#The Candlelight Tomes

[thenighteternal]

Gelure - The Maiden Under the Twilight Moon

[sprylittleboy]

creating the perfect environment for doing work by playing a spooky theremin mix and apothecary ambient youtube video at the same time

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

List of Random Things For Your Dark Academia Settings | For Writers

The Library 📚

Towering mahogany bookshelves filled with ancient leather-bound tomes

Antique globes and faded maps mounted on the walls

Heavy velvet drapes blocking out the sunlight

Ornate brass reading lamps casting a warm glow

The musty smell of old books permeating the air

The Study 🪶

A large oak desk strewn with papers, quills, and ink bottles

Walls lined with pinned insect specimens and anatomical drawings

An antique typewriter, its keys clacking softly

Stacks of well-worn leather journals and notebooks

A cabinet of curiosities filled with skulls, fossils, and scientific oddities

The Classroom 🎓

Rows of old wooden desks, surfaces scratched with generations of graffiti

A blackboard covered in elaborate chalk diagrams and Latin phrases

Dusty shelves holding jars of formaldehyde-preserved specimens

Antique microscopes and brass telescopes waiting to be used

The tick-tock of a grandfather clock counting down the minutes

The Dormitory 🕯️

A four-poster bed heaped with tattered quilts and faded velvet pillows

Parquet wood floors layered with antique persian rugs

Flickering candles in tarnished silver holders casting dancing shadows

A steamer trunk overflowing with vintage tweeds and wool knits

Tea-stained pages of love letters and poetry scattered on the nightstand

The Secret Society Meeting Room 🗝️

An imposing stone fireplace with Latin phrases carved into the mantel

Worn leather armchairs circled around a low table set with tarnished silver

The air thick with pipe smoke and burning incense

Shelves lined with ancient masks, ceremonial daggers, and dusty alchemical tomes

Shadows dancing on the tapestry-covered walls in the candlelight

[lirotation]

This set is done =D

Putting it together with a fanfic.

Dancing Across Faerûn

Spawn Astarion X Female Tav, fluff. Post game, on the journey to search for a cure.

The aged tome lay open before Amaara. She leaned in, squinting to make out the faded text as the nights blurred together. A promising lead at last began to take shape...

Suddenly, familiar arms encircled her from behind as Astarion's chin came to rest on the top of her head. "Still poring over those dusty books, my dear?" he purred, "It's well past time you retired for the evening."

Amaara waved him off distractedly. "In a moment. I'm so close to..."

Astarion turned her chair around, “Oh, no, eyes on me.”

With a sly wink, he began to unbutton his shirt with exaggerated slowness. Amaara's eyes widened as she realized his intent. Piece by piece, his clothing puddled to the floor until he stood gloriously nude before her.

Then, as only he could, Astarion launched into an impromptu lap dance - swaying his hips and running his hands over his body in a practiced routine that would surely make even the most experienced courtesan blush.

By the time he finished by straddling Amaara's lap and crushing his lips to hers in a searing kiss, any thought of research had completely evacuated her mind. She could only gaze at him with a mixture of desire and exasperated fondness as he broke the kiss with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Bed. Now," Astarion commanded with a husky growl.

"Only if you teach me how to dance like that."

“It’s too advanced for you just yet, my pupil, let's continue your lesson for the horizontal dance first.”

Amaara couldn't help but laugh, even as she allowed him to tug her to her feet.

She knew she had a tendency of being single-minded, rushing headlong into everything as if it were a critical mission. An intense focus that had served her well in battle, but often caused her to neglect the simpler pleasures in life.

She was grateful to have Astarion by her side. He was full of life.  His very presence was a reminder to occasionally pause and truly savor the journey they were on together - not just endure it.

There were the inevitable hardships of life on the road - long days of hard travel, scratching out camps in the wilderness, and more than a few close brushes with dangerous beasts and unsavory folk. But those challenges seemed insignificant compared to the wealth of fond memories.

Amaara's mind drifted back to the spectacle of their first stop in Waterdeep, where Astarion had effortlessly charmed them into one of the city's most exclusive noble's balls. She could still see the look of devilish glee on his face as he bowed deeply and offered his hand. "My lady, would you honor me with this dance?"

Who was she to refuse such gallantry? With an elegant curtsy, she had taken his hand and allowed him to whisk her into a waltz amid the candlelight and champagne. 

For once, she just enjoyed the moment and the swirl of the dance.

Sometimes their travels found them staying in decidedly lower-end dwellings. Amaara vividly recalled one particular evening at a rather disreputable brothel.

She had been casting cleanse spells on everything in the room when the raucous sounds of music and laughter filtered up from the lobby below.

Before she knew it, Astarion was at her side, eyes gleaming with mischief. He grasped her by the wrist, flashing that irresistible smirk. "Shall we dance, my dear?"

Amaara tried to pull back with an awkward laugh. "Oh, I couldn't possibly. I don't know the steps..."

But he simply tsked, refusing to release his gentle grip as he tugged her toward the door. "Then you'll follow my lead."

She didn't have a chance to protest further before he swept her into the rowdy fray below. courtesans and patrons spun energetically to the driving beat. Before Amaara could catch her breath, Astarion pulled her in close, one arm snaking possessively around her waist.

Then, they were moving - his hips rolling sinuously against hers as he guided her into the smoldering rhythms of a tango. She could only gaze up at him, wide-eyed and flustered, as he led her through the heated, intimate steps.

His eyes burned into hers with a look that made her heart flutter. One calloused hand traced tingling lines up the curve of her spine as he dipped her into a deep backbend, bodies melding together. By the time he drew her backup, chest heaving, Amaara's face was flushed bright crimson.

The memory of that dance, of being so utterly undone in his arms, still brought a fierce blush to her cheeks.

Amaara's mind drifted to another fond memory - this one taking place in a small town they had passed through. The townsfolk were in the midst of some local celebration, gathered in the square as lively folk music spilled out into the streets.

She had always harbored a secret longing to join in the kind of unbridled communal dancing she witnessed, but had never had anyone to dance with. This time, however, she turned eagerly to Astarion with an huge grin.

"Oh, will you dance with me, please?" she asked, giving his arm a playful tug. "I've wanted to take part in one of these since I was a little girl."

Astarion raised one elegant eyebrow, “How unsophisticated.” Before her smile faded, he continued, “but how could I refuse such an earnest plea?”

He seized her hand and led them out into the swirling dancers and began leading her through a series of joyfully choreographed turns and circles.

Soon they were whirling amid the crowd, all cares forgotten in that moment. Amaara couldn't resist throwing back her head with a pearl of unfettered laughter, brown locks bouncing freely.

When she turned her bright smile back toward Astarion, she was surprised to find him chuckling as well. His deep crimson eyes sparkled with mirth, face awash in an unguarded expression of pure delight she didn't often see him wear.

Amaara's wandering mind was abruptly pulled back to the present as Astarion rolled them over, pinning her to the bed with his weight. His lips found hers in a deep, searching kiss that made her toes curl.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, she gazed up at him. This passionate lover, this mentor who had taught her to seize life's pleasures with unbridled zeal - had once been subjected to centuries of unspeakable torture and abuse. The fact that he did not merely survive that unimaginable hardship, but emerged with his radiant lust for living defiantly intact, left Amaara in awe. 

She nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his intoxicating scent. Despite the dark horrors he had endured, despite the vampiric curse inflicted upon him, Astarion still embraced each new day as a precious gift. His rich laughter rang out freely and without restraint - the most triumphant of melodies after the dissonance of his past. To him, the scenery unfolding with every winding mile was worthwhile in itself. Each experience, no matter how small, was relished and savored to its fullest.

He is living proof that no burden, no matter how oppressive, could extinguish the indomitable essence of the soul.

Yes, they are on a mission, but there will be no frantic marching or single-minded zeroing toward the end goal. Instead, they will dance every step of the journey, spinning wildly through every rise and fall of the Realms.

[gwens-love]

Haunted by Memories

<-Part 1 ~ Part 3->

Summary: When Agatha’s ghostly presence vanishes without warning, you’re left with an aching emptiness and the haunting suspicion that something powerful has intervened.

Warnings: emotional themes, angst and death (kinda)

Word count: 2.9k

~ghost!Agatha Harkness x reader~

~Rio Vidal x reader~ (kinda)

A/N: Big thanks to @valarmorghuli and @hannah-0730 for the ideas. 🫶🫶🫶

Please don’t copy/steal or translate this work thanks.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

You wake up in a cold sweat, the room dark and heavy with an eerie stillness. The absence of Agatha’s presence settles uncomfortably around you. For days, she had been a constant companion, her playful banter and haunting laughter echoing in your mind. But today, there is nothing.

You sit up, glancing around as if expecting her to materialize in a flicker of movement. The air feels different.. thicker, like a fog settling in, shrouding your senses. You know she can’t just vanish without a trace. Your heart races as confusion washes over you. Why isn’t she here?

Panic begins to seep in, and you clutch at the blanket, staring into the shadows of your room. The stillness presses against you, a suffocating reminder that something is very wrong. Agatha is a ghost, after all, and even the most ethereal beings are bound by forces greater than themselves.

You can’t shake the nagging thought that someone, something has taken notice of the connection you share. The tales of powerful entities that patrol the boundaries between worlds, ensuring that the living and the dead don’t cross too freely, swirl in your mind. Someone must have intervened.

Determined to break the silence, you throw off the covers and rise from your bed. Your heart thrums with a mix of fear and resolve as you pace the room, trying to conjure her image in your mind. Agatha’s mischievous smile, her voice that danced like music in the air, it feels wrong to think of her as gone. You refuse to accept it.

You rush to your desk, littered with old tomes and dusty books that hold secrets of the arcane. Your fingers tremble as you sift through the pages, searching for a spell that can alter fate itself. You scan the pages filled with cryptic symbols, each more frustrating than the last, feeling the weight of time pressing on you. You need to act fast; the longer she’s away, the harder you miss her.

The quiet of the room feels like a mocking reminder of her absence. You can almost hear her voice echoing in your thoughts, urging you to press on. You find a passage that speaks of a ritual, a way to bind the spirit of a ghost to the mortal realm, a means to grant them a semblance of humanity again. The words are a promise, a beacon of hope that flickers in the darkness.

As you begin to gather the ingredients, each one steeped in mystery and requiring your utmost care, you can’t shake the feeling that Agatha is out there, somewhere. You imagine her spirit tangled in shadows, waiting for you to fight for her, to pull her back from whatever has taken her. You hold onto that thought as you prepare for the journey ahead, ready to confront whatever it takes to bring her home.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

You sit cross-legged on the wooden floor, the dim candlelight flickering across the pages of the book laid open in front of you. Scrawled in faded ink, the recipe for binding a ghost to the living realm looks deceptively simple. A bit of grave dust, a vial of moon-kissed water, a tear, and a single strand of your hair are all you need, along with the belief that this will bring her back.

You’ve never felt as alone as you do now. The silence presses in, and with each tick of the clock, Agatha’s absence grows more profound. She’s somewhere out there, you’re sure of it. You just need to find a way to bring her back. The thought drives you forward as you crush dried herbs into the mortar, the smell of sage and wormwood thickening the air.

One by one, you add each ingredient to the small cauldron, murmuring the words the book instructs, your voice a whispered plea that barely breaks the silence. When the last ingredient, a single tear, hits the bubbling potion, you feel a rush of something, a twinge in the air as if an unseen force stirs.

But as the mixture settles, it does nothing. No shimmer, no spark. The potion sits there, dark and still.

“Come on…” you whisper, leaning closer, willing it to work. You wait, heart pounding, but the liquid remains stubbornly inert. Frustration claws at you as you stir the potion, the mixture swirling but offering nothing back.

“Please,” you murmur, almost to the shadows. “Agatha, if you can hear me…”

Silence.

A pang of dread twists in your chest, but you force yourself to try again. The spell is complex, and maybe it just needs more time, or maybe you mispronounced something. You start over, grinding the ingredients with renewed intensity, almost willing the magic into existence with sheer desperation. The room fills again with the scent of crushed herbs, the flicker of candlelight, the sounds of whispered incantations.

But even after repeating it perfectly, nothing happens. The potion lies lifeless, mocking your efforts.

You slump back, staring at the mixture with disbelief, a bitter feeling creeping into your heart. If this doesn’t work, if magic itself is resisting you, then what chance do you have? You swallow the lump in your throat, hands shaking as you close the book.

Tonight, your faith has been tested, and it’s the first time you’ve felt the terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, bringing Agatha back won’t be as simple as a spell.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The days blend together in a blur of failed attempts and raw frustration. You brew the potion over and over whisper the chants until your throat feels torn, grind herbs until your hands are numb, add everything you can think of to make it work. But every time, it’s nothing. Just silence, thick and suffocating, filling the room like a fog that refuses to lift.

Agatha is gone, and each night that passes without her feels like a weight sinking deeper into your chest. You replay your last moments together, searching for any sign, any hint, any reason why she hasn’t come back. The house is cold, empty, her laughter replaced by the relentless ticking of a clock that mocks your impatience. You’d give anything to hear her voice, feel her presence again, but all you get are the hollow echoes of your own whispers.

Tonight, after yet another failure, you slump over the table, barely able to keep yourself upright. Your hands tremble as they clutch the edge of the table, and you fight to keep tears from spilling over. She’s slipping further away, and the potion, the one thing that might bring her back, is just beyond your reach.

Then, in the dark silence of your house, there’s a sharp, unexpected knock on the door. The sound makes you flinch, your heart pounding as you look up. No one visits this late, especially not now, when you’re lost in the depths of grief and desperation. You force yourself to your feet, dragging yourself to the door as your mind spins with half-formed thoughts and warnings.

When you open it, the figure standing there is almost a shadow, her silhouette harsh against the dim light. She’s tall and dark, her clothes layered and flowing, like wisps of smoke captured in fabric. Her gaze is sharp, too knowing, almost like she can see through you, and she doesn’t bother hiding the way her lips curl into a faint, dangerous smile.

“Miss Y/N,” she says smoothly, her voice low and rich, each word soaked in an accent that feels as ancient as it is foreign. Her eyes flash with something unreadable. “You’ve been busy.”

You swallow hard, but there’s an ache in your throat, too raw to hide. “Who… who are you?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, stepping forward without permission, her shadow swallowing the room’s faint light. The scent of herbs and incense wraps around you, thick and heady. “Rio Vidal,” she says, her smile growing as if she’s savoring some private joke. “And I understand you’re seeking… help.”

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The dim candlelight flickers across the kitchen as you stare down at the ingredients scattered across your countertop. Dried herbs, glass vials, and powders lay in an array that feels almost like a taunt. None of this makes sense to you, none of it did, really, until Rio showed up and started guiding you through the ritual, her tone filled with a patience that you can’t help but feel is undeserved.

Rio stands close by, watching you with her arms crossed, her dark eyes narrowed in scrutiny and something else, something you’re not sure you trust. She’s been coming by almost every evening since that first visit, showing up in your life as though she was meant to be here all along. And tonight, like always, her presence is unnervingly steady.

“Add the thyme,” she says softly, her voice pulling you from your spiral of self-doubt. “Crush it into a powder.”

You pick up the leaves, your hands unsteady. “Like this?”

She leans forward, her fingers brushing yours to guide them as you work the mortar and pestle. Her touch lingers, warm and sure, and you feel a heat rush up to your cheeks. It’s distracting, and that doesn’t make this process any easier.

“Yes,” she murmurs, her gaze focused on the task at hand. “Careful… gentle. You want it to release the oils, not turn to dust.”

You nod, though you’re not entirely sure what she means. You’re so out of place here, and she knows it. It’s hard not to feel like a fraud, fumbling through every step. “I… I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

Her gaze sharpens, and she straightens, her fingers leaving yours, almost reluctantly. “Magic isn’t about being born with it,” she says, her tone low, but there’s a hint of something comforting beneath her words. “It’s about intent. And I’d say you have more of that than most.”

You look up at her, surprised by the unexpected softness in her gaze. For a moment, you think you see something else there something warm, maybe even affectionate. But it vanishes quickly, hidden behind her usual careful expression.

“I don’t know… I don’t want to mess it up,” you admit, voice barely a whisper.

Rio watches you for a moment, and then she steps closer, so close you can feel the steady warmth radiating from her. “You won’t,” she says quietly. “Not with me here.”

The words hang between you, heavy with a promise you’re not sure you can believe. But there’s something in the way she’s looking at you now, something almost… protective, like she can see straight through all your doubts and fears and still wants to be here.

You feel your heart race, a mixture of nerves and something else… a strange, reluctant hope. Rio’s hand reaches out, brushing your shoulder lightly, and you catch a hint of hesitation before she pulls back, her lips pressing into a faint smile.

“Again,” she says, voice softer this time, almost gentle. “Let’s try again.”

And so you do, focusing on her voice, on her presence as she walks you through each step, her patience somehow unwavering. With each repetition, each quiet reassurance, your doubts don’t vanish entirely, but they feel a little smaller. And maybe it’s not the potion that’s starting to work, it’s her.

You grind the herbs, their scent drifting into the air, but there’s a question gnawing at you, one you can’t ignore anymore.

“Why are you doing this?” It slips out before you can stop it, quieter and more vulnerable than you intended.

Rio’s hand hesitates over the next ingredient, her fingers tensing as she considers you. “Helping you?”

You nod, fixing your gaze on the crushed herbs in the mortar, trying to steady the flutter in your chest. “You barely know me, yet you keep coming back here, night after night, teaching me something I can barely understand. Why?”

For a moment, Rio is silent. Her dark eyes search yours, as if weighing how much to say. When she finally speaks, her voice is soft, barely a murmur. “You needed help. And… I have my own reasons.”

Her words hang in the air, vague but heavy. They’re not enough, and the doubt gnaws deeper. Why is she here, really? This quest to bring Agatha back was supposed to be yours, wasn’t it?

“What reasons?” You hate how wary you sound, like you’re scared to know the truth.

Rio’s gaze slips to the table, her fingers tracing invisible patterns across the wood. “There are… things I want back in this world too.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, as if admitting it out loud costs her something. For the first time, you see her differently no longer the confident witch, but someone harboring a pain she’s too proud to name.

The realization hits you like a chill, and you press your lips together, afraid of what you’ll say next. But the question is already forming, raw and unsteady. “Is this about Agatha?”

She flinches, just slightly, but it’s enough. She looks away, her face tense with an emotion she won’t let you see. “Agatha’s gone,” she says, her voice rougher than before. “And until she returns… if she can return…” Her words drift off, leaving a silence thick with everything she hasn’t told you.

The truth settles in slowly. She’s not just here for you. She’s here because she’s lost something too… because Agatha’s absence is a wound she can’t heal on her own. This magic, this shared desperation, it’s all tied to the ghost of someone you both loved.

“Then… why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is barely a whisper, and you’re not sure if you want an answer.

Rio looks at you, and for the first time, her expression is unguarded, almost pleading. “Because I needed you to believe in this. To believe in yourself, and not just do this because of me.” Her voice trembles, raw and vulnerable. “I can’t do this alone, but you can… with my help of course.”

She tried to soften the blow, but the words settle over you, heavy and strange, like a secret you were never meant to know. But you find yourself nodding, the ache in her voice echoing in your own heart. There’s a strange comfort in it, a feeling that makes you steady your shoulders and meet her gaze.

“Then let’s try again,” you say, and though your voice is small, it’s steady. “For Agatha.”

Rio’s gaze softens, her lips curving into the faintest smile. “For Agatha,” she echoes, her voice carrying a note of something bittersweet and resolute.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

One day you became curious again “Why do you need me, exactly?” You question with doubt in your eyes.

The question hangs in the room, heavy as the shadows that seem to cling to every corner. You’re still kneeling on the floor, herbs scattered around you, remnants of failed attempts and shaky magic. The words left your mouth before you fully thought them through, but now they linger, filling the silence with something unspoken and raw.

Rio doesn’t look at you right away. She busies herself with rearranging the vials on the table, her hands moving with careful precision, though you can see her fingers tremble slightly. Finally, she glances over her shoulder, her dark eyes glinting in the dim light.

“Because you’re the only one who truly believes Agatha can come back.” Her voice is calm, but there’s a weight to it, like she’s confessing something she never wanted to say out loud.

