazing with fury. The people scattered, screams of panic filling the air as the beast roared, the sound reverberating through the hall and shaking her to her core.

Her heart raced, terror gripping her as she stared at the massive dragon, its wings spreading wide, casting a shadow over the entire chamber. Aemond’s hand tightened around hers, pulling her behind him protectively. She could feel his body tense, ready to shield her from any danger. Despite the fear that threatened to overwhelm her, a faint surge of gratitude washed through.

You never had to ask.

Meleys roared again, the sound like thunder, and the heat of its breath washed over them. She could see the flames flickering in the dragon's throat, the promise of destruction just a heartbeat away. Rhaenys, regal and unyielding, locked eyes with Alicent, a silent challenge passing between them.

Aemond stepped forward, his presence a wall of defiance and strength. “Get behind me,” he commanded, his voice steady despite the chaos. She obeyed without hesitation, her body pressed close to his, drawing comfort from his unwavering resolve.

The dragon’s eyes fixed on them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. She could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumbeat in her ears, and the cold sweat on her palms. Every muscle in her body was taut with fear, and she kept her eyes firmly set to the ground.

This is how I die. Do you call it a dragonrider’s death when you don’t ride a dragon?

My son. AerysAerysAerys-

Aemond.

Rhaenys stared at them all, the weight of her decision hanging in the air. Meleys shifted, the ground trembling beneath its weight, and for a moment, it seemed as though the dragon would unleash its fury. But then, as if making a choice that defied all expectations, Rhaenys turned Meleys away, the dragon's wings beating powerfully as they ascended through the shattered roof of the Dragonpit.

The relief was overwhelming, a rush of emotions that left her weak at the knees. She clung to Aemond, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps as she tried to process what had just happened. The hall was filled with the sounds of weeping and the murmurs of disbelief, the aftermath of the encounter leaving everyone shaken.

Aemond’s arm wrapped around her, pulling her close, his breath warm against her ear. “Are you all right?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. She nodded, still trembling, her heart beginning to slow as the adrenaline ebbed away.

She did not notice how closely he held her when it came down to it - for the very first time.

Aemond's fingers dug into Sylvi's hips as he thrust into her from behind, each movement fierce and relentless. Her back arched under the pressure of his hand, pushing her down onto the bed. The room was filled with the raw sounds of their coupling, echoing off the walls.

His breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with her moans. His grip tightened, nails biting into her flesh as he drove into her harder, seeking release in the violent act. The scent of sweat and sex hung heavy in the air, an intoxicating mix that fueled his aggression. "Gods,” He growled, his voice a low, primal rumble. He watched as her body responded to each thrust, the way her muscles tensed and relaxed, the sheen of sweat on her skin glistening in the candlelight. She was a willing vessel for his frustrations, and he took her with a ferocity that bordered on madness.

Her moans turned into cries of pleasure, her fingers clutching the sheets beneath her as she braced herself against his onslaught. He felt a dark satisfaction at the way he could bend her to his will, the power he wielded in these moments of raw, unbridled lust.

The climax came in a wave of intense pleasure, his body shuddering as he spilled into her. He collapsed over her, panting, his chest pressed against her back as he tried to catch his breath. The aftermath was a stark contrast to the ferocity of their coupling – a quiet, intimate moment where their bodies remained entwined, slick with sweat and the remnants of their shared passion.

Her arms wrapped around Aemond's naked body, her touch tender and soothing after their rough encounter. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of candlelight casting shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender from the sheets.

Aemond's breathing gradually slowed, his chest rising and falling against hers as he allowed himself to relax in her embrace. His mind, however, was anything but at ease. He thought back to the scene that had haunted him since he left his chambers earlier: his wife, cradling their son, her eyes red from crying, her body and mind still fragile from the ordeal of facing a dragon at Aegon’s coronation.

"She was crying before I left to come here," he began, his voice a low murmur against her neck. "Holding our son, so shocked by near-death.. It didn’t seem as terrifying to me, but... she was so scared. She's worried, you know. About the impending war."

The Madame��s fingers traced gentle circles on his back, encouraging him to continue. "She doesn't have dragonrider's blood," he went on, almost to himself. "I didn’t know how to comfort her. I want to help, but I don’t know how."

Her hands moved up to his shoulders, her touch grounding him. Her presence was a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind. He lowered his head to her chest, his lips finding her breast. He suckled softly, kneading the soft flesh, seeking solace in the familiar act.

Holding their son brought comfort to his wife, and for him, coming here to the Madame, was his escape. The warmth and intimacy they shared, however fleeting, was his way of coping with the weight of his responsibilities and the emotional distance between him and his wife. As he continued to be held, he couldn’t help but wonder if he and his wife would ever find this kind of comfort in each other; if he’d ever find the courage or the trust to truly tell her what he needs without worrying about losing her respect.

If he'd walked in and held her while she cried instead of leaving her to it and coming here, could he have made her feel safer?

Too many questions, not enough courage for answers. Too much pride and so little sense between them both.

Aemond's heart pounded in his chest as Vhagar soared through the stormy skies back to King's Landing. The cold wind bit at his face, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread gripping his heart.

He had killed Luke. His nephew, his blood.

The act had been unintended, a consequence of their reckless chase, but it was done. There would be no undoing it. If there hadn't been a war before, there certainly was now. The weight of his actions settled heavily upon him, more suffocating than the fiercest storm. As the familiar silhouette of the Red Keep came into view, a storm of emotions churned within him. Guilt, fear, and a desperate need for comfort twisted together, making his insides writhe.

He dismounted Vhagar with a heavy heart, his drenched form slipping through the darkened halls of the castle like a shadow. His mind raced, an entire host of thoughts battering against the walls of his consciousness. He needed solace, a place to hide from the storm he had created. The whorehouse crossed his mind briefly, a familiar escape, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough this time. He needed... he needed...

Before he knew it, his feet had taken him to her apartments.

Her. His wife.

He stood before the door, hesitating for a moment before pushing it open. His wife was readying for bed, her state of undress evident. She wore a robe over her shift, her hair loose around her shoulders. The soft light from the hearth bathed her in a gentle glow, as he took her in. She turned to him in shock, her eyes widening at the sight of him. It was clear how rare this occurrence was, how unexpected his presence was in her chambers. But she was quick to pull him in, taking in his drenched form with a worried expression.

"Husband, what has happened?" she asked, her voice filled with concern.

He did not answer, his eyes trained on her as she moved. Her exposed skin drew his attention, and he found himself wondering.

Was she softer? Kinder? Would she hold him in her soft arms if he so wished? Did he deserve it from her? Would she shame him?

She kept asking, but he remained silent, his mind too chaotic to form coherent words. She moved to find him something to dry off with, but he reached out, his hand wrapping around her wrist in a death grip.

"Don't go," he whispered, his voice raw and choked, barely more than a breath.

She looked up at him, her confusion gradually giving way to a quiet curiosity. He gently guided her arms around his cold and damp waist, his touch unexpectedly tender. This was not a whore; this was his wife. She deserved to be treated differently.

At first, she froze, her body tense and uncertain, but slowly, she let herself relax – at least as much as she could manage with a husband who had sought her out for the first time in a year.

He felt her hesitation and understood the significance of her yielding. The weight of his guilt pressed harder against his heart, but he clung to this moment of closeness, desperate for the comfort he so craved.

"What has happened, husband? Why are you here?" she asked softly, parts of her words muffled into his chest.

He remained silent, waiting to see what she would do. Her repeated questions slowly stopped, a resigned understanding settling in her gaze. In the silence, he became acutely aware of her form – soft, untouched by anyone but him, made for him. The thin layers of her robe and shift did little to keep his hands from exploring her.

His fingers trembled as they traced the curve of her spine, brushing against the delicate fabric of her robe. Every slight movement, every breath, every shiver she made became magnified in his mind. Her body responded to his touch with a delicate gasp, and he felt a surge of something he couldn't quite name – a need, a longing, a desperate desire for solace in her embrace.

He watched the rise and fall of her chest, every intake of breath, every flinch and gasp. He noticed a stray hair that had fallen across her face, the way the delicate hairs on her skin raised at his touch, the way her eyes widened and then softened. Each detail etched itself into his mind, a stark contrast to the murder that had driven him here.

She tightened her arms around him, her touch gentle yet firm. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in her scent – lilacs and something uniquely her that anchored him to this moment, to her. It was a comfort stronger than any he had ever received, yet calm and grounding at the same time.

His hands roamed her back, feeling the delicate curve of her waist, the slight tremor in her muscles as she responded to his touch. He pressed his lips to her neck, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat, steady and reassuring. Her breath hitched, and he felt the vibration of her voice as she whispered his name, a question and a plea all at once.

"Aemond," she murmured, her voice breaking the silence. His body reacts in shivers and heat at the sound of his name upon her lips. "Please, tell me what's wrong."

Had she ever said his name out loud before? He did not know. But he wanted to hear it again and again until the world as he knew it ended. Perhaps it was the guilt - over Luke, or over his neglect of his wife - he did not know. But it was all bubbling at the surface now, and he was much more open and vulnerable than he’d ever been.

He bent his head down, his eye locking onto hers. The intensity of his gaze seemed to drown out the room, focusing solely on her. He could see the concern, the worry etched in her features, and it tore at him. He couldn't tell her, not yet. Not about the blood on his hands, the life he had taken, not why he was here and what he’d wanted.

But he could let her consume him, to forget. He could lose himself in her.

He felt the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves against him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to forget the horrors of the night. He traced the line of her jaw with his fingers, memorizing every curve, every angle. Her skin was smooth and warm, a stark contrast to the cold, damp leathers clinging to him.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. Her eyes searched his, looking for answers he couldn't give. Despite her confusion, the turmoil in his mind quieted, replaced by the steady, reassuring rhythm of her heartbeat. She was his anchor, his solace, and he clung to her like a lifeline in the storm.

Wordlessly, he moved back enough to get a good look at her, his eyes tracing her form with a reverence that made her pulse quicken. He then slowly untied the front of her robe, the silk falling away with a whisper. His hands fell to her shoulders, pausing there for a moment as he sighed. As he pushed the sleeves down, his hands traced the newly revealed skin - his fingers glided from her collarbone to her shoulders, down her arms, and finally to her fingers, which he intertwined with his own. The robe slipped to the floor, leaving her in a thin shift that clung to her curves, leaving little to the imagination.

His eyes remained locked on hers, the intensity of his gaze a silent plea for forgiveness, a desperate need to be anchored by her presence. He took her trembling hands and placed them on his damp leathers, his touch firm but gentle, giving her silent permission—no, a quiet command—to undress him. His breath hitched slightly as he waited for her to take the lead.

She moved slowly, her fingers deftly working the buckles and straps, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her in only his trousers. Her hands hover over his chest, her touch hesitant, almost afraid, as if she's not sure she's allowed to touch him. His skin was warm under her fingertips, his heart pounding just beneath the surface.

His hands covered hers, guiding them lower, to the waistband of his trousers. His touch was both a plea and a command, silently asking, demanding, begging her to take this final barrier away. She did, her movements slow and deliberate, until he stood bare before her, exposed in every sense of the word.

She did not dare try to take off his eyepatch, not this time.

He watched her intently, noting every flinch, every gasp, every shiver that runs through her. His fingers traced delicate patterns on her skin, exploring every inch with a tenderness that speaks of his desperation for her. He needed this moment, her touch, to forget what he'd done to Luke, to drown the guilt that threatened to consume him. Every breath he took was a reminder of his failures, every brush of her skin against his a lifeline that pulled him back from the proverbial edge.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder - not her lips, he had not kissed her on the lips since their wedding ceremony. His hands roamed her body, mapped out the places that made her gasp, the spots that made her arch into him. He was attuned to her every reaction, his focus entirely on her.

All he asked for in return - with no words - is that she make him feel safe for this one night.

With his body bare and hers still clad in her shift, he silently gestured to her bed with a tilt of his head. She moved toward it, her movements graceful yet hesitant, and then crawled to the back, letting her spine rest against the headboard. He stood there for a moment, watching her, his breath uneven and his mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

He did not miss the way she looked at him. Desire flickered in her eyes, growing with each second her gaze roved over his body. Her eyes widened when they settled on his manhood, and he could see the anticipation building within her. She expected him to take her tonight, he knew. He hadn't given any indication otherwise in the last few moments, and she had no clue what he actually wanted; or why.

Would she welcome him to her bed if she knew he was a kinslayer?

The thought gnawed at him, but he chose not to tell her. She might not offer her true acceptance, but he would take her false comfort tonight – even if she thought it true.

He moved to the side of the bed with all his characteristic grace. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with a mix of confusion and longing. When he lifted his knee to place it on the plush mattress, she shifted to make space for him. He laid down beside her, his movements deliberate and slow, as if fearing she might vanish if he was too hasty. She mirrored his actions, and soon they were facing each other, their warm breaths mingling in the stillness of the room.

Their eyes locked, and he saw her questioning gaze. Her next words, soft and tentative, knocked the breath out of his lungs.

"Are you alright?"

For a moment, he couldn't answer, the weight of the day's events pressing down on him. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw the worry etched in the lines of her face, the softness of her eyes, the way her lips parted slightly as she waited for his response.

"I will be," he finally said, his voice rough with emotion.

Tentatively, he placed his hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her shift. He slid the material up, his fingers tracing the smooth expanse of her leg.

"Gevie.” [Beautiful.]

His fingers continued their journey, moving to her inner thigh. Her legs shivered at his touch, and he smirked for a moment before he withdrew his hand and moved closer. Their bodies were now a hairsbreadth apart, the heat between them palpable.

His hands moved to her breasts, feeling their fullness beneath her shift. He was acutely aware of every breath she took, every flinch and gasp that escaped her lips. Each reaction to his touch drew him further into the present moment, away from the dark thoughts that threatened to consume him. Her body was a haven, a sanctuary where he could lose himself, if only for a while.

Encouraged by her soft gasps, he continued to knead the mounds of flesh and pinch her pert nipples, his touch gentle yet insistent through the shift. Lowering his head, he nestled himself at her bosom, inhaling deeply. The scent of lilacs and milk overtook him, and he let out a contented sigh.

"You are a mother... the mother of my heir," he murmured into her chest, his voice a mix of reverence and disbelief.

She said nothing, but when her initial shock faded, she began to comb her fingers through his soft hair, humming the same song she sang to their son to sleep. The melody was soothing, a balm to his frayed nerves. He didn't know if her singing was to calm him or herself, but he found solace in the gentle rise and fall of her breasts with each breath she took.

He took in the way her body trembled slightly beneath him, the softness of her skin, the rhythmic beating of her heart against his cheek. This was not the harsh, immediate and uncertain release he sought at the whorehouse.

This was more, more, more.

Sleep came to him easily in her arms, draped in her comfort; devoid of any nightmares, dreams, or heavy thoughts.

If she wondered why he'd simply laid with her rather than fuck her, she did not ask.

Would she welcome him again when she finds out what he did?

The council branded him a kinslayer when he told them what he'd done. He embraced it, staring into their eyes, defiant and unyielding. He told them he did it on purpose, each word a dagger thrown with precision. Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

Aegon patted his back, a twisted smile playing on his lips. "A job well done, drawing first blood in the King's name," he said, his voice a blend of admiration and malice. His grandfather's face remained a mask, revealing nothing. Criston was disappointed, his disapproval a heavy weight in the room. And his mother...

His mother was disgusted, her eyes filled with a sorrow he had never seen before. When he stepped out and walked through the corridors, the word had spread like wildfire.

Kinslayer.

The whispers followed him like a relentless shadow. Servants and maids stepped out of his way, their gazes avoiding his. The tension was palpable, a living thing that tightened the air around him. He wanted to escape them all, to flee to the skies where their judgment could not reach him. But before then, he wanted to see them.

He stood near the doorway as she had a few days prior, watching her rock their fitful, sick son to sleep. Her movements were gentle, contrasting all the shock, anger and brashness he’d seen since he stepped out of her room before she awoke. He wanted her to look at him, to see beyond the blood and the sin. He was asking too much of her, he knew that. They were strangers bound by duty, their recent shared moments brief and fraught with his own selfish needs for comfort.

His heart pounded as she finally met his gaze. He was not prepared for the slight fear in her eyes. It cut through him deeper than any sword ever could. She looked at him as if he were a creature she could not recognize.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed in his mind, a relentless chant that drowned out everything else. He took a step forward, his hands trembling. "I—" he began, but the words died in his throat. What could he say? How could he explain the unexplainable, justify the unforgivable? She held their son closer, her grip tightening protectively. The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of what he had done and what it meant for them. His mind raced, filled with a cacophony of anger, regret, and despair.

The need to escape surged within him again. He wanted to flee to the skies, to find solace in the cold, indifferent clouds. But he couldn't move, couldn't tear his gaze away from the image of her fear-stricken eyes.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

With a heavy heart and a mind in turmoil, he turned and walked back into the shadowed corridors, each step echoing the relentless chant of his new title.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer-

The word echoed through the empty halls, a reminder of the path he had chosen and the price he would pay.

If he’d told her last night as he laid in her arms, would she have understood?

He’d never know.

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faebled-stories · 2 months ago

Text

"We Met Online"

Kinkvember Day 1: Virtual Reality

LOONA/ARTMS Jeon Heejin x Male reader

(Happy Belated Halloween)

8.6k words

Heejin was exhausted after another grueling day packed with rehearsals, interviews, and photoshoots. The bright lights and relentless schedules of her life as an idol often overshadowed the excitement and passion she once felt for her craft. While the glitz and glamor brought rewards, they also came with the suffocating weight of expectation—the never-ending demand for perfection. After yet another long day navigating the pressures of fame, she craved an escape, something to take her mind off the incessant hustle for just a moment.

As she entered the shared apartment she called home with her fellow ARTMS members, she was greeted by the unexpected sight of Jinsoul lounging on the couch. A mischievous smile danced across her face, instantly piquing Heejin's interest.

“Hey, Heejin!” Jinsoul called out, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Got something for you.”

Heejin raised an inquisitive eyebrow, her fatigue momentarily forgotten. Jinsoul reached behind the couch and produced a sleek black box prominently displaying a logo that sent a thrill of recognition through Heejin—Infinity. This was the VR game that had taken the gaming world by storm, promising an immersive realm where players could interact and experience life in a way that felt startlingly real.

"Before you say anything, check this out!" Jinsoul exclaimed, as she effortlessly revealed a second item—a thin, skin-tight suit that looked like it belonged in a futuristic sci-fi film. The suit shimmered slightly under the apartment's fluorescent lights, its smooth, almost weightless fabric captivating Heejin's attention.

“What... is that?” Heejin asked, hesitantly taking the suit from Jinsoul’s hands. The fabric felt cool against her fingertips, almost alive with potential.

“This,” Jinsoul said, her smile widening, “is what makes the experience really immersive. It’s a haptic feedback suit. You wear this while playing, and it makes you feel everything from touches to sensations—like you’re actually there. Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

Heejin eyed the suit with a mix of intrigue and apprehension. The thought of feeling things in a game was both thrilling and slightly unnerving. Yet, given the chaotic demands of her life, the idea of escaping reality, even for just a little while, was immensely tempting.

“Alright,” Heejin finally said, a small smile breaking through her exhaustion. “I’ll give it a try.”

After quickly changing into the snug suit—its fabric wrapping around her like a second skin—Heejin donned the Infinity VR headset. As she activated it, the familiar world of her daily routine melted away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors and enchanting scenery in the expansive landscape of the game.

Heejin found herself standing in the midst of a bustling virtual marketplace, where avatars of all shapes and sizes interacted with one another amid floating islands, glowing rivers, and a mesmerizing starry sky. The air felt cool and invigorating, a crispness that felt astoundingly real, and the sensation of her feet grounding her on the cobblestone path added to the illusion of reality.

As she moved about, Heejin looked down at her customized avatar: Noxelia. She had spent hours meticulously designing her digital persona, pouring all her aspirations and hidden desires into this character. Noxelia was tall and graceful, exuding an air of power with every gesture. Her long silver-black hair flowed behind her like silk, cascading elegantly down her back, while her armor shimmered with a radiant violet hue, reflecting the light of the ethereal marketplace. Noxelia embodied everything Heejin wanted to be—strong, confident, and untouchable.

With each step, Heejin felt a sense of liberation. In this virtual world, the constraints and expectations tied to her real-life identity faded away. No longer did she have to strive for perfection or balance the weight of public scrutiny; in this realm, she could be anyone she wished to be. Breathing in the imaginary scents of street food and experiencing the chatter of NPCs and other players brought her an unfamiliar sense of joy.

As Heejin wandered the vibrant marketplace, the colors and sounds pulsed with life, pulling her deeper into this virtual world. Stalls adorned with shimmering goods and bustling avatars created an electric atmosphere. But it wasn’t long before her keen eye was caught by the figure of another player standing nearby—a default knight clad in simple silver armor, with a basic sword slung at his side. What made him stand out were the tiny sparkles that glimmered across his chest plate, giving him an unexpectedly charming, magical quality amidst the melee of customizations.

Heejin felt a playful smile spread across her face as she looked at her meticulously designed avatar, Noxelia, which was a beacon of creativity and power. The contrast was amusing, and she felt a spark of mischief surge within her. With a lighthearted stride, she approached the knight.

“Nice knight outfit!” Heejin teases, her voice playful as she leans casually against a nearby stall. “Going for the ‘chivalry isn’t dead’ look?”

The default knight, turn with a grin. “What can I say? I’m a classic.” Your tone is lighthearted, your eyes dancing with humor.

“Classic, huh? While that’s admirable, wouldn’t it be more fun to have something original like mine?” She gestures to her intricately designed armor, the brilliant colors and detailed patterns shimmering in the marketplace light.

You chuckle, raising your hands in mock surrender. “You’re not wrong. I didn’t spend nearly as much time as some people on the customization screen.” There’s a hint of self-deprecation in your voice, your friendly expression encouraging her boldness.

With a flick of her hair, Heejin takes pride in her work. “I customized it all myself. Took hours, but every second was worth it. It feels so much more... me. But hey, at least you have those shiny sparkles.” She flashes you an encouraging smile, appreciating the effort you put in, however minimal it may seem.

You glance down at your armor, a hint of embarrassment creeping onto your face but quickly replaced with admiration for her dedication. “It’s impressive,” you admit. “But the sparkles? Blame my sister for those. She thought the default knight was too boring and convinced me to give it a touch of flair.”

Heejin’s grin widens at your candidness. “Your sister’s got good taste! At least someone in your family does.” She chuckles, the playful banter putting you both at ease.

And just like that, an easy connection forms between you two, filled with laughter and light-hearted teasing. Amidst the bustling marketplace, your camaraderie begins to bloom, reminding Heejin that sometimes, it’s not just the detailed armor or flashy weapons that make a game more enjoyable, but the spontaneous conversations with fellow players that create memories worth cherishing.

Over the next few weeks, you and Heejin forge a routine of playing together regularly. You become a familiar duo, exploring the vastness of Infinity, navigating through intricate puzzles, unveiling hidden treasures in new zones, and playfully competing in exhilarating mini-games. Amidst the thrill and occasional heated competition, Heejin finds herself drawn to your relaxed demeanor. Your ability to elicit laughter, even in the most intense gaming moments, creates a warmth that infuses your bond with joy and light-heartedness.

One serene evening, you and Heejin find yourselves perched on Cloud Summit—a breathtaking floating isle that seems to reach for the heavens. The ambiance is nothing short of magical; the sky is painted in soft pastels, with delicate hues merging into one another, while the clouds below shimmer as if kissed by a gentle light. For Heejin, Cloud Summit quickly becomes her retreat, a serene hideaway to escape the weight of reality pressing down.

“You’re really good at this,” you say, joining her on a pixelated bench overlooking the horizon. Your avatar exudes a relaxed charm as you rest beside her, your gaze sweeping over the breathtaking scenery. “You always seem… focused.”

A gentle smile graces Heejin’s face as she takes in the view, the colors swirling like cotton candy in the vast canvas above. “That’s why I like it here,” she replies thoughtfully, her voice barely a whisper against the tranquility of the surroundings. “It’s the only place I can relax, you know?”

Curiosity flickers in your eyes as you turn to face her. “What do you mean?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Heejin takes a deep breath, letting the virtual winds carry away some of the weight she feels. “In real life,” she starts, her voice softening amidst the cloud-dappled sky, “I have this job. People expect a lot from me, and it’s exhausting. But here, in this world, I can just… be.”

Your expression shifts as the gravity of her words sinks in. You stay quiet, contemplating her vulnerability. “I get that,” you finally say. “I have my own responsibilities too. My sister... she looks up to me like I’m her knight in shining armor, but some days, it’s hard to live up to that. I feel like I’m letting her down”

It’s in that shared silence that something profound transpires. Heejin feels a deep, abiding sense of understanding passing between you, a connection that feels both immediate and enduring. Despite having never met in the physical realm, there’s an unspoken acknowledgment that pierces through the boundaries of your virtual existence.