You frown, taken aback. “You’re a witch, Death herself, right? You could bring back anyone if you wanted to. So why… why do you need me?”

She hesitates, and you can see the walls go up again, that flicker of vulnerability she’s so desperate to hide. When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet, almost reluctant. “Magic like this… it’s not just about power. It’s about intent. Desire. You’re bound to her in ways I never was. You… have something I don’t.”

You blink, taken aback by her words. All this time, you’d assumed Rio was guiding you out of pity, maybe even obligation. But now, hearing her say that it’s your connection to Agatha that matters, it leaves you with a strange, hollow ache.

“But I’m not a witch. I can barely understand half of what you tell me to do. What if I mess it up? What if… what if this all goes wrong because I’m too weak?” You don’t mean for the last words to sound so broken, but they do, slipping out before you can stop them.

Rio turns to face you fully now, her eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. “You think power is all that matters in magic? It’s not. You doubt yourself because you think you’re lesser without the title, but titles don’t bring people back.” Her voice softens, and there’s a tenderness there that catches you off guard. “You were enough for her once. That connection between you, it’s stronger than any spell.”

Her words settle over you, and for a moment, the room feels warmer, like the walls are pulsing with the life that once filled them. But it’s fleeting, and the doubts creep back in, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. “And if it doesn’t work?” you whisper.

Rio’s gaze holds steady, but there’s something fierce in it now, something you can’t quite place. “Then we’ll try again. As many times as it takes.”

“For Agatha?” You say in a small voice, she replied with her own much sturdier one, and an affirming nod “Yes, for Agatha.”

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

<3

[frankcastleonlyfans]

𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐍𝐃

pairing: aemond targaryen x daemon's daughter!oc (dad!daemon targaryen x mom!reader au)

summary: with the help of her soon-to-be husband, alyssa discovers a secret about her mother.

warnings: for better understanding you should read the how I met your brother oneshot. pure fluff honestly

author's note: based off this ask i received A LONG TIME AGO OMG IT HAS BEEN YEARS 😭 i hope u can still read this, nonnie... this is really short sorry but i really like it and i hope y'all enjoy.

reblogs, feedbacks and likes are appreciated. support your content creators 💓 please leave a comment if you like my work, and enjoy your reading.

dad!daemon x mom!reader au masterlist

· ┈┈┈┈┈┈ · ༓ ༓ · ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ·

In the expansive library of the Red Keep, the soft glow of candlelight danced across the rows of ancient books and scrolls. Alyssa Targaryen sat at a large wooden table, her silver hair arranged neatly as she pored over an old, leather-bound tome. Beside her, Prince Aemond Targaryen, her soon-to-be husband, flipped through a stack of documents with focused interest.

Alyssa had been intrigued by the history of House Martell for some time. Today, she was deep into a volume detailing the lineage and achievements of Dorne’s great families. Her lilac eyes scanned the pages with a growing sense of curiosity.

A couple days before that moment, her brother Maegon was telling her story their uncle and father had told him, about the day their father, Daemon, had met their mother, Lady Y/N. A fun fact about the story that her brother relates, is that old and sick Viserys, shares some hints on the dornish heritage of the Lad-, no, Princess Y/N. Daughter to Qoren Martell, the Prince of Dorne and Lord of Sunspear, something that neither Alyssa or her brothers had knowledge of.

She knew better than to question her mother about that. And when she tried to talk to her dad about it, he had dismissed her saying that she should be asking Y/N.

Now, the bookworm couple were trying to find some vestige of Y/N's heritage and family history in some of the scrolls and books at the grand library.

“Aemond,” Alyssa said suddenly, her voice breaking the quiet, “look at this.”

Prince Aemond looked up from his reading, his lavander eye curious. “What is it, Alyssa?”

"I think I've found something," Alyssa’s fingers traced a family tree she had uncovered in the book. “this here—Nymeria, the Rhoynar Princess. And look, her descendants...”

Aemond leaned closer, his interest piqued.

Alyssa’s gaze was fixed on the page, her voice trembling slightly with excitement. “I’ve been following the lineage, and as Nymeria’s bloodline continues through House Martell, look–”

Her finger moved further down the tree, connecting to her mother's name, under Qoren Martell's, the Prince of Dorne. “This is my mother’s father... Maegon wasn't lying, she truly is a dornish princess!”

Alyssa frowns, trying to understand why anyone had never mentioned that fact to her or her brothers before, or why didn't her mother went by the "princess" title anymore.

Aemond looked at her with a mixture of surprise and understanding. “It appears so. You’ve uncovered a significant piece of your heritage.”

"Why would they cover this from us? From me? She..." Alyssa chuckled, remembering her childhood, "My mother knew how much I used to admire Queen Visenya when I was younger, and how I wanted to be a warrior like her. And now... I discover I'm a descendant to Nymeria Martell. I'm connected to her legacy."

Alyssa’s expression was a mix of awe and determination.

Aemond reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder, caressing her skin with his thumb. “And you are right to be proud. Nymeria was a great leader and warrior. I could say you are the best of both worlds, my sweet.”

Alyssa’s eyes sparkled with a new sense of purpose. "This knowledge... it gives me the strength to forge my own path. I want to do something great, Aemond. I want to be someone known..." she murmured, looking up to her betrothed's orbits.

As they continued to study the ancient texts, Aemond could see the resolve in Alyssa’s eyes. He knew that this newfound knowledge would empower her in ways he had not yet fully understood.

“Perhaps,” Aemond suggested thoughtfully, “we should learn more about the Martell history together. There’s much we can draw from it. Maybe one day we could visit the place so you could meet your grandsire.”

Alyssa grinned to his thoughtful proposal, but snickered humorously “And we'd fly to Dorne? Perhaps we could spend some time there after our wedding. I think they wouldn't mind seeing Vhagar again.” She joked as they both laughed.

As they continued their research, the bond between them deepened, strengthened by their shared pursuit of knowledge and the powerful heritage that now united them. In the quiet of the library, Alyssa and Aemond found not just historical connections but a profound sense of purpose and partnership, ready to face the future together.

[r0ugesun]

Can you write about a witch reader × aemond? Like he was lost after a battle of God eyes in the wood and then he found the reader, and then she help him with his wounds?

Thank you so much for your request. I apologize for the delay, and I appreciate your patience. I hope this meets your expectations :>

(Also shout out @moonstruksandco for helping me with this she’s my irl wife my moon and muse❤️)

Witch!Reader x Aemond Targaryen

No warnings

Synopsis: After a fierce battle above the gods eye, a wounded Aemond finds refuge with Y/N, a reclusive witch, who offers healing in exchange for something that will help guard the forest. They find solace amid the chaos of the ongoing war.

“You have lived too long uncle”

“On that much we agree.”

The battle above the God’s Eye was a clash of beasts, dragons roaring fiercely at their riders’ command. Smoke and flames thickened the air, war cries echoing across the sky like distant thunder.

Vhagar expertly maneuvered around Caraxes, their talons intertwining in a deadly dance. Though old, Vhagar's experience in combat was undeniable, but she struggled against the agile younger dragon. In a swift moment, Caraxes snapped his jaws onto Vhagar’s neck, giving Daemon the chance to leap from his saddle, Dark Sister aimed at Aemond.

But Aemond’s death did not come however, Vhagar twisted and writhed in caraxes grasp until her fire engulfed Daemon, sending him and caraxes into the depths of the lake.

The forest beyond was a twisted labyrinth, ancient trees clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The aftermath of the battle left the land charred, a silent witness to horror. Bloodied and broken, Aemond staggered through the underbrush, pain eclipsed only by the grief in his heart. His mighty dragon vhagar lay dead below the water, her sacrifice weighing heavily on him.

As darkness threatened to consume him, a soft, ethereal glow broke through the shadows. Driven by instinct, Aemond forced himself toward the light.

He stumbled into a secluded glade, where a dilapidated stone house covered in ivy stood, a beacon amid the gloom. The air was infused with the scent of incense and flowers, a sharp contrast to the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh he’d left behind. A lone figure, cloaked in black, tended to a moonlit garden. She turned, her eyes reflecting the light like constellations.

“Who goes there?” Her voice was a haunting melody stern, yet oddly soothing.

Aemond collapsed at the edge of the clearing, vision fading. “...help…me,” he gasped.

The woman crossed her arms, her expression one of clear annoyance. “The spirits always send me their messes to clean up.” she muttered under her breath.

Without a word, she stepped aside and helped him in, though her demeanor was far from welcoming. Aemond staggered into the warmth of the cottage, the scent of herbs and something unidentifiable filling his senses. The woman guided him to a wooden table, but her touch was far from gentle.

“My name is Aemond,” he managed, though his vision was blurring.

She rolled her eyes. “I know who you are, Prince Aemond. I am Y/N. Sit still and don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Aemond watched as she moved around the room, gathering supplies with quick, irritated motions. She mixed herbs with practiced ease, creating a paste that she applied to his cuts and bruises. Her touch, though skilled, was brusque, and the pain began to ebb away under her care despite her apparent displeasure.

Then darkness took him. When he awoke, he found himself in a dim room, shelves lined with mysterious vials and tomes in a language he didn’t recognize. The woman was beside him, applying a green salve. It stung at first but soon numbed his pain.

“You saved me” Aemond rasped.

Her nod was slight, her gaze steady. “Your wounds are grave, but you will not join the Stranger yet. I will heal you.”

He studied her intricate symbols etched into her tunic, her skin shimmering like silver in candlelight. “Who are you? Why are you alone in these woods?”

“I am y/n” she said, her voice edged with irritation. “I tend to the animals. They need me.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed. “You tend to the beasts of the forest? You’re not just a healer, are you? You’re a witch.”

She she looked at him sharply “That’s one name for it. I am whoever the forest needs me to be sometimes a healer, sometimes a protector. And sometimes, something more.”

His expression softened as she unfastened his tunic, revealing deep, angry wounds across his muscular torso.

“These wounds run deep. Can you truly treat them?”

“Trust me” she said, fingers hovering over his scars, her voice unwavering. “The magic flows through me, but it requires something in return.”

Taking a deep breath, he felt the weight of his decision. “Very well. Do what you must.”

Y/n’s fingers grazed his skin, warmth radiating from her touch. “Close your eyes. Breath deep.”

As he obeyed, a surge of energy enveloped him in q blend of warmth and power flowing from her into his wounds. He sensed the whispers of the forest, and for the first time, he allowed himself to believe in something beyond mere survival.

When the healing was done, she stepped back, her eyes searching his. “I need a scale from your dragon” she said, her tone more serious.

His eye snapped open, suspicion and curiosity mingling. “For what purpose?”

“There’s an ancient spell I need to complete” she explained. “One that requires the essence of a dragon. With it, I can enhance my powers and protect this land from the dark forces encroaching upon it.”

He hesitated, the pain of his dragon’s loss still raw. “Vhagar lays at the bottom of the lake, I fear I won’t be able to reach her.”

"Not a problem, I can brew a potion that will grant you the breath of the sea, allowing you to reach her without pause." she replied. “Will you do it?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched as he nodded, the weight of her request heavy on his heart. “I will……I thank you for your help.”

“Come” she said, she gathered her ingredients with practiced grace. the air thick with the scent of herbs and salt Wisps of smoke curled from a small cauldron as she kindled the flame beneath it, the fire dancing in rhythm with her murmured incantations.

She crushed silvery seaweed between her fingers, releasing a shimmer of iridescent essence, and added it to the bubbling brew. Next, she sprinkled in powdered pearls, their luminescence casting a soft glow around the room. As she stirred with a carved wooden ladle, the liquid transformed into a deep azure, swirling like the depths of the lake.

With a final flourish, she dropped in a glimmering shard of moonstone, causing the potion to shimmer and pulse with an ethereal light. “Drink this by the lake, and you shall breathe as easily as the currents flow”

As he left her hut, determination and sorrow fueled his steps. The scale of his recently fallen dragon, an ancient spell, and a witch’s power, this journey was far from over.

With a steady hand, Aemond raised the shimmering potion to his lips, the cool liquid gliding down his throat like a gentle wave. Instantly, a rush of warmth enveloped him, filling his lungs with a strange, invigorating energy.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped toward the water’s edge, the moonlight reflecting off the surface like scattered diamonds. He plunged into the lake, the cool water wrapping around him like a cloak. As he descended, he felt the potion working, granting him the ability to hold his breath as he swam deeper, propelled by determination and the promise of what awaited him below.

As Aemond descended further into the lake’s depths, the water grew darker, illuminated only by the faint glimmer of bioluminescent creatures. Suddenly, he spotted Vhagar, her massive form resting peacefully on the silty bottom, surrounded by a tranquil stillness. Beside her lay his uncle, the visage of his former glory entwined with the majestic shape of Caraxes, their bond transcending even death.

A heavy heart weighed on Aemond as he approached, the sight of Vhagar once a fierce and fearsome beast now appearing serene in eternal slumber. He felt a bittersweet pang of longing, knowing the dragon had once soared the skies with him.

With a quiet determination, he swam closer, carefully reaching out to take a few scales from Vhagar’s side, each one a testament to their shared history. As his fingers brushed against her scales, a profound sense of reverence washed over him, mingling with grief and the echoes of lost love.

Hours later, Aemond returned, a scale from Vhagar in his hand. The witch y/n took it reverently, her eyes softening. “This will do,” she murmured.

Together, they ventured into the heart of the forest, where Y/n began her incantations. The air thickened with magic as she worked, the scale glowing with an otherworldly light. Aemond watched, his heart heavy yet hopeful.

As the spell reached its climax, the forest seemed to come alive. The trees swayed as if in reverence, and a deep, echoing roar filled the air. Vhagar’s spirit emerged, majestic and powerful, her essence blending with the forest. She became its guardian, a spectral presence that would protect the land.

Aemond felt a profound sense of peace. Vhagar was gone, but her spirit lived on, safeguarding the forest. He turned to y/n, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you” he said softly.

She looked up at him, her stern expression softening. “Vhagars sacrifice will not be forgotten. This land is safe now, thanks to both of you.”

Days turned into weeks as Aemond recovered under Y/N’s care. Her initial annoyance with him faded, replaced by a grudging respect and something more tender. They spoke of many things of dragons and magic, of loss and hope. Aemond found himself drawn to her strength and independence, while she began to see the depth of his pain and the vulnerability beneath his warrior exterior.

One evening, as they sat by the fire, Aemond reached for her hand. “You’ve done so much for me… I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

She met his gaze, her eyes soft but still guarded. “You owe me nothing. I did this for the forest….And perhaps, for you as well.”

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Y/N, I’ve come to care for you deeply. More than I ever thought possible.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. “Aemond…our lives are so different. I am bound to my duty to the forest, to its magic. And you… you are a prince, with duties the war isn’t over”

“There’s nothing left for me there” he said, his hand gently cupping her face. “What matters to me is here, with you.”

Y/N closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. The fire crackled softly beside them, mirroring the flame igniting their love. “Then stay” she whispered. “With me.”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss, the spirits of the forest their only witnesses to their new bond. Despite the chaos of the world outside, they found each other, a love as fierce and enduring as the magic that surrounded them.

For the first time in a long time, Aemond felt truly happy.

[sorceresssundries]

The Wizard who Waited

Summary: It is time to go and face the Elder Brain, and Tav stops by Sorcerous Sundries in the hope of saying farewell to Rolan. Let's all just pretend we don't meet him at the high-hall before the battle.

Pairing: Rolan x gn Tav - SFW

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N - This work is inspired by one of George's cameos. Featuring a monologue written by @gender-in-a-blender. I loved it so much that I wanted to create a short story to wrap it in.

'Wait! Before you go, I have something I need to get off my chest. You are without a doubt the most maddening person I have ever met! You are reckless and foolhardy! You put yourself in harm’s way time and time again, and it’s enough to drive a man to insanity... because… You see, I think about you constantly. Wondering where you are, what you’re doing, whether you’re safe. I think about the brief moments of time we’ve had together and how it’s not been enough. How it will never be enough. I know I can’t convince you to stay here with me, safe in this tower, but when this is all over... I want you to come back to me. Please, will you come back to me? Don't answer me right now. Go save the Gods-damned Gate. And if you want this, if you want us... come back to me. I'll be waiting.' - Written by @gender-in-a-blender

It was time.

Night fell, as surely and steadily as it always had. The last blood-red rays of sunlight sank below the skyline of the quaking city, leaving Tav to wonder if they would ever feel its warmth on their skin again. 

There was no time to dwell on it. Blades sharp and spells readied, Tav and their companions made their way through Baldur’s Gate, the night air thick with promise. Whether that promise was of victory or defeat, there was no way of knowing, but the dread Tav felt was so intense they could choke on it. Candlelight flickered in the windows of the houses they passed, and babies cried, hushed by fretful parents unable to soothe them from the now-regular tremors rumbling through the city like shockwaves.

It would all end soon.

In front of Tav stood Sorcerous Sundries, light filtering out from the stained glass of the magnificent domed roof, scattering ripples of blue and orange through the surrounding streets.

Perhaps Rolan was there...

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Tav said to their steel-faced companions. “Let me see if I can get any last-minute supplies…”

They exchanged a knowing glance as Tav headed off.

“Darling, a giant brain is about to split the city apart, is now really the time for this?” Astarion called as Tav made their way over to the wizarding shop. Tav ignored him, as they often did.

“Leave it, Istik. A warrior should be granted a final goodbye to the source of their joy before a battle.” Lae’zel’s usually sharp voice was solemn.

The source of their joy. Was it so obvious?

It was late, and the shop was empty. Only a few enchanted sets of armor clunked around, guarding the precious wares and tomes. Despite its emptiness, the air was ripe with magic, sweet and delicate, like spun sugar and silk. The disappointment of not seeing the new archmage at the front desk busying himself in books was more profound than Tav had thought it would be. He must be in his tower. Perhaps they could leave him a letter, or even a...

“Well, if it isn’t the meddling hero!” Rolan appeared at the top of the stairs. His words were a usual wry quip, but a smile played on his lips, warm and inviting. “What trouble are you in now?” He made his way across to Tav, he looked as beautiful as ever.

Tav saw his gaze rake over their freshly sharpened blade and restless hands. His smile died.

“I…” Tav hesitated, searching for the right words. “We’ve gathered what we need to destroy the Absolute. We’re leaving now.” Tav wanted to say goodbye, but the words didn’t leave their throat.

The truth was, it was more than saying goodbye. Tav had stopped by to commit his face to memory. To count and remember each freckle and burn them so deeply into them that not even death could wipe them away. They were a constellation Tav wanted to map out and carry with them, wherever they went. They wanted to hear his voice one last time, so it would be fresh and colourful in their mind as the world quieted into darkness around them.

They wanted to tell him they loved him, but couldn’t bring themselves to say it.

It wasn’t fair to offer that now, freshly uncovered and full of potential with nowhere to spread out it’s wings. It is a precious thing, deserving more than to be grasped for a fleeting moment only to be let go.

‘I love you’ was a beginning to something that Tav couldn’t offer. 

“Right.” Rolan looked up through the stained dome of the ceiling, up to the stars, and squared his shoulders. “Let me leave a note for Cal and Lia. I’ll grab a few things and then…”

“No!” Tav grabbed hold of his arm in a panic before he could move away. “I need you to stay here.” His face slips further into his familiar frown.

“I can assure you I am perfectly capable of helping, despite what I may have demonstrated so far.”

“I know,” Tav said as calmly as they could, trying to keep the frayed edges of their nerves from knotting into their voice. They couldn’t let him know how frightened they were; it wouldn’t be fair.

“I need you to prepare the artillery. We’ll need it when the time comes.” Tav could see he was torn, clever thoughts dancing just behind his eyes, restless and painful. “Besides, the city will be in trouble and the tower will be the safest place for people looking for shelter. The safest place for Cal and Lia. For you. Please, Rolan. I’ll send a signal for when to fire.”

“Get someone else to send the damned signal! Stay here, if it’s so safe.”

“I can’t.”

“Let the others handle it!”

“Rolan.”

“Why must it be you?! Don’t be so foolish!”

“Rolan…”

“Surely there is someone else out there willing to die for this fucking city.” The air fizzled with his anger. Tav took a deep breath, steadying themselves. 

“Am I allowed to say something now?”

“Not if that something is ‘goodbye’” His voice cracked against that final word.

The world had not been kind to Rolan. Tav couldn’t bear to think about the countless goodbyes he must have endured throughout his life. To Elturel, his family, his friends, and now, to them. The scars of these losses ran deep, each one carving away a piece of his heart. Another challenge was about to come his way, and Tav prayed his would be the last scar Rolan would ever have to bear. He deserved a life of joy with the ones he loved, free to settle into the peace he had fought for. 

The thought of not being there to witness it almost caused Tav to crumble. They could picture it so clearly - Rolan laughing with his siblings, standing in the moonlight at the top of his tower, gazing down at the home he had finally found. It was a vision Tav yearned to be part of, but one they knew they might never see.

They had to leave now, or they would lose the strength to go at all.

“I know what needs to be done, and I have what is needed to do it.” Tav eyes shimmer. “It has to be me.”

They took a step towards him, a hand held out, but Rolan stopped them before they could get close.

“Don’t you dare hug me! I do not want our only embrace to have been as you wave me off on your way to war, leaving me behind like some weepy, heart-wrecked widow.”

A fresh ache stretched out in Tav's chest. Would he really let them leave without at least a hug goodbye? They hadn’t realised how much they had been relying on it.

“The world could end if I don’t go.” Tav said simply.

“Let it” Rolan replied.

The air between them was thick with unspoken words; the soldier who came to say goodbye and the wizard who would not let them. Another rumble shook the walls, and books tumbled from their shelves, scattering like fallen bodies across the floor, spines cracked and splayed open.

“We’re running out of time,” Tav said softly, unsure if they were referring to the world or the two of them. In this moment, it might as well be the same thing.

Rolan sighed deeply, holding his head in his hands for a few moments, his tail swaying in agitation. Tav wanted to go to him, to feel his arms wrap around them and lose themselves in the few quiet moments they had left, for their own sake as well as his.

His reaction was different from what Tav expected.

“You are without a doubt the most maddening person I have ever met!” Rolan suddenly burst out. Tav didn’t know how to respond; they hadn’t been expecting a scolding. Rolan took a step forward, coming within reaching distance. His eyes blazed and his chest heaved with angry breaths.

“You are reckless and foolhardy! You put yourself in harm’s way time and time again, and it’s enough to drive a man to insanity... because…” The bluster suddenly lessened, and the hurt and worry spilled through the cracks in his voice. “You see, I think about you constantly. Wondering where you are, what you’re doing, whether you’re safe. I think about the brief moments of time we’ve had together and how it’s not been enough. How it will never be enough. I know I can’t convince you to stay here with me, safe in this tower, but when this is all over... I want you to come back to me. Please, will you come back to me?”

He sounded gentle and afraid, and Tav wanted to say, “Of course I will. Of course, you stubborn, uptight, short-tempered, wonderful man.” But that was not an oath they could bring themselves to swear. Tav couldn’t bear the thought of dying with the pain of a breaking a  promise to the man they loved.

“Don’t answer me right now,” he sighed into the hesitant silence. “Wait there.”

He began to move through the chaos of the shop, rifling through drawers, shifting clinking bottles in cabinets, and pulling down various concoctions to gather in his arms. Murmuring in Infernal as he read labels and blew off dust, he eventually brought his collection back over to Tav.

Placing them on the counter, he started to sort through them.

“Thank you, but I really don't need…”

“Shut up and take them. This one is peerless focus. Give it to Gale; it will help him maintain his concentration. Gods know that fool will need it. This one is Bloodlust, fitting for your vampire friend. There are a few oils for blades and arrows which will increase their effectiveness. Giant Strength for Karlach and Lae’zel. And this one is for you.”

He set down a small vial that glistened with a honey-like substance, viscous and molten, the same color as his eyes.

“Guileful Movement,” he declared, his fierce gaze meeting Tav’s.

“You are strong, but you lack speed, and you get so caught up in watching out for everyone else that you leave yourself vulnerable.”

Placing the vial in Tav’s palm, he wrapped his hands around theirs, the warmth and softness comforting.

“Drink it before you fight. Move fast. Focus on your own strikes, and for the love of gods, run if you need to. You never seemed to do enough running.”

Tav smiled at him. “I never needed to.”

“Yes, yes, you were very tough and brave and beautiful, but trust me, there was no shame in running.” He kissed Tav’s hand, still cradled between both of his. “Run back to me.”

There was a sudden gentleness to his voice that Tav hadn’t properly heard before. They wanted to spend entire afternoons, whole summers, a lifetime sinking into the softness of that voice. They only had a few minutes at most.

Tav smiled, for the first time since coming into the store. Rolan wanted them to come back to him, he believed he would see them again. Perhaps things weren’t so bleak after all. A warm drop of hope fell upon Tav’s poor, burnt-out heart and it was enough to let something settle and take root. 

“Look at how far you’ve come.” Tav cradled his cheek with their palm. “From the chains of hell to the top of the tower. You, Cal, and Lia, all safe and together, as you should be.”

“I should be keeping you safe.” His voice was small and quiet as he fixed his eyes to the floor. 

“Always the protector.” Tav said, and they tilted his chin so his gentle eyes meet theirs. “You are. Keep me safe a little longer, wait for me, and i’ll come back to you.”

They kissed then, for the first time. 

When Tav had imagined their first kiss with Rolan, they had expected softness, uncertainty, maybe a little clumsiness—but there was none of that here. There was no time to be uncertain. His hands gripped the front of Tav’s robes like they were a lifeline, and his lips caressed theirs as though the taste of them could save him. Tav held onto him just as desperately in return, wishing it was enough to anchor them there.

Tav craved the luxury of an unhurried, tentative kiss. Perhaps during a leisurely stroll through the park, or after a little wine-soaked bravery from an evening spent together in the Elf-song Tavern. A slow kiss under a clear sky, savouring the joy of knowing it didn’t have to be perfect - it just had to be the first of many.

Tav thought of this now as his mouth moved against theirs, feeling the cool dampness of his tears mingling with their own. The kiss softened, their breaths steadied.

It was time to say goodbye.

Tav reluctantly pulled back, their forehead resting against Rolan's. 

"That was not a last kiss," Rolan said, his voice a hushed murmur. "That was a first."

Tav nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in their throat. They didn't trust themselves to speak, afraid that any words would break the fragile dam keeping them together.

Rolan's hands lingered on Tav's cheeks for a moment before he let them fall to his sides. "Go save the Gods-damned Gate," he said, his voice steadier now, "And if you want this, if you want us... come back to me. I'll be waiting."

It was done.

Tav left more hopeful than when they arrived, their soul bright and burning and loved. 

They had a battle to win, and a new future to fight for.

______________________________________________________________

Hours had now passed, and Rolan stood at the top of his tower, a solitary silhouette against the flames and cries that echoed through the city. He gripped the ledge with white-knuckled intensity, his red skin stark against the pale stone, keeping himself steady.

The cannon had been fired, its aim fierce and true, and Rolan knew he had done all he could. Below him, Baldur’s Gate burned. Nautiloids filled the night sky, their fiery payloads raining down destruction, and the air was so choked with smoke that Rolan thought even the gaze of the Gods could not pierce it. There would be no help from them now. Debris and explosions collided with the tower's defenses, dissipating into dust and smoke against invisible barriers. Cal and Lia were on the lowest level, rallying the survivors, providing aid and shelter amidst the devastation.

His eyes, accustomed to fire and loss, remained fixed on the High Hall and the looming Elder Brain above it. The city was a grim echo of a past he did not want to think about. How many war-torn, flame-licked cities would he have to watch be assaulted? 

He could not think of Elturel now; that was the past, and he had a future to hope for. 

The temptation to reach for a bottle, to drown his helplessness in wine as he had done at the Last Light Inn, tugged at him. But he resisted. He was not that man anymore; Tav had made sure of that. He would not succumb to ineffectuality. He was more than he was then. For Tav’s sake, for his own sake, he would wait here, steadfast and vigilant. He would watch out for the person he loved, for as long as it took.

Through the smoke and clouds, atop the brain, strobes of magic flickered. He tried to discern the signs of each spell, to picture the battle. The light was dim and soft through the smoke, like lightning blanketed by storm clouds. The flashes of battle-slung spells bloomed through the dark. Sounds of cracks and hisses followed the scattered lights, shots of reds and greens and pulsing golds.

Rolan’s heart pounded with each flare, each distant explosion. He imagined Tav amidst the fray, their blade slashing through the chaos, their determination as fierce as ever. He whispered a silent prayer to any deity who might be listening, hoping that Tav’s courage and skill would see them through this nightmare.

The minutes stretched into an eternity. Every second felt like a lifetime, the wait unbearable. But Rolan watched and he waited, the fate of Baldur’s Gate - and his heart - hanging in the balance.

And then, the elder brain fell. 

Time fractured into shards as the creature tumbled from the sky like a marionette with severed strings. It convulsed and spasmed, desperate waves of psychic shockwaves firing from it erratically. The dangling spinal column lashed and whipped into the city's buildings as it descended, ensuring a final barrage of destruction. With a resounding crash, it plunged into the waters of the Chionthar, its reign of terror culminating in a colossal, explosive orb of energy. The shockwave erupted outward, smashing through the city, shattering glass and hurling Rolan backward, knocking him against the wall of his tower and into unconsciousness. His last thought as he slipped away being of Tav’s fate, and the certainty that he would not see them again. 

He was wrong.

When Rolan awoke, roused by Lia and dragged down to help the wounded, he felt broken. It hurt to breathe, to think. He just wanted to get out into the city, where the light of a new day spilled over the wreckage of the night before. He wanted to find Tav, whatever that meant. 

The hero of Baldur’s Gate stood, leaning against the doorway to the tower, clutching their side. Bloodstained and bruised, their armor and weapon abandoned, they now wore only a sweat-soaked shirt and trousers, looking less like a mighty hero and more like a lost refugee. The second they saw Rolan amid the survivors and chaos, joy filled their chest and pulled a laugh from between cracked ribs.

It was over. They had won. And even though their legs were tired, their muscles burned, and their heart ached from saying goodbye to forged family, they had come back.

The taste of the golden, honey-thick potion Rolan had pressed into their palm still lingered sweetly on their tongue.

They had run back to him.

Rolan's eyes widened when he spotted Tav. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the protests of those around him. In moments, he was in front of them, his hands hovering uncertainly before he finally pulled them into a tight embrace. The feel of his arms around them was everything Tav had fought for. 

“You idiot! I thought you were dead.” He admonished.

“Careful.” Said Tav, wincing from the enthusiasm of his hug. “Don’t be greedy.”

There would be time now, in the settling dust, for peace to be found, clutched, and cherished. 

For the two heroes who had given each other hope when it had all but been extinguished. 

For the soldier who came to say goodbye, and the wizard who did not let them.

[hottpinkpenguin]

okay okay but that prompt “give me something to dream about” with steamy/fluff nikolai? yes please

A/n: hear you go anon! Hope you love it. Nikolai is SOO easy to write for!! ♥️

Nikolai Lantsov x Fem!Reader

Word count: 1622 | Warnings: steam, angst

You watched Alina Starkov’s long, dark hair swish from side to side as she stormed off from Nikolai’s side with an indignant huff. Stupid girl, you thought to yourself as you watched her stomp out of his private map room. You ducked out of the dimly lit doorway that the palace servants used as the girl everyone called a Saint spluttered past you without a backwards glance. She was small in person: short and slender with a youthful face. Pretty, but not beautiful. She had grit, you couldn’t deny her that. Maybe in a different world, and if she hadn’t just been proposed to by the love of your life, you would have been friends.

The door to Nikolai’s map room closed loudly. Not quite a slam, but Alina used just enough force to convey her displeasure. Plunged into quiet, you peeped around the corner at your prince. He was standing opposite the table, leaning on it with his hands splayed along its surface and his head hanging in defeat. For a brief moment, you wondered if he wanted to see you tonight.

“Show’s over, Tiger. You can come out now.”

You shot Nikolai a pouty glare as you came out from your hiding place. You knew he’d known you were there, although you felt sheepish to be caught.

“Come here.” He gestured for you. You could hear the exhaustion in his voice, but also a note of eagerness. He needed you. His usually pristine military jacket was unbuttoned, and in the soft candlelight you could see a sliver of his chest peaking out above the neckline of his white linen undershirt. He raked a hand through his hair, knocking loose a few pieces that fell haphazardly over his brow. You swallowed, suddenly your mind buzzing at the sight of him. If Alina Starkov was a Saint, then Nikolai Lantsov was a goddamn angel.

“How’d it go, Pirate Prince?” You shot Nikolai a flirty smile, winking at him and using the nickname you knew he hated. You tried to keep your tone light to hide the fact that your chest felt like it was a fraction of an inch from caving on itself.

He grimaced at you, stepping around the large table with war maps and heavy tomes of Ravkan history sprawled across its surface. With strong, sure arms he swept you up into a rib crushing embrace, spinning you around and burying his head in your hair.

“Swimmingly,” he replied gruffly. “She almost smacked me.”

You laughed in spite of yourself. You’d not-so-secretly been hoping that Nikolai wouldn’t follow through on his plan to propose marriage to Alina Starkov. No matter how many times he promised you that the proposal was just a calculated political move, you’d never be anything but bitter. You knew Nikolai too well to seriously convince yourself that he would balk at the last moment, especially when the fate of his country lay in jeopardy, even if his heart did lie with you. But that hadn’t kept you from dreaming, hoping against hope.

He must have caught the flicker of sorrow in your eyes. He released you from his arms, hooking a thumb under your chin and gently lifting your face until he held your gaze.

“You know this isn’t what I want, Tiger.” His voice was low, smooth as silk, and devastatingly sincere.

You bit your lip, unsure of what to say. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t argue with him, not again. Not over this. Who knew how long you had to be relatively free with your affections for him. Even though the two of you kept your romance private, that was purely a matter of preference. If (when, you forcibly corrected yourself) Nikolai actually married Alina, you’d have to take extra care to avoid being detected. Maybe to the point of going your separate ways indefinitely. You refused to waste what precious little time you had left bickering over an inevitable.

You tried to push that darkness out of your mind, forcing a gentle smile onto your face. Nikolai’s snow-blue eyes danced at the sight.

“I know, Nikki,” you replied softly. He chuckled, recognizing the pet name you used only when the two of you were alone. You felt his hand press against your lower back, pulling you in closer. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, eagerly meeting his lips with yours. His mouth was warm and soft, the feel of him so familiar. The kiss was quick - tender with a hint of the playfulness you were both using to glaze over the deeper hurts. But it was delicious all the same. You let yourself enjoy it, twining your hands in the soft hair at the back of his neck and dancing your tongue along his bottom lip. He smiled against you, one hand cupping your cheek and deepening the kiss. You let him, for a moment, before you pulled back. You were teasing him, admittedly, and you could see it in the feral desire burning in his eyes.

“Saints be damned,” he muttered breathlessly, raking his gaze all over you. “You’re going to drive me mad, woman.”

You laughed, tipping your head back as a shiver ran up your spine at the gravel in his voice. Nikolai tucked his head against your exposed throat, laying down a line of featherlight kisses up under your jawline and towards your ear. When he reached your ear, he paused, nuzzling you gently. You ran your fingernails down from his hairline along the back of his neck and out across his broad shoulders. You felt his muscles release under your touch as he exhaled deeply.

“You need a warm bath, my Lord,” you informed him, kneading his shoulders to emphasize the tightness there. He groaned appreciatively at the sensation.

“That sounds nice,” he admitted, pulling back slightly and resting his hands on your hips. “But only if you join me.”

That mischievous glint in his eyes drove you absolutely wild. You could feel a warm jolt of desire begin to burn in your core. Nikolai sensed it somehow, smirking as if he could feel your lust. Something about the way he was devouring you with his eyes made you pause. You knew that, in a few more moments, you’d be lost to his touch and completely senseless with bliss. He knew it too, and he was hungry for it. You both were. But first, you had something to say.

“I won’t be your mistress, Nikolai. When you marry her. I love you, but I can’t do that to myself. To either of us.”

Your words were heavy, but your tone was soft. Almost apologetic.

You felt him momentarily wind down at the seriousness in your voice. The playful smirk melted from his face, leaving behind a somber sadness. He fiddled with the ruffles on your dress’ neckline for a few moments, both of you quiet as he processed your statement. He wasn’t surprised. Nikolai knew you better than anyone. You’d asked him once why it was that he understood you so clearly. We have mirror image souls, he’d said back as if it were the simplest answer in the world. From that moment on, you’d never doubted him.

“I know, Tiger.” His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. “I don’t think I could bear it if you did.”

You lifted your eyes to him, trying to memorize the way his face looked in the candlelight. He returned your gaze calmly, and you had the sense he was trying to commit the moment to memory just like you were.

After a few moments, you smiled, forcing yourself to loosen the internal grip you had on the heartbreak you knew was coming. He’s not married now, you reminded yourself. Your fingertips traced up his arms until your hands framed his face.

“Now, let’s get back to that bath.”

He grinned, lifting you from the hips until your legs were wrapped around his waist. He clasped you against him, your hands wrapped around his neck as he carried you out of the private map room and back towards the door that connected to his sleeping quarters. He turned around briefly to close the door behind him, shutting out the worries of the future in the process.

He let you slide out of his grasp when he entered the bathroom. Even through your house slippers, the tile floor was cool underfoot. He leaned down, opening the faucets over the large bathtub. Water came cascading out, splashing into the empty tub as he stoppered the drain. He tested the water temperature with his hands as you began untying the lacings on your bodice.

He turned back to you once the water was to his liking, watching your every movement with a greedy glint in his eyes. Once you’d stripped down to your skin, you stepped over to him and helped him slide his jacket off. It fell to the ground with a metallic ting as the medals adorning the jacket’s chest clinked on the marble floor. You started unlacing his undershirt when he reached up, grabbing your hands in his. He tilted his head slightly downward, pouring into your eyes with his own.

“A request, Tiger,” he drawled. You smirked as you continued to undo his shirt.

“Anything, my Prince.” He laughed at your reply, leaning in even further until he was so close you could feel his lips barely brushing against yours.

“Give me something to dream about.”

You leaned in, meeting his kiss, your body ablaze with the intensity of his words. You wanted to make sure that Nikolai Lantsov, the first and maybe only love of your life, didn’t need to ask you twice…

[fullofbees]

😸💚 anon requested: Hello!! Could I possibly ask for Satan with prompt 55? Maybe with fem!MC who is shy and sweet? I cannot stop thinking about the dynamic of opposites interacting with each other!

CW: Fingering (F receiving)

»»----------► F!Reader

Though his room is nothing but a towering maze of books only lit by candlelight, you find it oddly comforting; as long as you manage to not trip on any of his "to read" piles.

You found the tome you were looking for, a hefty treatise on rare herbs and their magical uses. Carefully, you find your way back to Satan, descending the spiral staircase with the book in tow.

"I was worried you had gotten lost," says the demon as you plop down on his bed with a small "oof."

Dust is sent flying to the floor as you wipe your hand across the cracking leather cover, "We should make a map of your room."

Satan crinkles his nose at the idea, "I already have a system in place."

"I know," you say as you open the book in your lap, carefully flipping through the pages until you get to the table of contents, "I'd like to learn your system. I'm a visual learner, so I think a map would help."

The Avatar of Wrath mumbles grumpily, "Fine. I'll draw one later..." Yet he is already reddening, a delicate blush blooming across his cheeks. He buries his face in his book, though he peers at you over its edge, "Are you going back to your room now that you have what you sought?"

"Can I stay with you?" You ask without hesitation. The implication of your question makes you flush with your own embarrassment, so you hold up the tome as defense, "I mean - uh, this book is so old! And I don't want to risk damaging it. Better if I read it here, right?"

Satan, with a knowing smile and demon strength, wraps an arm around your waist and drags you to sit in his lap. He encourages you to lean into him, back pressed firmly to his chest as he makes himself comfortable, "Yes. Stay."

Fire rushes to your face and to your core. His room always smells of books, a blend of fresh ink on virgin paper and the irreplicable vintages of pages older than time itself. Now Satan's scent comes into the fore; notes of amber, rose, and cedar from his cologne, the simple yet clean smell of detergent that clings to his shirt - it's intoxicating.

You shove the insane notion that you're turned on merely by his scent away. Even if arousal is building between your thighs, you try to distract yourself with the reason you came here in the first place. Finding the chapter you need, you begin the harrowing ordeal of reading about shadow saffron.