As you linger in your conversation, Heejin finds comfort in the proximity of your avatar. Without even realizing it, you subtly shift closer, your digital shoulders brushing against each other. The feedback from her suit sends a gentle pulse through her body, etching your presence into her consciousness. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels like the quiet embrace of understanding she has longed for.

She hesitates, then feels a pull to lean into you, the act an instinctual response to the warmth radiating from your connection. “Thanks,” she murmurs, her voice barely rising above the gentle breeze. "For being here."

“For what?” you ask, your tone infused with warmth and sincerity.

“For just being here, talking to me,” she repeats, her heart swelling with gratitude.

Then, as if drawn by an unseen force, your avatars move closer together. In a spontaneous moment of bravery, you share your first virtual hug. At first, it feels a little awkward—two armored figures caught in a pixelated embrace—but through your haptic suits, warmth envelops you both, it’s a soft pressure that feels surprisingly intimate. Heejin could almost forget you could be separated by miles of reality.

Time seems to suspend as you hold onto each other. The virtual hug is simple, yet it’s charged with an energy that resonates in both your avatars and hearts. It transcends the playful banter of your previous interactions, hinting at a deeper connection emerging from the pixels.

-----

Though you never shared your real names, you and Heejin delved deeper into the recesses of each other’s lives, sharing small anecdotes and secrets that painted a vivid picture of the individuals behind your avatars. For Heejin, this was a sanctuary—a realm where she could shed the polished facade of stardom and embrace her authentic self, even under the veil of anonymity.

Your connection strengthened, and the game that once served as a mere pastime began to morph into something more profound. The boundaries of your virtual world started to blur, leading you both to a secluded enclave known as the Starlight Grove. Here, the luminescent trees and the soothing whispers of the river created an ambiance of tranquility and intimacy.

It was in this digital haven that you and Heejin experienced a shift in your relationship. As you stood beside the virtual waters, your avatars close enough to touch, a palpable tension filled the air. The haptic feedback suits you wore, designed to enhance the gaming experience, became conduits for a new kind of interaction—one that felt undeniably more real.

When you reached out and touched Heejin’s avatar, the suit sprang to life, simulating the warmth and pressure of a real human touch. The sensation was so convincing that it took her breath away. “I'll never get use to how real it feels.” she murmured, her voice tinged with surprise and delight.

Your touch was exploratory, your hand gliding down Heejin’s arm as if mapping out uncharted territory. Each pulse of sensation resonated like a soft echo, sending shivers through her body, igniting her senses. The technology bridging your virtual and physical realities had transcended mere gadgetry; it had become an extension of your very beings, allowing you to experience each other in ways you had never imagined possible within a game. Every pulse was a whisper, every sensation a promise, as you navigated this new realm of connection.

As your hand ventured lower, tracing the curve of her waist, the feedback became more intense. Heejin found herself succumbing to the illusion, her body arching toward your avatar, seeking more of the electric sensation that coursed through her with each simulated caress.

The intimacy of the moment escalated as your fingers moved with deliberate gentleness, crossing into more private territories. Heejin’s gasp echoed through the serene grove as her body responded to the suit’s accurate mapping of your touch. “Keep going, I can feel you... everywhere,” she confessed, her voice quivering with the weight of her vulnerability.

Your response was silent but spoke volumes through your actions. Your other hand found its way to her side, resting just beneath her chest. The new technology made the warmth of your touch tangible, each slow, intimate movement leaving Heejin breathless and yearning for more.

As the intensity of your virtual encounter grew, Heejin’s breaths became short and ragged. The sensors were so precise that every touch from you felt like a real caress, igniting a fire within her that threatened to consume her completely. Her body trembled, succumbing to the waves of pleasure that radiated from your every touch.

“Noxelia…” you murmured, your voice a low whisper that wrapped around her like a warm embrace.

“More... I want more.” she whimpered, her voice a mere whisper carried away by the digital wind.

Your fingers pressed into her with more insistence, the suit amplifying each sensation until Heejin felt as though she were floating, her body alight with an intensity that was almost too much to bear. The suit, once just a piece of gaming equipment, had become an instrument of unparalleled pleasure, each pulse and vibration resonating with her escalating desire.

Her breath caught as your virtual hands discovered a particularly sensitive spot between her legs. She hadn’t even realized that there were sensors in every nook of her pants, but the discovery heightened her awareness, causing her to arch against the unseen touch. Whimpers escaped her lips, growing more insistent, each sound a vibrato of desire.

Heejin’s cries began as a soft whimper, a prelude to the crescendo building within her. As the sensations intensified, her voice rose in pitch, becoming a series of breathy gasps punctuating the air. Each exhale carried a piece of her surrender, a testament to the pleasure that coursed through her veins.

“Please…” she breathed, the words becoming a mantra on her lips, a central thread amidst the chaos of her swirling thoughts.

As the tension built to its peak, Heejin’s cries intensified, creating a symphony of raw ecstasy. Each sound she made was a testament to the unbridled passion that enveloped her, growing louder and more urgent as the waves of pleasure coursed through her body. The air between them was charged, vibrating with the intensity of shared desire.

Her voice broke into a series of staccato moans, each one echoing the rhythm of her escalating heartbeat. Each sound was a note, weaving a melody that seemed to pulse in harmony with the flickering light of the Starlight Grove.

“Yes! Right there, don’t stop…” she panted, each syllable a fervent plea that resonated deep within the heart of their shared moment. Her body trembled, taut as a bowstring, as she teetered on the edge of rapture.

“I wouldn’t dream of it…” you replied, your tone carrying a seductive promise that pushed her further. The tension built, a fusion of will and sensation, until it snapped with breathtaking force.

The climax surged through her, a tidal wave that left her breathless and shattered, yet whole in a way only this moment could achieve. The cries that burst from her were pure and unrestrained, blending seamlessly with the ambient hum of the grove around them. Every muscle in her body seemed to pulse with the rhythm of her release, and for a moment, the world contracted to just the two of them and the echo of her bliss.

As the aftershocks rippled through her, her cries softened, subsiding into a contented hum that mirrored the tranquil ambiance of the Starlight Grove. Her breath evened out, and the only sounds left were the gentle rustle of the virtual foliage and the soft, satisfied sighs that escaped her swollen lips.

In the aftermath, as your avatars stood together in the soft glow of the luminescent garden, your heart raced, and a lingering warmth hummed through your body, a reminder of the intimacy you’d just shared. The suit, now a silent witness to the moment, lay against your skin—a gentle yet tangible link between your digital and physical worlds.

Slowly, Heejin’s body retreated, though the ghost of her touch lingered, a phantom presence you could still feel. As you looked around, the reality of what had just transpired settled in. Together, you had crossed a threshold, exploring depths of human connection in a place where the physical and the virtual felt inseparable.

The Starlight Grove, once just a scenic spot in the game, had transformed into a testament to your bond—a place where you and Heejin discovered that the heart’s capacity for connection knows no bounds, and that even within the confines of a digital world, human experiences can reach new heights of emotion and sensation.

"That was..." your voice broke the silence, filled with wonder and uncertainty. "More than I expected." The virtual space, typically a playground for fantasy and escapism, had transformed into a stage for a deeply human connection.

Heejin nodded, her breath still shaky. "Yeah... me too." The weight of what had just happened lingered, a tangible presence heavy with the knowledge that you had crossed a line neither of you anticipated.

The sensations, the connection—it had felt more real than either of you imagined possible. A game designed to simulate the thrill of adventure and camaraderie had instead become a conduit for an emotional exchange that left you both reeling. The digital environment, with its vivid landscapes and immersive experiences, had facilitated a bond that transcended pixels and code.

You laughed awkwardly, feeling uncertain of what to say next. "Uh, Noxelia, maybe I should... log off… I have a few things to take care of." The conversation, though taking place in a space where avatars are meant to be invincible, had touched something raw and vulnerable. Heejin gave a small, nervous smile, acknowledging the unspoken agreement. "Yeah... I think that’s a good idea. Same here."

With one final look, a gaze that felt as though it could pierce through the screen, you both logged off, letting the virtual world fade away. But as your screen went dark, the sound of Heejin's cries and pleas lingered, hanging in the silence long after the game had ended. The digital echo of your interaction replayed in your mind, a reminder of the depth and intensity that even online worlds could harbor.

You sat in your own apartment, the VR headset resting heavily on your lap. Like a film on replay, each moment shared between you two replayed in your mind. It felt all too tangible—too vivid. You could still feel the nuances of your presence, the harmony of your connection. This wasn’t just a game anymore; it was an experience, intimate and unforgettable. The events of the night lingered, leaving you to question what might come next.

Meanwhile, across the city, Heejin sat in the quiet of her room, yanking the VR headset off and sinking into silence as she stared blankly at the dormant screen. A light layer of sweat covered her body, her heart still pounding in her chest, the residual sensations from the immersive experience holding on like a delicate trace. Tentatively, she placed a hand between her legs, feeling the warmth and dampness that confirmed the intensity of her climax. The touch grounded her, pulling her back from the edge of the surreal and into the present.

The suit, now just fabric against her skin, had moments before been a bridge merging the virtual with the visceral. It had allowed her to feel emotions and sensations she hadn’t anticipated, leaving her both disoriented and exhilarated.

Running a hand through her hair, she struggled to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within. Heejin, once just another player in the game, was now someone who had reached beyond the pixels, tethered by a connection that had transcended the screen.

Yet, as you sat in the stillness, you grappled with the implications of what had unfolded. Together, you’d crossed a boundary separating virtual interaction from emotional reality. What did this mean for your relationship? The urge to reach out lingered, but so did uncertainty. How could you transition from screen to reality, from alias to name, from a fantasy world to a genuine connection?

In the quiet contemplation, both you and Heejin found yourselves at a crossroads, reflecting on the connection fostered in a realm where sensations collided with emotions. The lines between the virtual and the real had blurred, leaving you both wondering if this bond could grow beyond the confines of the digital universe.

-----

For the past two weeks, the digital landscape of Infinity remained devoid of activity from its two most notable players: you and Heejin. The electric encounter had left an indelible mark on both of you, each hesitant to return to the game. Every time Heejin considered logging back in, memories flooded her mind—the warmth of your touch, the realism of your interactions, enhanced by the haptic suits. It was an experience both exhilarating and unsettling, one that made her heart race and left her feeling unsure.

You, too, were haunted by that night. The human mind intermingles confusion with excitement, embarrassment with desire. Each attempt to push the memory aside only amplified the awkwardness you felt at the thought of seeing her avatar again. What could you say? How could you interact as you had before?

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm hues across your apartment, you sat at the kitchen table, exhaustion settling after a long day at work. During this quiet moment, your younger sister, Nari, burst into the room like a whirlwind, her princess costume twirling around her as she moved. You couldn’t help but smile; she’d been preparing her Halloween outfit for weeks.

“Oppa, did you get the tickets?” she asked eagerly, bouncing into the chair beside you.

Your heart sank. “Nari… I don’t know if I can get the tickets. They’re really expensive,” you admitted, running a hand through your hair as the familiar weight of financial stress settled over you.

Nari’s bright expression faltered, confusion replacing her excitement. “But you promised we’d go to the ARTMS Halloween Event! I want to see all the girls—they’re so cool! I’ve been practicing their dances for months!” Her wide eyes sparkled with innocent hope, and the ache in your heart grew.

“I know, Nari,” you said softly, trying to ease the blow. “But things are a little tough right now. We might not be able to go.”

Her face fell, and the corners of her mouth drooped in disappointment. She didn’t understand why her oppa couldn’t make this happen—he always made things happen. “Please, oppa?” she pleaded, her eyes glistening. “I really want to go! It’s going to be the best thing ever! Please? I’ll be so good, and I won’t ask for anything else! Just this, I promise!”

You looked into her hopeful eyes, feeling a tight knot form in your chest. Nari didn’t know the sacrifices you made daily to ensure she had what she needed, and those little joys that brightened her world. The thought of disappointing her was unbearable. In that moment, she was your entire world, her happiness was everything.

You felt the crushing weight of financial strain as it collided with your overwhelming love for your sister. “Alright,” you whispered, relenting, though you weren’t sure how you’d make it work. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Nari’s face lit up instantly. She leapt forward, wrapping her arms around you in a tight hug. “Thank you, oppa! You’re the best! I can’t wait! We can match our costumes, and it’ll be perfect!”

Despite the worry gnawing at you, her joy was infectious, a reminder that despite life’s hardships, moments like these made everything worthwhile. “Yeah,” you murmured, softening under her embrace. “I’ll make sure we go.”

As you held Nari close, a spark of determination ignited. No matter the obstacles ahead, you would find a way to make this happen. Her happiness was worth everything, and you’d do whatever it took to make her dreams a reality.

-----

On a balmy evening, you and your sister, Nari, stepped into the buzz of excitement that enveloped the venue. The air was thick with anticipation as fans clad in vibrant costumes filled the space, their laughter and chatter mingling with the distant sound of music. You took a deep breath, adjusting the metallic sheen of your knight costume that you had donned to match Nari's enchanting princess outfit. However, beneath the gleaming armor, a sense of unease stirred within you. Your thoughts spiraled back to Noxelia, the girl who had ignited your heart during your late-night gaming sessions. Did she think of you the way you thought of her?

The crowd erupted into cheers as ARTMS finally took the stage, the deafening roar sweeping through the venue like a wave. Your heart nearly stopped, your breath catching in your throat the moment your eyes locked onto one of the performers. It was her—dressed in a costume that was an exact replica of Noxelia, the avatar that your companion had meticulously created. She stood front and center, illuminated by the spotlight, her presence magnetic, drawing every gaze toward her. The vibrant colors of her outfit were vivid, each intricate detail expertly crafted, a perfect mirror of everything you adored about the design and the mysterious girl who played it.

A knot formed in your chest as a startling realization hit you like a tidal wave: the girl who had been your cherished companion in the virtual world, your confidante and battle partner, was standing before you, not just as Noxelia, but as a famous idol beloved by thousands. The revelation sent your thoughts spiraling. How could the two worlds—your quiet, private connection with Noxelia and the glitzy, public persona of this star—exist in harmony? What could you, an ordinary guy, possibly offer her when she was surrounded by adoration, fame, and people who hung on her every word? The divide between you felt impossibly vast.

Moments after the electrifying performance, Nari grabbed your hand, her excitement contagious as you hurried toward the fan meet. Her eyes sparkled, her face glowing with joy as she practically bounced with each step, brimming with anticipation to meet her idols. But your mind was a storm of anxious thoughts, the weight of the revelation sinking in. You could hardly hear Nari’s enthusiastic chatter over the sound of your racing heartbeat. Each step toward the meet-and-greet felt heavier, the distance between you shrinking yet your internal turmoil growing. You were walking toward the girl who had been the source of so much of your happiness, but also the cause of your most nagging insecurities. What would she think of you when you finally stood face-to-face? Would she even piece the puzzle together? The reality of your encounter loomed, and your thoughts buzzed in a relentless loop as you approached her, the line shortening with every breath.

“Heejin-unnie! Don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite!” Nari exclaimed as you reached the front of the line, her eyes sparkling with pure admiration. “I’ve been practicing your dances!”

Heejin’s smile widened, warmth radiating from her as she leaned forward to respond. “Thank you so much for coming! I’m honored to be in the presence of royalty, my princess.” The moment felt surreal, watching your sister bask in the glow of her idol’s attention.

With excitement bubbling over, Nari gestured to herself and then pointed proudly at you. “I’m Nari, and this is Y/N oppa! He’s my favorite person in the whole world.” She leaned in closer to Heejin, whispering conspiratorially but loud enough for you to hear. “You take that spot when he ignores me to play that game with the goggles and tights.”

Your stomach twisted, a knot forming as heat flushed your cheeks. You glanced nervously at Heejin, silently praying she wouldn’t pick up on the meaning behind Nari’s innocent words. For a brief moment, Heejin’s smile faltered, and her brows knitted as she exchanged glances between you and your sister, a hint of confusion in her expressive eyes.

“Goggles and tights?” Heejin echoed, her voice playful yet laced with curiosity.

Nari nodded enthusiastically, completely unaware of the storm brewing inside you. “Yeah! He plays it all the time. I even helped him make his character. Sometimes I sneak into his room because he looks so funny wearing all the gear.” She giggled, eyes bright with mischief.

Your face turned beet red; the spotlight of embarrassment was nearly unbearable. Heejin's expression shifted slightly, her skepticism apparent, but she quickly masked it with her trademark smile. Just as you thought you might escape unscathed, Nari tugged on your arm, her excitement palpable.

“Oppa! Show Heejin-unnie the thing!” Nari insisted, her words bubbling over with excitement.

You hesitated for a moment, knowing that revealing this secret could invite scrutiny you weren’t prepared to face. Still, your sister’s eager eyes left you little choice. With a reluctant sigh, you parted the front of your cape, revealing the array of sparkles that Nari had enthusiastically added to your knight costume. The shimmering details mirrored the intricate designs of your avatar’s armor in the game that had brought you and Heejin together.

Heejin’s eyes widened, flickering down to the sparkles as surprise shifted to realization. Her expression changed subtly—her lips parted slightly, and her brow arched as though a light had just switched on. The puzzle pieces clicked into place, and you felt the weight of her understanding settle over you.

No words were exchanged in that charged moment, yet the unspoken acknowledgment hung between you like a fragile thread. Heejin kept her composure, a soft smile curving her lips as Nari continued to chatter happily about her favorite dances. But the atmosphere had changed, carrying a subtle current that both excited and unsettled you.

As Nari giddily thanked Heejin, you felt a shift in your dynamic with the idol. You caught Heejin’s gaze lingering as she finished signing a poster for your sister, a silent echo of the connection you had shared in the game. That bond was now tangled with the reality of her stardom and your ordinary life. Would you remain just another player in her world, or had you crossed into something more significant? With a quiet sigh of relief and uncertainty, you stepped aside, wondering how this new chapter would unfold.

Unbeknownst to you, Heejin’s mind was a storm of thoughts, she began formulating a plan in her head while connecting the dots between your shared moments in the virtual world and the reality before her. The quiet understanding that had passed between you left her intrigued and curious about the path ahead.

-----

As you and Nari were about to leave the venue, one of the staff members approached you with a smile.

“Excuse me, sir? Heejin-ssi wanted to know if you and your sister would like to come backstage for a private meet-and-greet,” the staff member said politely.

Nari’s eyes lit up with pure joy, her excitement overflowing. “Really?! Oppa! We get to meet them again!”

Caught off guard, you glanced at the staff member, then at Nari, who was practically jumping with excitement. “Uh... sure,” you said hesitantly, feeling your nerves spike. You weren’t sure why Heejin wanted to see you both again, but Nari’s happiness was impossible to deny.

As you and Nari followed the staff member backstage, her excitement was palpable. She couldn’t stop bouncing on her feet, her little princess crown slightly askew as she held your hand tightly. You were led into a private room where the rest of the ARTMS members were hanging out after the event, casually chatting and relaxing in their costumes.

When you entered, the girls looked up, clearly surprised to see two new faces.

“Who’s this?” Jinsoul asked, her brow raised in curiosity as she eyed you and Nari.

Kim Lip, lounging on a couch, tilted her head. “Did we invite guests?” she asked, glancing at Heejin, who stood just behind you and Nari.

Nari, oblivious to the confusion, immediately ran up to the group, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Unnie, we met earlier today, and Heejin unnie brought us back” she announced.

The girls exchanged amused glances at Nari’s enthusiasm, though they were clearly still puzzled by the situation.

Heejin smiled warmly at Nari, then looked at her members. “Sorry for the surprise, but... I need to talk to my friend about something privately. Could you all keep an eye on Nari for a few minutes?”

At first, the girls seemed a bit unsure, but the moment they looked at Nari—who was grinning up at them with wide, eager eyes—they couldn’t resist.

“Oh, of course” Choerry said, kneeling down to Nari’s level. “We’ll have so much fun, won’t we, Nari?”

Nari clapped her hands excitedly. “Yay! I get to hang out with all the pretty unnies!”

Heejin smiled gratefully, her heart warmed by how quickly the girls took to Nari. But as she turned to you, her expression shifted. There was a quiet intensity in her eyes, an unspoken tension simmering just beneath the surface.

“Let’s go,” Heejin said softly, her voice steady yet charged with something more.

Sensing the shift in the air, you nodded and opened the door for her. You followed her into a quieter, smaller room down the hallway. As you closed the door behind you, a thick silence settled over the space. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you.

Turning back to face her, you asked, “So, Noxelia, your real name is Heejin?”

Before you could finish your sentence, Heejin moved. In an instant, she crossed the small distance between you and threw herself into your arms, cutting you off with a fierce, passionate kiss. Her lips met yours with a hunger that had been building for weeks, a need restrained by the boundaries of the game but now unleashed without limits. The sensation of her body pressed against yours was overwhelming, and for a moment, your mind went blank as you lost yourself in the kiss.

Your arms instinctively wrapped around her, pulling her closer as you deepened the kiss, matching her intensity. The kiss was raw, filled with all the pent-up emotions you hadn’t been able to express in Infinity. The passion, the longing—it all came crashing down in this moment, unrestrained and real in a way the game could never allow.

Heejin’s hands slid up your chest, trying to hold on to your costume as if anchoring herself to you. It was so different from the touches you had shared in the virtual world—this was real, tangible, electric. You could feel her heartbeat through her body, her breath warm against your skin as you kissed like you were making up for all the time you had held back.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, your forehead rested against hers, your breathing heavy in the quiet room.

“That’s... what we couldn’t do in the game,” Heejin whispered, her voice barely above a breathless laugh.

You chuckled softly, still holding her close, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah. We couldn’t.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still pressed together, savoring the closeness. Everything you hadn’t been able to express in the game—the connection you had built, the tension that had grown between you—was finally being released.

As Heejin’s eyes fluttered open, meeting your gaze, there was something in them now that wasn’t just desire—it was understanding, a shared recognition of what you had both been feeling all along. The virtual world had been a safe space for you to explore your emotions, but this... this was real, raw, and far beyond anything you could have experienced in Infinity.

Heejin’s fingers slid from your chest to the collar of your costume, gently tugging at it. Her eyes remained locked on yours, but there was a new determination in them. Slowly, she began unfastening your knight’s armor, peeling it away as if removing the final barrier separating you from reality. The metaphor wasn’t lost on either of you—it was as though you were stripping away the layers of your avatars, your game personas, to reveal the people you truly were underneath.

You felt your breath catch as her fingers worked their way down, exposing more of your costume piece by piece. The air around you seemed to thicken, charged with the tension that had been building for so long. Every piece of armor that came undone felt like peeling back another layer of the virtual world you had once hidden behind.

Heejin’s hands moved deliberately, her touch light but charged with anticipation as she pushed the rest of your costume off, letting it fall to the floor. Your skin tingled where her hands had been, and for a moment, you just stood there, drinking each other in. Without the game between you, every movement felt more intense, more intimate.

Your hands moved instinctively, reaching for the violet armor. Your fingers brushed against the painted foam as you began lifting it, and she raised her arms to help you remove it. As the material slipped over her head and joined your costume on the floor, your eyes met again, and the reality of the moment hit you both. This wasn’t a fantasy anymore—it was real.

The tension between you crackled as your hands began to explore one another’s bodies, mapping out the skin that was previously an avatar. Each touch was deliberate, each caress more intimate than anything you had shared in Infinity. It was as if you were finally free to feel everything you had only imagined in the game.

Heejin’s breath hitched as your hands slid around her waist, pulling her closer. She could feel the heat of your skin against hers, the rhythm of your heartbeat matching her own. It was different from the game—the sensations were more raw, more intense. Every inch of her body was alive with anticipation.

Slowly, your hands moved to her back, unclasping the layer of fabric that separated you. As her undergarments fell away, Heejin leaned into you, her lips finding you again. The kiss was slower this time, more deliberate, as you savored the feeling of being together without the virtual barrier.

“This...” Heejin whispered between kisses, her voice soft but filled with meaning. “This is what we were missing.”

Your hands roamed her body, your touch sending shivers down her spine. “Yeah,” you murmured, your voice low and breathless. “We don’t have to hold back anymore.”

The world outside faded away, leaving only you and Heejin, wrapped in a warmth that felt both profound and familiar. Every touch, every kiss held an unspoken promise, slowly dismantling the barriers of your virtual past and grounding you in the undeniable reality of this moment.

You pulled her close, sinking gently onto the soft floor, her breaths mingling with yours as the heat between you intensified. Here, in this quiet sanctuary, there was no pretense—just two people, stripped of all facades, exposed and vulnerable in the most beautiful way. This was a release of everything you’d been holding back, a connection neither of you could deny any longer.

Your lips brushed over her neck, coaxing a soft gasp from Heejin as her hands tightened around you, as if to steady herself in the vivid reality of the moment. Every kiss was a new discovery, an exploration of the person you had known deeply but were now feeling in a way you’d only dreamed of. Your hands drifted slowly down her body, savoring the warmth and softness of her skin. Heejin’s breath grew heavier, her body arching into you with each touch.