But you can't settle down; the author's writing is dry, the pulsing need you feel is becoming uncomfortable, leaving you to fidget in Satan's lap.

The arm around your waist tightens, "Stay still."

"I'm sorry, I just need to adjust--," You sheepishly answer, going to stand up.

Satan's hand shifts lower, fingers splayed across your lower stomach as he stops you. Within a second, he pulls you back to his lap and onto his hardening cock that strains against the confines of his jeans.

"Stay. Still." He warns, his hand now caressing your thigh.

Your voice is caught in your throat, brain short-circuiting at how quickly the situation has changed. It is not unwelcome - Satan's hand is warm as he guides your legs apart. Teasing fingers run along your inner thigh, always stopping shy of your core.

The tome is clutched to your chest, your only anchor to the real world as Satan decides to take you on a fantastical adventure.

"The princess whines under the delicate touch of her knight. He's been her faithful servant, her ardent protector, always carefully watching. His love for her has transcended his role; the city could burn down around him; all he needed was her."

His breath tickles your ear as he reads from the book perched in his free hand. Has he been reading Amour Courtois smut this entire time?

Satan's hand undoes the button on your pants, "He always told himself that he would never let it get to this point. No knight could ever marry a lady of her status; it was pointless to want for something so clearly forbidden."

You softly whine when his hand slips past the hem of your panties, gathering your growing wetness on his fingers as he leisurely drags them across your slit.

"Yet here she was, bare on the bed of the inn, proclaiming her own devotion and need for him. As his fingers made quick work of her clit, he began to palm himself through his own pants. Love that borders on possession is as dangerous as it is arousing; it is damning for them both."

Two fingers easily slide into your cunt, and you have to bite your lip to keep your moan from ringing out. Satan presses a reassuring kiss to your temple.

"Still, he can't help the growing need to own her completely like she owns him. Commanding a princess would surely mean his head, but still, it slips off his tongue: "Only I get to touch you like this, okay?"

•••✦ ❤ ✦••• Submit A Request | Read on AO3 •••✦ ❤ ✦•••

A/N: I based Satan's scent off of this cologne that I keep meaning to buy 👀

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ ada wong x reader, 28K

⸺ gothic horror, historical (19th century), vampires, blood, angst, hurt no comfort, tragic romance

⸺ summary: An invitation to curiosity is extended to you, a female historian struggling in the burgeoning 19th century, by the newest heiress of an elusive and basically undocumented, influential family, whose centuries-old secrets are waiting for you in the shadows. As fascination deepens into something darker, you unravel truths that will bind you to Ada Wong’s world forever—and a dangerous question emerges: how much of Ada’s story will become your own in the end?

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @wlwhorrorgame @misonesaturou @sparrowguardian

@saturnzei

The storm begins before dusk, a faint rumble that rolls up from the distant hills, as though the world itself is sighing out its sorrows. Outside your window, the last threads of daylight slip behind a layer of thick clouds, and the streets below are soon swallowed by shadow. The air is damp and cool, the kind of cold that creeps in under doors and through cracks in the window frames, settling in the lungs like a long-awaited visitor.

The room is a mess, cluttered with the debris of years spent chasing stories that never quite coalesced. Stacks of brittle, yellowing paper are scattered in every corner—old manuscripts, some worn with the creases of too many hands, others forgotten altogether, pages untouched, waiting for eyes that never came. Beside them, books—leather-bound tomes with frayed edges, their spines cracked from years of abuse—are piled precariously on top of one another, threatening to collapse under the weight of your obsession.

Your desk is no better: a mess of open journals, maps drawn with ink that’s starting to smudge from handling, clippings of old newspaper articles pinned haphazardly across its surface. In one corner, a quill sits in a well of ink, the dark liquid rippling slightly in the low lamplight. Your hands, stained faintly with ink, rest wearily atop the pages of a forgotten journal, its contents half-scratched out. You’ve been at this for hours, though it feels like days.

Your eyes flicker toward the clock, its hands ticking away sluggishly. You know it’s broken, that time here has lost all meaning. It’s been this way for weeks, maybe longer—an endless cycle of poring over documents that never quite lead where you hope, of chasing shadows that dissipate just as you reach for them. You lean back in your chair, the wood groaning beneath you, and rub your eye sockets with the heels of your palms, willing away the dull throb that has settled behind your eyes. It’s always there now, this ache, a constant companion.

The walls of your room close in around you, heavy with the scent of old paper, ink, and something damp that lingers in the corners. Outside, the storm picks up, rattling the windows as the wind claws at the glass, demanding to be let in. The soft flicker of candlelight casts shifting shadows across the room, shadows that seem to move of their own accord, stretching and curling in a dance that seems almost sinister. Or perhaps, you think, you’re just tired. Tired and frustrated, the kind of fatigue that seeps into the bones, weighing them down until each step, each breath is a struggle.

With a sigh, you turn away from the window and focus back on your desk. You sink into your chair again, the leather sighing as it takes your weary form. Your fingers brush against the edges of the papers strewn across its surface, a futile gesture. There's nothing here, nothing that leads anywhere. Not for your sex. You've seen men come and go, boasting of their exploits and discoveries, while you remain trapped in the mire of half-truths and conjecture. It's enough to drive one mad, this endless chase, the frustration of being so close to the truth and yet always falling short, being blocked or mocked, or worse, simply ignored. To be a woman in a man's world, especially one of such prestige, is to be invisible, despite your brilliance. And you are brilliant. If only they would give you the chance to prove it. But no, you are relegated to the sidelines, forced to watch as lesser minds take the credit for discoveries that should, by rights, be yours.

It is a bitter pill to swallow, the knowledge that no matter how hard you work, no matter how much you learn, you'll always be viewed as less than, as an afterthought. The injustice of it stings, sharp and deep, a wound that refuses to heal. Some days, when the despair threatens to overwhelm, when the futility of it all becomes too much to bear, you find yourself questioning everything, wondering if the pursuit of knowledge is worth the cost, if the price of greatness is a lifetime of solitude and scorn. Those are the days when the darkness whispers to you, tempting you with thoughts of surrender, of giving in to the void and letting it consume. Just marry a man. Any man. Throw your pen away and settle in a kitchen. Leave the mysteries of the world to those deemed worthy of solving them.

But you can't, not yet, because somewhere, buried beneath the layers of bitterness and anger, lies a stubborn determination, a fierce will to prove everyone wrong. You will not be defeated. You will not fade quietly into the night, a forgotten footnote in the annals of history. A woman that gave up is worse than a dead woman. So on, you will go, chasing the next clue, the next scrap of information, hoping that this time, this time it will lead to something real, to the breakthrough that will silence the doubters and elevate you to the status you deserve. Until then, you will continue to toil in the shadows, a solitary figure hunched over dusty books and faded scrolls, seeking answers to questions that others dismiss as foolish or irrelevant.

A loud crack of lightning illuminates the sky outside, making the window shake and rattle.

There is a knock at the door.

It is soft at first, almost tentative, but it cuts through the quiet, pulling you from your thoughts. You don’t move at first, listening to the silence that follows. Then, again—a knock, more insistent this time, echoing through the small space.

You push yourself to stand, joints cracking in protest, and pace the cramped confines of your room, the floorboards creaking softly underfoot. You pause at the window, drawing back the thin, moth-eaten curtain to peer out. There’s nothing to see, of course, just the dark, empty streets and the shadowy outlines of buildings in the distance, their windows as dim and lifeless as the eyes of a corpse. The rain has started to fall in earnest, fat droplets that splatter against the glass, distorting the view even further. They race down the pane, joining together in a desperate attempt to escape before eventually succumbing to gravity and sliding inexorably downward. The lamplight outside barely cuts through the gloom, illuminating only the vague outline of the cobblestones slick with water.

Opening the door, you’re greeted by a figure standing in the doorway, a silhouette more than a person. The rain hides their features, masking them behind the veil of the storm. Without a word, they extend an arm, and you notice the envelope clasped in their hand, its edges slightly damp from the rain. The wax seal catches the light—a deep crimson, its surface glossy despite the weather, and the crest pressed into it is unfamiliar to you.

Before you can speak, the figure is gone, swallowed by the night as swiftly as they appeared, leaving you alone with the envelope still held awkwardly in your hand. You stand in the doorway for a moment longer, staring into the rain, trying to discern the shapes of buildings and streets through the torrent, but everything feels distant, obscured by the gloom. A sharp gust of wind pushes against you, forcing you back into the warmth of your room, the door creaking shut behind you with a dull thud.

The envelope feels strangely heavy in your hands, its paper thick and textured under your fingers, the seal unbroken. You turn it over, studying the crest pressed into the wax—a swirling, intricate design that you don’t recognize, though something about it sends a faint prickle of unease up your spine. You bring it closer to the lamplight, tilting it slightly to catch the way the red wax gleams, as though it were fresh, untouched by time.

Sitting back at your desk, you place the envelope carefully in front of you, letting your fingers hover over it for a moment before finally reaching for the letter opener. The metal is cold in your hand, the tip slipping under the seal with a soft snap. The wax breaks cleanly, falling away in small pieces onto the desk, and for a moment, the silence in the room holds its breath, the sound of the storm outside muted to a dull hiss.

You pull the letter free from the envelope, the paper softer than you expected, curling slightly at the edges where it was pressed inside. The handwriting is elegant, the ink dark and precise, the words flowing in neat, looping lines across the page. You begin to read, your eyes tracing the curves and angles of the letters, the sounds of the words forming in your mind, the meaning unfolding slowly like a flower in bloom.

My Dear Historian,

The greeting feels personal, too personal for someone you’ve never met. Yet the title fits. It’s what you are, what you’ve dedicated your life to—digging through the remains of the past, searching for truths buried beneath layers of dust and time. But there is something more in those words, something that makes the skin on the back of your neck tighten.

I trust this letter has reached you at a time when your search has led you into dead ends, and the world has shown you its cruel, unforgiving face. Know that I understand the burden of isolation that comes from being different, from having a passion that sets you apart from the rest. It is a loneliness that few can comprehend, but one that I am intimately familiar with. This shared solitude is why I write to you today.

The handwriting loops and curves, elegant yet strong, and you can feel the confidence of the one who penned it—someone accustomed to holding power, someone who knows they are in control of more than just the ink on the page.

My family's estate, hidden from the prying eyes of the world, is a treasure trove of secrets, a labyrinthine archive that holds within its walls the history of centuries. It is a legacy that I wish to share with the right person, someone who can appreciate the significance of what lies within, and who can help me safeguard its contents from those who would seek to destroy or exploit it.

I offer you the opportunity to be the guardian of this knowledge, the first one to ever explore and document what has circumvented the world for so long. This invitation is not without its conditions. Discretion is of the utmost importance. You will have to stay here, at the estate, until the work is done. There can be no communication with the outside world until the work is completed. Once our arrangement is concluded, you will be free to return to your life, a wealthier and wiser historian.

Consider this a challenge to your skills, a test of your intellect, and a chance to leave an indelible mark on the field of historical research. But if you are the historian I believe you to be, the decision is already made. If you accept, a carriage will arrive to collect you at the next new moon, when the night is darkest. All arrangements have been made. Come alone, and bring nothing but your expertise and an open mind.

The name at the bottom of the letter stirs something in your memory—Ada Wong. A name you’ve come across in fragments, hearsays on the edges of off-the-record conversations, a ghost in the archives. She's a recluse, some say, an eccentric heiress who lives in a castle nestled in the mountains, far from civilization. Others claim she's a witch who has robbed the family she's come to inherit from, of their fortune. And still, others, the most serious and scholarly, insist that she's simply a rich, bored noblewoman who has taken up an interest in the obscure, a hobby that has earned her a certain notoriety among those in the know.

For a moment, the world outside fades entirely. The rain, the wind, the cold—all of it seems distant, as though the letter has created its own bubble of reality, separating you from everything beyond its ink-stained words. The idea is seductive, an escape from the drudgery that has become your life, a chance to prove yourself in a way that matters.

And then the spell is broken. As quickly as it had formed, the illusion shatters, leaving you once again in your cramped, cluttered room, the rain battering at the windows and the clock ticking away mockingly. The letter is a fantasy, an impossible dream. You are a nobody, a struggling scholar scraping by on the generosity of strangers and the kindness of a landlord who has seen too many like you. Why would someone like Ada Wong reach out to you? What could she possibly see in a woman whose name has never graced the pages of a prominent journal or earned the respect of her peers?

You flip to the second page where you'd seen her signature, and squint at the crest that's been stamped at the top. It's a bird of sorts, a crane, maybe, perched atop a shield. Below, two words, in a language you can't quite place. Maybe German, or Dutch. The stamp looks real. Real and ancient. Something that would cost a pretty penny to forge. Your finger traces its outline.

No. It's not possible. It's a scam, a hoax, a cruel joke at your expense. And yet, the letter is there, the paper soft and cool beneath your touch, the ink stark and undeniable. And the promise it contains is too tantalizing to ignore, a lure that tugs at something deep within, a need to know, to uncover, that has driven you since you were a child hunched over dusty tomes in the local library. The thought of a hidden archive, a repository of knowledge that has remained untouched, is almost too much to bear. To be the first to delve into its mysteries, to unearth its secrets and bring them to light—it's a siren call that is nearly irresistible.

But doubt lingers. How can you be sure this isn't just another wild goose chase, a distraction from the work that really matters, the work that could finally earn you the recognition you crave? You've been down this road before, chasing whispers and rumors, only to find yourself at dead ends, empty-handed and disillusioned. And to leave the city, to venture out into the unknown, into the home of a complete stranger—could that truly be worth the risk?

It seems that she's anticipated that question. Her reply, written in the same neat, flowing script, reads thus:

I understand that my request may seem strange, even outrageous. But sometimes, the greatest discoveries are made when we are willing to take risks, to step outside of the comfortable and the familiar. I ask you to trust in the potential of this opportunity, in the possibility of what we could achieve together. And remember, there is no reward without risk. History, after all, is filled with stories of those who dared to venture into the unknown and emerged victorious.

I have seen your work, and I know you are not one to turn away from the unknown. Your tenacity and intelligence are well known in the circles that matter. And while the path I am offering may seem uncertain, I assure you, it is not a trap, but a gateway. Beyond the door that I hold open, lies a world of knowledge and understanding that few will ever have the privilege to experience. The immortality that you seek is in my hands. Take the chance. Accept my offer, and let the new moon guide you to a future that is brighter than anything you could have imagined.

To be the one to unlock the secrets of Ada's ancestral home, to be the one to finally bring the truth to light... it's an opportunity that can't be ignored. And so, with a shaky hand, you pick up the pen and begin to write your response. Outside, the storm has grown in intensity, the wind howling and the thunder cracking like the anger of a forgotten god. But the sound is distant now, muted by the walls of the house and the roar of your own thoughts, a cacophony of doubt and anticipation that threatens to overwhelm.

The road winds into the hills, narrow and uneven, flanked by trees that loom overhead, their branches arching together to form a dark canopy. The rain hasn’t let up since you began the journey, the steady drumming against the carriage roof becoming part of the background, a constant, insistent poking of the storm that follows you. The occasional flicker of lightning flashes through the gaps in the trees, casting the landscape in brief moments of stark, white light before plunging it back into shadow.

You glance out the small window beside you, but there’s little to see. The mist rolls over the hills in thick sheets, swallowing the path ahead. The horses’ hooves pound steadily on the wet earth, their steps the only other sound aside from the storm. The driver, hidden beneath his wide-brimmed hat and heavy cloak, hasn’t spoken since you departed, and you haven’t felt the need to ask him anything, the silence between you is a mutual understanding.

The estate’s name, etched into your mind from Ada’s letter, lingers at the edge of your thoughts, pulling you forward even as your surroundings grow more foreboding. Each mile takes you deeper into the unknown, into a place that feels far removed from the world you left behind. You shift in your seat, fingers brushing over the worn leather of your bag, your papers and journals tucked carefully inside. You feel their presence there, a small comfort of the world you know—structured, organized, and real, but everything beyond the window seems intent on dissolving that reality, turning it into something less solid, more ethereal.

As the carriage rounds a sharp curve, the terrain changes. The forest falls back, the tree line retreating to reveal the jagged peaks of the mountains, their summits lost in low-hanging clouds. Ahead, the road grows steeper, winding its way upward toward some unseen destination. At the base of the hill, you spot a village—a collection of old, weather-worn buildings clustered around a small, decrepit church. Its spire reaches skyward, a black finger accusing the heavens. There are no lights in the windows, no signs of life except for the dim glow of the street lamps. It has an aura of abandonment, of being left to decay and crumble, a relic of a time long past. As the carriage rumbles past, a shiver runs down your spine, a feeling of unease settling in the pit of your stomach. This is the last settlement you’ve seen for miles, a final outpost of humanity before the wilderness takes over.

The carriage jolts as the wheels hit a stone buried in the mud, and your hand instinctively reaches out to steady yourself, gripping the edge of the seat. The road is getting rougher, narrower, and you sense the climb as the horses struggle against the incline. The mist thickens, curling around the trees and spilling onto the road, wrapping the world in a damp, cold shroud.

And then, the trees break.

Without warning, the darkness gives way to a vast, open plain that stretches out before you, its edges lost in the swirling mist. In the center of the clearing, a castle rises from the gloom, its towers and parapets outlined by a pale, silver light that emanates from somewhere within, rising out of the mist like a sentinel watching over a forgotten land. Towers reach toward the clouds, their windows narrow slits that seem more like watchful eyes than places for light. Ivy clings to the walls, creeping up the stone in twisted vines, giving the impression that the building has grown from the earth itself, rather than having been built. There is a stillness here, a sense that the passage of time has slowed, or perhaps stopped altogether, leaving the estate trapped in a moment of eternal twilight, and even the rain seems muted, the drops falling in a hushed patter, a gentle murmur.

The path leading up to the entrance is overgrown, the stones cracked and uneven beneath the carriage wheels. As the carriage draws closer, the details of the castle emerge from the gloom. A massive, arched doorway, flanked by two enormous, iron torches that cast an eerie, flickering light, greets the travelers. The ironwork of the hinges is ornate, swirling and looping in repetitive patterns, hinting at an era long gone. Two gargoyles perch on either side of the arch, their faces twisted into grotesque, snarling expressions, their bodies crouched as if ready to spring to life. Their wings stretch out behind them, and their tails wrap around the columns they sit upon, their claws digging into the stone.

Beyond the door, a courtyard opens up, a large, cobblestone area that is silent and empty, save for the statue of a knight in full armor standing guard in the center, a sword held aloft in its raised hand. The fountain at his feet is dry, the basin cracked and filled with dead leaves. The sound of the horses’ hooves is loud in the quiet, echoing off the empty space, a steady, rhythmic thud that seems to reverberate through the very bones of the castle. The scent of rain is stronger here, mixed with the musty aroma of age and the sweet, almost sickly smell of dying flowers. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls, its mournful hoot adding to the atmosphere of melancholy that permeates the entire estate. The driver pulls the reins, guiding the horses to a stop in the center of the courtyard. For a moment, all is still, the only sounds are the rain on the stones and the soft, panting breath of the horses. Then the door of the carriage swings open, its hinges squealing in protest, the sound cutting through the quiet.

You step out, a hesitant figure in the gloom, the hood of your cloak pulled low over your face. The driver doesn’t speak, only nods once, a quick gesture before snapping the reins and guiding the horses back down the road without a backward glance. He’s gone before you can even thank him, the clatter of hooves fading into the mist.

The wind picks up, sharp and biting, whipping through your hair as you look up at the estate rising in front of you, towering against the swirling mist and darkened sky. Its silhouette is sharp, angular, and unforgiving—an imposing structure that speaks of old wealth and forgotten grandeur. The walls are dark stone, streaked from years of rain and time, their surface etched with cracks that twist and spread like veins. Tall, narrow windows are set deep into the stone, their glass stained with a layer of dust that seems to keep the outside world at bay. They climb up the sides of the building, reaching for the shadowed heavens, casting long, skeletal shadows across the grounds.

At the center of it all stands the main entrance—a pair of massive wooden doors, each one banded with iron that’s rusted at the edges, the metal flaking and peeling away, and the large, metal knocker, its shape a twisted, serpentine dragon. There’s something about the way the doors sit, slightly uneven on their hinges, that makes them feel heavier than they should. You can imagine the groan they will make as they open, the weight of centuries hanging on every inch.