Heejin’s fingers wove into your hair, pulling you into a kiss that was both tender and charged with a deep, unspoken need. Her lips moved over yours with a mix of softness and intensity, as if savoring every moment of closeness. When her kisses traveled to your neck, you felt a warmth bloom between you, a gentle urgency in every touch that deepened the connection you both shared.

As a response, you let your lips trail down her body, leaving soft kisses along her chest and midriff. Her skin was warm and inviting beneath your lips, each kiss a way of conveying everything you felt. You continued slowly, savoring each inch, feeling her body respond to your touch.

When you reached her folds, you lingered, savoring the warmth of her body as you moved closer, your breath warm against her skin. Her taste was subtle and intoxicating, a hint of sweetness that seemed to draw you further into the intimacy, deepening your own arousal. The soft, responsive way her body moved beneath your touch only heightened your senses, each gentle shiver urging you onward as you let your kisses and touch communicate everything words couldn’t express.

A soft moan escaped Heejin’s lips, her fingers tightening in your hair as her breath quickened. Her sounds were quiet at first, then grew as she arched into you, each moan revealing her pleasure, her body attuned to every movement. Her voice, soft yet unmistakably filled with longing, filled the room, wrapping around you, encouraging you, drawing you closer.

Every movement was careful, deliberate, as you lost yourself in the closeness, the way her body responded to your touch. Her taste lingered on your lips, her scent surrounding you, blending with the warmth that continued to build between you, heightening the intensity with each passing second. Heejin’s soft moans became a melody, matching the rhythm of your shared connection, pulling you deeper into the moment.

In this timeless moment, there were no avatars, no screens—just the two of you, fully present, experiencing the depth of your bond in a way that was breathtaking and real. The intensity of your shared desire blended seamlessly with the vulnerability you both offered, crafting a connection that was as unforgettable as it was profound.

Heejin's eyes fluttered open, locking with yours as you positioned yourself between her parted thighs. Her pulse quickened, her body trembling with anticipation. "I want you," she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need you."

Your gaze softened, your thumb gently brushing away the tear that had escaped down her cheek. "I'm here," you murmured, your lips ghosting over hers. "I'll always be here for you, Heejin."

With a gentle thrust of your hips, you entered her, your eyes never leaving hers as you began to move. Heejin's fingers dug into your shoulders, her nails leaving faint crescent-shaped marks on your skin. A soft moan slipped past her lips as you filled her completely, the sensation unlike anything she had ever known.

You moved together, your bodies rocking in a slow, sensual rhythm. Your lips found the sensitive spot beneath her ear, your teeth grazing the delicate skin as you kissed and nipped along her neck. Heejin's hips lifted to meet yours, her body arching into your touch like a bow drawn taut.

The coil of pleasure within her tightened with each thrust, each caress of your hands on her skin. Your breath grew ragged against her ear, your movements becoming more urgent as you chased your shared release. Heejin could feel her own climax building, the heat within her threatening to consume her entire being.

"I'm close," you rasped, your voice strained with the effort to hold back. "Heejin, tell me when you're ready. I want to feel you come undone beneath me."

Heejin's nails raked down your back, urging you on as she teetered on the brink of ecstasy. "Dont stop" she gasped, her head falling back against the pillow. "I'm so close. Please, don't stop."

Your hips snapped forward, your thrusts becoming harder, faster as you felt Heejin's body begin to tighten around you. You covered her lips with yours, swallowing her cries of pleasure as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave.

Heejin's body trembled and shook with pleasure as she reached her peak, her fingers digging into your back as she held onto you for dear life. Her breath hitched as she cried out, her pussy clenching and spasming around your length as she came undone beneath you.

The sensation of Heejin's climax enveloped you, utterly overwhelming as you found yourself beyond the point of restraint. With a final, profound plunge, you reached the pinnacle of your own pleasure. As you withdrew, your essence flowed forth, cascading across her folds, trailing up her torso to her stomach, and finally gracing her breasts with a warm, intimate embrace.

Your body shuddered as you caught your breath, your hips still jerking slightly as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you. You pressed your forehead against hers, your heavy breathing syncing up as you both rode out the waves of pleasure together.

The room was filled with the sounds of your heavy breaths and the lingering scent of your lovemaking. Your heart raced in your chest as you looked into Heejin's eyes, seeing the same intensity and passion reflected back at you.

You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips as you both came down from your high. Pulling her close, you held her tightly against you as you lay there, basking in the afterglow of your shared climax. It was a moment you knew you would never forget.

You remained intertwined, your bodies still joined, hearts beating in sync as you slowly drifted back down to earth. Your hand sought out Heejin’s, fingers intertwining as you brushed a sweat-dampened strand of hair from her face.

Heejin rested her head against your chest, tracing gentle circles on your skin with her fingers as you both caught your breath. There was a sense of calm between you now, a peaceful silence that spoke volumes about what you had just shared.

You stroked her hair softly, your heart still pounding in your chest, but there was a new sense of ease in how you held each other. You had peeled away all the layers of your virtual world and stepped fully into reality, facing the rawness of your feelings without hesitation.

“This,” Heejin whispered, her voice soft yet filled with meaning. “This is more than I ever imagined.”

You smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of her head. “Yeah,” you agreed, your voice low and tender. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

As the soft light of the room dimmed around you, the weight of your shared reality settled in, more tangible than any moment you had experienced in the game. There were no barriers left—no pixels, no layers of code, just your hearts and bodies, fully exposed to one another.

You pressed another soft kiss to Heejin’s forehead, the warmth between you undeniable. As you lay there, content in each other's presence, reality began to creep back in. You had crossed the boundary from virtual to real, and now, there was no turning back.

Heejin looked up at you, her eyes still bright with affection. "What happens now?" she asked, her voice quiet but filled with hope.

You smiled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "I think," you began, your tone steady, "we make sure this becomes part of our real lives. Not just some moment, but something we build on. You and me."

Heejin’s heart swelled at your words, her hand gently squeezing yours. "I want that, too," she whispered, her smile reflecting yours.

After a moment of comfortable silence, you sat up, your body still warm and glistening from the closeness you’d shared. "We should probably get back," you murmured, glancing over at Heejin with a soft smile. "The girls are still with my sister."

Heejin chuckled, sitting up beside you and brushing her hair back. "Yeah, I’m sure they’ve been spoiling her."

You rose to your feet and offered her a hand, helping her up. "She’s pretty cute," you said with a grin, "so I can’t really blame them."

You both laughed, and for a moment, you held onto each other’s gaze. The quiet understanding between you felt like the beginning of something real—something you both wanted to explore.

You helped clean her up before gathering your costumes, and together, you slipped into your outfits. The air was filled with a relaxed ease as you each adjusted your armor, side by side, occasionally stealing glances that held all the warmth of the moment you’d just shared. Heejin adjusted the last piece of her costume with a final, satisfied pat, flashing you a smile that seemed to mirror your own.

Once ready, you exchanged a look that needed no words. This was a new chapter for you both, and you felt the unspoken excitement of stepping into it together.

Hand in hand, you made your way back to the dressing room. The moment you stepped inside, Nari’s delighted voice filled the air as she spotted you. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by Heejin's fellow members, who were all laughing and doting on her, filling the room with lighthearted chatter.

As soon as Nari wrapped herself around your leg, her face lit up with excitement. "Oppa! Unnie! There you guys are!" she chirped, her eyes bright with joy. "We are having so much fun, I learned how to do the splits" She looked up at you, clearly not ready for the day to end.

Heejin grinned at the sight, her heart warming at how easily Nari had fit in with her members. You smiled down at your sister, and though you hated to interrupt her fun, you knew it was time to leave.

"Thats amazing, Nari, but we have to say goodbye to the girl now," you said gently but firmly.

Immediately, Nari’s face fell. "Nooo, I don’t wanna go!" she whined, her hold on your leg tightening. "Can’t we stay longer?"

You glanced at Heejin, who gave you an understanding look, her eyes soft with affection. You smiled, then knelt down to meet Nari’s eyes. "I’m sure we’ll see them again soon," you said, your tone reassuring. "Promise."

Nari pouted but eventually relented, giving all the members a quick hug goodbye before holding your hand.

As Heejin walked both of you towards the door, the members exchanged curious glances. The second the door clicked shut behind you, the room exploded with excited whispers. Haseul leaned forward, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Okay, spill. Who was that?"

The other girls eagerly chimed in, all buzzing with questions.

Heejin, still feeling the lingering warmth of your hand in hers, blushed slightly but couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. She glanced at the door, already missing you, then looked back at her members, trying to play it cool.

"That was a friend," she said, laughing softly as she shrugged. "We met online."

#kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #kpop smut #girl group smut #reader insert #male reader #artms smut #kinkvember #kinkvember 2024 #loona smut #heejin smut #jeon heejin smut #heejin x reader #jeon heejin x reader #heejin #jeon heejin

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hisfavegirl · 24 days ago

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Sweet Little Family - Daemon Targaryen x Reader.

Summary : It's been six years since your marriage, your children have grown up to be like their father. You are very grateful to have a husband like Daemon, who can give you a sweet little family.

You walked slowly, following the quick, excited steps of your triplets. Their silver hair shimmered in the sunlight, flowing like silk ribbons as they ran ahead of you. Their laughter echoed through the stone halls, filling your heart with warmth.

“Slow down, little dragons,” you called gently, placing a hand on your growing belly. Your voice carried a mix of affection and mild exasperation. “Don’t make me chase you.”

Nearly six years had passed since their birth, and it was hard to believe how quickly they’d grown into such lively children. Each of them had their own unique energy — Maegon always leading the charge, Vaelya trailing close behind with a mischievous grin, and Aerion darting from side to side like a little whirlwind.

Footsteps echoed behind you, and you glanced back to see Daemon approaching. His eyes were locked on you with a mixture of pride and concern. “You’re pushing yourself too much,” he remarked as he reached you, his hand resting gently on your lower back. “Let them run wild. They’ll tire themselves out soon enough.”

You smiled up at him, feeling the warmth of his presence beside you. “If they tire themselves out, they’ll only have more energy later,” you replied with a knowing look.

Daemon chuckled softly, his eyes briefly flicking to your belly. “And soon enough, there’ll be another one running around with them,” he said, resting a hand over yours on your stomach. His touch was firm but tender, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your gown.

“Or maybe two,” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

Daemon’s eyes widened for a moment, then he laughed, tilting his head back. “Don’t say such things, my love. I can barely manage three of them as it is.”

You laughed along with him, watching as your children stopped at the end of the hall, waving for you both to hurry. Your heart swelled with love for them — for all of them.

Daemon carried you with ease, his arms strong and steady as he walked toward the garden. The warmth of the sun filtered through the leaves, casting soft golden light over the vibrant greenery. The sound of your children’s laughter echoed in the distance, drawing your eyes toward them. They were running freely, their silver hair glinting like threads of moonlight as they chased one another with boundless energy.

“Put me down, Daemon,” you said softly, your arms around his neck. “I can walk just fine.”

“Not while I’m here,” he replied with a teasing grin, his eyes filled with warmth. “Besides, you deserve to be spoiled.”

You shook your head, smiling at his stubbornness. He finally set you down beneath the shade of a large tree, making sure you were comfortable before sitting beside you. You leaned back against the trunk, your eyes locked on your children. Maegon was leading his siblings on an imaginary quest, waving a stick like it was a sword. Vaelya followed close behind, mimicking his movements, while Aerion kept zigzagging between them, laughing as if he were the dragon they were all chasing.

“They’ve grown so fast,” you murmured, your hand resting on your belly, feeling the faint flutter of life inside.

Daemon’s eyes flickered to you before settling on the children. “Too fast,” he agreed, his voice low and thoughtful. “Soon, they’ll be wielding real swords.”

“Not too soon, I hope,” you replied, glancing at him with a raised brow.

He smirked but said nothing, his gaze softening as he watched them play. Moments later, Maegon noticed him and waved eagerly. “Papa, come play with us!” he shouted, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Yes, Papa! Come chase the dragon!” Vaelya added, bouncing on her feet.

Aerion simply pointed at him, grinning with mischief in his eyes.

Daemon glanced at you as if asking for permission. You waved him off with a small laugh. “Go on, Rogue Prince. Your little dragons are calling for you.”

He stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes, and strode toward them with a grin that matched Aerion’s. The children squealed in delight as he lunged toward them, playfully growling like a dragon. They scattered in every direction, their giggles filling the air.

You watched them with a serene smile, leaning back against the tree. The sight of Daemon chasing the children, his eyes alight with joy, filled your heart with peace. It was moments like these — simple, fleeting moments — that you cherished most. For all the grandeur and power of the Red Keep, this was your true treasure: your family, happy and whole.

You gently rubbed your swollen belly, your fingers tracing soothing circles over the growing life within you. Your eyes stayed fixed on Daemon and your children, their laughter filling the garden like a melody of pure joy. It was a sight you never grew tired of — your family together, safe and happy.

A movement from the corner of your eye drew your attention. Turning your head, you saw Aemma approaching with little Rhaenyra toddling beside her. Aemma’s hand rested on her own growing belly, her steps slow and careful but graceful nonetheless. Her smile was warm and knowing, the kind only another expectant mother could offer.

“Look at them,” Aemma said, her eyes following the wild chase between Daemon and your children. “I don’t know who’s having more fun — the father or the little ones.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s always him. He acts like he’s doing it for them, but I know better.”

Aemma sat beside you, exhaling deeply as she shifted to get comfortable. Rhaenyra climbed into her lap, snuggling close to her mother’s side. “I think it’s sweet,” Aemma said, stroking Rhaenyra’s silver-blonde hair. “They’ll remember these moments forever. It’s rare for fathers to be so present.”

You glanced at Daemon, watching as he spun Vaelya in the air, her giggles sharp and bright as dragonfire. “He’s stubborn, reckless, and far too proud,” you said with a small smirk. “But with them… he’s soft. Softer than he’ll ever admit.”

Aemma hummed in agreement, her gaze fond. “It suits him,” she said, glancing at you. “It suits you, too. Motherhood becomes you.”

You tilted your head, raising a brow. “Says the mother of the Realm’s Delight,” you teased, nodding at Rhaenyra, who was now playing with the ends of Aemma’s sleeves. “She’ll have the realm wrapped around her little fingers.”

Aemma chuckled, brushing her fingers through Rhaenyra’s hair. “She already does,” she admitted, eyes full of love. “But soon, you’ll have more little ones to wrap you around theirs.” Her gaze flickered meaningfully to your belly. “How are you feeling? Any easier this time?”

You sighed deeply, resting your hand on your belly. “They’re strong,” you said softly. “Stronger than the first three. I feel them day and night, moving, stretching… sometimes it feels like they’re already fighting each other.”

Aemma laughed, eyes sparkling with amusement. “That just means they’ll be warriors. Like their father.”

“Gods help me,” you muttered with mock dread, though you smiled as you spoke. Your eyes softened as you looked back at your children. “One of him is already enough to handle.”

“True,” Aemma said with a grin, leaning back. “But I have a feeling you can handle them all.”

The two of you sat there for a while, sharing quiet conversation and laughter as your children played. The sun filtered gently through the leaves, warming your skin as the cool breeze kept you from growing too hot. It was a rare, perfect moment of peace in a world that often felt far too unpredictable.

And as you watched Daemon gather Maegon, Vaelya, and Aerion into a fierce embrace, spinning them all in a circle, you felt it once again — that steady, unshakable warmth of home.

You glanced at Daemon, watching as he tried to wrangle Maegon, Vaelya, and Aerion all at once. Maegon had climbed onto his back like a little dragon claiming its perch, Vaelya was tugging at his arm demanding he “fly her like a dragon,” and Aerion had taken it upon himself to chase a butterfly with absolutely no regard for the chaos he left in his wake.

Daemon’s face was a mix of exasperation and determination, his silver hair disheveled from the tiny hands tugging at him. He muttered something under his breath, likely a curse, but his lips twitched in a barely concealed smile. No one else would notice it, but you did. Despite his complaints, he was enjoying every second.

You pressed a hand gently to your belly, feeling the familiar flutter of movement from within. The knowledge of the secret you were carrying — two little lives, not one — made your heart swell with a strange mixture of joy and guilt. You hadn’t told him yet. Part of you feared his reaction, knowing how much effort it already took to manage your three lively children. Seeing him now, juggling their boundless energy with a patience only he could muster, made you hesitate.

Aemma leaned closer to you, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “You should tell him,” she whispered, her eyes flicking toward Daemon. “It’s not like he’ll love them any less.”

“I know,” you replied, eyes still on him. “It’s just… look at him, Aemma. He’s outnumbered as it is.”

“And yet, he’s still standing,” Aemma pointed out, giving you a pointed look. “If there’s anyone who can handle five dragonlings, it’s him. You’ve seen it yourself.”

You sighed, brushing your fingers over the curve of your belly. “I’ll tell him soon,” you promised, though you weren’t sure if it was more for Aemma or for yourself. “Just… let me enjoy this peace a little longer.”

“Peace?” Aemma snorted, tilting her head toward the scene in front of you. Daemon had finally managed to catch Aerion, only for Maegon to dart away with Vaelya close behind. “That doesn’t look like peace to me.”

You laughed, unable to deny it. “It’s our kind of peace,” you said, eyes soft with love.

At that moment, Daemon turned, his eyes meeting yours. He arched a brow, noticing you watching him. He narrowed his eyes playfully, as if suspicious of your hidden thoughts. Slowly, he shook his head, feigning defeat. “Stop looking at me like that, love,” he called, hoisting Maegon over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. “Unless you plan to come help me.”

You smiled sweetly, leaning back against the tree. “You’re doing so well on your own, husband,” you called back, earning an exaggerated groan from him.

Aemma laughed at your side, and you couldn’t help but join her. Yes, you would tell him soon. But for now, you simply wanted to watch him — strong, stubborn, unshakable Daemon Targaryen — being the most chaotic, devoted father in the world.

Your children’s eyes lit up with excitement as soon as Daemon mentioned the Dragonpit. Maegon practically bounced on his feet, his silver hair wild from all his running earlier. “Dragonpit! Dragonpit!” he chanted, his little fists pumping the air. Vaelya clapped her hands in delight, her sharp, curious eyes wide with wonder, while Aerion’s face broke into a mischievous grin as if he were already planning some grand adventure.

“Only if you listen to me,” Daemon said firmly, his voice laced with authority but softened by affection. “No running off. No climbing. No touching anything unless I say so. Do you hear me, hatchlings?”

“Yes, papa!” they all chimed in unison, their faces far too innocent for it to be believable.

You folded your arms across your belly, raising an eyebrow at Daemon. “You know they’re only saying that because they’re too excited to think.”

Daemon smirked, his gaze flicking from you to the three eager children at his feet. “I’m aware,” he replied, bending down to Maegon’s level, giving him a pointed look. “But if they don’t behave, they’ll be back here so fast they won’t even know what happened.” He glanced up at you, his eyes softening. “You should rest, anyway. Aemma will keep you company.”

“I’ll do more than that,” Aemma said, sitting beside you on the bench with a knowing grin. Her hand gently cradled her own growing belly. “I’ll make sure she doesn’t try to follow you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, though both Daemon and Aemma gave you the same skeptical look.

Daemon moved to your side, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. His hand lingered on your belly for a moment, his thumb gently stroking over the fabric of your dress. “We won’t be long,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple.

“Just be careful,” you whispered, your fingers curling lightly around his wrist.

He grinned as he pulled away, his violet eyes filled with mischief and confidence. “They’ll be riding dragons before you know it, love. Might as well start learning now.”

You shook your head with a quiet laugh as you watched him round up the children. Aerion darted ahead, but Daemon was quick to grab him by the back of his tunic, lifting him off the ground like a cat snatching up its kitten. Vaelya tugged on his other hand, trying to pull him forward faster, while Maegon marched ahead like he was leading a grand procession.

“Dragonpit! Dragonpit!” Maegon started chanting again, his siblings quickly joining him in chorus.

“More like ‘Chaospit,’” Aemma muttered beside you, her tone light with amusement.

You laughed, leaning back against the bench with a sigh. Your hand came to rest on your belly, feeling a soft flutter from within. Twins. Again. You glanced toward Daemon one last time, your heart full of love and quiet awe as you watched him wrangle your little dragons with so much patience and care.

“Do you think he knows?” Aemma asked softly, following your gaze.

“Not yet,” you replied, your voice just as quiet. “But he will soon enough.”

Aemma smiled knowingly, her eyes flicking back to the scene before you. “He’ll be thrilled,” she said. “Overwhelmed, maybe, but thrilled.”

You nodded, your gaze softening as you watched him lift Vaelya onto his hip while holding Aerion’s hand. Maegon, of course, had run too far ahead, and Daemon called after him with that sharp, commanding tone that only he could use.

Yes, you thought, watching him with a full heart. He’ll be thrilled.

With each step down the stone corridors of the Red Keep, you felt the weight of your growing belly. Your hand rested protectively on it, fingers gently stroking as if to soothe the little ones within. The soft thud of your footsteps echoed through the halls, accompanied by the light chatter of Aemma and the occasional babbling of little Rhaenyra in her mother’s arms.

“Are you certain you should be walking so much?” Aemma glanced at you with concern, adjusting Rhaenyra on her hip. “You’re carrying two, after all. Perhaps it’s time to sit for a while.”

“I’m fine, Aemma,” you reassured her, though you did pause for a moment to catch your breath. “I won’t be locked away in that chamber for weeks just because they think I’m too delicate. I’ll rest when I must.”

Aemma gave you a look that was somewhere between amusement and exasperation. “Stubborn as ever, I see.”

“Have you met my husband?” you teased with a grin. “I think it’s rubbing off on me.”

The two of you shared a soft laugh, but it was short-lived as faint whispers reached your ears. It wasn’t unusual. Servants and courtiers alike always had something to say, and with your growing belly on full display, they had even more to gossip about.

“She should be resting, not wandering around like that.”

“Three children already and now more on the way. How does she manage?”

“Prince Daemon won’t be pleased if she overexerts herself.”

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to ignore it, but Aemma’s eyes narrowed. She turned her head, her gaze sharp as she scanned the hall. “Do you hear them whispering like rats in the walls?” she muttered, adjusting Rhaenyra in her arms. “If I were you, I’d have half the Keep scrubbing floors for talking about me like that.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head toward her. “I’ve learned to let them talk. It gives them something to do.”

“Too kind, as always,” Aemma replied, rolling her eyes. “If it were me, I’d give them something else to do.”

The thought made you chuckle softly. The whispers didn’t bother you as much as they used to. You’d grown used to them. You knew they’d never be truly silent, especially when you were married to Daemon Targaryen. If they weren’t whispering about you, they’d be whispering about him.

When you finally reached Aemma’s chambers, the warmth of the fire welcomed you inside. The faint scent of herbs and honey filled the air. A servant poured fresh tea, and you gratefully took a seat on one of the cushioned chairs. The relief on your body was immediate, and you let out a soft sigh as you leaned back.

“I told you,” Aemma said with a playful smile, handing you a steaming cup of tea. “Sitting is much better, isn’t it?”

“Don’t gloat,” you replied, taking the cup with both hands. The warmth seeped into your fingers, and you inhaled the sweet aroma. “But yes, you were right.”

Aemma raised a brow, as if to say, Of course I was. She sat across from you, balancing Rhaenyra on her lap. The little girl reached out, grasping at Aemma’s braid with curious eyes.

The two of you sat in peaceful silence for a while, the crackling fire the only sound between you. Occasionally, Aemma would hum a soft lullaby for Rhaenyra, and you watched with a small smile, one hand resting on your belly as you felt the soft kicks of your own babes.

“Do you ever wonder,” Aemma said suddenly, her gaze distant as she watched the fire, “what kind of mother you’ll be to them?”

You glanced down at your belly, feeling the strong kicks of your unborn children. Your heart swelled with love, warmth, and a tinge of fear. “Every day,” you admitted softly. “I wonder if I’ll be enough for them. If I’ll be able to guide them the way they deserve.”

“You will,” Aemma said firmly, her gaze meeting yours with quiet certainty. “You already are.”

Her words settled over you like a warm cloak. You smiled at her, eyes glistening with gratitude. “And you’ll be there too,” you said with quiet affection. “They’ll have you, just as Rhaenyra has you.”

Aemma tilted her head, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I will,” she promised.

The warmth of the fire, the softness of the tea, and the quiet strength shared between the two of you made the world outside seem distant. For now, you let yourself feel safe.

You glanced at Aemma, her face bathed in the golden glow of the firelight. She was cradling Rhaenyra on her lap, her fingers gently smoothing down her daughter’s silver hair. Her gaze was soft, but there was a depth of experience in her eyes — one you understood better now that you were a mother yourself.

After a moment of hesitation, you spoke quietly, “Aemma… how was it for you? Your pregnancies, I mean.” You glanced at her with a mixture of curiosity and empathy. “I know this isn’t your first, and… I know you lost one.” Your voice softened at the end, not wanting to stir painful memories but needing to understand.