But beyond the decay, beyond the overwhelming sense of age and abandonment, there is something else—something that doesn’t quite belong. As your eyes wander over the architecture, you notice the small details that stand out against the design. The curves of the stone are interrupted here and there by subtle flourishes—carvings that resemble flowing clouds, delicate floral patterns that snake along the edges of the windows. It takes you a moment, but you recognize the influence—the style is distinctly Asian, its delicate intricacy weaving into the otherwise European structure.

The juxtaposition strikes you. It’s as if the house itself has been altered, added to over time by different hands, each one leaving its mark. The harsh Gothic edges clash with the soft, flowing lines of the more recent additions, creating a dissonance that feels deliberate, as though each resident had a vision that never quite fit with the one before.

The longer you look, the more the disjointedness of it all becomes apparent, the estate feeling less like a cohesive whole and more like a patchwork, stitched together by the changing tastes and whims of those who lived within its walls.

The rain rolls off the stone, pooling in small rivulets around the base of the steps where you're standing, and you hesitate, your fingers flexing inside your gloves as you tighten your grip on your bag, feeling the reassuring pressure of its contents, then take a breath, steadying yourself before you ascend the steps.

As your hand reaches for the iron knocker, cold and heavy beneath your fingers, there’s a moment—just a fraction of a second—where the storm quiets. The rain still falls, but its sound feels distant, muffled, as though the estate itself has swallowed it, pulling everything around you into a strange, unnatural silence.

The door opens before you can knock.

It swings inward with a low groan, revealing a foyer that seems to swallow the light, but you're too stunned, not from the timing, but because that there's nobody around to have done the opening. Your eyes scan the area quickly, looking for any sign of a person or a device, but there's nothing. Just the dimly lit room and the echoes of the door's creaking hinges. An uneasy feeling creeps up the back of your neck, a sense of being watched, or perhaps anticipated.

A gust of wind pushes you forward, and the door slams shut behind you, sealing you inside. The noise of the latch clicking into place is jarringly loud in the sudden, tomb-like silence. You stand in the entryway, heart pounding in your chest and hands pulled to your chest shaking, the taste of copper in the back of your throat. For a moment, the thought of fleeing crosses your mind. This is wrong, all of it, and you have the growing suspicion that this is a mistake, a horrible, irreparable mistake. But the realization that the carriage won't return, and the knowledge that the walk to the village would be treacherous in the storm, traps you.

"Hello?" you call out, your own trembling, meek echo in the vastness of the entry hall, "Lady Wong? Are you there?"

Your words hang in the stagnant, dusty, and mildew-scented space, the faintest of shuffles, the scrape of fabric, the drip of moisture, and the settling of ancient wood, becoming deafening in the wake of the quiet. It’s warm inside, but not comforting. The warmth presses down, thick and stale, wrapping itself around you like the remnants of a forgotten fire left too long to smolder.

There's an undercurrent of... something in the unmoving atmosphere, a kind of lingering dread that seeps into the pores and clings to the skin, the sort of unease that settles in the pit of your stomach and refuses to let go, a sensation that's difficult to shake, and even harder to dismiss as a mere figment of an overactive imagination. A single bead of sweat trails down the length of your spine, the source of which isn't the heat, but rather the chilling cold that's taken hold, a stark contrast to the stifling humidity outside.

The grand hall before you stretches into the shadows, its walls lined with portraits that seem to watch you as you move. The ceiling arches high above, almost lost in the dim light cast by flickering sconces. The flames sputter, casting strange shadows that shift along the walls, making the room feel alive in a way that the outside world no longer does. Your eyes are drawn upward, toward the high windows that let in no light, the glass stained with rain and grime, and then back down to the floor beneath your boots—polished stone, dark and glistening.

There’s something layered about the space. The same clashing of styles you noticed outside is present here, too, though it’s more subtle, more hidden within the details. The pillars lining the hall are carved in a style that speaks of European craftsmanship, yet the bases are adorned with delicate etchings of cranes and lotus flowers that seem to belong to another time, another place. The chandeliers above, too, are a strange amalgamation, wrought iron twisted into shapes that almost resemble dragons, their mouths open in a silent roar, their bodies curling in on themselves.

Your eyes drift over the portraits hanging on the walls, the frames gilded and ornate. The figures within them are dressed in the fashion of centuries past, their expressions solemn, eyes fixed forward in that unsettling way portraits have of capturing more than just a likeness. Some are clearly European, their features sharp, condescending, but others are a study in diversity of different peoples of the world.

There’s no rhyme or reason to the placement of the portraits, no clear lineage to follow. Some of the faces seem to blur together, their details lost in the dim light, while others are so sharply defined that they almost seem to stand out from the canvas. And always, those eyes—they follow you as you move deeper into the hall, a silent audience watching your every step. As you walk, the sound of your footsteps is muffled, the acoustics of the space swallowing the noise instead of reflecting it, the echoes that should bounce off the walls and ceilings are muted and distorted, creating a disorientating effect.

At the end of the hall, a grand staircase rises up, the banisters sweeping upward in graceful arcs, the wood polished to a deep, rich shine. You stop at the bottom step, your hand reaching out to touch the smooth, cold metal of the railing.

And then, from the upper landing, a figure appears. Dressed in a gown of crimson and black that ripples in the low light, the colors shifting and blending like oil on water, the woman descends the stairs, her steps a slow, measured cadence, her heels clicking softly against the marble. She moves with a kind of effortless grace that catches you off guard, as if the air itself parts for her, smoothing the way.

"Welcome." The word slips from her lips, soft but firm, carrying effortlessly through the hall. "You must be my guest."

Despite the warmth of her words, there's a certain coolness to her demeanor, an impenetrable aloofness that keeps her at a distance, a barrier that invites curiosity and defies intimacy.

Ada Wong stands before you in the flesh, not the half-imagined, half-fabricated version of her that you've conjured from her letters, but the real, tangible woman. She's taller than you'd expected, her frame deceptively willowy under the layers of her finely tailored dress—a hanfu, you realize. Its style and cut are unmistakable, its intricate embroidery and elegant lines a striking contrast to the Gothic architecture surrounding her, a living embodiment of the cultural dichotomy that seems to permeate the entire estate. In the dim, wavering candlelight, her eyes are a rich, deep shade of brown that borders on red in the right angles, the color of aged mahogany or a fine, well-seasoned wine. Short hair, a glossy, jet-black that gleams in the low light, frames her face, the strands falling in a neat, razor-sharp edge along her jawline. The severe cut only serves to emphasize the elegance of her bone structure, her features fine and delicate, the porcelain of her complexion nearly flawless. She moves with a controlled, fluid grace, each gesture precise and intentional. It's a mannerism that speaks of years of practice, a cultivated poise that hides any trace of effort.

You manage a nod, though your throat feels dry, and the words you had planned—the polite, professional greeting you had rehearsed—die in your chest. Something in her presence makes speaking feel unnecessary, almost redundant. Ada’s eyes flicker briefly, as though she’s aware of your struggle and finds it faintly amusing.

"I trust the journey wasn’t too difficult," she says, though there’s no real question mark at the end of the sentence. It holds the same quiet command as before, a gentle pressure that compels you to respond, even if you’re not entirely sure how.

"It was..." Your tongue feels too big, clumsy in your mouth, the simple act of speech a challenge. You clear your throat, trying to regain some semblance of composure. "It was uneventful, thank you."

She watches you for a moment longer, the smile still lingering at the corners of her lips, but something about her gaze sharpens, narrowing slightly as though she’s assessing you. It’s not scrutiny, not the kind that makes you feel judged, but something far more subtle—a kind of curiosity that feels too specific, too focused.

Her hand lifts, a slow, graceful movement that draws your eye as she gestures toward the room behind her. "I hope your stay here will be equally comfortable," she says, the invitation clear in the lilt of her tone and the arch of her brow.

There's a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, a hint of a smirk at the corner of her mouth that suggests she knows something that you do not, a secret shared only between her and the flickering shadows that surround her, and the paintings on the wall, their eyes seeming to focus on her, and her alone, like they have come to life and are paying her tribute, or perhaps watching her every move, ready to judge her at a moment's notice. You find yourself wondering which is the reality, and which is the artifice, and if either of them matter at all in the grand scheme of things.

"Thank you," you say again, the words coming a bit easier this time, but there's still a catch in your throat that you can't quite shake, a tightness that wasn't there before, a fear that's been planted in the soil of your mind, waiting to grow, and bloom, and strangle the rest of your senses, leaving only the bitter taste of regret in its wake. "For everything, I mean. The opportunity. All of this." You wave a gloved hand, encompassing the estate and its mysteries in a single, broad gesture. "Even stepping a foot in here is a privilege few can dream of. So, thank you, Lady Wong, for allowing me to be a part of that small percentage. I am in your debt."

"Come." She takes your arm with no effort, linking her elbow to yours, her grip firm yet yielding, as if her strength were a tide, ebbing and flowing at will. "Let us get you settled in. There will be plenty of time to admire the decor later."

The warmth of her palm radiates through the fabric of her dress, a heat that is at once startling and reassuring. Her touch is light, a feather's brush, and yet it anchors you, grounding you in the present, the solidity of her presence dispelling the lingering sense of unease that's followed you from the courtyard. With a gentle tug, she guides you forward, leading you up the stairs and down a corridor that seems to stretch on forever.

"Lady Wong, may I ask what prompted your letter to me? Of all the historians, why did you choose me?"

A beat of silence. Then, "Straight to the point, aren't we?" Her laugh is low, barely a rumble of sound, and yet it sends a tremor of something akin to anticipation through you. "Just like your work," her eyes flit to you and then away, her smile never faltering, "your reputation preceded you. Your work on the forgotten texts of the ancient kingdoms of China was... illuminating, to say the least."

As Ada talks, her fingers tighten on your arm, her grip a fraction stronger, the pressure a subtle warning. "But let's save that conversation for another time, shall we? We have so much to discuss, and I'd hate to bore you with business matters on your first evening."

She leads you deeper into the house, past rooms that are closed off, the doors sealed shut. The walls seem to lean in, the darkness thickening around you, swallowing the light from the sconces until it's just a distant memory. And still, her hand remains on your arm, a constant, guiding presence. As you round a corner, the corridor opens up into a wider hall, the ceiling stretching higher above, the shadows receding. At the far end, a set of double doors stand open, revealing a library that is unlike anything you've ever seen. Shelves upon shelves of books line the walls, their spines a riot of colors and textures, the scent of old paper and leather filling the room. A fire crackles merrily in a grand hearth, the flames casting dancing patterns of gold and orange across the floor. In the center of the space, a large table stands, its surface littered with papers and manuscripts, the evidence of a scholar at work, a kind of organized chaos that is both familiar and comforting.

Ada releases your arm, and the loss of her touch is a sudden, jarring absence, as though a layer of protection has been stripped away. "I thought you'd appreciate having tea in here," she says, her tone light. "A chance to become acquainted with the materials that will consume your days, and perhaps some of the nights, too." She smiles at that, a knowing look that hints at her own experience with the demands of research. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll return shortly."

With a swirl of crimson and black, she departs, the click of her boots echoing softly against the wooden floorboards. Left alone, you stand in the middle of the library, the enormity of the task ahead settling on your shoulders as you take off your coat and gloves, draping them gingerly on the back of a chair with your chin tipped back, eyes flitting around to try to figure out how big the library is.

The tea set she comes back with isn’t what one expects a woman of her stature to have. It’s the sort of thing that belongs in a museum, not a private collection, a relic of a bygone era when art and utility were considered two sides of the same coin. It's distinctly Chinese, that much is obvious from the elegant, sweeping curves of the ceramic and the intricate, stylized depictions of cranes that dance across the white and blue glaze. But there's something else about it, a feeling that goes beyond mere cultural appreciation. The craftsmanship is exquisite, every detail etched with precision and care. The paintwork is delicate, the strokes so fine that they almost seem to blend into the porcelain itself, creating a seamless, fluid motion that gives the impression that the birds are alive and in flight.

She begins by rinsing the cups. A small amount of hot water pours from the teapot into each of the tiny, delicate cups before being discarded into a small dish on the side. The water ripples and steams briefly before settling, and you watch as she repeats the process, warming each cup as though preparing it for something far more important than tea. She does this without explanation, and you don’t ask, unsure of how to break the silence without shattering the careful balance of this moment.

Her gaze flickers briefly to you, catching your eyes for a split second before returning to the task at hand. There’s no rush in her movements—everything she does is smooth and unhurried, as if time bends to her will, slowing under the weight of her attention. Ada’s fingers, long and slender, curl around the teapot as she prepares the first pour of tea. A faint wisp of steam rises as the tea flows into the cups, dark and fragrant.

It turns out, the first pour is not for drinking. Ada tips the tea into another small dish, emptying the cups entirely. It’s a cleansing, a wash, though she offers no explanation, and you can only watch, fascinated by the careful choreography of her actions.

When she pours the second time, it is different. The tea is measured, filling each cup only partway, just enough to be savored but never wasted. The cups, delicate in her hands, barely make a sound as they are placed on the table. Ada’s gaze lifts to meet yours once more as she carefully offers the first cup to you, her fingers steady as she holds the small vessel out, both hands cradling it in a gesture that feels as much a gift as a service.

You reach out to take the cup, your fingers brushing the edges of hers for the briefest of moments. Her touch is cool, a stark contrast to the warmth of the fire, and for a moment, the room feels charged with something unspoken, a current that hums just below the surface. You wrap your fingers around the cup, feeling its warmth seep into your skin, and though you’ve never participated in this kind of ritual before, there’s a strange sense of expectation in the air—Ada frowns at you for some reason, eyes remaining on you, as if waiting.

You hesitate, unsure, but follow her lead, switching to accepting the tea with both hands, mimicking her grace as best you can. Her smile curves slightly at the corner of her mouth, almost imperceptible, before she turns back to her own cup, pouring tea for herself with the same fluidity.

You bring the cup to your lips, inhaling the soft, fragrant steam before taking a small sip. The tea is rich, its warmth blooming across your tongue and down your throat, though it does little to calm the quiet unease that has been building since you entered the house. There’s something about the way Ada watches you that unsettles you—her gaze never lingers for too long, but it’s sharp, assessing, as though she’s reading something beyond what you can offer.

You snap out of your thoughts when a knocking three times on the table interrupts the quiet between you and her. Your brows knit in confusion, and you glance up at Ada who is already looking at you, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

"That's an old tradition," she explains. "One meant to convey gratitude to the person offering the tea."

You look down at her hand, formed into a loose fist where it rests against the tabletop, and nod in understanding, her words sparking a flash of memory, a snippet of knowledge that seems to echo from somewhere deep within. She notices, of course, a gleam of amusement in her dark eyes. "Ah," her tone is warm, almost affectionate, the word hanging in the space between you. "So, not completely unaware of our ways, after all?"

"Not... not fully," you stammer, caught off guard. Something about her presence makes it hard to concentrate, like a fog has descended over your mind, making it difficult to articulate, so you enthusiastically copy the movement, albeit embarrassing yourself by one too many knocks akin to that of an impatient toddler, earning a raised eyebrow from her, and a huff of laughter.

Your face burns, cheeks hot to the touch, and you quickly raise the cup to your lips again, using the tea as a cover to regain your composure.

She doesn’t call attention to the slip-up, but her smile widens, the edges of her eyes crinkling in a way that suggests she finds your awkwardness endearing, and that somehow makes it worse, a knot tightening in the pit of your stomach, the sensation that you’re being evaluated growing stronger, and the urge to prove yourself overwhelming, a desperate need to demonstrate that you deserve to be here, in her home, in her presence, to earn the trust and respect that is so clearly absent from her gaze, her posture, her every action and reaction.

"Now, I believe we have a great deal to discuss, such as your accommodations," Ada says, setting her own cup down, the clink of china against the tabletop unnaturally loud in the otherwise still room. 

Your assigned room is on the upper floor, a dark, heavy space with a tall, four-poster bed at its center, its velvet curtains drawn halfway around the posts. The bed looks ancient, its wood carved with intricate designs that are nearly lost to the passage of time. The corners of the room are inked in shadow, despite the small oil lamp flickering weakly on the nightstand, its flame barely enough to hold the darkness at bay.

You set your bag down on the old wooden chair near the bed, the leather creaking softly under the weight. The floor beneath your boots groans, the boards uneven, worn smooth from years of footsteps. As you walk to the window, the room feels colder, the air thick with the musty scent of wood and damp stone. You glance outside, the rain still coming down in relentless sheets, turning the world beyond the glass into a blurry landscape of black and grey.

Something catches your eye, a small statue sitting on the windowsill. It's a simple piece, carved from a single block of jade, the green stone luminous even in the dim light of the storm. It's of a woman, her form draped in a flowing gown, her head bowed in silent contemplation, a stylized crane perched on her shoulder. There's a familiarity to it, a sense of déjà vu that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. You've seen this figure before, or at least its likeness. Where, and when, eludes you, but the recognition is undeniable, a half-remembered fragment of a dream that refuses to come into focus. Your fingers trace the contours of the statue, the cool, smooth jade seeming to pulse under your touch, like a heartbeat, a faint, lingering memory of life that once was, or might yet be.

You realize that the exhaustion of traveling has settled into your bones, a deep weariness that pulls at your muscles and weighs down your eyelids. With a sigh, you turn away from the window and the statue, letting the shadows fall back over the small figure, obscuring its features. You sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking beneath your slight frame, and remove your boots, placing them neatly beside the chair.

In the distance, a clock chimes, its melancholy tones echoing through the empty halls, marking the passage of another hour, another day, drawing you closer to the unknown future that awaits in the cold, rain-drenched countryside. The sound seems to fill the room, a somber note that lingers in the corners, clinging to the walls and the ceiling, a solemn companion for the night ahead. You lie back, the pillows swallowing your head, muffling the chime, and stare up at the canopy, the embroidered fabric a painting of faded colors and forgotten patterns, a story without an ending.

The dream comes quietly.

It starts with a song, a low, mournful melody that seems to rise from the very ground beneath your feet. The notes are discordant, jarring, and yet they resonate in your bones, sending shivers racing along your spine. You are standing in a field of white flowers, their petals stained red at the edges, their color a stark contrast to the dull grey of the sky above. The wind howls around you, its icy fingers pulling at your hair, whipping the strands against your face, a thousand tiny lashes that sting and burn. You lift a hand to shield your eyes, and when you lower it, the scene has changed. Instead of the flower-littered meadow, there are rows of gravestones, their surfaces slick with rain, the names blurred and illegible. They stretch on forever, a city of the dead, a metropolis of mourning. And in the midst of it all, a woman in white, her dress a cascade of lace and silk, her hair a waterfall of inky black that spills over her shoulders and down her back. She's facing away from you, her head bent, her hands clasped in front of her, and though you can't see her face, you know she's weeping. The song that haunts the dream grows louder, the melody more urgent, the notes climbing in pitch and volume until it's a scream, a wailing chorus that threatens to tear the fabric of the world itself. But then, just as the noise reaches a crescendo, the woman in white turns, and her red gaze locks onto yours.

With a gasp, you jolt awake, heart pounding, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to the edges of your consciousness. For a moment, you can't remember where you are—the darkness that surrounds you is suffocuating, a cocoon of shadow that envelops the room, hiding the familiar landmarks of the waking world. Slowly, the shapes of the furniture emerge from the gloom, the outline of the wardrobe and the chair becoming solid, the ghostly apparitions of the dream receding into the recesses of your memory.

As the panic subsides, a certain ache settles in, a persistent, throbbing pain that emanates from the meat of your left shoulder, radiating outward in waves that seem to encompass your entire body, the source a burning point of discomfort that refuses to fade. You sit up, the covers pooling around your waist, and reach a tentative hand to probe the tender flesh, expecting to find the ridged lines of a recent scar, but there's nothing. Just the unbroken expanse of skin, smooth and unblemished, the pain an intangible thing that has no place in the reality of the early morning. You shake your head, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep, and the ache begins to lessen, the memory of the dream slipping further and further away, until all that remains is the fading echo of the woman's cry, the last, haunting notes of a melody that should have ended long ago.