Aemma’s fingers paused for a moment as she looked down at Rhaenyra, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a moment, you feared you’d overstepped, but she took a deep breath and nodded slowly.

“It was hard,” she admitted, her voice quiet but steady. Her eyes remained on Rhaenyra as if finding strength in her daughter’s presence. “The first time, everything felt so new. I was excited, nervous, and hopeful. Viserys was by my side through it all, and I thought nothing could go wrong.” Her eyes flickered with a hint of sorrow. “But the gods had other plans.”

She shifted slightly in her seat, adjusting Rhaenyra, who had begun to doze against her chest. “The second time, I was terrified from the start. Every ache, every twinge, I feared it was happening again. I barely slept, and neither did Viserys. I think he worried more than I did.” Her lips quirked into a faint smile at the thought of her husband.

Her gaze met yours then, her expression filled with quiet resolve. “But Rhaenyra came into this world strong and screaming, and I knew she was different. She had to be.” Her voice softened, full of love and pride. “She was my proof that even after loss, there is hope.”

You nodded slowly, her words sinking into your heart. “I think about that sometimes,” you confessed, running your hand over the swell of your belly. “I have three already, but this pregnancy feels… different. Heavier. Harder. I wonder if it’s because there are two of them, or if the gods are testing me.”

Aemma reached over and placed a hand over yours, her warmth grounding you. “You are strong,” she said firmly, squeezing your hand. “The gods do not test those they do not believe can endure. And you have already proven your strength time and time again.”

Her words settled over you like a soft cloak of comfort. You exhaled deeply, feeling the weight on your heart ease just a little.

“Thank you, Aemma,” you said quietly, your eyes meeting hers.

She smiled, and in that moment, you felt a bond between you grow stronger. Two mothers, two women who had faced the unknown with courage, bound together not just by family but by shared experience.

Aemma’s eyes softened with concern as she watched you prepare to leave. “Are you sure?” she asked, her voice laced with worry. “I can have one of the guards accompany you to your chambers. You should take it easy.”

You smiled gently, reassuring her. “I’ll be fine, Aemma. I appreciate the concern, but I’m just a few halls away. I’ll be careful.”

She hesitated for a moment, as though unsure if she should insist, but then she nodded. “Very well. But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I won’t,” you promised, your voice warm with gratitude. “Thank you for everything.”

With a final smile and a gentle pat on her hand, you slowly rose from your seat, feeling the familiar weight of your growing belly. You took a moment to steady yourself, before giving Aemma one last look and making your way toward the door.

As you walked through the halls of the Red Keep, the quiet sounds of the castle surrounded you, yet there was a sense of calm in the air. The path to your room seemed longer than usual, but each step you took, you felt more confident. You had endured much already—this small walk was nothing you couldn’t handle.

As you rounded a corner, you felt a gentle wave of dizziness, but you steadied yourself against the wall. A brief moment of unease passed, but you shook it off. Just a little longer, you told yourself, then you’d be able to rest.

When you finally reached your chambers, the door opened to reveal the warmth of the fire crackling inside. The sight of Daemon, seated near the hearth, brought a sense of relief. He looked up at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re back,” he said, his voice low and filled with affection. “Everything well?”

You nodded, though the slight heaviness in your chest told you that there was more to be wary of than you’d let on. “Just a walk,” you replied, trying to keep the weariness from your tone. “Nothing to worry about.”

Daemon stood up, his eyes scanning you with concern. “You should rest,” he said, stepping closer. “Let me help you.”

You smiled at him, the warmth of his presence easing the last of your unease. “I will,” you murmured. “But I wanted to be sure everything was in order before I lay down.”

Daemon’s hand rested gently on the small of your back, guiding you toward the bed. “You’ve done more than enough,” he whispered softly. “Now, let’s make sure you and the little ones get the rest you deserve.”

You leaned into him, feeling the safety of his embrace as he helped you settle back against the pillows. With his soothing touch and the quiet of the room, you finally allowed yourself to relax, knowing that Daemon would be there, watching over you and your growing family.

As the warm glow of candlelight flickered softly in the room, you sat back against your pillows, your gaze fixed on Daemon and the children gathered around the dinner table. Laughter and soft chatter filled the air, and you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of happiness watching them. Daemon, ever the protective father, kept a watchful eye on the children, though his usual stern expression softened whenever he glanced in your direction.

Your hand instinctively found its way to your belly, the slight flutter of your baby within making you smile. The babes was active, just like their siblings had been. You couldn’t help but wonder what this new child would be like—whether they’d share the same silver hair and sharp eyes as their brothers and sister, or if they’d be different in some way.

Daemon caught your eye, his own smile forming as he noticed your gaze lingering on the children. “Are you thinking about the little one?” he asked softly, his voice carrying a warmth that only he could convey.

You nodded, your hand still gently caressing your stomach. “Yes. They’re very active tonight.”

Daemon chuckled, his eyes glinting with affection. “Seems like they’re just as eager to meet us as the others were.” He turned to the children, who were quietly eating, their attention still on the food before them. “Your sibling’s already making their presence known.”

The three of them looked up, their faces lighting up at the mention of their future sibling. “Is the babe going to be like us, Mama?” Maegon asked, his silver hair falling over his eyes as he eagerly looked up at you.

Vaelya, ever the curious one, added, “Will it be a boy or a girl?”

You smiled, your heart swelling with love for them. “I don’t know yet,” you answered gently. “But I do know that the babe will be just as special as all of you.”

Aerion, who had been quietly playing with his food, looked up and said, “I want to teach them how to play with dragons.”

Daemon’s smile deepened as he leaned forward, his gaze softening. “I have no doubt they’ll be just as adventurous as their older siblings.”

The warmth in the room was palpable, and you couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of contentment. As Daemon leaned in to kiss your forehead, you closed your eyes for a moment, taking in the beauty of the moment. In this little family of yours, there was so much love, so much joy.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely above a murmur. “For everything.”

Daemon’s hand gently squeezed yours as he looked into your eyes, his own filled with nothing but tenderness. “There is no need to thank me,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity. “I’m just happy to be here with you, with our children. This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You smiled, content in the warmth of your family, your heart full. It wasn’t just the food, or the children’s laughter—it was this life, the one you had built together, that filled you with a sense of fulfillment.

Tonight, with Daemon and your children by your side, you truly felt at home.

You gazed at Daemon, watching the way his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed at something Maegon said. Your heart felt full, and for a moment, you hesitated. But then, as you looked down at your growing belly, you knew it was time.

“Daemon,” you called softly, your voice gentle but firm enough to catch his attention.

He turned his head toward you, his sharp gaze immediately softening. “Yes, my love?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, his curiosity piqued.

You glanced at the children, who were still focused on their food and small conversations. Then, you returned your gaze to him, eyes filled with quiet excitement. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Daemon’s brows furrowed slightly as he leaned forward, his full attention now on you. “What is it? Are you feeling unwell?”

You shook your head, letting out a small breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Your hand rested on your belly, your fingers moving in slow, thoughtful circles. “No, I’m fine. It’s not that.” You met his gaze, your eyes filled with both mischief and love. “It’s about the baby… or rather, babies.”

His eyes flickered with confusion for a heartbeat, his brow arching. “Babies?” he repeated, as if testing the word on his tongue.

You nodded, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Yes, Daemon. Twins.”

For a moment, his expression was unreadable. He blinked once, then twice, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. Then, a grin—wide, wild, and undeniably Daemon—broke across his face.

“Twins,” he repeated, but this time with the excitement of a man who had just won a great victory. He threw his head back, laughing—a sound so full of joy it echoed through the chamber.

“Seven hells, woman,” he said, his voice filled with unrestrained pride. He stood from his chair, crossing the room in a few long strides before kneeling at your side. His hands cupped your face, his eyes searching yours as if to make sure this was real. “You’re carrying two of them?”

You laughed, finally releasing the breath you’d been holding for so long. “Yes, two. The maester confirmed it weeks ago, but I wanted to be sure before I told you.”

Daemon’s grin never wavered. He pressed a firm kiss to your lips before lowering himself to his knees. His hands gently rested on either side of your belly, his forehead leaning against it as if he were speaking directly to the babies inside.

“Two more dragons for the world to fear,” he murmured, his voice thick with pride and love. “Do you hear that, little ones? Your father is waiting for you. You’ll be fierce and bold, just like your mother.”

The children had stopped eating, their eyes wide with surprise. “Two?” Vaelya gasped, looking between you and Daemon. “Two more babies?!”

Maegon’s face lit up, and he leapt from his chair, his silver hair bouncing as he ran toward you. “Can I name one of them, Mama?” he asked eagerly, climbing up onto the side of your chair.

Aerion was right behind him, his little hands tugging on Daemon’s arm. “Me too! I want to name one too!”

Daemon laughed and scooped up both boys, one under each arm, holding them with ease. “You can give them all the names you like,” he said, his grin never fading. “But the final say will be your mother’s.”

Vaelya crossed her arms, her face scrunched in thought. “I want a sister this time,” she declared firmly. “We already have too many boys.”

Daemon raised a brow at her, his grin still playful. “We’ll see, little dragon.”

You leaned back in your chair, heart light and full of love. Watching them all like this, the children’s excitement, Daemon’s pride—it was everything you could have hoped for.

For a while, you’d carried the secret alone, but now that he knew, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted. And seeing the way his eyes burned with pride and joy, you knew you’d made the right choice to wait.

The Targaryen family was growing, and with Daemon by your side, you knew there was nothing you couldn’t face together.

You lay nestled in the large bed, surrounded by warmth and the gentle weight of your family. Daemon’s arm was draped protectively over you, his body pressed firmly against your back, his warmth lulling you into a sense of peace. His breath was soft against your neck as he whispered, “Comfortable, my love?”

You nodded, letting out a soft hum of contentment. Your hand rested on your swollen belly, fingers tracing gentle circles over the stretched fabric of your nightgown. The soft glow of the firelight flickered across the room, casting golden shadows that danced on the stone walls.

Vaelya lay on your other side, her silver hair fanned out like a halo on the pillow. Her small hand was pressed firmly against your belly, her eyes wide with wonder. When she felt a kick, her face lit up with pure excitement. “I afelt it!” she gasped, turning her gaze to you. “They kicked, Mama! They kicked!”

You smiled down at her, brushing a hand through her hair. “They’re strong, aren’t they?” you said softly. “Just like you.”

Not wanting to be left out, Maegon and Aerion crawled up from the foot of the bed, each of them vying for a chance to feel the babies. “Me too! I want to feel it too!” Aerion declared, his face scrunched in concentration as he pressed his small hands against your belly.

“Move, I was here first!” Maegon argued, trying to shove his brother aside.

“There’s room for both of you,” you laughed, grabbing them both and guiding their little hands to a spot where you had felt movement.

The moment another kick landed, their eyes lit up with awe.

“Did you feel that?!” Maegon’s face was full of wonder, his mouth hanging open. “It’s like they’re fighting in there!”

“I bet it’s a dragon egg hatching,” Aerion said, his face full of seriousness, as if he had solved a grand mystery. “We’ll have dragons in Mama’s belly!”

Daemon let out a deep, hearty laugh behind you, his chest rumbling against your back. “If that’s the case, we’ll need a bigger bed,” he teased, his hand sliding down to cover yours on your belly. “No dragons in here, only warriors.”

“Or princesses,” Vaelya added quickly, shooting her father a defiant look.

“Or princesses,” Daemon agreed with a grin, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Fierce and unstoppable princesses.”

Aerion yawned loudly, rubbing his eyes before flopping down beside you, his little head resting against your arm. Maegon wasn’t far behind, curling up on Daemon’s other side, his hand still lightly resting on your belly as if he didn’t want to miss another kick.

“Stay,” Vaelya whispered, tucking herself close to your side, her fingers curling against your nightgown. “Don’t go anywhere, Mama.”

“I’m not going anywhere, sweetling,” you whispered, brushing a kiss on her head. “I’m right here.”

Daemon shifted, pulling the covers up over all of you. His hand stayed protectively over your belly, his thumb moving in slow, soothing strokes. “Sleep, my loves,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “I’ll watch over you.”

Surrounded by the warmth of your family, you let your eyes flutter closed. The soft breathing of your children, the steady beat of Daemon’s heart behind you, and the tiny movements of the babies within you all merged into a single, perfect melody.

For this moment, all was right in the world.

As you sat in front of the mirror, one of your attendants carefully braiding your hair while you worked on your daughter Vaelya’s hair. The soft silver strands glistened in the light as you carefully braided them into neat, intricate plaits. You could feel the weight of the day ahead settling on you, but it felt grounding to focus on these small moments. The quiet rhythm of the task, the closeness with your children, and the morning stillness were all moments you cherished.

Vaelya looked up at you, her big eyes full of curiosity as she wiggled in her seat. “Mama, will we see Papa today?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” you said with a smile, finishing the last braid. “After your lessons, we’ll go see him.”

Once you finished, you moved on to Maegon and Aerion, making sure they were dressed and ready for their own lessons in the garden. The three of them, though young, were already eager learners, each with their own personality and way of interacting with the world around them. They had all inherited the silver hair from you and Daemon, a constant reminder of your family’s strength and lineage.

After making sure they were all set, you stood up and led them out of the room, your attendants following behind to ensure everything was in order. You made your way through the Red Keep toward the garden, where the children’s lessons were often held, the smell of fresh flowers filling the air.

As you arrived, the children excitedly ran ahead, eager to see their tutors and begin their lessons. You watched them with a smile, feeling proud of how they were growing and learning every day. Once you were certain they were settled in, you turned your attention to the training yard. You knew Daemon would be there, focused on his sparring and practice, as usual.

Walking toward the training yard, you felt your anticipation build. You could already hear the sounds of swords clashing, the rhythm of battle, as well as the shouts of soldiers and sparring partners. Daemon’s presence was unmistakable, even from a distance. He was always a figure of strength, commanding attention without even trying.

As you entered the yard, you spotted him right away. He was engaged in a match with some of the guards, his movements swift and precise. You couldn’t help but smile as you watched him—his dedication to his craft, the way his muscles rippled with each swing of his sword, and the focused look on his face.

You stood back for a moment, content to watch him from afar, savoring the sight of him in his element. The children were with their tutors, and now you could allow yourself to enjoy a quiet moment of watching your husband, feeling a mix of admiration and love for the man who had so much strength, both in body and spirit.

Daemon’s eyes immediately found you among the crowd, his gaze hardening slightly as he noticed the way you were standing there, watching him. His sparring partner paused for a moment, and Daemon stepped away, wiping sweat from his brow as he made his way toward you. His stern expression softened only when he reached your side, and despite his usual strong demeanor, there was a hint of concern in his voice.

“You should be resting, not standing around like this,” Daemon said, his tone laced with a gentle command, but his eyes showing a deep, protective care. “You know you’ve been through so much already. Come, let’s return to our chambers.”

You smiled at him, feeling a playful glint in your eyes as you reached down to touch your swollen belly. “They’re just excited to see you, Daemon. They’re as eager as I am to see you training.” Your words were soft but filled with affection. You felt a small, contented kick from the babies inside you, and you couldn’t help but laugh quietly.

Daemon shook his head, though his lips curled into a slight smile. “You can’t even let me finish one training session without being distracted.” He took a step closer to you, looking at your swollen belly and then back at you with a mixture of frustration and love.

“Please, just sit for a while,” he said, gesturing toward a nearby chair with a sigh. “You need to rest. You’ve been on your feet far too long already.”

With a small sigh of your own, you relented and nodded. “Alright, I’ll sit here, but I’m not going back to the room just yet.”

Daemon’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you toward the chair. Once you were seated, he stood next to you for a moment longer, his eyes scanning the training yard and then looking back down at you, his concern evident but softened by the love he had for you.

“You’ll always be stubborn, won’t you?” he murmured, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Only when it matters,” you replied with a wink, and you leaned back into the chair, content to watch him from a distance, knowing that you were surrounded by those you loved and that Daemon would always make sure you were safe.

One of your attendants, noticing your discomfort, approached you with concern. “Princess, are you alright? You seem to be in pain,” she asked softly, her eyes scanning your face for any signs of distress.

Daemon, still focused on his training, didn’t seem to notice the change in your expression. You knew he would worry if he saw how uncomfortable you were, so you hesitated before responding, not wanting to distract him.

“I’m fine,” you said, though your voice betrayed a slight tremor. “Just a little discomfort. Nothing to worry about.”

The attendant wasn’t convinced, however, and placed a gentle hand on your arm. “If you’re not feeling well, perhaps we should return to your chambers and let you rest,” she suggested, her tone gentle but insistent.

You sighed, realizing that the discomfort wasn’t something you could ignore much longer. “Perhaps you’re right,” you finally admitted, giving in to the pain. You turned your gaze back toward Daemon, your heart tightening a little at the thought of interrupting his practice.

But the attendant gently guided you toward your feet, offering support. “We can go to your chambers now, my lady. Let us help you.”

With a reluctant nod, you agreed, standing up slowly, your hand resting on your belly. You could feel the weight of the babies inside you as they shifted and moved. As you turned to leave the training yard, your gaze briefly met Daemon’s. For a moment, he looked up, sensing something was off, but you gave him a reassuring smile, not wanting to worry him.

“We’ll return to the room,” you said softly to him. “Resting for a while.”

Daemon nodded, his eyes still locked on yours for a moment longer. “Be careful,” he called after you, a note of concern in his voice despite his usual hard exterior.

With the attendants supporting you, you slowly made your way back to your chambers, hoping the discomfort would pass soon.

As you continued walking, the discomfort grew stronger, and you could feel the tightening sensation in your abdomen becoming more intense. The familiar pressure and cramps spread across your lower belly, and it became clear that this wasn’t just ordinary discomfort. These were contractions.

You stopped in your tracks, feeling a wave of anxiety wash over you. The attendants, sensing the change in your posture and expression, immediately stopped beside you.

“Princess, are you alright?” one of them asked, her voice laced with worry.

“I need to rest,” you said, though your voice trembled slightly. “Please, send for the maester. I think it’s time.”

The attendant nodded urgently, her face pale with concern. “At once, princess,” she said, and she quickly hurried off to fetch the maester.

The seconds felt like hours as you stood there, gripping your belly, the pain intensifying with each passing moment. You tried to remain calm, but the anxiety of what was happening weighed heavily on you. With the added weight of your growing belly and the pressure of the contractions, it was becoming harder to stand.

Your breathing became shallow, and you could feel a cold sweat on your forehead. It seemed like the universe had decided this was the time for you to deliver, and the reality of it all made your heart race. You could only hope that the maester would arrive in time and that everything would be fine.

You leaned against one of the guards for support as you waited, trying to steady yourself as the contractions continued to come in waves.

You heard the hurried footsteps and the familiar voice of Daemon calling your name with urgency. Turning your head, you saw him rushing toward you, his eyes wide with panic and determination. Relief flooded you at the sight of him.

“It’s time,” you said breathlessly, gripping your belly as another sharp contraction rippled through you. “The babies… they’re coming.”

Daemon’s eyes darted to your swollen stomach, his expression shifting instantly from worry to fierce resolve. Without a moment’s hesitation, he scooped you up in his arms as if you weighed nothing, holding you close to his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he said firmly, his jaw set in determination. “Hold on to me.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him as another wave of pain coursed through your body. He moved swiftly but carefully, shouting for the guards and servants as he strode toward your chambers. “Clear the way! Call for the maester now!” His voice was loud and commanding, the kind of voice that no one dared to question.

People in the corridor stepped aside, some of them bowing while others moved to fulfill his orders. Your heart pounded in your chest, each throb echoing the rhythm of your breathing.

Daemon glanced down at you, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Breathe, love. Just breathe. We’re almost there.”

You nodded, though your breaths came in short, uneven gasps. The pain was relentless, and you squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on the steady thud of Daemon’s heartbeat beneath your ear.

By the time you reached your chambers, the maester and a group of midwives had already arrived. Daemon laid you gently on the large bed, brushing a strand of damp hair from your forehead.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, his voice quieter now but no less certain. He knelt by your side, taking your hand in his, his thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of your palm. “You’re strong. You’ve done this before, and you’ll do it again.”

You gave him a tired smile through the pain, gripping his hand tightly as another contraction seized you. “Stay with me,” you whispered, your eyes locked on his.

“Always,” he swore, his eyes never leaving yours.

You lay on the bed, gripping the sheets with trembling hands as another powerful contraction surged through you. The pain was unlike anything you had felt before — sharp, relentless, and all-consuming. A guttural scream tore from your throat, filling the room with echoes of your agony. The midwives moved around you with practiced precision, their calm voices urging you to breathe and push.

“Just a little more, my lady,” the maester said firmly but gently. “The first one is almost here.”

Daemon knelt beside you, his face filled with concern, his hand firmly clasping yours. His other hand brushed through your sweat-soaked hair, his eyes never leaving your face. “Breathe, love,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “You’re stronger than this pain. I’m right here.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you squeezed his hand with all the strength you had left. “It hurts, Daemon,” you gasped, your voice strained and hoarse.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking just a little. “I know, my fierce girl. You can do this.”

Another contraction hit, and you arched your back, crying out as your body bore down with all its might. You could feel the shift, the pressure intensifying as the baby moved lower. The maester’s voice was urgent now.

“One more push! Come now, my lady, one final push!”

With every ounce of strength you had, you bore down, your breath hitching with the effort. Daemon pressed his forehead against yours, grounding you, his murmured encouragements filling your ears. Then, all at once, a sharp release — and suddenly, the room was filled with the shrill, piercing cry of a newborn.

“It’s a boy!” the maester declared as he lifted the tiny, wriggling child into view. The midwives moved quickly, cleaning him and wrapping him in soft cloth.

Tears streamed down your face as you reached for him, but the maester shook his head gently. “Not yet, my lady. We still have another.”

Another? Your heart pounded in your chest. You had been so focused on the first that you’d momentarily forgotten. Daemon squeezed your hand tighter, his eyes wide with awe as he glanced at the newborn being carried to the side. He quickly returned his attention to you, his grip steady and unwavering.

“You’ve got this,” he said with renewed determination. “One more, love. Just one more.”

You nodded weakly, exhausted but driven by the knowledge that another life still waited to enter the world. Another surge of pain hit you, stronger than before. You cried out, and the midwives placed their hands on your belly to guide you.

“Push, my lady! Push!”

You gritted your teeth, bearing down again, sweat slicking your skin as every muscle in your body strained. Daemon’s lips brushed your temple, his words a constant reassurance. “Just a little more. I’m right here. Right here.”

Minutes passed in a blur of pain, tears, and the echoes of your own voice filling the room. Then, the sound you had been waiting for — the sweet, desperate wail of your second child.

“It’s another boy!” the maester announced, his voice filled with relief. The baby cried loudly, his tiny fists waving in the air as he was lifted into view.

“Two sons,” Daemon breathed, his voice filled with awe and disbelief. He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “You did it, my love. You brought them both here.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you stared at the two crying infants being wrapped in cloth. Tears streamed down your face, and all you could feel was overwhelming relief and love. Daemon’s hand cupped your cheek, wiping away your tears with his thumb.

“They’re perfect,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Daemon’s gaze softened as he looked between you and his newborn sons. “Perfect,” he agreed, his eyes shining with pride.

You sat comfortably on the edge of the bed, cradling one of your newborn sons in your arms. His small fingers curled around yours, his eyes barely open as he nestled into your warmth. Daemon sat beside you, holding the other baby with a look of quiet awe, his silver hair falling slightly over his face as he gazed down at his son.

Both of you glanced up as the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway. The door swung open, and Maegon, Vaelya, and Aerion burst into the room, their faces filled with excitement and curiosity. Vaelya was the first to climb onto the bed, her wide violet eyes darting between the two babies.

“Are they here?!” Maegon asked breathlessly, his face red from running. He climbed up beside his sister, while Aerion peeked around Daemon, his eyes filled with wonder.

“Yes, they’re here,” you said softly, smiling as you leaned down to show them the baby in your arms. “Come, meet your baby brothers.”

“Two?” Vaelya’s face scrunched up as she looked at both of them. “No fair. I wanted a baby sister.” She crossed her arms with a huff, her silver hair falling over her shoulders.

Daemon chuckled, tilting his head toward her. “You’ll have to take that up with the gods, little one.”

Aerion, on the other hand, stared wide-eyed at the baby Daemon was holding. “They’re so small,” he said in awe. He reached out a careful finger to touch the baby’s tiny hand, gasping softly when the baby’s fingers reflexively gripped his. “He’s strong.”

Maegon knelt on the bed, peering over at the baby in your arms. “He looks like you, Mama,” he said, tilting his head in thought. “But smaller.”

You laughed softly, brushing a hand through his hair. “Yes, he’s small now, but he’ll grow big and strong, just like you.”

Daemon glanced between the three older children, his gaze warm but firm. “Now, as we promised, it’s up to you three to name your baby brothers. Choose wisely.”

The three of them exchanged looks, their little faces growing serious as they realized the importance of the task. Vaelya tapped her chin thoughtfully, still pouting a little about the lack of a sister. Maegon was already deep in thought, his brow furrowed like a man considering battle strategy.

“I want to name this one,” Aerion declared, pointing to the baby Daemon was holding. “His name should be… Aelor!” His eyes lit up with pride as if he had come up with something truly magnificent.

Daemon raised a brow, glancing at you for approval. You nodded, a soft smile playing on your lips. “Aelor. A strong name,” you said, looking at the baby in Daemon’s arms. “He looks like an Aelor, doesn’t he?”

Aerion puffed up his chest with pride. “Yes, he does!”

“I want to name the other one,” Maegon said quickly, his voice full of authority as if he had been waiting for this moment. He leaned closer to the baby in your arms, squinting at him with careful scrutiny. “He should be called… Vaegon. It sounds powerful.”

“Vaegon?” Vaelya wrinkled her nose. “That sounds like Maegon. You just took your name and changed it.”

Maegon glared at her. “It’s not the same! It’s different. Vaegon sounds like a prince’s name. A king’s name.” He crossed his arms, daring anyone to challenge him.

Daemon raised a brow, clearly amused. “Vaegon, is it? Fitting for a prince, I suppose,” he said, smirking as he looked to you. “What do you think, love?”

You gazed down at the baby in your arms, his face calm and serene as he slept. “Vaegon suits him,” you agreed softly, brushing your thumb along his soft cheek.

“Then it’s decided,” Daemon declared, his voice loud and firm. “Aelor and Vaegon Targaryen, sons of fire and blood.”

Vaelya huffed, still pouting but clearly not wanting to be left out. “Fine,” she muttered, leaning over to gently touch baby Aelor’s nose. “But if we have another, I get to name her, and I want a sister this time.”

Daemon laughed, his gaze flicking to you knowingly. “That is a bargain you’ll have to strike with your mother,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you close.

The older children gathered closer, their eyes shining with love and curiosity as they watched their baby brothers sleep. It was a perfect moment — one you would remember forever.

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recareels · 4 months ago

Text

compulsive consumption

character: sunday warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, messy sleepy sex, dubcon at the start (somnophilia), extremely codependent relationship, a hint of a daddy kink, size kink/size difference, a lil bit of blood, overstimulation, creampie words: 2.3k

notes: maisie said exhausted almost asleep sex with sunday and somehow, this is what transpired

It’s become a ritual at this point; something special, something sacred, a ceremony you ardently anticipate each and every night, a sumptuous way to conclude the day and enter into sleep.

Because Sunday’s work day is long, tiring and tedious, and too often are there instances where you don’t see him at all—not a flash of silver-blue hair, nor a glimpse of ivory feathers—during your waking hours.

But he always comes back to you in the deep of night, after the moon as passed its highest point in the sky, after you’ve slipped into a fitful dreamland, incomplete without its master.

This you can be sure of. This you can expect eternally, always.

He’s dead on his feet by the time he returns to the sanctuary of your shared bed, linen steeped in your scent, engulfing him in a sweet embrace the moment he burrows between the sheets.

But it’ll never compare to the real thing.

Large hands snake through the fabric, navigating it expertly, as they’ve done every single night before, as they’ll do every single night after.

You’re wearing one of those lace-trimmed silk babydolls that he loves so much, shimmery material pooling around his wrists in bunched waves as eager palms slip beneath the garment. Lithe fingers curl around your hips, nails nipping the skin in a way that’s almost tender, embedding themselves in your flesh as Sunday anchors a good grasp.

No panties—good girl.

Then he’s tugging you toward him, your limp body obeying easily, a soft noise vibrating deep in your throat. Little hands grope instinctually at the air, clawing at nothing in search for him, before you roll toward his heat, a moth to a flame, a bee to honey, an addict to their fix.

Instinctual, automatic, right.

“Sunny?”

“I’m here, darling,” he nuzzles into your cheek, ribcage expanding against your torso as he inhales, deep and hungry. A slow exhale follows, as if he’s savouring the scent, intertwined with a soft hum. “I’m here.”

No other words are spoken as he shoves at his waistband, freeing his incessantly aching cock, one palm splayed on the mattress by your shoulder, keeping him precariously hovering above you, the other curling around the base of his cock, squeezing twice.

He’s been thinking about this. He’s always thinking about this.

It’s an insatiable craving that inevitably (and predictably) begins to flare up a few hours before it’s time for him to retire; an unbearable itch birthed behind his sternum, clawing at his heart, growing, spreading, infecting each limb and organ as time ticks by so that it has enveloped his entire form in torrid yearning for you the moment he’s off the clock.

The blood in his veins prickles, surges with each step that carries him closer to his lover, almost as if it’s attempting to escape, becoming fervent at the thought of being close to you.

The only reprieve to be found is when he sinks into your sweet cunt—ill-prepared, Sunday’s desperation casting a dense haze of lust over his brain; a sick pressure pressing against the walls of his skull, rendering logic incoherent and unnecessary, reducing him to something primal and salivating.

Delicate skin stretches, strains, splits as your body opens itself up for his cock, a soft hiss inhaled through the gaps of your teeth, jaw clenching with the action.

“I know, I know, I’m almost in,” he soothes, voice already gone hoarse from the way your body swallows him down, cunt gorging itself on his cock, cute little hole fluttering around his shaft as he bottoms out, almost as if it’s striving to suck him in further, draw him in deeper.

Greedy little thing.

He always allows himself a moment to bask in the feeling—to bask in the warmth of your body wrapped around his in the most intimate, complete sense: cockhead pressed snuggly to your cervix, your thighs embracing either side of his hips, your ankles instinctually linking behind his back in a possessive grip, heels digging into the dimples cushioning the base of his spine as they try to push him in more.

A sigh decompresses his chest, his body draping itself over yours as all of the trials and tribulations of the day seep from his pores, your cunt an automatic remedy, an instant rhapsody.

You’re drooling all over him, he can feel it—eager slick that pools around the base of his cock and streams down to puddle in the folds of his balls. It’s awe-inspiring, the way your body immediately reacts to his own—you’ve already soaked him, neatly trimmed silver curls dewy and glistening as they sop up your slick, and he’s done nothing more than fill you up with his flesh.

A moan pries its way past his lips, an involuntary reaction, his hips grinding down into you, smearing your arousal across his skin in a thick glaze. It’s slippery, his pelvis gliding against your body with fluid ease, pubic bone rolling over your swollen clit in slow, hard motions.

You’re murmuring something, pleads wadded up between your molars, gurgling on the back of your tongue as you burrow your face into his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, sweet girl,” he’s pacifying, the mattress dipping as his knees dig into it, bare palms running along your thighs in a smooth, tender caress.

Nimble fingers hook behind your knees, gently unlatching your legs from around his waist and pushing them up, up, up, until your thighs are on either side of your torso and your heels are resting on his shoulders.

And then, he begins.

There’s no gradual build up, no anticipation or teasing—neither of you have the patience or restraint for that; not tonight, not ever—and his pace is ruthless right from the start, his thrusts kept quick and deep as his hips piston into you.

The harmony of wet, sticky slaps fills the room, intertwined with your little whines and his husky growls as his balls, thoroughly drenched in your essence, smack against your ass, a sordid metronome.

Sugar-stained breath wafts across your face in dense pants as his body shrouds yours again, crushing your thighs between heaving chests, the tops of your toes curling around the nape of his neck. The mattress dents further beneath his knees, strong muscles flexing as his rutting accelerates, the head of his cock grinding against your g-spot in harsh, shallow jabs.

His name oozes from your lips, thick and lazy and swathed in spit, bastardized by his motions into a single syllable, your tongue never quite able to get the word out. It sounds like you’re drowning in it, almost, a precious garble of Sun-Su-Da-ay collecting at the back of your throat, sliced to pieces by pleasure.

Lashes fluttering against drowsiness, your head raises off the pillow, yearning to string a smattering of sloppy kisses along his jawline. Sunday hums, head quirking to the side and presenting to you his stretched neck, a silent request for more.

And you obey, like the perfect little angel you are, tongue following the curve of his neck in one smooth, flat, fluid brush—from the hinge of his jaw to the protruding knob of his collarbone. It gleams in the dim light and you sigh a little, proud of your work. He looks so pretty painted in strokes of you.

Soft lips follow the path of saliva back up his throat, sealing yourself into his skin and giggling sleepily at the quivery little whine your motions evoke, Sunday nestling clumsily into your kiss.

Silver-blue tufts cling to his temples and his forehead, plastered with sweat into defined points, his sunset eyes gone dark and glimmering, framed by heavy lids drooping beneath the combined weight of exhaustion and ecstasy.

Despite the fatigue of the day, of his duties and obligations, he’s still absolutely ethereal, glowing in the radiance of your combined love, reinvigorated bit by bit with every sound he manages to tug from your throat—precious little moans and broken little gasps that he breathes in, gulps down, devours in time with the pumping of his hips.

They’re traded in exchange for sounds of his own, quiet whimpers and soft grunts exhaled onto your waiting, wanting tongue with every plunge of his cock. The appendage curls, hugging the sounds, melting them in the heat of your mouth and steeping your tastebuds with him before it darts back out again, tip lapping ravenously at his parted lips—tracing along his cupid’s bow, licking at the edges of his teeth, teasingly brushing the point of his own tongue, enticing it to come out and play.

That earns you a chuckle, something wispy and warm spilling down your throat, genuine amusement molding his mouth into an open grin.

He gives you what you want, tongue lolling out from between spit-slicked lips—an offering to you, and one you take gladly, greedily, suckling it into your scorching mouth to wreathe your own tongue around it in a slippery embrace.

A shudder ripples through his flesh, muscles seizing, and he whines low and needy in his throat, the only warning you get before he’s surging forward, front teeth clacking against your own, pinched lips splitting between sharp enamel.

Copper floods his mouth, tangy and pungent, but it does not deter him, his own tongue charging at yours with such force you nearly choke on it. You swear he’s attempting to lick down your throat, tongue jammed at the back of your mouth and sweeping across it, as if it’s desperate to venture deeper.

His breath his hot against your face, ragged pants exhaled through his nostrils beading on your cheeks and upper lip. The snapping of his hips has turned vicious, voracious, fucking into you in time with his tongue, stuffing you full from both ends.

It’s a divine sensation, being so filled up with Sunday—whole, right, one, like you were incomplete before this moment, and will be incomplete after he’s gone, something vital missing—and you keep trying to siphon him in further, throat constricting as it swallows around the tip of his tongue.

He wants to give you more, front lips mashed between sharp incisors as his mouth shoves forward, another spritz of blood—yours, his, doesn’t matter—smearing across chins, sticky and watered down with saliva, a pale pink glaze.

But his lungs are burning, huffs of breath tangling together within your conjoined mouths and scarfing down each other’s air, coughing around your lover’s exhales while oxygen slowly but steadily dissipates.

He breaks apart with a discontented whine of his own, clammy forehead resting against yours as you each gulp down air, stuttered and wheezing. Wrecked, raw little noises spill into the space between your lips, continuously shattering your attempted inhales, fucked from your chests with the wild bucking of his hips.

Rapture has been building within the both of you, brought closer and closer by each drive of his cock, each drag over that swollen spot deep within you, each teasing drift of your clit over his skin, his thrusts turned jerky and desperate as he chases that bliss, as he endeavours to deliver it to you.

“Please,” you’re begging for it, the one thing only he can give you, a single piece of heaven, of him, carved from his soul and gifted to you every night. “Please, Daddy, please, please—”

He’s nodding against you in short, swift motions, forehead grinding into your own, his tongue laving messily at your lips, as if attempting to sop up the remnants of your moans.

“I love you,” he manages to gasp out, rhythm never faltering, each ram into you harder and faster than the last. “I love you, I love you, I—a-ah—”

Hot cream fills your cunt suddenly, his cock throbbing almost viciously as it spurts endless loads of cum into you—so much, too much; your little womb can’t nearly take it all, stuffed and bulging before finally overflowing with his seed, thickly dribbling past the tight seal of his cock to gather in the ridges of the sheets, little rivers of silky white slowly seeping into crisp linen.

He always cums quick during these nightly rituals; you both do, too eager to have one another—a piece of one another—buried within you, or sheathing hard flesh and soaking into it, saturating it with your essence.

But it doesn’t stop there, because you can’t, because it is not and never will be quite enough to satisfy the ravenous craving you each harbour for one another. His hips don’t still, won’t still, not even after he’s emptied his balls into you and milked himself dry, jolting in erratic, juddering motions.

Your own pelvis rolls up in lazy ruts and sloppy circles, half-baked sounds of pleasure drivelling from the corner of your mouth with sleepy spit. Sunday has since collapsed on top of you, his weight pleasant and grounding, his breath a humid constant against your sticky skin. His palms outline the contours of your body as his hips rock, fingers sinking into plush flesh to knead and grope in appreciation. Delicate vessels snap beneath his grip, tissues flooded with navy and violet, leaving a smattering of fingerprints seared into your flesh.

You fuck until you’re both layered in sweat and slick, bodies gliding together effortlessly in smooth, wet movements, skin shimmering with one another beneath beams of silver. You fuck until your cunt is raw and puffy, chafed from the ceaseless rubbing, until you’re both sucking in hisses and jittering out strained whines from the shocks of overstimulation, routinely coursing through your frames in thick electric waves.

You fuck until you’re both too exhausted to continue, pathetic humping slowing to something tender and sporadic before it finally halts completely, Sunday still buried to the hilt, and you fall asleep stained with each other—you in his sweat and his breath and his fractured, hummed out moans; him in your cunt with evidence of your conjoined arousal glazing his pelvis and his thighs and his balls, sticky sweet like syrup.

It is the most blissful heaven either of you could ever dream of, nothing more pure than the ecstasy of entering sweet dreams submerged in one another, saturated with one another, bodies stitched together into a singular, perfect entity, breathing and being as one.

#sunday smut #sunday x reader #sunday x you #sunday x y/n #hsr smut #hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #honkai star rail smut #honkai star rail x you #honkai star rail x reader #hsr sunday #inky.sunday

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conductivefabric-blog · 10 months ago

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Silver Silk Fabric Revolutionizes Textile Industry

An engineering wonder, Silver Fiber Conductive Fabric blends the conductivity of silver with the comfort and flexibility of fabric. It is not your typical textile. Silver-infused threads that have been painstakingly weaved into the fabric matrix to create a conductive network are at its center. The smooth flow of energy is made possible by this network, which opens up a wide range of applications…

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#Silver Cotton Fabric #Silver Modal Fabric #Silver Nylon Fabric #Silver Poly Fabric #Silver Silk Fabric

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mephisto-reporting · 1 month ago

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More to Love: With Sylus

Summary: Sylus wants to spoil you rotten and takes you shopping. But things don't go as planned in the fitting room as your insecurities take over. pairing: Chubby! reader x Sylus Note: Sylus and reader are in an implied relationship. This is based on this request. Content warning: insecurities, self depriciation, body image issues, slightly suggestive towards the end, angst (hurt-comfort).

The boutique’s soft lighting bathed the room in warm, golden hues, casting a glow on the endless racks of designer clothes that stretched before you. Sylus had dragged you out here, his hand firm on your lower back as he guided you into the posh little shop without a word of protest allowed.

“Indulge me, kitten,” he’d said with that signature smirk of his, his silver hair catching the sunset through the boutique’s large windows. “Pick something you like. No limits.”

As if limits had ever existed when Sylus was involved. He was a man of excess, of extravagance, and he was determined to spoil you rotten—even if you argued you didn’t need it. But you relented, knowing there was no saying no to him when he had his mind set. As you browsed through the aisles, your fingers brushed over silken fabrics and embroidered hems, eyes catching on the occasional outfit you usually would pick for yourself, only not in a store like this. Maybe he just liked to see you in pretty things. Maybe he liked watching you fumble over making decisions. But no matter the reason, you couldn’t help but feel a slight warmth bloom in your chest as you picked up a few pieces that caught your eye. His attention was there, but only just.

And then you saw it.

A little black dress, understated yet elegant, with faint red accents that shimmered subtly in the light. It screamed Sylus in every way: sharp, refined, and impossible to ignore. Your chest tightened with a flicker of excitement as you imagined yourself in it, standing next to him in his usual immaculate attire. He’d look at you the way he always did, with that blend of teasing confidence and a softness he reserved only for you. You could picture how well you'd complement each other, the two of you so flawless together that you felt almost… untouchable.

Grabbing it from the rack, you added it to the pile of clothes you’d picked for yourself and headed to the dressing rooms. The velvet curtain whispered shut behind you, enclosing you in a quiet little space with a single mirror framed in warm lights. The changing room felt cold and sterile as you slipped into the dress, carefully pulling it over your body. It should have fit perfectly—after all, you’d picked it out. It was your choice. But as you zipped it up, a knot tightened in your stomach.

The fabric clung to your body in ways it shouldn't have, and not in a flattering manner. It sat all wrong on your bosom, the seams straining against the curves of your chest, barely able to close. You tugged at the zipper, trying to pull it up the side, but it caught painfully against your side, tugging uncomfortably at the soft roll near your bra strap.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your reflection unfamiliar. The dress, which had seemed so perfect on the rack, now felt like a cruel joke. The skirt, meant to be a silhouette, flared out over your thighs in a way that felt mocking. It hung awkwardly around your thighs in a way that made your legs look thicker, not more elegant. Your belly, which you’d always been conscious of, seemed to bulge in ways that felt out of place, unnatural against the black silk. The faint shimmer of the red accents only seemed to draw attention to the areas you least wanted highlighted.

What is wrong with me?

The voice inside your head was loud now, relentless.

I don’t belong in this dress.

Your fingers clenched the fabric at your sides as a wave of self-consciousness washed over you. The dress wasn’t the problem—it was you.

The mirror seemed to mock you, reflecting back every feature you’d learned to hate over the years. Your belly, round and soft, pushed against the fabric. Your thighs looked larger than ever, the material refusing to lie smooth. Your arms, left bare by the sleeveless design, felt exposed and unwelcome in the polished setting of this boutique.

As you stared, echoes of the past began to surface, unbidden and cruel. Your face twisted into a frown as you turned from side to side. The more you looked at yourself, the more you hated it. The reflection staring back at you seemed foreign, as though it was someone else’s body you’d somehow ended up in.

"You’ve got such a pretty face; you’d be stunning if you lost a little weight,” your mother’s voice chimed in your head, the way it had so many times over the years. Well-meaning, she’d always called it. But the words had planted themselves deep in your heart.

"Are you sure you want seconds?” a friend’s teasing voice from a high school cafeteria, laughing as though it was just a joke. It hadn’t been funny then, and it wasn’t funny now.

"I’m just saying, you’d feel so much better if you exercised more," someone had told you once, their tone dripping with condescension disguised as care.

Your friends in high school, laughing when you couldn’t fit into the trendy outfits they wore, saying, “Oh, don’t worry, you’ve got such a cute face!”

The offhand comment from a coworker last year: “Have you tried keto? I heard it’s great for people like you.”

Your father, well-meaning but always critical, pinching your belly and saying, “You’d be so much prettier if you lost all this fat.”

The memories compounded until your chest tightened with a mix of anger and shame.

God, I look disgusting in this.

And now, in this too-small dressing room with this too-tight dress, those voices joined your own as you whispered to yourself.

"I look ridiculous. Why did I even think I could pull this off? Sylus wouldn’t want to be seen with someone like this. Someone like me."

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced them back. Crying here would be too much, too embarrassing. You turned away from the mirror, pulling at the dress, wanting nothing more than to get it off. Your breathing hitched as the panic rose, your nails biting into your palms to keep yourself steady. But the tears were already threatening to fall.

The curtain separating you from the world felt as thin as paper and just as fragile. The muffled murmur of boutique shoppers and the faint hum of music didn’t penetrate the storm of thoughts swirling in your head. The dress felt tighter by the second, suffocating, and your own reflection stared back with an almost accusatory glare.

Why did you even think you could look good in this? You were out of place, weren’t you? Not just in the dress, but here—here in this boutique, in Sylus’s world, in his life. The idea of walking out of the changing room, of standing in front of him and seeing that ever-present smirk falter for even a second, was unbearable.

Your fingers fumbled at the zipper, trying to undo it, but your hands were shaking too much to find the tab. The fabric bunched awkwardly around your side, pinching and pulling in a way that only made you hate it more. Hate yourself more. A sharp inhale turned into a shaky exhale as your vision blurred with unshed tears.

He’s going to see right through you. He’ll realize you’re not the kind of person who belongs at his side.

The voices in your head grew louder, and you didn’t even hear his approach until his voice broke through the storm, smooth and teasing, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Kitten,” Sylus drawled, his tone dripping with amusement, “don’t tell me you’ve gotten lost in there. Or are you planning to make me wait all day?”

Your breath caught. “I’m fine. I just… need another minute,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracked ever so slightly. You winced, praying he hadn’t noticed.

But he had. Of course, he had.

“Hmm,” came his thoughtful hum, followed by the sound of his boots against the boutique’s plush carpet. Closer. Too close. “You don’t sound fine, sweetie. Should I come in and—”

“No!” The word came out sharper than you intended, panic rising in your chest. “Just—stay out there. I’ll be out in a second.”

There was a pause. Long enough for you to realize he wasn’t moving away. His teasing edge was gone when he spoke again, quieter this time. “Sweetie. What’s wrong?”

“I said I’m fine!” you snapped, your voice a pitch higher than you intended. You winced at your own tone. The last thing you wanted was for him to push further.

But Sylus was nothing if not persistent. “Sweetie, you’re never fine when you say you are,” he said, the teasing edge returning, but softer now, as though he was testing the waters. “I’m coming in.”

“No, don’t—” Your protest was cut short as the velvet curtain slid to the side.

The curtain shifted slightly, and you turned away from it, clutching the fabric of the dress like a shield. Sylus stepped into the small dressing room, his broad frame somehow making the space feel even smaller. His usual air of control and confidence filled the room, his sharp crimson eyes immediately locking onto yours. But his smirk faltered as he took you in—your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands, and the ill-fitting dress that clung awkwardly to your frame.

“Sweetie…” His voice was low, laced with genuine concern as he stepped closer. “What’s going on?”

You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please.”

He didn’t move. Instead, he reached out, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. “Look at me,” he said, his tone soft but commanding.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“And why not?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “You’re my kitten, aren’t you?"

You turned away, hugging yourself tightly. “Nothing. Just go, Sylus. Please..I don’t want you to see me like this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Like what?” he asked, stepping closer, his hands reaching out but not quite touching you yet. “What are you talking about?”

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. “Like you’re trying to fix something that’s broken. I’m not—I’m not—” The words caught in your throat, but they spilled out anyway, raw and jagged. “I’m not good enough for this. For you. For any of it.”

His frustration was evident in the way his jaw tightened, but when he spoke, his tone was calm. “Where is this coming from?”

You gestured helplessly at your reflection. “Look at me! This dress—it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t look right. I don’t look right, Sylus. I thought I could—” Your voice broke. “I thought I could make myself… better. For you. But I just… don’t fit.”

The air grew heavy with your words, and for a moment, Sylus didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his hands firm but gentle as they gripped your wrists, lowering them from where they clutched the dress. His touch was grounding, solid.

“Stop,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “Stop tearing yourself apart like this.”

You blinked up at him, tears slipping free despite your efforts. “But it’s true. I don’t fit in your world. I don’t even fit in this stupid dress.”

His hand slid down your arm, his fingers curling around yours to still their trembling. “Stop,” he repeated, his voice firm but not unkind.

“No, I need to say it,” you continued, the dam breaking as tears spilled down your cheeks. “You’re this—this untouchable, powerful, perfect man, and I’m just—” You gestured helplessly at yourself, the words catching in your throat. “I’m not good enough for you, Sylus. I’ll never be good enough.”

He was silent for a moment, his jaw tightening as he studied you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and steady, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something far more serious. “That’s enough of that.”

You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift in his tone.

“You think I care about any of that?” he said, his eyes boring into yours “Sweetie,” he murmured, his tone laced with exasperation and something deeper—something tender. “You don’t need to fit into anything to be enough for me.”

His fingers brushed your cheek, wiping away a tear. “You think I give a damn about some dress? About whatever bullshit standard you think you’re failing to meet?” His crimson eyes burned with intensity as he spoke, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “You don’t need to impress me. You already have me wrapped around your finger.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking in even as you tried to resist them. “But I—”

“No,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “No more of that. Do you know what I see when I look at you?” His hands slid to your shoulders, his grip firm but warm. “I see the person who challenges me, who stands toe-to-toe with me even when she’s scared. The person who’s made my cold, miserable world worth living in.” His lips quirked into a faint smile. “And, if you must know, I happen to think you’re absolutely stunning. Always.”

“But I—” you began, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“No buts,” he said firmly. “You don’t need to dress up to impress me. I’m already smitten, in every way possible.”

His words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Slowly, the tightness in your chest began to ease, the storm in your mind quieting as his presence anchored you. He reached for the zipper, his movements careful and deliberate as he began to undo the dress.