It's been a week since your arrival at the estate, and the days have taken on a routine of sorts, a rhythm dictated by the ebb and flow of the hours and the demands of your research. Each morning, you rise with the sun, the pale, watery light that filters through the clouds and the glass of the bedroom window serving as a natural alarm, rousing you from the clutches of whatever dreams have followed you from the previous night.

You wash and dress, the ritual of preparing for the day a necessary one, a means of grounding yourself in the reality that is the house and its mistress. Ada has made her presence scarce during the daylight hours, leaving you to your work, the volumes of family history and the dusty tomes of the archives your only companions. Occasionally, a servant will appear, a silent, efficient figure in a plain, serviceable outfit, bearing a tray of food or a fresh pot of tea, but they are gone as soon as they arrive, leaving you alone once again, the silence of the library settling over the room like a palpably physical entity, a fourth wall that is both a comfort and a prison, a barrier between you and the world beyond the doors, and an embrace that keeps the past at bay, allowing you to lose yourself in the words on the page. The stories are of a people and a time that is not your own, but that calls to something deep within, an ancestral memory of a homeland you’ve never seen, and a legacy that is not your own, but that feels as much a part of you as the breath in your lungs and the blood in your veins.

The evening is a different beast. When the sun sinks below the horizon and the sky turns from grey to a bruised purple, Ada emerges from the shadows of the manor, a phantom in a crimson gown, the skirts trailing behind her like a pool of blood, her steps muffled, her approach heralded by the faint scent of the perfume that clings to her, a sweet, cloying fragrance that fills the space, a heady aroma that sends your pulse skittering, a wild, untamed thing that flutters in the hollow of your throat, a bird in a cage desperate to escape.

And then she's there, in the doorway of the library, a specter of beauty and mystery, her eyes dark and hooded, her mouth a slash of red in the pale canvas of her face. She comes to join you, a book in hand, a wineglass in the other, and together, in the flickering light of the fire, you read, a collection of manuscripts and open tomes spread before you. The text is old, written in a language that isn’t quite familiar, though its meaning is starting to come together as you decipher it. Across from you, Ada sits, poised and elegant, her hands resting lightly on the edge of the book she’s examining. The candlelight catches the sharp lines of her face, casting her features in stark relief, and for a moment, she looks like something out of a painting—timeless, otherworldly.

"Here, look at this," her words break the silence, her tone casual, as though speaking to a longtime friend rather than a relative stranger. Her finger taps the page, indicating a particular passage, the motion drawing your attention to her well-kept nails, the lacquered surface gleaming in the soft illumination of the candles that surround her. "The translation is incomplete.

“Are there any more passages?”

She slides the tome across the table, the pages rustling softly as she does, and points to a section of the text. It's a poem, a series of verses that speak of loss and longing, the ink faded with age, the characters blurred and smudged in places. As you lean closer, the scent of her perfume envelops you, a heady, floral blend that makes your head swim, the words on the page swimming in and out of focus.

“They’ve translated this word to mean ‘sacrifice,’ but they’ve misunderstood its context. It’s more nuanced—‘offering,’ perhaps, or ‘tribute.’ Something willingly given, not taken.”

You follow her index finger, tracing the line of text. She's right, the translation is flawed, the original meaning obscured by the translator's assumptions, their biases seeping into the interpretation. It's a common issue in historical documents, the meanings of words shifting and evolving over time, the nuances of language lost to the vagaries of history. “That changes the entire meaning of the ritual described here,” you say, thoughtful. “If it’s a tribute rather than a sacrifice, then it’s not about appeasing a force out of fear. It’s about… what, mutual respect? A covenant?”

Ada nods, her eyes bright with interest, and for a moment, the distance between you evaporates, the walls of the library falling away, and it's just the two of you, the books, and the knowledge contained within. "Exactly. The idea of balance, of reciprocity, is central to the culture of the region. It’s no longer about submission but negotiation."

You turn to another section, running your fingers along the margin of the page, the paper dry and brittle beneath your touch. "This word here—it means 'blood,' doesn't it? But not in the literal sense. More like... the essence of life?"

"Close," Ada murmurs, her gaze fixed on the page, her brow furrowing. "It's not just the physical substance, but the energy it represents. Life force, if you will. Blood is the carrier, the vessel, but it's the essence that matters."

"Blood is the carrier," you repeat, "I'll note those down."

You pick up the pen from the tabletop, its metal nib reflecting the flame's glow, and begin to transcribe the corrected translations onto a sheet of parchment. The scratching of the pen is the only sound in the room, the fire's crackle a distant accompaniment. Outside, the rain falls steadily, the droplets pelting against the glass of the windows, a steady drumbeat that underscores the quiet concentration.

“It makes me think about the way these rituals were perceived over time,” you say, not looking up. “There's always discussion about this, but it's always fresh to dig into it. How the meaning of the same act could change depending on who was telling the story. To one group, a willing offering, a sign of devotion and respect. To another, a sacrifice, an act of desperation or coercion. The same actions, the same intentions, but seen through the lens of a different culture, a different set of values.”

Ada leans back slightly in her chair, her fingers curling lightly around the armrests. “History has a way of doing that, doesn’t it?” she muses. “Turning the practical into the mystical. The rational into the feared. It’s easier to control people when you wrap truth in a veil of superstition.”

“I suppose that’s true. It makes sense when you think about it—rituals that were once about maintaining balance, reduced to something meant to inspire fear. Or worse, obedience.”

"Indeed," Ada says, her smile thin, her eyes glinting. "When power is on the line, facts often take a backseat. It's not about the truth, or even the tradition. It's about control. And control can be a dangerous thing in the wrong hands."

"Or the right ones, I imagine," you counter, a wry smile tugging at the corner of your lips, the words slipping out before you can stop them, a hint of unexpected challenge in your tone. "Control, that is. When wielded wisely. Like a scalpel, rather than a hammer."

"Touché," she murmurs. "Perhaps you're not so green, after all."

"I'm glad someone seems to think so," you quip, the retort coming easily, the banter feeling oddly natural, considering the short amount of time you've known each other.

But instead of keeping it up, Ada's head tilts at that, a subtle shift that speaks of her interest, and the conversation takes a turn. She watches you closely, her eyes searching yours as if seeking to uncover something hidden, some secret that might lie behind the mask of professionalism that you've worn since your arrival, and the intensity of her scrutiny makes you squirm, a faint heat creeping up the back of your neck, a flush that's a blend of embarrassment and an emotion that's more difficult to define.

"I'm sorry," you say, trying to diffuse the sudden, charged atmosphere. "It's not a comforting comment coming from the person you've chosen to document the history of your family, is it?"

Ada’s hand moves toward you, and before you can process it, her fingers brush lightly against your wrist. The touch is fleeting, barely noticeable, but it sends a small shock through you.

“They’re fools,” she says quietly, her gaze locked on yours, her fingers still lingering against your skin. “To underestimate you. That kind of ignorance breeds contempt. They see a young scholar and assume that's all you are, not recognizing that youth and experience aren't mutually exclusive. You're not afraid to stand on the shoulders of giants and reach a little higher, are you?"

Her words strike a chord, resonating deep within, a tuning fork that hums in sync with your soul. The warmth of her skin lingers, a brand that refuses to fade, and it's only when her touch retreats, her fingers sliding from your pulse, that you realize you've been holding your breath.

"Thank you," you manage, the gratitude sincere, the simple acknowledgement of the doubt that has plagued you a balm to the uncertainty that has lurked in the recesses of your mind. In the wake of her praise, the doubts recede, replaced by a sense of determination, a renewed commitment to the task at hand, and a growing awareness that the woman sitting across from you is far more complex, more layered, than you originally thought.

Some weird things have been happening lately.

A couple of times, you've walked into the study to find a book left open on the table, its pages turned to a specific passage that has nothing to do with what you've been working on. Then there was that strange incident a few days ago where the door to the library suddenly swung shut on its own, nearly catching the hem of your skirt in its wake. Just yesterday, a vase of flowers inexplicably appeared on the mantelpiece, its blooms a riot of colors and fragrances that seemed to permeate the room, an anomaly in the otherwise dusty, somber space. These occurrences are odd, certainly, but not enough to raise serious alarm. They're merely the kind of minor disturbances that can happen in an old house like this, the settling of the foundation, the shifting of the floorboards, and the quirks of the drafts that whistle through the ancient halls.

What does concern you, however, is the fact that the castle seems to have developed an uncanny ability to keep track of your location, almost as though the estate is alive, a sentient entity that follows you with invisible eyes, watching your every move. You've found yourself in rooms that should have been too far away to reach on foot, and in the gardens, the plants seem to bend and twist, guiding your path in a way that feels unnaturally convenient. It's as if the very architecture is bending to accommodate you, or, a more unsettling possibility, herding you along a predetermined course.

There's also the matter of the food that appears in the kitchen at mealtimes, the plates and bowls laden with delicacies that you've never requested or seen prepared, dishes that seem to cater to your tastes, your moods, and even the fluctuations of the weather. It's a level of attention to detail that borders on intrusive, and the longer you think about it, the more convinced you become that there's something—or perhaps, someone—behind it all. Someone who knows you, or is at least attempting to know you, in a manner that is both intimate and disconcerting.

Despite these concerns, the work continues, and the evenings with her in the library have taken on a new dynamic, a comfortable rhythm that belies the strangeness of the circumstances. As the days pass, the conversations grow deeper, more probing, and you find yourselves discussing not just the history and language of her family, but the nature of power, the intricacies of belief, and the fine line between fact and fiction. Her insights are sharp, incisive, and her questions are not the idle musings of a dilettante, but the considered queries of a woman who is deeply interested in the world and its workings, the sort of person you can't help but admire, and the kind of individual that can be incredibly, dangerously fascinating, and the sort of fascination that can lead to a whole host of complications. Not that that matters, of course. Your role is that of a historian, a scholar, a neutral observer. Nothing more.

It's during one of these late-night sessions, when the clock has struck midnight and the fire has burned low, that she brings up the topic of dreams, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "Do you believe they can tell us anything?" Ada asks, her tone casual, but her gaze intent. "About ourselves, or the world around us?"

"Dreams?" you ask, caught off-guard by the sudden turn in the conversation. You sit back, considering her question, the book in your hands momentarily forgotten. "Well, yes, I suppose so. They're a product of the subconscious, aren't they? An amalgamation of our experiences, our fears, our desires. But whether they're prophetic, or hold some deeper, cosmic significance, I'm not sure. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," Ada demurs, though the slight upward tug of her mouth suggests otherwise. "I've had some... interesting ones, lately." She pauses, her eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment, the silence stretches, a thread of connection pulled taut between you. "What do you dream of, I wonder?"

"Oh, the usual," you deflect, not wanting to delve into the particulars of your nighttime wanderings.

The usual is a lie, of course.

Before coming here, your dreams had always been abstract, amorphous things, a jumble of images and sensations that faded upon waking, meaningless and unremarkable.

But since your arrival, the landscape of your sleep has transformed, the nebulous terrain coalescing into a series of recurring visions, a narrative that unfolds in fragments, each episode picking up where the last left off, a winding tale always about Ada that draws you in, its tendrils burrowing deeper with each passing night. You've seen her in a hundred different guises, in a thousand different settings, her face a constant in a sea of shifting scenarios. In one of them she lives in the Han Dynasty, a noblewoman in silk robes of the deepest crimson, her hair adorned with jade ornaments that catch the light and throw it back in dazzling patterns. The next, a courtesan in the pleasure district of the capital, her beauty veiled behind a painted fan, her laughter a melody that entices and ensnares, a siren's song that lures men to their doom. Then, a spy in the shadows, a master of disguise and deception, her every move calculated, her true intentions hidden beneath layers of artifice. And in another, a priestess in a temple atop a mist-shrouded mountain, her prayers a balm to the souls of the lost, her presence a beacon of solace in a world of chaos. No matter the time or place, her essence remains the same—a force of nature, a creature of contradictions, a woman of infinite depths and unknowable secrets.

Your favorite of the dreams, or perhaps the one that troubles you the most, is the one that recurs with the greatest frequency. In this dream, Ada is a queen, resplendent in her finery, a crown of wrought iron and rubies perched upon her raven hair. Her throne is a towering monolith of black stone, its surface etched with symbols and runes that seem to writhe and twist in the flickering torchlight. She sits upon the cold, hard seat, her posture regal and commanding, her gaze distant and unfocused. A court of shadows surrounds her, their forms insubstantial and fleeting, their whispers and laughter echoing in the cavernous space. As you approach, the shadows part, allowing you passage, their faces a blur of malice and delight. When you are close enough, the whispers cease, the laughter dies, and a silence descends, thick and suffocatings, a blanket of anticipation that wraps itself around you, a serpent's coils squeezing the breath from your lungs. Ada's red gaze finally settles on you, and in those endless depths, you see a reflection of yourself, a mirror image that is not quite right, a distortion that sends a shiver down your spine. She smiles then, a slow, predatory curve of the lips that reveals teeth that are too sharp, too many, and the room begins to spin, the shadows dancing around you, a macabre ballet that threatens to pull you under, to drag you down into the abyss of her madness. You wake with a start, the taste of ashes on your tongue, and the echo of her laughter ringing in your ears. It's the only time her smile is terrifying.

But the other dreams, the ones where she looks at you the way she does in the study, the way her hand brushed yours the other day, the ones where she leans in and tells you how beautiful you look in the morning sun, the ones that make the blush creep up your neck because they're not nightmares, and in the dark hours of the night, alone in your bed, you're allowed to indulge in the fantasy of what it might be like to have her smile at you and call you her own...

Sometimes, the dreams are mundane, a repetition of the day's events, the echo of a conversation held in the library, or a memory of a shared pot of tea, the scent of jasmine and bergamot lingering in the ethereal space. Other times, the scenarios are more surreal, a collage of half-remembered history lessons and snippets of overheard gossip, a patchwork of stories that may or may not have a basis in reality.

Tonight, as you drift off to the sound of the rain tapping softly against the windowpane, the dream is vivid, a Technicolor film reel that plays out behind your closed eyelids, a movie of the mind that holds you captive, unwilling or unable to look away. In the dream, you are walking through a field, the grasses waist-high and swaying in a gentle breeze, the sky above a clear, cloudless expanse of azure. Ahead, on the crest of a hill, stands a structure—an ancient temple you've only ever seen drawings of in the books of the library, its marble columns worn and pitted, the stone steps crumbling at the edges. But here, in the realm of the imagination, the edifice is pristine, a relic from a forgotten age preserved in the amber of the subconscious, a fragment of a past that never was, or perhaps a future that has yet to come. From somewhere within the temple, a sound emerges, a haunting melody that seems to rise from the earth itself, a lament of strings and drums that reverberates in your bones, a call that is impossible to resist.

Drawn forward, you ascend the stairs, the music growing louder, more insistent with each step, until you are standing on the threshold. Inside, a figure waits, draped in black, a veil obscuring her features. It's her—you can sense her presence without seeing her face, an aura that is unmistakably hers. And then, the veil is lifted, and her red eyes are revealed, burning like embers in the dimness, a fiery, molten stare that sears into your soul. She beckons, a single finger extended, and despite the warning bells that clang in the recesses of your thoughts, you follow, a willing supplicant to the altar of her gaze.

You descend further into the darkness, the music swelling, the tempo increasing, the beat thrumming in your veins, a primal, ancient rhythm that speaks to something deep and unknowable, a truth buried beneath the veneer of civilization, a wild, untamed thing that hungers to be set free. At the heart of the temple, a chamber awaits, its walls adorned with symbols of a lost faith, the carvings worn smooth by the touch of countless worshipers, the names of the gods erased by the relentless march of time. And in the center, a pool of dark water, its surface mirror-like and still, reflecting the infinite vastness of the universe, the celestial dance of stars and galaxies rendered in miniature, a cosmos contained within a single drop of dew.

She reaches out, a slender hand dipping below the surface, and the liquid ripples outward, the reflection distorted, the constellations swirling in a maelstrom of color and light. When she withdraws her hand, it is stained crimson, the blood stark and shocking against the pallor of her skin. Then, her eyes lock onto yours, and her lips part, the words that spill forth a siren song that entwines with the melody, a harmony that is both beautiful and terrible, a chorus that echoes through the hollow chambers of your heart, a hymn to powers that defy comprehension. The meaning of her words is lost on you, the language archaic, the pronunciation unfamiliar, but the intent is clear, a plea that resonates on a cellular level, a summons that cannot be ignored. You take a step closer, the world tilting on its axis, the ground falling away beneath your feet, the abyss yawning wide to receive you.

And then, just as the precipice looms before you, the brink of oblivion stretching out to infinity, a hand grasps yours, a tether that anchors you to the present, a lifeline that reels you back from the edge of the chasm. Your eyes snap open, the darkness receding, the nightmare dissipating like smoke in the wind, leaving behind a residue of fear and confusion, a lingering sense of dread that clings to your waking thoughts like a shawl of cobwebs.

This is your usual now. This is what's happening to you. There's no one to share the burden, no confidante to divulge the grip Ada Wong has on your unconscious to place her in such a starring role.

Your sense of time has blurred.

It's no longer measured in days, but in the number of cups of tea that you've shared, the hours spent hunched over dusty texts, the pages of the manuscript that have been painstakingly translated, and the nights that have passed in the grip of dreams that leave you disoriented and shaken upon waking. How long has it been since you arrived? A week, a month, a year?

Time has become a fluid concept, a stream that bends and twists, its course altered by the whims of the estate and its mistress, the rhythms of the seasons and the cycles of the moon. Days blend into weeks, and weeks into months, the boundaries between them eroding, the lines blurring until all that remains is the constant companionship of the woman who has become the focus of your existence, the object of your fascination and, if you are honest with yourself, the subject of your burgeoning obsession.

And it has led you down a path that wasn't originally in the plan. Instead of simply transcribing and translating the documents that have been provided to you, you've found yourself drawn to exploring your surroundings for a glimpse of what she has been doing before your arrival.

That's when you re-discovered the portraits.

You avoided them all this time, mostly for the jarring sensation of being watched the first time you took a step in the manor, and also because there's no need to go anywhere except the library, and to the dining area to eat. Now that the work is done, and the rest of the castle has opened to you, so have the paintings.

You don't know why you haven't noticed this before. It's a blend of men and women, but none of them look related. They all have different skin tones, and body types, and eye shapes, and hair, and the dates of their lives range widely. Instead of being family heirlooms, these seem more like paintings bought from a museum. There is no way this many racially divergent people can trace their lineage back to the same ancestor. Unless they're adopted, or the product of a series of extramarital affairs. But to have that happen over centuries, and in places where adoption wasn't really a widespread idea? That's very weird. And even then, the odds of having that many successful adoptions across the span of four centuries is...

Well, let's just say the chances are low. Really low.

So, you decide to ask about it at dinner.

"The portraits downstairs at the entrance to the castle. Who are they?"

"Family," Ada answers, not meeting your eyes, her attention fixed on the plate of food in front of her. "Ancestors."

"It's a bit odd to have ancestors that... look nothing alike," you remark, the words slipping out before you can think better of it. "I mean, I doubt any of those men and women were born of the same parents. Not unless every generation of the Wong clan had children that were, uh... out of wedlock." You give a small, nervous laugh, hoping to pass it off as an innocent observation, a harmless joke that won't provoke her ire. After all, questioning someone's heritage isn't exactly polite dinner conversation. But something about the situation strikes you as strange, a puzzle that doesn't quite fit together, and curiosity has always been a driving force in your life. "They're all from different places, and the dates are all wrong, too."

Her reaction is unexpected. She freezes, her fork hovering in the middle of the table, her gaze lifting slowly to meet yours, a hint of amusement dancing in the depths of her eyes. The corner of her mouth twitches, a suppressed smile that could easily be mistaken for a sneer, and then she lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, the sound a prelude to the storm that is brewing beneath the surface of her carefully controlled facade.

"Does family all need to be related?" Ada asks, her tone light, her question deceptively simple. "Do we not choose our own kin, in the end?" Her words are like daggers, their edges honed to razor sharpness, their impact felt deep within the core of your being.

"I suppose," you reply, the uncertainty creeping into your response. "But that's not how things usually work. Most people stay loyal to their birth families, no matter the distance or the differences." The implication of her statement is clear—she considers the collection of strangers portrayed in the portraits to be her true family, a bond stronger than blood, a connection that transcends the boundaries of race and nationality, a notion that defies the conventions of society, and the expectations of her peers.