“Let’s get you out of this,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We’ll find something that makes you feel like the goddess you are. And if we don’t, then to hell with the clothes.” Sylus’s hands lingered at the zipper, his eyes meeting yours with a teasing glint as the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. “Though, between you and me, kitten…” he murmured, his voice dipping lower, “I think you’d look better without anything on at all.” His fingers brushed deliberately against your skin as he slid the zipper down further, his touch light but intentional, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake.

Your cheeks burned, the heat rushing to your face at his boldness. “Sylus…” you began, but the words caught in your throat, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze.

He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting over your ear as he spoke again, his tone a mixture of playful and reverent. “But let me make one thing very clear, sweetie. Clothes or no clothes, none of that matters to me. You’re already perfect to me—just as you are. Nothing you wear or don’t wear is going to change that.”

His hands rested firmly on your hips now, steadying you as the trembling in your legs began to subside. “And by the time I’m done worshiping you, adoring you, loving you over and over again,” he continued, his voice husky, filled with an almost dangerous promise, “you’ll see yourself the way I see you. The way I’ve always seen you. Stunning, irresistible, absolutely mine.”

You shivered, not from the chill of the room, but from the weight of his words and the warmth in his touch. He tilted your chin up with one finger, forcing your eyes to meet his. “You’ll see it, sweetie. I’ll make sure of it. Because in my eyes, you’re more than enough—you’re everything.”

The air between you was thick with unspoken emotion, the tension melting into something softer, something unyieldingly honest. His lips brushed your forehead, lingering there for a moment before he pulled back, his hands never leaving your sides. “I’ll remind you every single day, sweetie. Over and over again, until there’s no room in your mind for anything but how much I adore you. Do you understand?”

You nodded, tears prickling at your eyes again—but this time, they weren’t born of pain or self-doubt. They were tears of relief, of something lighter and more hopeful.

“I’ll believe it,” you whispered, your voice trembling but earnest. “I’ll try.”

Sylus’s smirk softened into a smile, his thumb brushing away the tear that escaped down your cheek. “That’s all I ask. But just so you know…” His voice turned playful again, his lips quirking up at the corners. “I’m not above a little convincing, sweetie. And believe me, I’m very persuasive.”

“So,” he said, his smirk returning, though softer now, “what do you say we ditch this boutique? I’m thinking we’ve got better things to do than fuss over dresses that don’t deserve you anyway.” His thumb stroked gently over your hip, his touch grounding and sure.

The storm within you calmed as he pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if shielding you from the weight of your insecurities. For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed that maybe—just maybe, you could accept yourself just the way you are, just the way he did.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

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theostrophywife · 2 months ago

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— wicked games.

NAVIGATION // inbox. tags. writing. library.

pairing: regulus black x reader x theodore nott.

song inspiration: wicked games by the weeknd.

author's note: happy thirsty thursday babes. please enjoy this delicious little fic I cooked up whilst deep in a state of delusion.

You hated him.

Absolutely loathed him.

There were no words in the English language that could properly describe the pure wrath that Theodore Nott awakened within you. As a Gryffindor, you were well aware of the stereotypical fiery temper attributed to your house that you were currently living proof of, but you just couldn’t help it. The animosity between you and Nott seemed to bring out the worst in you.

When you first started dating Regulus, you attempted to make peace with the Slytherin, but Nott seemed hell bent on waging war against you. More often than not, the two of you had to be pulled apart from tearing each other to pieces. Regulus knew better than to fight your battles for you, but he did find it amusing to watch you hand Nott his annoyingly arrogant arse on a silver platter.

“Nott’s just so…ugh,” you ranted as Regulus lifted you up onto the marble counter. “And he makes me feel like blegh.”

Your boyfriend settled between your legs, carefully dabbing at the wine stain on your brand new white shirt. The tasteful little addition was courtesy of the aforementioned menace, who accidentally knocked his drink over across the table at the exact spot that you were occupying after you mercilessly beat him at tonight’s poker game.

“Theo annoys the fuck out of you and you want to kill him?”

“Yes, exactly!”

Regulus hummed as he unbuttoned your blouse, his slender fingers making swift work of the article of clothing. His cold hands felt soothing against your feverish skin, sending shivers down your spine as he skimmed the underwire of your bra. The wine had seeped right through, staining the pink lace with crimson.

“Sounds to me like you’re frustrated, mon amour.”

You were, but for an entirely different reason now. The anger coursing through you gave way to desire, its heat simmering to a boil just beneath your skin. Regulus stared intently while you traced the shape of his wine stained lips. Holding his breath, your boyfriend groaned as you pressed a soft kiss against his mouth, fingers sliding up to those pretty curls that felt like silk beneath your touch.

The heady taste of red wine and cinnamon mixed and mingled as you swirled your tongue against his, gasping into your boyfriend’s mouth as he gripped your thighs and pulled you towards him until your legs instinctively wrapped around his midsection. You were drunk off of Regulus, his taste and touch and scent as intoxicating as the wine dancing on your tongues.

“I’d be more than happy to help, love,” Regulus murmured as his lips skated over your throat. “Let me take your mind off of things, yeah?”

“Yes please,” you breathed as Regulus spread your legs wide open.

The cold kiss of his rings caressed the inside of your thighs. You watched through a heavy lidded gaze as your boyfriend knelt in front of you, his handsome face marked with mischief. As he peppered kisses at the junction of your thighs, something dark and possessive flashed through his pretty green eyes, piercing you in place.

It felt obscene to witness him like this. The sight of Regulus Black on his knees was heaven. Dark curls falling over lust blown eyes, looking up at you through thick lashes as he gripped your thighs. Regulus watched, cocking his head between your legs before he kissed the top of your knees.

Butterflies erupted in your stomach as he lifted up your skirt, bunching the fabric around your waist before slowly tugging your panties down to your ankles. Patience had never been your strong suit, but you didn’t dare rush your boyfriend. Instead, you savored the kisses that he pressed against your skin, his soft lips like satin on your calves, knees, and thighs. You held your breath in anticipation, your body buzzing with desire as your boyfriend licked and sucked and marked every surface available to him.

Regulus chuckled as you bucked against his mouth, eager for friction. His eyes were blown out with lust as he glanced up at you. “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.”

You jolted as he patted your thigh, but obeyed nonetheless. With a pleased smirk, Regulus hooked your legs behind his shoulders and came face to face with your soaked cunt.

“So wet for me,” Regulus hummed as he ran a finger through your folds. “That’s my good girl.”

The words unlocked something inside of you. It didn’t matter how many times your boyfriend called you that, it never failed to turn you on. “Reggie, baby, please…”

“You know I can’t resist when you beg, mon amour.”

Without another word, Regulus obliged your plea. The first lick had you keening, your soft and breathless moans echoing through the bathroom. Your boyfriend smirked before yanking you over the edge of the sink and burying his head between your thighs. Your cunt ached for him, clit throbbing as he easily worked you with his mouth and lips and tongue. He licked and sucked like a man starved, eating you out until your back was arched against the mirror, fingers scrambling for anything to hold onto.

It always amazed you that Regulus, a man who took great pride in restraint and discipline, completely lost any semblance of control when it came to you. There was something hedonistic about the way he feasted on you, his dark curls plastered to his sweaty skin, his slender fingers gripping the meat of your thighs, his mouth glistening with the evidence of your arousal.

Regulus unleashed was fucking divine. Your boyfriend knew your body like the back of his hand and he put that knowledge to use, curving his fingers inside of you and chasing the action with his tongue.

“God, Reggie,” you panted as he flicked his tongue over your swollen clit. “Baby, I’m going to —“

“Hey lovebirds, stop defiling the loo,” interrupted an irritatingly familiar voice. “I need to piss!”

You cursed under your breath as your mood instantly soured. The presence of Nott on the other side of the door killed any chance of you ever coming. The twat truly had a special talent for spoiling what would’ve otherwise been a fantastic orgasm. You groaned, frustration and anger bubbling up inside of you all over again. This was fucking personal now. You were going to take his bloody head off for it.

“You know that’s exactly what he wants, right?” Regulus mused as he helped you off the counter.

“To cockblock me? Yes, I’m perfectly aware.” You said with a scoff. “He’s only doing it because he can’t accept that he lost to me.”

“I don’t think he’d be this petty over a poker game, love.”

“I’m not talking about the game,” you responded, hopping off the counter and smoothing down your skirt. “I’m talking about you, baby.”

Regulus raised a brow. Clearly, he wasn’t convinced, but you were. You knew the real reason behind Nott’s antagonism, which began when you started dating your boyfriend.

“Theo still has a thing for you,” you explained. “Honestly, I can’t blame him. I’d pine after you, too.”

Your boyfriend chuckled. “You’re being silly, darling. Theo and I had a fling in fifth year, but it never went anywhere past that. He’s not the relationship type.”

You knew all about the short-lived fling. After all, there were no secrets between you and Regulus.

“Don’t remind me. You could’ve done so much better than Nott. At least aim for a Riddle, babe.” The pointed look you sent his way earned you an amused smirk. “Anyways, that’s not the point. I’m not saying that Theo wants to date you. I’m saying that he wants to fuck you and I’m standing in the way of that. That’s why he hates me. I took his toy away.”

“I’m a toy now?” purred Regulus as he pinned you against the sink. “You certainly do enjoy playing with me, don’t you, darling?”

You groaned as he squeezed your arse. “This is exactly what I mean. If I lost you, I’d do everything in my power to get you back too, which is why Nott has been a bloody pain in my arse since we started dating. He’s infuriating. I don’t know how you ever put up with him.”

“Well, there are ways to shut him up.”

You sighed. “My methods would send me straight to Azkaban.”

Regulus considered your words for a moment. “You just have to think a little more creatively, darling. The thing about Theo is that he’s a tease. He gets off on it. The more you react, the more he’ll keep pushing your buttons. Maybe you need to start pushing back.”

Curiosity sparked within you. “What are you saying, Reggie?”

The smirk on his face all but confirmed your suspicions. “I think you know exactly what I’m saying, love.”

The common room was filled with drunk ramblings and boisterous laughter by the time you and Reggie returned to join your friends. The two of you settled in just as Enzo started taking bets for the winner of the next game. As the drinking picked back up again, you decided to rise to your boyfriend’s challenge.

“Surprised the two of you even came back,” Theo whispered salaciously. “You seemed a little busy back there.”

“We were,” you replied with a cheerful smile. “But I’m in the mood for a different game now.”

Nott blinked as you leaned closer, twirling the end of his tie between your fingers. Confusion was etched all over his face, but you didn’t miss the shaky breath he released when you tugged him down to eye level.

“You should know that I intend to win.”

The moment was broken before anyone noticed, but it may as well have been written all over his face with the way Nott flushed crimson. Curious blue eyes landed on you before Theo cleared his throat and directed his attention to Enzo.

“Setting the trap, I see,” Regulus murmured in your ear as you settled into his lap. “Just be gentle with him, yeah?”

A smirk curved against your lips as Nott shot another confused glance your way. “No promises, baby,” you replied with a giggle. “You know I like it rough.”

Your boyfriend’s laughter rumbled in his chest as he rested his chin on your shoulder. “Let the games begin.”

You started off small. Just a few lingering touches and coy glances that could’ve otherwise have been brushed off by the wine. For the most part, the only person who seemed to take note of the slight shift in your demeanor was Nott.

“You’re in a better mood,” Theo remarked suspiciously. “Regulus finally managed to knock the stick up your arse, I take it?”

On any other occasion, you would have threatened to shove your wand up his arse in retaliation, but instead you threw your head back and laughed. To his utter astonishment, you flashed Nott a charming smile and placed your hand on his chest.

“Oh that’s too funny, Theo.” You batted your lashes at the stunned Slytherin, smirking slightly as his gaze darted between your face and hand, which was still firmly pressed against him. “You’re a riot tonight, aren’t you?”

“Seriously, what’s happened to you?” Theo muttered. “That comment would’ve earned me a curse or a hex. A slap, at the very least.”

“Is that what you want?” You asked in a low, sultry voice. Theo tensed as you twirled his tie between your fingers. “Do you want me to be mean to you, Theo?”

“Yes — I mean no —” You watched in amusement as Theo stuttered over his words, his cheeks flushing progressively deeper to reflect his flustered state. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’ll warn you now. You won’t distract me from winning the game.”

“Good luck, Nott,” you said with an innocent smile. “You’re going to need it.”

Despite his warning, your ploy was working better than you could've imagined. Even when Enzo began explaining the rules of the game, you could feel Theo watching you. Regulus smirked as you settled on his lap, proud of the progress that you were making. Thanks to his suggestion, the night was finally starting to get interesting.

As the game went along, you were unsurprisingly in yet another deadlock with Theo. The two of you were tied for first place at this point while the others lagged behind. You watched as Theo rolled the dice, smirking when he rolled to his advantage. He counted out each number and advanced his character on the board, putting him precisely one step ahead of you. Petty fuck that he was, Nott knocked your piece over as he set his own down. The pink bunny that you had chosen tumbled to the floor and underneath the table.

“Oops.” Theo smirked as he glanced over at you, his demeanor conveying that the move was both spiteful and intentional.

“That’s okay,” you responded cheerfully before crawling on your hands and knees to retrieve your character.

The piece had landed on the far end of the sofa, prompting you to crawl towards Theo. He tensed as you reached across, your body pressed against his while you rummaged beside him. Positioned sideways over his lap, the strategic move gave Theo an ample view down your shirt as your perky breasts spilled out of your red lacy bra. Your thigh brushed against his arm as you wiggled around and nearly put your arse in his face.

“For Salazar’s fucking sake,” Theo muttered under his breath as he snatched the pink bunny from underneath the table and handed it to you.

Nott couldn’t meet your gaze as you happily retrieved the piece from the palm of his hand. He was nearly frozen when your fingers made contact, his entire body coiled with tension while you smirked.

“Thanks, Theo.”

He nodded begrudgingly as you crawled back into your boyfriend’s lap. Regulus patted your arse in congratulations as Theo grew redder by the second.

“Mate?” Mattheo asked. “Did you hear what Malfoy said?”

Theo snapped out of his reverie. “What?”

“It’s your turn, you dolt,” Draco responded with an eye roll.

Winning after that was like taking candy from a baby. It was entirely too easy to pull an otherwise obvious move over Nott given the fact that he appeared seconds away from crawling out of his own skin. The prat kept having to readjust himself the more you messed with him. The sight was satisfying to say the least.

After your unchallenged victory, a joint was passed around amongst your friends. Combined with the ego boost that came with toying with your supposed enemy, the weed left you feeling loose and relaxed.

When it was your turn to take a hit again, you inhaled deeply and kept the smoke in your chest before tapping on Reggie’s bottom lip. Your boyfriend happily obliged, those kaleidoscope eyes trained on you while you tipped his chin and blew the smoke into his mouth. With a low growl, Regulus finished you off with a filthy kiss that had the rest of your friends hooting and hollering.

Dazed, you smiled softly and wiped the gloss from your boyfriend’s mouth. You were vaguely aware of Theo’s gaze burning holes into you, but the desire to rile him up was superseded by your desire for Regulus. The more the two of you smoked, the touchier you became.

Regulus lounged lazily on the couch, long legs splayed out in a sexy manspread. His tie hung loosely around his neck, barely covering the love bites you’d left on his throat last night. You traced the marks with your fingers possessively, following the trail down his collarbone. Your boyfriend pressed soft kisses against your neck while you unbuttoned his shirt, red nails stark against his pale skin as you ventured lower.

By that point, your friends had left to raid the kitchen pantry. Only you, Regulus, and Theo remained.

The waves of the Black Lake lapped gently against the stained glass windows, its murky waters bathing the common room with green ripples. The air was thick with smoke, making it hard to see through the haze. Across the couch, Theo murmured something, but it barely registered as you straddled your boyfriend.

Regulus abandoned the conversation with Theo as you positioned yourself over his erection, groaning while he pulled you in for a heated kiss. Present company forgotten, you parted your lips for Regulus and gasped when he slid his tongue inside and licked the roof of your mouth. Smoking was quickly replaced with making out.

You couldn’t get enough of Regulus. He felt like silk and tasted like sin.

You could tell by the way his cock twitched in his pants that he was thoroughly enjoying this. Even more so when Theo squeaked in surprise. Regulus grinned against your lips before lifting your skirt up slightly and squeezing your arse, giving your audience a sneak peek of your red lacy panties.

“God, you’re so hot, baby,” you murmured as you kissed his neck. With a smirk, you glanced over your shoulder and found Theo staring at the two of you with a dazed expression. “Isn’t my boyfriend sexy, Theo?”

Theo blinked. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, Reg is a good looking guy.”

You tapped a finger against your chin. “You’d know all about that. You had a crush on him back in fifth year, didn’t you?” The panic in Nott’s eyes made you grin. “I guess we have more in common than you think.”

He looked like a deer in headlights. You fucking loved it. “Hm? Um, briefly. That was ages ago though.”

“Oh, but who could forget?” You hummed as you sucked at the hollow of Reggie’s throat. “Do you remember his sweet spot? Right here, it’s his weakness. The first time I made him whimper, I nearly soaked myself. Was it the same for you?”

“I — you — you know?”

“Of course. Reg and I tell each other everything,” Theo gulped as you held his gaze. “We’re good at sharing.”

Nott readjusted himself on the couch, his eyes not quite meeting yours.

“For instance, Reg told me about your little game. He said you get off on riling people up. Is that why you’re always being a pain in my arse, Theo?”

“No…” Nott said rather unconvincingly. “You’re…you two are together.”

Regulus shook his head. “That’s not what she asked, Theo.”

Theo gulped. “Fine. Maybe I do enjoy driving you mad.”

You chuckled. “You hear that, babe? He finally admits it.”

Your boyfriend smirked as you slinked off of his lap. He gave your arse an appreciative pat before you strutted towards Theo. Those piercing blue eyes locked onto you, tracing every step with unveiled scrutiny. He held his breath as you draped yourself over his lap.

Regulus leaned back from where he sat, fully enjoying the show. While he thoroughly enjoyed putting one on for Theo, you knew that watching you drive his friend to the brink would turn him on even more. Your boyfriend loved watching almost as much as he loved being watched.

“Tell me, Theo,” you drawled as you traced a line down his chest. “Does making me angry make you hard?”

Theo sucked in a breath as you palmed his cock through his pants. He was hard as a rock, which all but confirmed your suspicion.

“It does, doesn’t it?” You said with a smirk. “You’re such a little brat. I bet you touch yourself after we argue.”

As if on cue, his cock twitched against your palm. Theo blinked rapidly, his eyes heavy lidded as he looked up at you. “Fuck…what — what’s happening?”

“You played your games,” Regulus answered. “Now Y/N is playing hers. I should warn you, she isn’t gentle or forgiving.”

Theo groaned as you licked a stripe against his neck before sucking down harshly. “You’re not the only one who knows how to tease." You slid your hand down his boxers and stroked his cock, rubbing the precum over his tip. “I’m going to play with you until you beg me to stop. Even then, your pretty tears won’t stop me, Theo.”

Theo panted as you stroked him slowly. “Oh fuck, please, bella.”

“You’re so hard, Theo. I bet it hurts, huh?” His cock throbbed in your hand as he nodded. “Do you need help, pretty boy?”

“Yes,” Theo moaned. “God, yes. Touch me, please.”

“So you do know how to be polite,” you teased. “Good to know.”

His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head as you began pumping him in your hand. You could taste the desperation emanating from him as his hands twitched at his side. Theo’s fingers brushed your thighs, but the action was full of uncertainty.

“Do you want to touch me, Theo?”

Theo nodded eagerly. You smirked before taking one of his hands and sliding it up your thigh. He held his breath as you moved it further up and guided him to squeeze your arse. Theo groaned as you continued jerking him off, his breaths growing ragged while you carried on with your exploration. He was mesmerized as his rough, calloused hands made contact with soft skin, stopping briefly at your hip before sliding over your stomach until he reached right below your lacy red bra.

Licking his lips, Theo looked to you for direction. You moved his large hand up to cup your breast, closing your fist around his so he could squeeze your tit. Behind you, Regulus finally left his spot on the couch and pulled your blouse all the way off. He placed kisses over your shoulder and peeked at Theo, who watched the whole thing with his mouth gaped open.

When Regulus unhooked your bra and revealed your bare tits to Theo, he growled.

“Touch them,” Regulus commanded.

Theo didn’t need to be told twice. Both hands cupped your breasts, massaging and kneading the soft tissue with a hungry look in his eyes. He looked at your boyfriend, awaiting instructions.

Regulus seemed to understand exactly what he wanted. “Kiss them.”

Theo released a shaky breath. His watercolor eyes burned holes into your skin as he wrapped his lips around your nipple. You moaned at the sensation, causing you to grip his cock tighter. Theo took that as a positive sign and continued to lick and suck at your tits, alternating between the two and tweaking and flicking the one his mouth wasn’t on with his fingers.

Without warning, Regulus tugged your hair back and tilted your chin so he could claim you with a searing kiss. At the sight, Theo bucked against your hand desperately. Watching you make out with Regulus earlier had already caused him problems, but seeing it up close almost had him cumming in your hand.

When you felt Theo getting close, you released his cock and leveled a disapproving expression at him as he whined.

“I didn’t say you could cum,” you said meanly. “ I told you, you’ll regret teasing me.”

Theo sounded pained. “Please, please, I’m sorry. I’ll be good. I’ll do anything you want.”

You and your boyfriend wore twin smiles. Regulus chuckled darkly. “You can watch me fuck her until she cries and then maybe we’ll think about letting you cum.”

You brushed Theo’s hair back, his waves soft and luscious between your fingers. “Can you do that for us, pretty boy?”

“Yes,” Theo answered immediately. “Yes, I’ll be good. I promise.”

“We’ll see about that,” Regulus said.

He smacked your arse and smiled. “Ready, my love?”

You nodded before positioning yourself on your hands and knees on the couch. Theo held his breath as you braced yourself against his chest and arched your back as you looked back at your boyfriend.

“Ready, baby.”

The sound of metal clinking against stone echoed in the common room as Regulus shed his belt. He stroked himself before rubbing his cock through your wet folds, making obscene sounds as he teased you with his tip. Your pussy clenched and squelched in anticipation, eager to have his cock inside of you.

Regulus leaned over to kiss the base of your spine before gripping your hips and easing himself into your pussy. His cock stretched your walls, the delicious drag summoning butterflies in your stomach. You wanted to keep him there forever, nestled in the comfort of your warmth.

Once Regulus was fully sheathed, you gasped for breath and braced yourself. Theo panted as you clawed at his chest, drinking in the sight as Regulus began to move. His pace was slow and steady, testing your patience as he toyed with you, but luckily, being with your boyfriend taught you the importance of restraint. As Theo would soon learn.

Speaking of which, the Slytherin was at the edge of his seat as he watched Regulus fuck you. His gaze darted between you and your boyfriend, surveying the seamless way your bodies fit together. You rocked your hips back slowly and followed the torturous pace Regulus set.

What you really wanted to do was slam all the way back so you could feel him in your guts, but you knew that your boyfriend would reward your discipline like he always did. After a few more shallow thrusts that had you keening for more, Regulus finally took pity on you.

Gripping your hips, Regulus pulled his cock out of you before slamming all the way back inside. You cried out as Regulus pumped in and out of you, burying himself over and over again into your throbbing cunt. The snap of his hips was brutal yet so satisfying every time he hit your sweet spot.

"Tu prend ma queue tellement bien, mon amour.”

Regulus praised you for taking his cock, his sweet words contrasted by the animalistic way he fucked into you.

“You feel so good, baby. I love the way you stretch my pussy.”

Theo cursed under his breath, a mixture of English and Italian that sounded entirely unintelligible to you given the fact that Regulus was currently fucking you dumb. You bunched up the material of Theo’s shirt, your face twisting in pleasure while the sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the common room.

“You didn’t even set a concealment charm,” Theo marveled. “Anyone could walk in and see us.”

Your cunt fluttered at his words, making Regulus chuckle. “That’s what makes this so fun,” drawled your boyfriend.

Nott’s eyes widened in return. “Reggie likes the thrill of getting caught. There isn’t anywhere in this castle that we haven’t fucked before.”

“You two are absolutely mental,” Theo grunted. “Though I am learning that madness really fucking turns me on.”

“Of course it does,” you sighed, caressing his cheek. “You’re just a horny little slut, aren’t you?”

“Oh, fuck…”

Judging from the way Theo cursed, your suspicion that he’d be into degradation was entirely spot on. That was the thing about brats. They just wanted someone to put them in their place. You would gladly knock Theodore Nott down a few pegs and maybe peg him too if the opportunity arose.

Smirking, you sucked on Theo’s earlobe and elicited a rather delicious whimper out of him. He tilted his head as you trailed kisses along his neck and jaw, sucking harshly at his skin so he’d be reminded of how easily you could turn him into a desperate mess for days to come. Theo chased after your lips, but you dodged every attempt and relished in his frustration.

“You need a lesson in restraint, pretty boy.” Theo pouted, making you laugh. You wrapped your fingers around his throat and smirked when his pupils dilated. “Maybe I should tie you up, hm? Walk you on a leash until you learn to behave?”

Theo shuddered at the thought. Interesting. You tucked that tidbit away for later.

“Pay attention,” Regulus said with the snap of his fingers. “We’re about to get to the good part.”

Regulus tugged at your hair and picked up the pace. You arched your back, tits bouncing in Theo’s face as Regulus fucked you doggystyle. He drove deeper and deeper with each thrust and leaned over to play with your clit. His fingers worked you up to that sweet release, stimulating the bundle of nerves until you felt that familiar heat spreading through your body.

You came nose to nose with Theo, your lips nearly touching as your ragged pants landed on his cheek. “Reggie, oh my god, fuck m’so close…”

Your boyfriend responded with hard, sharp thrusts and turned his attention to Theo. “Kiss her while she cums.”

Theo nodded dumbly before smashing his lips against yours. The kiss was filthy and sloppy, making it evident that Theo was dying for contact. You panted against his mouth, getting lost in the taste of Theo. He swallowed your screams of pleasure, dominating your tongue with his while you came. When the orgasm settled, Regulus pulled out of you and kissed your cheek lovingly.

“Good girl,” he murmured as he patted your arse.

His cock was coated with your cum and Theo licked his lips at the sight. Regulus smirked. “Do you want to taste her on me?”

“Fuck yes,” Theo mumbled excitedly.

You leaned against the cushions, thankful for the much needed break as you watched Theo go down on your boyfriend. Just as you suspected, Theo was all too eager to please. He knelt in front of Regulus, peering up at him as he licked at his tip. The groan that rumbled through his chest made you chuckle.

Regulus tipped his head back as Theo took him to the back of his throat. He bobbed his head up and down, relishing in the taste of you left on your boyfriend’s cock. He sucked him clean, your juices dripping off of his chin while he gagged and groaned. You could only describe the act as greedy.

“Have you been thinking about this, Theo?” You asked as he licked your boyfriend’s shaft. “You’ve been dying to fuck Regulus again, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Theo breathed. “But I want to fuck you too.”

“So greedy,” you teased. Theo sighed as you stroked his cheek. “What makes you think I’d let you fuck me after all the shit you’ve pulled, hm?”

“Because it would give you power over me,” Theo answered. “I’d be completely at your mercy.”

You smiled. “That’s right, pretty boy. Do you know what turns me on more than anything?”

“No,” Theo responded, hanging onto your every word. “Tell me, please.”

“Control.”

Regulus smirked as you came up behind him and kissed his cheek. “Reggie, baby, don’t you think Theo deserves some kind of punishment for his smartass mouth?”

“What did you have in mind, mon amour?”

“I think you should fuck his mouth until his pretty little throat is ruined.” Theo shuddered at your words while Regulus smiled. “Lay on your back, Theo. Show us what you can do.”

You watched with amusement as Theo laid down on the sofa, his head hanging off the arm. Regulus tapped the tip of his cock against Theo’s lips. He parted them willingly, breathing through his nose as your boyfriend stuffed his length down his throat. Theo gagged as Regulus thrusted deeper, pretty eyes brimming with unshed tears while he struggled to breathe.

You couldn’t help but think that he looked pretty like this. Spreading your legs wide, you rubbed your clit and watched your boyfriend destroy your nemesis. Theo glanced over at you, his mouth watering even more at the sight of you pleasuring yourself to him being ruined.

“Use your hands, Theo,” you guided. “Reg likes that.”

Theo released your boyfriend’s cock with an obscene pop. “I remember,” he retorted sassily. “I know what Regulus likes, thank you very much. Did you know that he likes it when you slide a finger in?”

You merely smiled. “Of course I do.” Theo yelped in surprise when you wrapped your fingers around his cock and squeezed. “Keep fucking talking back, Theo. I’ll sit on your face until you suffocate, you little brat.”

His voice was breathy as you held him in a death grip. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“That’s cute, Theo,” you said with a smile. “Remember that attitude because I’m about to fucking tear you apart.”

Theo held his breath as you tugged him towards the couch. Those watercolor eyes were black with lust as you straddled his lap. He gasped when you grinded against his cock, spreading your wetness all over his shaft. You tugged at his hair and kissed him roughly, sliding your tongue against his while Theo gripped your hips.

When you bit his bottom lip, Theo whimpered in response. You chuckled darkly. “So fucking pathetic. You talk up a big game, but all it takes is a little grinding and you’re nearly cumming your pants.”

“It’s not my fault,” Theo murmured. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mean.”

“Yeah? You like being degraded, Theo?” You taunted as you raked your nails over his chest. ”I’m going to have so much fun toying with you. After all, that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

Theo felt lightheaded as he nodded. “Yes, yes, I need…”

You put your fingers up to his lips and shushed him. “Aw, sweetheart, I don’t give a fuck what you need. This is about what I need.”

“What do you need, bella? I’ll give it to you. I swear to god, I’ll give you everything I have.”

“I need you to fucking behave and do what you’re told for once.” Theo whimpered as you grabbed his chin. “You’ll be a good little pet for me, won’t you?”

“Y — yes. I’ll be so good.”

From behind, you could feel Regulus watching the two of you. You knew he was touching himself by the soft, shallow breaths that echoed in the room. You bit and licked and sucked a trail of love bites down Theo’s neck, making sure that your marks littered his skin. His hands roamed your body, eagerly touching and feeling as much as you allowed.

“Take your boxers off.”

Theo obeyed diligently and discarded his underwear on the floor. He looked up expectantly, waiting for your next command.

“Touch yourself, Theo.”

He pumped himself in one hand, establishing a frantic pace. You frowned and grabbed hold of his wrist. “Slowly, like this. I need you to show me that you can be patient.”

Theo blinked, his expression dazed while he followed the rhythm that you set. “That’s it. Stroke yourself just like that.”

He seemed entranced as you observed him with a small smile. Theo whimpered your name when you replaced his hand, pumping him slowly before rubbing the tip of his cock against your folds.

“Oh god,” Theo moaned. “Fuck me…”

You grinded on his tip, barely letting him slip in and out of your pussy. “Do you think you deserve to be fucked?” You tilted his chin and forced him to look at you. “Cause I don’t think you do. You haven’t earned it.”

“I want to earn it,” Theo said. “What do I need to do, bella?”

“I’m so glad you asked,” you said as you ran your fingers through his hair. “I want you to sit still while I grind on you and get myself off. No whining, no complaining. Just look pretty and let me use your cock. Can you do that for me, Theo?”

He bit his lip, eyes shiny with desire. “Yes.”

“Good boy.”

You didn’t miss the way his pupils dilated at the praise. Humming, you rocked your hips and let the tip of his cock brush against your clit. Theo gazed up at you as you braced your hands on his shoulder, pushing him down as you grinded against him. The friction the action created was delicious. Heat curled deep in your core the more you rubbed your clit against his shaft.

Theo gripped your hips, his lips parting so he could lick and suck at your tits as you continued to use him. His eyes rolled back as you switched to bouncing on his tip, letting him glide through your folds just enough to feel pleasure. With a swift flick of your fingers, you felt yourself getting closer and closer.

“That’s right, darling,” Regulus murmured, his breaths ragged. “Cum all over his cock.”

Your boyfriend’s words sent you into a tailspin. Before you knew it, you were cumming again. The orgasm rocked you like a wave, crashing over your body with an intensity that set your nerves alight. Underneath you, Theo whined and whimpered. He was so sensitive that it hurt.

“Your pussy feels so good, squeezing me so tight,” Theo breathed. “But I need more, please. I want to bury my cock inside of you. I want to cum until I pass out.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” you snapped. “Brats don’t deserve to cum.”

“Please, please,” Theo begged, his voice hoarse. His eyes were shiny with tears. “Please, Y/N. I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t be a brat anymore. I’ll be good. I’ll be so fucking good for you. I promise.”

“You hear that, Reg?” You called to your boyfriend. “Theo promises he’ll be good. If he breaks that promise, then you have every right to bend him over and spank him until he’s sore.”

Regulus smirked. “It would be my pleasure, mon amour.”

“Yes, yes, please…”

“I love when you beg.” You licked his tears and chuckled. “It’s like music to my ears, Theo.”

“Please, please, fuck me.” Theo begged. “I want you. I need you. Please, Y/N.”

“Aren’t you just adorable?” You taunted as you kissed his cheeks. “Don’t worry, pretty boy. I’ll put you out of your misery.”

Theo watched through a heavy lidded gaze as you lifted your skirt up. His large hands settled on your hips as you eased down on his cock, taking inch after inch while he cursed. He released a shaky breath once he was all the way in, his chest heaving as he looked up at you in awe and wonder.

“Che cazzo,” Theo grunted. “You feel so fucking good.”

“You do too, pretty boy.” You clenched your walls around him, making Theo choke on air. “Do you feel that? You’re stuffing me full.”

“Dio mio, you’re going to be the death of me.”

“You don’t even know what you’re in for,” Regulus said as he slipped behind you. Your boyfriend bunched up your skirt so Theo could see how full of him you were. “She’s going to ruin you.”

“I want it,” Theo pleaded. “I want you to ruin me, bella.”

With that, you rode Theo hard and fast. He could barely catch his breath as you bounced on his cock. You were relentless, you were vicious, and you fucked Theodore Nott like you hated him. It was everything he ever wanted and more.

Theo felt out of control as he watched his cock slip in and out of you, taking him over and over again. The sounds he was making were incoherent, but it was clear that he was out of his mind with pleasure by the way he whimpered and whined.

“Aw, honey, are you already close? I haven’t even shown you half of what I can do.”

Regulus chuckled. “Take it easy on him, love. He looks like he’s about to pass out.”

“I know he can take more,” you said. “Isn’t that right, Theo? Don’t you want to be a good boy for me?”

Theo barely managed to rasp out a pathetic yes. It was cute, really. “That’s what I thought. See, I knew you could. Under all that sass, you just want to be degraded and used like the fuck toy that you are.”

“Yes, yes, oh god.”

You giggled as you placed a kiss on his lips. “Look at you, all fucked out. Is this all it takes to shut you up? All you needed was for me to ride your cock until you can’t even remember your own name.”

“Fuck, yes. Yes, use me. Abuse me. Do whatever the fuck you want,” Theo mumbled deliriously. “You own me, Y/N.”

A smile graced your lips. You had him right where you wanted him. “Tell me how much you like being used.”

“I fucking love it,” Theo admitted. “I love when you put me in my place. It’s bloody sexy.”

“You’re lucky I’m even letting you touch me.”

“God, I’m so lucky,” Theo groaned. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you…”

You punctuated each declaration of gratitude with a hard grind, bouncing on his cock while he thanked you for fucking him. The ego boost was enough to make you cum.

“You’re such an obedient little fuck toy,” you praised. “Don’t you love being fucked? It’s all you’re good for.”

Theo moaned. “Am I good? Have I been good for you?”

“So good,” you reassured. “My good boy.”

“I’m so — I’m so close. Can I cum, please? Please, please, let me cum.”

You kissed him deeply as you rolled your hips. “Go ahead, sweetheart. But keep those pretty eyes open, Theo. we want to watch you cum for us.”

Theo obeyed and kept his eyes on you, his nose brushing against yours as he panted into your mouth.

“That’s it, pretty boy.” Theo shuddered as you bounced harder. “Come on, give it to me. I know you want to. I know you want to be so fucking good for me, Theo.”

“Oh fuck,” Regulus moaned. His wrist flicked over his cock and you tugged at his hips so you could put your mouth on him as he came.

The filthy sight triggered Theo. As promised, he kept his eyes on you while he finished. Those pretty dead eyes came to life as he rode out the high and emptied himself inside of you. His cum painted your walls, filling you to the brim and stuffing you full.

Theo collapsed against the sofa, his head lolling over the cushions as you slowly eased off of his cock. A question formed on his face as he held your hips in place.

“What is it, Theo?”

“I want to taste myself on you.”

You smiled and kissed his forehead. “Come get it then, sweetheart.”

Despite the strenuous activities you were previously engaged in, Theo was as energetic as ever. He knelt before you and settled between your thighs, his eyes twinkling with anticipation. You could feel both of them dripping down your legs.

The first few licks were exploratory as Theo gained his footing, but as he established a steady pace, he had you keening in no time. Your back arched off the sofa when his tongue and fingers worked your pussy. He held your hips down while he feasted, the moans spilling out of his mouth reverberating through your clit.

“So good, Theo,” you keened. “You’re so good at eating my pussy.”

“Say it again,” Theo pleaded. “Please, tell me how good I am for you.”

You ran your fingers through his hair and smiled down at him, maintaining eye contact. “You’re so fucking good for me. My pretty boy.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

You came at the same time, the orgasm crashing over you even harder than the last. Theo made a mess of himself, his cum sticky and smeared all over his toned abs. His head dropped in your lap as he gave himself over to the orgasm. The thought of bringing Theo to his knees and making him cum just from eating you out made you glow with pride.

Without having to ask, Regulus helped you put your clothes on and supported you as you stood on shaky legs. Grabbing hold of your wand, you conjured a basin and a washcloth and began to clean Theo up. You made sure to give him plenty of aftercare after such a draining experience. His eyes fluttered open as you peppered gentle kisses all over his face.

“You did so well,” you cooed, stroking his cheek. Theo preened at the praise and attention. “I’m so proud of you. You’re my good boy.”

“You both did so well,” Your boyfriend praised. He kissed both of your foreheads which made you smile. “I knew you could play nicely.”

“Don’t get used to it, baby.”

Theo still looked a little out of it as Regulus brushed his hair back. “You alright there?”

Theo blinked, nodding through the post-orgasm haze. “Y — yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“You did a lot better than I did when she first edged me like that. I passed the fuck out.”

Blue eyes widened as Theo looked up at you. “I…how… that was — fuck.”

Your boyfriend only chuckled. “Trust me, I know.”

You straightened Theo’s shirt and helped him tug on his boxers and trousers back on. “Oh hush, I didn’t even use the collar on him.”

“The collar?” Theo asked with a slight breathiness as in his voice. “What the fuck do you two get up to?”

“That’s a secret, Theo,” you murmured as you kissed his forehead. “But if you behave, you might find out.”

As you settled back on the sofa, your friends began to trickle back in. Enzo and Mattheo fought over the stack of snacks they had nicked from the kitchens while Blaise, Draco, and Pansy trailed behind looking exasperated. Tom completely ignored everyone and retreated back to his dorm.

“We found gummy bears!” Enzo announced excitedly before him and Mattheo dug right in. “You want some, mate?”

Theo shifted in his seat, fidgeting as you leaned over to fix his tie. “Oh, this one has had his fill of treats tonight. Haven’t you, Nott?”

You smirked as he tried to hide his flush. Regulus chuckled as you snuggled against him. “Play nice, mon amour.”

“If I do, will you let me keep him?” You teased and winked at Theo.

“Yes,” Theo nodded excitedly. “Please god, say you’ll keep me.”

#honestly I don't even know what to say just accept that I belong in an asylum #theo nott #regulus black #thedore nott smut #regulus black smut #theo nott x reader #regulus black x reader

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ardensregias · 9 months ago

Note

somnophilia (with or without consent you choose) with aventurine or sunday...

alright 👍🏻 i'm going with aventurine for this one, since his banner is tmrw yippee :3 may all avennie wanters become avennie havers ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

nsfw, consensual somnophilia, afab!reader, reader wears nightgown, fingering, spooning fucking (i have no idea what it's called (u_u)), established relationship, petnames used: darling, baby, sweetheart, little bunny.

"...my love?"

rubbing his tired eyes to prevent them from closing, aventurine enters your shared house together—only to find you asleep on the couch, filling the otherwise quiet living room with the soft rumble of your snores.

his lips slowly curl up to form a faint smile, little hearts dancing across his beautiful pupils as he steps closer to you, getting a good look at the way the silk gown highlights your curves—all the stress he accumulated from working instantly disappears into thin air the moment he came home to this, like something served only for him in a silver platter.

"you'll catch a cold..." he sighs, stepping closer to take you back inside your shared bedroom—while his eyes gawk at your body, glancing at your chest and legs, before he looks away and try not to act on his desire; you have said that it is fine for him to relief his stress by using you, even in an unconscious state—still, he'd rather not disturb your beauty sleep. slowly, he places you down on to the mattress and kissed your forehead, wishing you a good night's sleep before he stood up, attempting to leave and change his clothes first.

that is, until you decided to roll over, causing your dress to hikes up your thighs, revealing the skimpy and lacy panties underneath—aeons, how could you possibly be any more alluring? he wouldn't be able to hold back himself if this persists.

aventurine gently pushes the silky fabric further up, finally caving in, "'m sorry..." he murmurs, his gloved fingers slowly making their way inside your puffy folds, stimulating the sensitive nerves and getting surprised when he hears the squelching noises, already so loud when he barely does anything—he's starting to suspect that you may have been thinking of him a lot... probably not in an innocent way too (neither did he).

"are you dreaming of me, baby?" his lips curl up to form a small smirk, pumping his digits in and out of you faster, drawing out that little whines of yours that he loves so much, taking them as a sign to continue. he knew very well how skilled his fingers are, after all.

and continue, he did—laying down right behind you, slotting his erection between your thighs as the blunt head slowly slides into your tight little pussy, sucking him in so nicely as if this is the last time you can feel it. you're still so responsive, he thinks, groaning whenever you unconsciously push your ass against him, meeting his thrust while also arching your back.

the blond man tries to be as quiet as possible, burying his face into your nape and trailing kisses down your back with his arms settled on your hips to help him reach deeper and deeper, until his tip finally touches that one gummy spot—one that always makes you moan louder and beg him for more.

"fuck—i'm gonna cum, darling... ah—you're always so good for me..." he stammers, hips stuttering as the slapping noises intensifies, bouncing off the walls along with your soft mewls and his ragged breath.

it doesn't take long before the knot in your stomach snaps, your walls pulsating around his dick before he soon follows, stuffing you full with hot and sticky ropes of cum—so full that some of it form a ring around the base when he attempts to pull out. it surprises him to see just how pent-up he's been, but a sudden whimper from you brought snap him back to reality.

"'venturine... more, please..." for a moment, he was stunned—are you awake? or are you simply dreaming of doing this with him? the thought of being in your mind 24/7 easily flusters him, making his still-erect cock twitch inside you.

well, as a good boyfriend, what else can he do except to fulfill his little bunny's wishes?

his thumb finds its way back to your swollen nub, rubbing patterns across the sensitive area before he shoves his shaft back in, "as you wish, sweetheart,"

#restricted section．．．#hsr x reader #hsr x you #hsr smut #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine x reader #aventurine x you #aventurine smut

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heirofnight · 4 months ago

Text

meddling, pt. 3

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 1.9k - i will never not be a yapper

summary: ah, my favorite little adorable pair. part three of the meddling series. reader wants to thank azriel for being so kind to her since her arrival at the house of wind several months ago. she gifts him with a silver chain. azriel loses his mind. fluff, so much fluff.

warnings: none, except for potential cavities from the sweetness.

a/n: this was the brain child of a post that i made thirsting over azriel wearing a chain & rings. someone commented on that post and suggested i incorporate that into this series. and here we are. probably my favorite piece of writing that i've done so far, ok. i'm simple. pining azriel makes me weak. enjoy! <3

read part one & two

you clutched the tiny, wrapped gift box in your hands, your fingers moving to glide along the cobalt blue silk bow adorning the lid.

you felt jittery, nervous. butterflies had taken flight throughout your chest and belly, relentless wings swirling.

you supposed this gesture wouldn't strike azriel as odd, or out of left field. after all, the male had been going out of his way for you for months.

his warm, kind gestures toward you as he sat next to you during your first dinner at the house of wind - you'd been so petrified, but he took you under his wing (literally). the kind, soft eyes he'd given you. he'd served your plate, giving you hushed anecdotes about each dish so you could choose what you'd wanted to indulge in. you hadn't admitted it, but you only chose to try azriel's favorite foods.

then, the sweater. he'd given you one of his oversized sweaters to snuggle into. you'd mentioned to him one time that you often froze, no matter the weather conditions, and he'd somehow remembered that detail - presenting you with the best solution he could muster. now that you knew him a bit better, you weren't sure if he'd actually remembered you admitting how cold you always were, or if that fact was just something he was able to observe himself. he was the spymaster, after all. maybe you were just easy to read.

if you were to actually ask azriel, he'd say that he remembered every word you'd ever spoken. every detail, every slight reaction. and it wasn't because it was his job to do so - wasn't because rhys had ordered him to watch over you seven months ago upon your arrival to the house of wind. no, you no longer needed his watchful eye. you were settled in, comfortable, part of the family.

he remembered the words you spoke because he hung onto every word that left your lips.

today, you sat in that favorite armchair of yours in the private library on the third floor - as always. you glanced over to the large shelf closest to you, a smile slowly spreading across your lips as you took in the romance books neatly lined before you. the romance books that azriel had removed from an obscenely tall shelf that was completely unreachable. to you, at least - unless you felt like scaling the entire thing.

he was so observant. he'd noted your favorite genre, remembered that you struggled to reach that row of books. took time out of his day to rearrange the entire left side of the library in favor of making you more comfortable. and now, here you sat. your favorite novels within arm's reach at any given moment, all because of this achingly kind male.

yes, he deserved this gift. he'd done so much, you wished you were able to bestow him with more. you were wearing his sweater again today, but this one was different. he's since presented you with four more sweaters from his closet, although he hadn't grown less bashful about offering them over to you - even though your reaction is always the same. blushing, bright eyes staring up at him in wonder as you grip the fabric and hold it to your melting heart.

and azriel, he revels in those moments. he can't help the sense of pure pride that warms his entire body from the inside out. he couldn't stop doing things for you if he tried, your smile and twinkling eyes circulating throughout his bloodstream like the first hit of a drug so strong, it threatened to bring him to his knees.

you took a deep breath, eyes flitting towards the elegant grandfather clock to your left. he'd normally stroll into the library around this time each day, joining you to read in silent, comfortable companionship.

and, like clockwork, that feisty, stray tendril of shadow that you'd come to love twirled through the crack in the wooden double doors with a flourish. it darted straight towards you, as it always did - worrying over you for a moment each time it found you. you'd imagined it was giving you a general once-over to make sure you were safe and content. it was much like its master in that regard.

the shadow looped through your fingers and hands, taking notice of the gift box that was sitting on your lap. it focused its attention there momentarily, swirling through the silky bow that matched the color of azriel's siphons - a detail you'd hoped he didn't find weird.

azriel made his appearance a second later, pushing through the doors with a book held under his arm. he moved with so much grace, despite his tall, muscular frame. he was astonishing to watch, even if the action was something completely mundane. tearing your eyes from him sometimes felt impossible, the allure he possessed was almost suffocating - but in the sweetest way.

he didn't even try to hide the fact that his sights were set on you immediately. he used to give a sweeping glance of the entire space before he allowed himself to find you, but now, he looked for you first - and you were always there. he felt any lingering tension within his body melt into the floor beneath him.

"hey, you," you spoke tenderly towards him, and the smile that he gave you made your chest warm.

he approached you, as he always did, unable to stay too far away. his eyes raked down your torso, never tiring of the feeling of seeing you in his clothing.

"i think this one is my favorite on you," he noted, eyes turning to molten honey as he took you in.

you preened at this, making a mental note to don this particular sweater a little more than the others.

"i, uh, i have something for you," you started, extending the small gift box towards him. now you knew how he felt, waiting to see if you'd accept the items of his clothing each time he presented you with them. you held your arm out without wavering, even though you felt a bit silly now.

his cheeks tinted a light shade of pink, and he studied the box in your hand for a moment. it wasn't lost on him that you'd chosen a bow that was the exact color of his blazing siphons. he felt his heart lurch against his ribcage at the realization.