Ada's laugh is a brittle thing, a shard of ice that pierces the warmth of the room, a chilling gust that sweeps across the table and settles in the marrow of your bones. "Oh, my dear, sweet fool," she says, her lips twisting in a mocking smirk. "You are smart enough to find the holes, but not to fill them, are you?" Her laughter fades, replaced by a cold, calculating stare that pins you to the spot. "Or maybe, you've already filled them. Maybe, just maybe, you're playing a game with me, a chess match where you think the pieces are in your favor. A little cat and mouse, hm?"

The accusation stings, a barb that lodges itself in the flesh of your pride, a wound that bleeds the confidence that has sustained you thus far. You have never considered yourself a coward, not when confronted by bullies in the schoolyard, or the ignorant professors who sought to undermine your ambitions, or the skeptics who questioned the veracity of your chosen field of study. But now, seated across the table from the enigmatic, the captivating, the utterly terrifying Ada Wong, you feel small, insignificant, a speck of dust caught in the maelstrom of her will.

"I'm not—I didn't—" the denial falters on your tongue, the words crumbling under the pressure of her scrutiny. "I meant no disrespect. I was simply curious."

Curious. Such a benign word to describe the tangled knot of emotions that has taken root in the depths of your being.

Curiosity. Yes, that is what you will call it, the insatiable thirst for knowledge that has driven you from the safety of the familiar, from the embrace of the known, to the wild frontier of the unknown. Curiosity has brought you here, to this isolated estate, to this woman whose very existence defies explanation, to the precipice of discovery and the brink of insanity.

"Curious about the wrong thing," Ada says, the corners of her mouth curving upward, her teeth flashing white and sharp in the candlelight, a predator's grin that sends a shiver of trepidation down the length of your spine. "You want to know why, not how. Why a bunch of unrelated people are called 'family' by their owner, not how they got there. Isn't that right? Are you curious to know their stories, to hear their tales of woe and wonder? Or is it only the mystery that intrigues you? The riddle, not the answer?"

"You're the one avoiding questions, not me." It's a bold move, a gambit that could end in disaster, a taunt that dances on the edge of impertinence, a challenge to her authority, a gauntlet thrown at her feet. But the alternative is unthinkable—to concede defeat, to surrender to her will, to admit that she has seen through the veneer of scholarly detachment that you have cultivated, that the armor of intellectual curiosity that you have wrapped around yourself is nothing more than a flimsy disguise. "You've given me the invitation to curiosity, and now that I'm finally taking a bite of the fruit, you're trying to snatch it away. If you wanted someone to just sit pretty and follow your orders, you should've hired a scribe, not a historian."

A moment of silence follows, the world holding its breath, the balance of power shifting, the scales of fate tipping precariously between the extremes of triumph and calamity. Then, the stillness is shattered, not by the roar of outrage, or the hiss of anger, but the peal of laughter, the rich, throaty sound of genuine amusement that spills from her lips, a cascade of merriment that breaks the spell of her intimidation, a chink in the armor.

"Oh, I do love a fire," Ada remarks, her eyes alight with a new, a different kind of hunger. Not the predatory gleam of a hunter sizing up its prey, but the spark of interest, the glimmer of admiration that comes from recognizing a kindred spirit. "I've been waiting for someone like you."

"Here, I found this. Thought we could try making it together." She sets a book on the desk in front of you and taps a manicured fingernail on the page. "I'm in the mood for something sweet."

It's a recipe. Simple. Easy to make, easy to eat, and apparently even easier to find ingredients to. Why a baking book has somehow made its way into her family's collection of records, journals, and historical texts, though, is beyond you, but it's not the weirdest or most disturbing thing to have happened since your arrival.

You don't say anything about why the two of you should venture out into this adventure instead of leaving it to the servants, or that the idea of a lady such as Ada with both hands in a bowl of dough is almost hilarious to you. They're inconsequential points in the grand scheme of things. Instead, you nod, a little dumbly at that, and agree. What else can you do? Refuse the first request she's actually made of you?

"You know how to bake?" the question is innocent, but the answer is not. You've always been the homely type, the kind of person who finds joy in the simple pleasures of cooking, of creating something from scratch. It's a side of yourself that's rarely seen, a private indulgence that you've kept hidden from the world, a secret pleasure that feels too vulnerable to share.

"It certainly would be inconvenient for me if I didn't," a self deprecating laugh follows your admission. "We aren't all born into luxury, after all."

Her smile is knowing, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth. "Well, not to worry, we'll have a professional baker on site if anything goes wrong. Now, let's get started, shall we?"

She rolls up the sleeves of her red blouse, exposing the delicate skin of her wrists, the blue-green tracery of her veins visible just beneath the surface, a map of life and fragility. The sight of her bare skin, so rarely on display, sends an unexpected thrill along your spine, a spark of electricity that dances across your nerves.

"Oh, I love cherries!" You gush, plucking one from the pile, popping it in your mouth and biting down on the firm flesh, the sweetness exploding on your tongue, the flavor a burst of sunshine in the dim, candlelit space of the kitchen. "They're my favorite!"

Ada's chuckle is warm, her eyes twinkling in the flickering light. "Then we'll have to make sure there are plenty of them in our pastry."

As you work, the two of you fall into an easy rhythm, and you're more than surprised to see that the lady of the house swarmed by servants is better than you at this. It's almost amusing to watch her expertly crack eggs, separate yolks from whites, and measure flour and sugar with precision. And yet, there's something oddly comforting about the domesticity of the scene, the shared labor and laughter a balm to the isolation that has plagued your stay. Her presence is a salve to the loneliness, a warmth that spreads through you, a feeling that is both welcome and disconcerting in its intensity, and the realization hits you like a bolt from the blue—you're enjoying this.

Enjoying her company, her wit, the way her eyes crinkle at the corners when she laughs, and the softness of her touch as she brushes the errant strands of hair from your face. You're not supposed to feel this, not towards her. She's a subject, a puzzle to be solved, a historical artifact to be studied and understood, not a woman whose proximity makes your pulse quicken. Yet here you are, standing in her ancestral home, a stranger in a strange land, and the only thing that feels familiar, that feels right, is her.

She even lets you have her share, a kindness that's rare in the world you've known, and the gesture touches something deep within, a wellspring of emotion that has lain dormant for too long. In the wake of the storm, as the last crumbs of the tart are consumed, and the final drops of wine are savored, the silence descends once more, a cloak of intimacy that envelops the two of you, a moment of connection that transcends the boundaries of station and circumstance, a fleeting instant where the barriers that separate the scholar from the noblewoman are lowered, and the truth of the matter is laid bare—you care for her, deeply, irrevocably, and the realization is a revelation that steals your breath, a dawn breaking over the horizon of your heart.

"Thank you for indulging me," she begins, the words a gentle intrusion on the stillness, her gaze meeting yours with a warmth that belies the formality of her tone. "It's been ages since I've baked, and I must confess, it's a pleasure I've missed."

"It was my pleasure, I mean, I ate everything," you reply, a faint tremor in your response, the depth of the sentiment catching in your throat. "I'm... glad you asked."

"Perhaps we could make this a regular occurrence," Ada suggests, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, the gesture absentminded, her focus squarely on you. "I'm sure the library won't mind relinquishing us for an hour or two each day. Besides, a bit of cooking might provide some insight into the daily lives of the people of the estate, wouldn't you agree?"

"That's an interesting approach," you acknowledge, the thought piquing your curiosity. "I hadn't considered the anthropological aspect of culinary pursuits, but you're right—"

"—it's a great excuse to spend time with me. Isn't that what you were going to say?" She interjects, her smile mischievous, her eyes dancing with mirth. It's a playful challenge, a veiled invitation to admit to the growing attraction that hovers between you, a silent acknowledgement of the sparks that leap and crackle in the charged atmosphere of the kitchen.

"I wouldn't presume to—"

"Of course not," Ada cuts in, her laughter a bright, musical cadence that fills the space, a melody that wraps itself around you, drawing you deeper into her orbit. "You're a scholar, not a poet, after all. Leave the flowery words to the romantics and the fools."

"Right," you manage, a half-hearted retort that rings hollow in the face of her charm, her effortless ability to disarm and captivate, a power that she wields with the same finesse that she employs in all aspects of her life. "I'll stick to the books."

"That would be a shame, though."

But she just said...

Ah, well. Who are you to argue?

You've been feeling like the work has sucked the life out of you these days, and that's not a metaphor.

There are bags under your eyes from exhaustion despite getting more than enough sleep, and the headaches that come and go are starting to become debilitating. You've found yourself struggling to concentrate on the tasks at hand, the words on the page blurring and shifting, the sentences coalescing into a murky soup of letters that refuse to resolve into coherence. Even the simplest of translations, once a second nature to you, now require a Herculean effort, a battle against the fog that has settled in your brain, a relentless foe that saps your strength and will, leaving you depleted, a shell of your former self. There's this ache that moves around in your neck and shoulders that no amount of stretching can fix. And the nausea. God, the nausea. Sometimes the room spins, and sometimes it's hard to keep food down, and sometimes a wave of dizziness will suddenly knock you down. All signs of a terrible, awful problem: the fact that the source of your illness is a mystery to everyone, including the staff physician.

"Physically speaking, you're fine," he's told you. That's the bad news. The good news is that the cook has learned to prepare meals that won't upset your stomach, and that the servants have gotten used to keeping their distance. Nobody wants to catch whatever it is that's ailing you, especially when the symptoms are so elusive and the prognosis is uncertain.

If you could, if the choice was yours, you'd send yourself back home and stay until you get better. But the castle is not a place that's easily departed. Not to mention the unfinished task of translating the rest of the Wong family archives, which is still incomplete.

Your employer, who's also your host, has other plans. Ada has decided that the best course of action is to allow you to rest. This isn't the first time someone has fallen ill in the manor, and they've developed a routine for dealing with these situations. You're confined to your room, with the exception of supervised trips to the library to retrieve materials, and even then, they're not happy about it. A nurse has been assigned to tend to your needs, and while her ministrations are appreciated, the constant scrutiny and fussing is grating on your nerves. You're not a child, and you resent being treated as one. Nevertheless, you resign yourself to the confinement, hoping that whatever has taken hold of you will pass soon and that you can return to the world beyond the four walls of your sickbed.

The boredom is the worst part. You're stuck waiting for Ada's daily visits, the only distraction from the tedium of the hours spent staring at the ceiling, listening to the sound of the wind rustling the leaves outside.

Today, as the clock strikes noon, the door to your chamber swings open, and there she is, a vision in red silk, a splash of color against the muted tones of the wallpaper.

"You don't look any better," she comments dryly, her gaze sweeping over you, taking in the pallor of your skin, the dark circles beneath your eyes, and the slumped posture of defeat that seems to have become a permanent fixture. "Have you eaten anything at all today?"

You want to answer her, to explain that the mere thought of food turns your stomach, that the idea of swallowing even a morsel is anathema to you, but the words stick in your throat, a stubborn clot that refuses to budge. Instead, a hoarse croak emerges, a pitiful approximation of speech that only serves to underscore the depth of your infirmity.

Her sigh is a gust of impatience, a blast of frustration that ruffles the edges of the pages of the book that sits on the nightstand, a forgotten relic from an age when such diversions were not beyond the realm of possibility.

She strides to the bedside, her heels clicking on the polished floorboards, and the butterflies on her skirts move in tandem with her. With a fluid motion, she reaches for the silver tray that rests on the table, the contents of which—a plate of cold, untouched soup and a piece of bread gone stale from neglect—bears witness to the ravages of your ailment. She lifts the lid, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the sight of the congealed broth and the floating bits of vegetable matter that bob like tiny life rafts in a sea of grease.

With a deft flick of her wrist, she discards the offending meal, the dish clattering to the floor, the remnants of your failed attempt at sustenance splattering in a greasy arc across the pristine rug, a Rorschach blot of culinary failure that mirrors the chaos in your mind.

"There was no need for that," you protest weakly, the effort of forming words a monumental labor that leaves you breathless and shaking, the exertion of your body a cruel mockery of its former vigor. "It's food."

"Worry about yourself rather than spilled milk," Ada counters, her tone firm, brooking no dissent. "A bowl of soup is of little concern in the face of a guest in ill health."

She leans in, her scent filling your nostrils, a heady blend of jasmine and spice, the aroma at once soothing and intoxicating, a balm to the frayed edges of your consciousness. Her fingers, cool and smooth, brush against your forehead, a gentle caress that erupts shivers all over, and for a fleeting moment, the pain recedes, the pounding in your temples subsiding to a dull throb, an ebbing tide of misery that leaves you gasping in relief.

"Would you want me to take this away?" she whispers, her breath a warm, sweet breeze. "All of that suffering, and the sickness, and the pain. Would you want that to stop?"

"Are you secretly a nurse, by any chance?" Despite the haze that has enveloped your senses, a sliver of humor survives, a defiant spark that flares to life, a small victory in the face of the overwhelming odds that have arrayed themselves against you. "Or a doctor? If so, that would be very helpful."

"I am neither, though I do have some experience in the healing arts." She pulls back, her touch retreating, the comfort of her presence replaced by the gnarled grip of discomfort. "A couple drops of my blood, and that will end the worst of it."

An ugly snort makes you cover your mouth at the end of a weak chuckle, you've forgotten laying on your back means laughing can lead to choking.

"This is not the time for levity," Ada admonishes, her gaze sharpening, her lips thinning into a severe line, the mirth that once danced in the depths of her irises extinguished, a candle snuffed out in a sudden gust of disapproval. "This is a serious matter, and a serious offer. One that could save your life, should the illness prove to have fatal consequences."

"But—" you begin, the protest half-formed, the words a jumbled mass of disbelief and suspicion, the rational part of your brain—the scientist, the historian, the skeptic—rejecting the notion outright.

But the plea dies on your tongue at how quick a touch of her nail to the pad of her finger is enough to draw blood, the crimson drop welling up, a perfect sphere of carmine brilliance that catches the light, a miniature sun.

"Go on," her urging is soft, yet insistent, a command that cannot be ignored. "It's not a gift I bestow lightly. You are the first, and likely the last, to receive it."

Oh I'm sure, you think to yourself, touched by the lengths she would go to keep up the bit, and moved to help, in spite of everything. How much has she spent to pull off these tricks for your benefit? What a strange woman.

"I'm honored," you quip, a feeble attempt at humor in the face of the absurd, a final act of rebellion against the forces that have conspired to bring you to this juncture.

Your face crumples up in a grimace the moment she actually goes through with the gesture and puts her bleeding fingertip between your parted lips. Your teeth click together in a vain attempt to ward her off, to reject her intrusion, but it's too late. The taste is coppery, salty, and unpleasantly thick, and you gag, the reflexive spasm of your throat a desperate bid to expel the foreign substance, to reject the intimacy of her offering. But Ada is relentless, her finger probing deeper, smearing the essence of her being across the surface of your tongue, an inescapable invasion that sends a shudder of revulsion rippling through your frame.

"Swallow." The directive is a hiss, a sibilant demand that pierces the veil of your resistance, a dagger thrust into the heart of your defiance. And, to your horror, you obey, the muscles of your throat working in concert to draw the noxious liquid down.

You expect the immediate onslaught of nausea. Yet, to your astonishment, and not a little trepidation, the sensation that sweeps over you is not the familiar wave of repulsion, but a flood of warmth, a suffusing glow that radiates outward from the epicenter of her touch, a sunburst of vitality that banishes the shadows of lethargy, a surge of energy that reinvigorates and rejuvenates.

It's not just a placebo, or a trick of the mind. It's a tangible, measurable effect that defies explanation, a miracle that cannot be dismissed. For as her blood courses through your veins, the malaise that has plagued you for weeks dissipates, a fog lifting to reveal a landscape transformed, and in the wake of her intervention, the world comes alive anew, a riot of color and sensation that fills you with awe.

"Better," Ada remarks, a satisfied smile curving her lips, a subtle triumph evident in her demeanor.

"What did you do to me?" The question spills from your lips, unbidden, an involuntary exclamation of wonder and confusion, a need to understand the impossible. "How could that possibly work?"

"A secret," she demurs, her tone playful, a coy evasion that only serves to deepen the enigma. "I'm afraid the particulars of my family's medical practices must remain confidential. But rest assured, the effects are quite real, and will not fade. You are cured, if not completely healed. A few days of bedrest should see to the remainder of your recovery."

"You're telling me," you say, struggling to wrap your head around the concept, the incongruity of her actions, the absurdity of the entire situation. It's like something out of a fairy tale, a storybook ending that feels too neat, too convenient. And yet, the proof is undeniable, the pain in your joints receding, the fatigue that has dogged your every waking moment evaporating like mist in the morning sun. You are, impossibly, getting better. "That a drop of blood, a single drop, and that has magically cured me of what's ailed me for the past two weeks."

"Magic has no part in it, I assure you." Her laugh is a rich, resonant sound that seems to reverberate in the confines of the chamber, a melody that echoes in the hollows of your bones. "Just an old remedy, passed down through generations. Consider yourself fortunate to have been on the receiving end of it."

"I consider myself confused! Curious!" you retort, the fire of indignation kindling in your breast, a flame that refuses to be quenched. "What is this, Miss Wong? First the invitation, the isolation, the mysterious documents and the ancient lineage that doesn't add up, then the weird things happening all around the castle, and the—and the dreams—"

"Dreams?"

"The blood!" A deep flush creeps up your neck and horrifyingly, her gaze follows it before you go red. "The portraits, and now a cure that's too good to be true, and you won't even tell me the truth of why the hell you invited me to stay here!"

"Curiosity," her reply is a silken caress, a verbal embrace that encircles and ensnares, a whispered promise that lures you closer, a moth drawn to the flame. "The same reason that led you to accept my invitation. We are alike, you and I, driven by a hunger that cannot be sated by mere sustenance, a thirst that demands more than water can provide. Knowledge, the pursuit of understanding, the unraveling of mysteries—that is the currency we trade in, the coin of our realm. Is that not enough for you to stay?"

"Except you don't trade with me. You hoard. You hold back, and lie, and tease, and taunt." Your accusation is pointed, a barbed arrow aimed at the heart of her duplicity, a challenge to her motives, a demand for the truth. "Why is the portrait gallery filled with people that can't be related to each other? Why is the history of the Wong clan so convoluted and fragmented? What are these secrets that you guard so jealously, that you refuse to share, and yet, expect complete fealty from those who serve you?"

"Sometimes, the cost of knowledge is too high," her rejoinder is a slap in the face, a stinging rebuke that brings you up short, a sobering reality that dampens the fires of your righteous anger. "There are some truths that are best left buried, hidden from the prying eyes of the world. Some doors are locked for a reason, and to pry them open is to invite disaster."

"Then what's the point of having a historian under your roof?" you counter, refusing to yield ground, to capitulate in the face of her evasions. "If the past is to be sealed away, the history of your family entombed in the dust and cobwebs of a forgotten archive, then what purpose do I serve?"

She doesn't answer, at least not immediately. Instead, she turns her back to you, a gesture of dismissal that speaks volumes, and strides to the window, her figure outlined against the backdrop of the twilight that has swallowed the sun, a crimson shadow that stands sentinel at the boundary between light and darkness.

Then you remember what you have been told. You're asking the wrong questions.

"Miss Wong." You call her name, not the formal 'Lady' or 'my lady', or any of the titles that others have bestowed upon her. It is a direct address, an acknowledgement of her presence, a recognition of her individuality. "Ada," you amend, the name feeling strange on your tongue, an intimacy that has not been earned, a familiarity that is both presumptuous and electrifying. She doesn't correct you, and in the silence, a tacit acceptance hangs, an allowance that grants you a measure of equality, a concession that levels the playing field. "What do you want from me here?"

She doesn't hesitate, doesn't prevaricate, doesn't deflect. Her response is a single word, a syllable that encapsulates the entirety of her intent, the core of her agenda. "Company."

It's a simple statement, a declaration of desire that rings true, a need that transcends the superficial trappings of wealth and power, of class or station.

She's lonely.

"You have a whole house full of servants. Surely, someone is willing to talk to you."