"it's just a little something," you started again, voice woven with a nervous undertone at his continued silence. "i wanted to thank you for being so kind to me since i've arrived," you cleared your throat. "you've really made this place feel like ... like a home," you finished, giving him a shy, tentative smile. he could tell by the look in your eyes that you were pleading with him to accept it. you didn't have to beg him - well. maybe he'd like that, in other circumstances. however, not now, not for this.

a small smile spread across his lips at your last words. a home. he'd made someone feel like they were home, and that was enough of a gift for azriel. several times since meeting you, he'd felt as though his heart was swelling uncontrollably, growing beyond the confines of his chest. like you were somehow nurturing and tending to it. this was one of those times.

he reached a scarred hand towards the box, taking it from you gently. "y/n," he traced the bow with his fingers, slowly tugging the ribbon apart. "you really, really didn't have to do this. i just wanted you to be comfortable here, with us," he flicked his soft eyes towards yours, and you were doing that thing you did when you were nervous - fiddling with your fingers. he wanted to grab your hands then, run his lips along your knuckles, kiss each fingertip slowly. i will love it no matter what it is, he thought to himself, please don't be so nervous.

you dipped your chin at his words, huffing a small, breathy little laugh. "well, i am, az. comfortable here. with you," you tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, and azriel trembled with the urge to gently place the delicate gift box aside in favor of gently tugging your delicate body towards his instead.

he took a deep breath then, composing himself, as he lifted the lid from the box. inside was a custom-made, silver curb link chain. one that was long enough to rest right in the middle of his clavicle. small, glimmering cobalt blue stones were hand-set throughout - only able to be seen when the light hit them a certain way. but when the light did hit them, they were stunning. the surface of the gems danced with the fragments of light as though they were on fire, alive.

this made him think of you: the light that found his shadows, setting him aflame.

his breath caught in his throat, and he lifted the chain from the silk pillow that it rested on. he loved it. absolutely, wholeheartedly, loved it. it was powerful-looking, strong. the best gift he ever remembered receiving.

now, you'd be lying if you said this present wasn't also - maybe, sorta kinda - for your benefit. his strong, tanned neck hugged by a silver chain? gods. okay, yeah, this was slightly indulgent on your part.

but, in your defense, azriel had begun sporting silver signet rings on several of his elegant fingers. you thought a similarly-fashioned chain would tie the look together nicely. this was just a product of your own observant nature. really, that's all it was.

...

azriel let out an exhale of astonishment, meeting your eyes with widened ones of his own.

"this, is - i mean. beautiful. this is - thank you," he breathed out, setting the now-empty box, and the book he'd been cradling under his arm, down beside you. he gently began working at the clasp of the chain, his movements so careful, you could tell he was trying his hardest not to break it - ruin it.

you stood up before him, taking a step so that you were right in front of his towering frame. "here," you whispered, tenderly taking the chain from his hands. you unclasped it with ease, standing on your tip-toes to reach behind his neck - wanting to place it on him. he ducked his head for you politely, allowing you to see what you were doing a bit better.

you were so close to him, and with his head ducked down towards you, his chin was nearly resting on your shoulder. you fought every instinct within your body that was screaming at you to move closer, breathe deeper, inhale his scent, touch him.

but you didn't. you held your composure, clasping the necklace around his neck - making sure to be careful of his wings.

azriel had his eyes closed, also fighting similar urges of his own. he wanted so badly to rest his face within the crook of your neck, wrap his arms around the middle of your back, tug you into him.

two lovesick idiots, silently pining for the other.

necklace now adorning his neck, you stepped back. azriel stood to his full height once more, and he peered down at you with a gaze that he fought to keep friendly - instead of one that screamed complete adoration.

"well," he croaked out, swallowing thickly. your eyes darted to the movement, watching his adam's apple bob beneath the silver jewelry.

you were fucked.

"how's it look?", he continued, his hand reaching towards his neck to trace the smooth, curbed chain.

it was your turn to swallow hard, which of course, he noticed. he fought a smirk, especially when he witnessed your cheeks growing hot.

you pursed your lips together, trying your best to think of a response that wasn't akin to a dog barking.

"it's -," you sighed thoughtfully, smiling warmly up at him, "you look very handsome," you stated playfully, hooking a finger underneath the chain, tugging him towards you lightly.

he faltered for a moment, almost stumbling into you. not because of your light tug, but because of your words. handsome. he loved that compliment - was one of his favorites. however, the one bit of praise that always sent him to his knees was being called pretty.

"so pretty, az," you whispered again, seemingly more to yourself than to him, eyes caught on his neck.

okay, so now azriel was fucked.

a/n: okay, i think this was my favorite installation of this series so far. i'm giggling and kicking my feet, and i'm the one writing it lmfao. azriel is making me WEAK, i need to lay down now. let me know what you think! thank you for reading <3

tag list: @stressed-reader @vhjlucky13 @scarsandallaz @victory-salads @weirdo-fun @topaz125 @mrsjna @lovegoodlunaa @lilah-asteria @andreperez11 @luna9876 @kennedy-brooke

let me know if you'd like to be added!

#acotar #azriel #azriel acotar #azriel fic #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #azriel imagine #azriel x you #azriel drabble

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sleepynoons · 4 months ago

Text

Underneath the Surface

As an attendant for the first Harbinger, Il Capitano, you work to maintain his household in Snezhnaya, though you can still only admire him from afar. But that distant reverence changes completely when you are offered another role that goes beyond your day-to-day and allows you to share a bond with him that no one else knows the true nature of. This is a dream come true, of course, but what happens when the dream ends? When will it end? And what will you do after it ends?

ooc!capitano x afab!f!reader, nsfw, 18+

word count: ~4,600

cw: power imbalance + unhealthy relationship dynamics, dom/sub dynamics, sadism/masochism, pain kink, knife kink, praise kink, predator/prey, ownership + master, use of other sharp objects (claws), temperature play, graphic descriptions of blood/injuries/bruises/pain/etc., sensory deprivation (blindfold), mentions of death + murder

notes: ok i know everyone is head over heels for capitano because big looming man + the mask and cape stay on during sex ikik i get it, but what if our captain had... a dark, serious, + slightly twisted personality? bc i imagine, in canon, for someone so committed to his work and the tsaritsa, his sense of justice and overpowering physical strength could prevent him from making rash decisions like being in a relationship with another... anyway, my take on capitano! tysssssm to @staraxiaa for beta-reading and letting me yap away in our discord <33 lena, could not have churned this out any earlier if it were not for your enthusiasm and hypnosis. ily queen. anyway, hope y'all enjoy!

THE HALLS are still, silent aside from the occasional clanking of metal weaponry. All of the soldiers and attendants are holding their breaths, anticipating for what is to come. You, too, wait, immobile, on the edge of your chair in front of the vanity. You avoid your reflection in the mirror, but appearances are of utmost importance, so you busy yourself by repeatedly smoothing the pleats of your silk nightgown.

It has been two long months since you have fallen back into this routine: waking before sunrise, dressing with your finest gowns and lingerie, and awaiting his instruction throughout the day. Of course, you still behave in an appropriate manner befitting of his grace when he is not around, but there is no need to impress. Not many are aware of the nature of your agreement with him, anyway.

A soldier’s call can be heard from outside your window, a signal of his grace’s arrival from the accompanying blare of a horn. You suck in a sharp breath, pursing your lips as you hold, before exhaling completely. You have half an hour.

Making your way around his chamber, you go about your final checks. He has always been particular with the way things should be, his sense of justice and discipline underlying and interweaving with every aspect of his own life. You blow away specks of dust from his bookshelves, tie the chiffon of the bed canopy curtains to their posts, and return your makeup on the vanity back to a pouch, not before dabbing on a bit more powder and curling your eyelashes once more.

The half hour passes quickly, and you rush to stand by the door as you hear the heavy thuds of his boots approach. You bow your head and curtsy as he steps in. It is important that you do not look at him until he permits. He does not greet you, simply strides over to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, heading to his closet farther beyond.

You sigh with relief. He did not take you immediately.

The next step of the routine is to wait for him to change. Beyond the door, you hear the faint rustle of heavy fabric hitting the floor, silver and bronze embossings clicking against sharp nails, and the occasional low grunt. You would assist him if you could, but no one has seen him without his fur coat and mask. You consider yourself lucky to have seen him without his cloak, but you, too, have never witnessed his visage. It is strange, though. As per your contract, you are supposed to help him with such tasks. Shrugging, you figure there is no need to hypothesize. You would never dare to act like you understand his grace and how he thinks and acts.

If he still does not speak to you when he returns, the burden falls on you to initiate.

You watch as the door handle twists before the door swings open. Instinctively, you lower your gaze and nod your head once in greeting. Pausing a beat, you give him a chance to speak if he wants. But he does not.

“Your grace,” you say.

He walks over to you, standing in front of where you sit on the edge of his bed. A gloved hand rests on the crown of your head – firm, cold. It traces the shape of your skull, sliding down to your ear, sharp metal claws scraping against the cartilage and the tender skin of your neck. He continues along the path of your jawline before holding your chin between his index finger and thumb. You are still looking downwards, only able to see up to his clothed forearm. Holding you steady, he appraises you and the effort you put into yourself. You try to relax under his gaze, not as an act of defiance or resistance but rather as a demonstration of your trust and loyalty in him. His grace knows best, after all. His criticism is guidance, only out of best interest for you, his praise gospel, miraculous stories to pass down for generations.

He hums. It is a deep, satisfied rumble.

“Well done,” he praises, releasing his hold. “I am relieved to be back.”

It is not often that his grace is content. He is rarely appeased with his own efforts. Naturally, you feel a sense of giddiness, a shiver of delight threatening to shake up your still frame. You even notice an urge of want for him, hoping that he would pay just a little more attention to the way you did your hair or the new perfume you are wearing or how the color of the night gown compliments the curves and rolls of your body. A stroke of luck, you think, to keep your dangerous emotions at bay. You must reflect on tonight and emulate what went well going forward.

Before you can relay your gratitude to your captain, he continues to speak. “I would like to try something different tonight.”

He pulls a wide silk scarf out from his pocket and wraps the navy fabric around your head, thereby obscuring your vision. The lack of light in the room, along with the dark shade of the blindfold, make it impossible for you to see anything beyond the faint silhouette of your hands as you stretch them out in front of you to test the opacity of the silk. But this is nothing out of the ordinary.

You startle as he splays his palm on your back and slides an arm underneath your legs. He picks you up, as if you are but a mere feather, and repositions you so that you are lying down on the bed.

“It will hurt. Will you be able to take it?” he asks. Void of his usual assertiveness, he is shedding his role of a Harbinger, melting into a simple person who wants his desires fulfilled. He is speaking to you with caution and respect, fulfilling his end of his contract, as your master, your owner, to ensure that tonight’s experience will be pleasurable for you as well. However, you know the power and strength he holds beyond the walls of his bedroom will never fully escape your conscience. It is your obligation to protect yourself from dire harm, but you cannot deny him the opportunity to experiment, in fear of retaliation and punishment.

You reply, “How painful?”

The bed dips beside your hip, and you feel the leather of his glove rub into your thigh.

“I will use my gloves and a knife.”

Scared or excited, you cannot tell. At his words, you become acutely sensitive towards the feel of his gloved hand as he continues to glide it up and down your leg. You can almost taste the steely, icy sting of his claws digging into the fat of your thigh, breaking the skin just enough for beaded crimson to trickle, not enough to scar permanently.

“Your grace, is this a punishment?”

“Not at all.” His hand travels farther up and pushes the lace trim of your nightgown aside to reveal your underwear underneath. He pulls at the ribbons at the side, slowly untying the thong, as he chuckles, “It is a reward, for your effort and time.”

The praise is doing wonders to you. You feel dizzy, light, and hot in the head, and the pulsing in your core intensifies, your hole fluttering and throbbing in tandem with the escalating rate of your heartbeat. Even though you cannot see, you can almost sense him smiling, perhaps at the wetness that is spotting your underwear or possibly even the state of your whole being, showing his understanding of and command over your body.

The latter seems likely as he presses his claws into your skin, as if to counter and neutralize your raging internal inferno. The cold shocks the nerves at the juncture where your hip connects to your leg, where the ribbon of your panties used to be tied at.

“I will start easy,” he explains. To demonstrate, he curls his fingers and pushes, channeling all of the pressure into the tips of his claws and persists until they shallowly latch into your skin. You squirm, jump, and whimper at the pain. It hurts more than you had expected, though you really had no point of comparison in the first place. You continue to shudder as he holds his fingers in place, probably gauging your reaction.

“Th-that is alright,” you manage to stammer. The pinch may be harsh, but it does not draw blood or bring tears to your eyes, simply a scraping of the surface of your skin. You can withstand a little more, you reassure yourself. This is your reward. Without a word, he moves his hands back down to your thighs and scratches your right.

The motion is fast, clean. In fact, your body and mind do not react to the two long, slanted cuts he leaves, the blood only spilling milliseconds after the damage has been done. The pain comes even later. At first, you feel nothing, and even the thin streams of blood flowing out of the wounds only leave a wet sensation on your otherwise untainted legs. But then, the stinging comes, akin to that of an unexpected paper cut. Except, with each passing second, it gets worse, as if the paper cut is being pulled along and extended, and your leg strains against his hold to move, to distract itself from the harm inflicted. Crimson is sure to be leaking from the full length of the cuts, and at the back of your throat, you can almost taste the coppery scent of oxidizing iron.

When he moves to repeat the same onto your other leg, you bite the inside of your cheek to prepare for the incoming pain. Part of your role is to adapt quickly, and in this case, you have to sense and react to his grace’s next steps immediately. The chiseled points of his nails cut through your skin like a large kitchen knife slicing through even the toughest of ingredients – precise, swift, ignorant of any and all resistance.

You have never gone this long with just pain, let alone be deprived of one of your senses. Nights with his grace are inevitably bound to be painful, but in his own way, he softens the blows and plows of his roughness and aggression by pleasuring your body.

Your first morning after, you woke up unable to feel anything past your waist. Throughout the night, to show you just exactly what you were getting yourself into, he forced you to reach peak after peak after peak as a test of your endurance, stamina, loyalty. Though, you were more shocked to see the purpling bruises encircling your ankles and wrists, as if his grace had used cuffs on you. But he had not. Those bruises were entirely inflicted by his tight hold on you, shackling you down as you thrashed and kicked and instinctively attempted to escape, serving the same purpose in chaining your life and mercy to his will.

One’s ideals – justice – will always come at the cost of another’s freedom – autonomy.

But you are not opposed to such limitations. Out of all of the Harbingers, you are endlessly grateful that it is his grace who is your leader. Even though he may not be your direct master beyond the clauses of your contract, he is dutiful and considerate towards those who swear an oath to his name. You come from a family of Fatui soldiers, some of the best and the brightest, many trained under the watchful supervision of his grace, so from birth, you have been taught to idolize him. But to have your idol recognize you? Speak to you? Bed you? Unheard of, and to this day, you are not sure why he chooses you, time and time again. You cannot even fathom how he knows of you – a simple, one-of-several attendants who maintain his mansion of a home under the instruction of the head butler.

The nature of your contract with him is simple. (His grace often comments how he much prefers the dealings of the Liyuen people, how quick they are to draw up agreements and negotiations, compared to the conniving nature of some of his colleagues.) Whenever he returns, you shall take care of his personal desires and wants, as he will with yours. You are to fully commit yourself to him, trust in his intuition to know how to treat you accordingly, and he expects you to reciprocate, to satisfy him to the best of your abilities.

Your role is not as physically taxing as it is mentally laborious. His grace is rarely home – you recently heard he has a surge of dealings in Natlan that require his attention –, so your body is not under constant stress. However, when you are with him, you behave as if every night together is a performance review, a test of your memory, if you remember how to overcome your instincts to hold your body still enough in place, if you remember the way he gravitates towards elegant silk dresses and kimonos, if you remember that he will never apologize but will wrap gauze around your wounds when you are asleep.

You know you are expendable. As soon as you fail to satisfy him, he could – will – discard and replace you. While he has never outright pressured you, you know his grace is assessing you as well. But you cannot help but wonder – hope – that there is something about you – something so intrinsic and bespoke about you – that explains why, even in your failings, he will not let you go. You are sure there are faults that lie in you that you cannot see, that he will see. Yet, because you have not been let go, you wonder if he is alright with slight imperfections because it is no one other than you.

Regardless, you must not be too full of yourself. That is a cardinal sin with respect to his grace’s values. The strong become the weak as soon as they overestimate themselves, he would often preach.

You are brought back by a building pressure at your ankles. You raise your head to look down, to no avail. But you can feel his gloves, now slightly warm from being in contact with your body, wrapping themselves around your protruding bones, tighter and tighter, the chains locking with finality. There is a buzz in your toes from the constriction of circulation, and you bite on your lower lip to prevent yourself from whining at the bruising grip he has on you. You count beats in your head, seconds not true to time, muddled by the exhilarated racing of your heart, foolishly trying to distract yourself by examining his grace’s behavior instead. How long will he hold for? How long does it take to leave stubborn bruises that will remain for at least three days? Is it supposed to hurt this much?

But all of those questions and concerns do not matter anymore as soon as he speaks. “I was right in choosing you.”

As if his affirmation was not enough, he releases your legs and moves up the bed to embrace you. Winding his arms around you, he lifts you a margin off the bed so that your chests touch, your silk against his thick black wool. One of his hands then comes up to cradle the back of your head, gently brushing and patting you, almost like he is lulling you to sleep. You melt, and you have never felt such a strong urge to wrap him in your own arms.

Perhaps you can be a bit greedy tonight? Throwing caution to the wind, you mumble, “Y-your grace, may I…?”

His approving hum makes your heart trill with joy. To avoid any mishaps, you place your hands on his arms, following their sturdy build until you reach his shoulders. From here, your fingertips can brush against his flowing black hair. It is coarse and thick, and you muster all of your willpower to resist the urge to run your hands through the locks.

As if reading your mind, he says, “You can touch my hair, if you so wish.”

“That was not my intention,” you reply, fighting the smile threatening to bloom on your face.

He insists by leaning closer to you, so that you are forced to feel the front, shorter strands of his hair poke at your exposed clavicles. You can even argue that you can feel his breath from here, but then again, does his grace breathe? Is he man or monster? (Benefactor or foe?)

“I shall resume.” And he proceeds to grab you at the waist, gripping you as tightly as he did to your ankles, and you feel the same pressure building within you. But you can hold on longer, after all. This is a reward.

He pushes the silk dress all the way up to your neck and exposes your upper body. As your body tenses in response to the cold, he pokes at the goosebumps appearing on your skin, as well as uses the tip of a nail to trace your areolae, centimeters away from your perked nipples. He circles them for two eight-counts, slow and drawling, before suddenly pinching and tugging at them. You yelp – an unintended mistake – and arch your back. He is still clothed, and the metal buttons and chains of his blazer dig into your skin for the briefest of moments, eliciting another wave of shudders from you.

And the worst of the pain comes. He gives one last pinch to your nipples before moving his hands to your sides where your rib cage lies right underneath. He rubs his thumbs over the bump of each bone, gliding his fingers back and forth, perpendicular to the way your bones curve inwards to protect your insides. You do not know this, but he is searching, identifying where he will lay his wreckage next, between which ribs to leave his trace. Then, he curls his claws into you, a bone or two below your breasts, and sinks them into you, slowly wounding you parallel to the slanted direction of your cage.

It is unbearable. There is no way to prevent yourself from screaming and sobbing. Tears drench the blindfold within seconds, and you can only distract yourself by tightening your embrace around his neck and digging your own nails into your forearms to somehow transfer the pain elsewhere, overwhelm your brain so that it cannot perceive the full extent of the damage being done to your chest. Otherwise, you can only hope that his grace is understanding and allows you to wail at the gashes he is leaving.

And what about appearances? Surely, your body will be marred from tonight and may not ever fully erase the signs of tonight’s activities.

You freeze. Your blood chills. Physical pain dims and recedes to the back of your mind.

Appearances… do matter. If you dared to come up with any reason as to why his grace has chosen you, it would only be sensible to conclude that it is because of the way you look, no? Prior to your first night together, you had never interacted with him before – he did not even present the contract for this partnership to you – the head butler did! Therefore, there is no possibility that his grace knows you well, aside from direct reports from the head butler and, perhaps, passing comments from your family. And he would definitely not choose you for your talents, as you have none.

In fact, the only reason you are in the castle is quite simple. Though you are not disowned by your family, you are not treated as one of them. You were sickly throughout childhood, meaning you could not start training early enough. Even if you had enrolled later on, you would have never been sufficient enough in your capabilities to reach the high official ranks that your family has held onto for decades. Lacking the combat prowess your other siblings, parents, and ancestors have, you will never be able to fulfill your lineage’s mission to the Tsaritsa. Therefore, you had to find other ways to serve the Fatui, and your search led you to his grace’s household.

There is nothing to your person besides a family crest that does not want to claim you and a corporeal weak to the natural winds and storms of Snezhnaya. And, truly, the only thing you have all to yourself is this body of yours, something you can willingly choose to offer as long as it cooperates with you.

Is this it? After he scars and carves and rips you open, not even this anatomy of yours will be yours ever again. Is he to leave his mark on you forever, only to end this arrangement soon after?

Your wails are no longer because of your flesh being torn apart by cold, ruthless hands, hands that know the feel and taste and rotting warmth of blood. Instead, these wails are ones afraid of a future without these hands, these nails that are now also stained with your blood and skin and tears. When he cleans these gloves later, you can only hope the alcohol does not eradicate all of your traces.

He does not stop until the gashes reach the ends of your rib cage.

Taking deep breaths from your mouth, you gasp for air as he pulls away and sits back on his heels to examine your state – spent, covered in spit and blood and cold sweat, many things but your usual demureness.

You are incapable of keeping up such a ruse. You are too exhausted and tortured to even feign obedience. Though, if his grace asked, you would try for him, despite knowing you would barely be able to put on a show. Because for him, you would, without a beat of doubt or hesitation, take on any role if he asked you of it, as long as you can share a private bond with him, one that no else knows the intimate details of.

You hear shuffling, a pocket being pulled open – good, blood stains thread quite stubbornly –, and a quick flick of something clicking into place.

“This will be the last thing I do to you tonight. Raise your arm.”

You do as he says, barely feeling your forearms and beyond. He catches your hand and turns it over so that your palm is facing the ceiling.

The smooth, cool surface is recognizable, even to someone who has not fought in years. He places the flat side of the blade against your skin, letting it soak and adjust to your broiling heat. Once it is warm enough, he makes quick work, making short cuts in various directions around your wrist, over the spot where you take your pulse. As he works, he turns your wrist around as needed. The cuts always sting a bit at first before the sensation of the next being made takes over. You miserably think how you will never be able to marry with the way his grace is etching himself into you.

It does not take long, given how skilled he is.

But the routine has been disrupted, and when he sets your arm down, you are not sure what to do next. Usually, you would be unconscious by now. But you are wide awake, body thrumming and pulsing, sending signals to all the places where your nerves are exposed.

Again, you think back to the same question. Is this supposed to be my reward?

“You will now rest.” His grace’s voice commands, leaving no space for argument.

So you ask, instead of objecting. “And my body?”

“We will leave it as is. I need them to mark.” He enunciates with finality. You are unable to probe further, unable to even get a glimpse of what he means beyond his statements.

You manage to croak, “My apologies, your grace, for failing to restrain myself this evening.”

He only places his hand on the crown of your head, soft smooths and pats, like at the very beginning of tonight, before everything that has since occurred.

Perhaps, what you long for, whether that be his touch or his coldness or his grace himself, is salvation. Someone who can bestow you with a responsibility so you can make yourself useful, find value in your being beyond a last name and damaged flesh. Despite tonight, you still want his grace to be with you, even if that means he devours you whole by the morning. Because you are already indebted to him for your employment. And you now owe him more than ever for permitting you to invade the confines of his space, to be surrounded by everything that is his, to feel him. To be something special is what you deeply, most greedily covet, and you are fearful that, in the near future, you will not be the only person who can say they have seen the captain without his coat on. Because without his grace, what will you become? Who are you? What are you?

Rather than relieve your body of strain through arousal and pleasure, tonight, he provides tepid comfort through the slow tempo of his hand against your head, an intangible poultice against your physical wounds. Inside, you realize that, all along, the reward has been his grace’s direct kindness and generosity towards you. And you tell yourself to enjoy these last remnants of his undivided attention, and fall asleep.

In the morning, you do as planned. Wake early. Bathe in scorching hot water even though it could rot your untended wounds. Dress in a burgundy long-sleeved gown. Prepare your hair and makeup. Pray that this dawn is not the last sunrise you will share with him.

Before you leave the bedroom to greet his grace, who is no doubt already working in his office, you sigh, filled with a deep sense of shame, disappointment, and mourning, though these words are futile in fully grasping all that festers within you.

But the walls of this bedroom know something you do not. And they think you ought to know, as they watch you leave with palpable dejection.

They have seen their owner evolve and age over time. Yet, they have only seen him exhilarated barely a few times – and rarely excited and riled up by the same thing more than twice.

The walls see, hear, smell everything about their owner.

Last night, amidst your cries, his grace was huffing with exertion, pouring effort and energy into your body. His eyes widened, pupils dilated, at the way your body struggled under his hold, yet you only held him closer. Mouth gaped in awe at how you screeched from the pain yet did not fight back even as an animalistic instinct to survive. He was practically leaking bloodlust, or more specifically, a strong urge to claim, overwhelm, overpower you. And he did so, purposely not leaving you bandages on the night table as always so that the wounds would stay intact. These cuts and gashes and tears shall never disappear from your body, and you will never forget the pain he has inflicted upon you. He has engraved himself into you because, while his righteousness and loyalty to the Tsaritsa come first, he will still return to you when he can. And he does not want you to forget that, even if this reminder comes in the form of garish wounds and the delicate traces of a bracelet in your skin.

The walls know why his grace chooses you. What you really should know is how much of an abnormality you really are. And his grace adores that about you.

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