It's an observation, not a criticism. There's no judgment, no censure in your words, only a genuine curiosity, a desire to understand the motivations of this woman. After all, the halls of the estate are filled with a veritable army of retainers, a host of individuals whose sole purpose is to cater to the whims of their mistress. To suggest that solitude could prevail amidst such a throng is almost absurd.

But then, Ada laughs—a harsh, mirthless sound that echoes in the room, filling the space and lingering in the corners like the remnants of a bitter aftertaste.

"Servants are not friends," she says, her tone sharp, her eyes cold and hard. "They are paid to be here. Their loyalty is bought and sold, their devotion a commodity to be bartered. They do not keep me company. They attend to my needs, they fulfill their duties, and then they retreat. They fear me. And rightly so."

"What do they have to be that afraid of?" You lean forward, the blankets falling away, exposing the bare skin of your arms and the swell of your breasts to the cool night. It's not seductive; it's an unconscious act, a reflexive response to the gravity of the conversation, a physical manifestation of your engagement, a willingness to expose a bit of vulnerability in the hope of eliciting a reciprocal openness from her.

She doesn't respond, not right away. She just looks at you, her gaze penetrating, searching, as though trying to peer beneath the surface of your flesh and into the deepest recesses of your being, a scrutiny that is both intimate and uncomfortable.

"I've revealed enough to you for today," she finally responds, her tone flat, her words a barrier that shuts down further inquiry, a wall that rises between the two of you, a boundary that is not to be crossed. "Rest. Regain your strength. When you are well, we will speak again."

With that, she leaves, the door closing behind her with a soft but resolute click, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the room, a period at the end of a sentence that remains unfinished.

After that incident, the dynamic shifts. Not dramatically, not in any overt, seismic way, but subtly, imperceptibly, like a fault line deep beneath the earth's crust that grumbles and groans. Gone are the elaborate pretenses, the carefully constructed façade of the lady of the manor and her humble historian. In their place is something raw, unvarnished, a connection that is as fragile as it is electric. There are no more games, no more elaborate ruses, no more contrived tests of will and wit. Instead, there is an uneasy détente, a truce that is held together by the tenuous strands of mutual curiosity, and a growing, inexplicable fascination.

Ada's visits become less frequent, but also longer in duration, each encounter a delicate dance of push and pull, a tug-of-war between her desire to maintain the upper hand, and her obvious, if begrudging, interest in you. It's an odd, disorienting sensation to have her in close proximity, the heat of her presence a constant, low-level buzz of awareness that prickles at the edges of your consciousness, a persistent, distracting itch that cannot be scratched.

You talk more freely, now. With the need to prove your intellectual mettle no longer hanging over your head like the sword of Damocles, you find yourself able to engage her on a variety of topics, from the esoteric to the mundane. She proves a surprisingly erudite and thoughtful conversationalist, her mind agile, intellect razor-sharp.

A friendship of sorts begins to bloom, a tentative, tenuous thing that hovers somewhere in the liminal space between professional courtesy and personal warmth. It's an undefined, nebulous creature, a chimera that defies categorization, a hybrid of trust and mistrust, affection and wariness.

But it's the most honest relationship you've had in ages.

So, subsequently, the revelation of her immortality unfolds in a similarly understated fashion. It's not a dramatic confession, no tears or accusations or grand declarations of eternal life.

You'd been talking about history, the passage of time, the inexorable march of years and the fleeting nature of human existence. You'd mentioned, in passing, how strange it was to stand on the precipice of the new century, to look out at the vast expanse of the future and wonder what lay ahead, to contemplate the possibilities and perils of a world on the brink of transformation. And Ada, in her characteristically blunt and incisive manner, had cut to the heart of the matter, laying bare the truth that had always hovered just beyond the fringes of your awareness.

"Yes, that must be a curious position to be in," she'd said, her gaze fixed on the landscape visible through the bay windows of her study, the rolling hills and verdant fields a tableau of natural beauty that seemed to stretch on forever, an endless panorama of green and gold. "To exist in a state of perpetual anticipation, never quite sure of what lies ahead, but certain that the only constant is change."

There'd been a moment of silence, a pause in the conversation that had felt pregnant with possibility, an opening that begged to be explored, and before you'd known it, the question had slipped past your lips, the words spoken before you could think better of them. "You speak as if it doesn't concern you. But surely, the prospect of a new era affects us all, does it not?"

"Does it?" Ada had turned to face you, her eyes gleaming in the fading light of dusk, her features cast in the soft, golden glow of the dying day. "For some, perhaps, the dawn of a new age holds the promise of a fresh start, a chance to reinvent oneself. For ones like me, however, the turning of the centuries is merely another tick of the clock. The world changes, yes, but I remain the same. An anachronism in an ever-evolving universe. Do you understand?"

And suddenly, in that moment, you do. You do understand. It's almost as if she's whispering the answer into your consciousness.

All the little hints, the cryptic references, the subtle suggestions—it all crystallized in your mind, puzzle pieces of clues that resolved into a coherent picture, an image that was both startling and oddly comforting in its clarity.

"You're not mortal, are you?" you'd asked, the question a rhetorical one, a statement of fact disguised as an inquiry. "That's why the archives are so extensive, and the family history is a convoluted mess. You've lived long enough to see generations come and go. But—"

You were about to ask how. But again, the thought of asking the wrong question comes to the forefront of your mind, and instead, you say:

"—why do all of this? Why hire someone to chronicle a story that doesn't actually belong to you, a history that is nothing more than a fabricated fiction designed to obscure the truth of your existence?"

Ada had smiled, then, a wry, self-deprecating twist of her lips that held a hint of bitterness, a taste of the loneliness that she carried within her, the burden of an eternity spent watching the world pass her by.

"You'll find out soon enough," was all she'd said, her eyes glittering with a light that seemed to contain the wisdom of ages, a lifetime's worth of secrets and regrets compressed into a single, piercing glance. "Now, shall we continue our discussion of the Habsburgs, or would you prefer to delve into the intricacies of the Ming dynasty's economic policies?"

You figure out she's a vampire when you notice it's not wine that she's drinking.

The glass itself is a beautiful, curlicued piece of crystal, its facets catching the candlelight and refracting it into a spectrum of colors that dance across the table. The liquid inside is a rich, deep crimson, almost black, and it coats the sides of the glass in a thick, viscous film that seems to cling to the surface. You'd assumed, at first, that it was a particularly full-bodied vintage, a rare and expensive libation reserved for special occasions. But as the evening wears on, and the level of the substance in the glass remains stubbornly unchanged, a creeping suspicion takes root in the back of your mind, a nagging doubt that refuses to be silenced.

"That looks too much like blood," you point out, the words slipping from your tongue before you can stop them, a verbal slip that lays bare the direction of your thoughts.

Across the table, Ada's eyebrow arches, a slender, elegant arc that conveys a world of meaning in the subtlest of gestures. Her lips twitch, a suppressed smile threatening to break free, and she inclines her head, a gesture of acknowledgment that simultaneously confirms and dismisses the accuracy of your observation.

"It is," she states, her tone matter-of-fact, devoid of any hint of surprise or defensiveness. As if the admission were no more remarkable or scandalous than a preference for a particular type of cheese or vintage of whiskey.

Your brain stutters, momentarily overloaded by the implications of her confession, the logical consequences of her statement clanging around in your skull like a cacophony of discordant bells. Visions of stakes and garlic and sunlight flash through your consciousness, a litany of half-remembered folktales and myths that seem woefully inadequate in the face of the woman seated opposite you, sipping calmly from her goblet of what is undoubtedly the lifeblood of another living being.

"How..." the question emerges haltingly, your mouth and throat dry, the sound of your own pulse thundering in your ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowns out the rational, analytical part of your mind. How is she here, in front of you, a creature of legend and nightmare made flesh and reality? How can she sit there, so composed, so assured? "Is the... Is the word I'm looking for vampire?"

"Among other things, yes," she says, a trace of amusement creeping into her inflection, a note of wry humor that serves to underscore the absurdity of the situation, the surreal juxtaposition of the mundane and the supernatural that has somehow insinuated itself into the heart of this refined, aristocratic dining chamber. "I suppose that's the most convenient label. A bit pedestrian, perhaps, but serviceable."

"And you're not going to... drink my blood?" It's a ludicrous thing to articulate, a sentence that should never have to be spoken, an eventuality that should exist solely in the realm of fiction and parlor games. And yet, the query lingers in the space between the two of you, an unspoken fear given form, a possibility that refuses to be ignored or dismissed.

"Only if you want me to," Ada responds, her gaze locking with yours, her eyes twin pools of obsidian that seem to swallow the candlelight, a darkness that beckons and entices, a bottomless well of mystery and temptation. "But that's not what I invited you here for. I have plenty of... volunteers. From the household, and from the town below. Mortals who seek a different kind of immortality. You, on the other hand, are a scholar, an intellectual. Your value to me lies in your mind, not your veins."

"I'm glad to hear that, at least," you murmur, a shaky, uncertain laugh escaping your lips, a release valve for the pressure building in your chest, a safety mechanism to prevent an emotional implosion. "I'm guessing the word not getting out means you have other gifts than that healing blood of yours."

She lets the silence be the answer to that.

"Do they know? The servants, the people in the village. Do they understand that their protector is also their predator?"

"Predator. Predator," she repeats, the syllables rolling off her tongue as if she were tasting them, savoring their texture and flavor. "An interesting choice of words. Yes, to some extent, I am a predator. I hunt, I feed, I survive. But no, they do not know the entirety of the story. They see me as their benefactor, their patron, the source of their prosperity and comfort."

Your mind goes to that one little translation error you two had discussed way back when you first arrived here. Not sacrifice, more like an offering meaning mutual exchange.

"Huh," you say, the sound a non-committal grunt, a placeholder that fills the space until the next, more important question can emerge. "How many of them are willing, then, or is that really none of my business?"

"I only take the willing ones," Ada replies, her tone matter-of-fact, her posture relaxed and open, a study in confidence and assurance. "It's not difficult to find volunteers, especially among those who have grown weary of their mortal coils, or harbor a secret, desperate longing for something beyond the veil of death."

"I guess I'm in no position to judge," you concede, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. After all, who are you to cast aspersions on the choices of others, the decisions that have led them to this strange, secluded estate in the shadow of the Carpathians, to willingly offer up their vital essence in exchange for a semblance of companionship, a shared intimacy that transcends the merely physical. "To each their own. So, the cat is out of the bag, or the bat is out of the coffin, or however that saying goes... I think I understand why you had me learning and documenting everything about the made-up you and this made-up family. You can't very well have historians and genealogists poking their noses into a lineage that doesn't actually exist. Better to give the curious a version of the truth, a carefully curated fiction that satisfies their questions and keeps the real secrets buried."

It doesn't take too long for you to start questioning her about vampirism, the concept of it, the actual practice of it, the culture of vampires and the lore surrounding their existence. She indulges you, answering your queries with a patient, amused tolerance, her demeanor that of a seasoned instructor guiding a particularly precocious pupil through the intricacies of a new and unfamiliar discipline.

Some of what she reveals aligns with the popular mythology, the familiar tropes and conventions that have been woven into the fabric of human storytelling for centuries—the aversion to sunlight, the preternatural strength and agility, the haunting beauty that seems to emanate from the depths of her being, and the thirst, ever-present and relentless, that drives her to seek sustenance from the veins of the living. But there are surprises, too, details that deviate from the accepted narrative, and it is in these moments of divergence that the true complexity and richness of her condition becomes apparent.

For instance, the sun does not incinerate her on contact due to her age, nor does the sight of a crucifix or the presence of garlic send her recoiling in horror. Rather, the daylight hours leave her weakened and lethargic, her senses dulled and her powers diminished, a state of semi-dormancy that renders her vulnerable and exposed, a far cry from the formidable, commanding figure that dominates the nocturnal realm.

As for her diet, while human blood is the preferred, and indeed essential, nourishment that sustains her, she is not wholly reliant upon it. Animal blood can suffice in a pinch, though it provides little in the way of satisfaction, a mere stopgap measure that does nothing to assuage the persistent, gnashing hunger. The subject of mirrors arises, and she laughs in your face. Apparently, vampires have no issue appearing in reflections, and the whole idea of them avoiding or being invisible in a mirror is complete and utter nonsense. A rumor, or a myth, or a superstition that caught on. Though the whole 'having no soul' bit is true, and she's able to produce an image of herself in a silver-backed mirror to prove her lack of a soul.

"So the legends of a stake to the heart and a cross to ward off evil—none of that is true?"

"A stake to the heart, regardless of the material, would certainly be unpleasant. As for the cross... Think about it, what's the logic in a cross harming me when the star of David doesn't? Or an Om, or an Ankh, or anything else?"

You spend countless hours discussing the minutiae of her condition, the physiological and psychological effects of her unique metabolism, the social and cultural implications of her existence, and the existential dilemmas that arise from her prolonged, potentially endless lifespan. It is a fascinating, exhilarating conversation that stretches across days and nights, an exchange of ideas and perspectives that challenges and enriches both of you, a meeting of minds that transcends the boundaries of species and experience. And at the end of every discussion, every debate, every exploration of the myriad facets of her nature, you are left with a renewed sense of awe, a profound appreciation of the depth and complexity of the creature who sits before you, her eyes glimmering with the accumulated wisdom of ages, a being that exists at the intersection of the natural and the supernatural, a living embodiment of the contradictions and wonders of the universe itself. Every day, the respect you have for her grows, as does your admiration... and curiosity.

So you ask one day, while the two of you are walking through the portrait gallery. "Would you turn someone into a vampire, if that was what they desired above all else? Have you ever?"

Her fingers brush the frame of a particular painting, a portrait that depicts a man in his late thirties, his features sharp and angular, a pair of piercing blue eyes that seem to follow the observer. There is a sadness in her touch, a lingering regret that colors her words, a bitter undertone that hints at a history fraught with disappointment and heartache. She hesitates, a moment of indecision, and you can almost feel the gears of her mind turning, the calculations and considerations that weigh heavily on her thoughts.

Then she speaks, her tone measured and cautious, a diplomat negotiating the terms of a delicate truce. "You're considering it."

"I'm not!" you protest, a denial born of instinct rather than conviction. For the truth is, the seed has been planted, a possibility that has taken root and begun to germinate, a tantalizing prospect that beckons with promises of eternal life, of knowledge and power beyond the confines of mortality. "I'm just curious. That's all. We're just talking."

"But you imagine it, don't you? What it would be like to leave your time behind to embrace better days to come? To be here to see the changes, to watch the world evolve and shift? All to be the one to witness history instead of standing on the sidelines like those who underestimate you. It's in your nature, my beloved historian. You'd make an excellent companion, but an even greater vampire. Most are born either from tragedy or accident, and a rare few, the best ones, have a hunger for something more. What would you be like, I wonder, when the wonder fades away and that curiosity turns to boredom? How would we pass the years, the decades, the centuries then? When the books have all been read and the stories have all been told, and the music has lost its charm? When the dawn and dusk bleed together, and the seasons lose their meaning, and the stars themselves grow dim and cold? What will hold your attention, my dearest, when the novelty of immortality has worn thin, and the banality of eternity has set in?"

Ada's hand reaches out, her fingers brushing against the canvas, the rough texture of the oils and pigments yielding to the gentle pressure of her touch, and the entire time she'd been talking, you could not tear your gaze from her, from her lips, from her teeth, from her eyes, from the promise of a future, a forever, with her.

You've been with her for five years when she decides to turn you.

Five years.

Only a blink of an eye for Ada. But for you, those years have changed you in ways that are subtle, yet unmistakably present. Her blood has healed the infirmity that had plagued you, leaving you stronger, healthier, more vibrant. And in that same period, the castle has transformed from a place of work, of scholarship and discovery, to something more—a home and a refuge from the vicissitudes of the wider world. In the shadow of the mountains, amid the halls and chambers of the estate, you have found a community, a family of sorts, an eclectic group of individuals bound by a shared commitment to the maintenance and preservation of the Wong legacy. The servants, the staff, the attendants, and the occasional visitor—they have all become familiar faces, their comings and goings a constant, reassuring presence in the uncertainties of your daily life. So much has changed.

Yet, despite the passage of time, the mystery and allure of Ada remain undiminished. You have turned her once untouched entire library upside down. Read every book, every journal, every scrap of paper, and learned the languages contained inside, until the only thing remaining is the archives, the last frontier.

The night of the decision, you're outside, taking in the moonlit splendor of the countryside that stretches out before the castle, the rolling hills and forests bathed in the soft, ethereal glow of the celestial orb. The stars twinkle overhead, a scattering of diamonds against the black velvet of the sky, and the breeze carries the scent of pine and wildflowers, a fragrant bouquet that fills your lungs and invigorates your senses.

The night is cold, so you have on a fur cloak that Ada gifted to you, and a warm mug of mulled cider, the steam rising in lazy, swirling patterns, a visible manifestation of the warmth that suffuses your body, a counterpoint to the crisp, frosty evening that envelops you. The taste is sweet and spicy, the cinnamon and cloves blending harmoniously with the apple and wine, a comforting, familiar flavor that transports you back to the cozy, hearthside gatherings of childhood, the memories of laughter and the simple joys of companionship.

Does all blood taste different like all food is, and does the blood of someone eating a specific dish result in a change of flavor, you wonder? Would you ever taste this cider again if you were to become a vampire? It's not the existential questions for you, but little things, that make you hesitate. A whole world of experiences, of tastes, of sounds and sights that will fade away, or be enhanced, in a way that will never be replicated again. Your favorite meals will lose their appeal, and you'll be trading the sun's light for the moon's, and a single bite will mean an ending, and a beginning. Philosophical questions are nothing next to the idea that you will no longer crave the taste of a hot bowl of soup on a rainy day, or that a lover's caress might be the precursor to a hunt. You've seen enough to know that, and while the thought of becoming a vampire doesn't scare you, the finality of it does. You'll have to say goodbye, and hello, to everything, and everyone.

"You're brooding," a soft, melodious, teasing, chiding, amused, but understanding, and a million other things, at the same time. "It doesn't suit you."

"Thinking, actually," you respond, a wry smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, an involuntary reaction to her gentle reproach. "There's a difference. I'm not some moody artist."

"Some would argue that a scholar is just a frustrated writer," she parries, taking her place at your side on the stone bench, underneath a blanket that is draped around her shoulders, her arm extended in invitation. She's close. Close enough to feel the heat of her body, to catch the faint, floral notes of her perfume, a fragrance that seems to encapsulate the essence of springtime, of blossoms unfurling beneath the warmth of the sun. The kind of smell that makes you lean in. Just a little.

You huddle close, allowing your head to rest on her shoulder. It's a comfortable position, a familiar intimacy that has developed over the course of the past years. "And what do they call a frustrated historian?"

"A storyteller," she answers, her fingers entwining with yours. "Or a romantic."

"And a frustrated lady of leisure?" you inquire, a note of amusement coloring your tone. "What do they call that?"

"Unemployed," she retorts, her laughter ringing out in the stillness of the night, a sound that is as infectious as it is rare. "Or a recluse. Take your pick."

"Ah, yes. The perils of wealth and idleness," you muse, a wistful sigh escaping your lips. "How do you ever cope?"

"By finding distractions," she replies, her breath warm against the shell of your ear, sending a delicious shiver down your spine, a sensation that borders on the illicit, a forbidden delight that quickens the tempo of your pulse, an exhilaration that dances on the edge of recklessness. "And by keeping company with fascinating individuals."

"That's good to hear." Your reply is a murmur, a barely audible susurration that hangs in the space between you, a palpably charged, electric energy that crackles and arcs, a current of desire that flows inexorably toward its inevitable culmination. "I'm glad to be a source of entertainment, at least. Heaven forbid I should bore the great Lady Wong. They'll probably put that on my epitaph. 'Here lies the mortal. She bored a vampire to death, so the vampire returned the favor.'"

"What else would your epitaph read, were you given the chance to fabricate one for an empty grave?"

"I'd have to think of something clever, and not too on the nose. Maybe, 'She died the way she lived. Curious—"

But the meaning of her words sink in late, and you rise from her shoulder to look at her, at the earnest, serious look on her face, and the question in her eyes.

"—until the very end." You finish lamely. "Is this a proposal, Ada?"

"Would it be unwelcome if it were?"

The room Ada has chosen for the turning is an intimate, secluded chamber deep within the bowels of the castle. The walls are lined with ancient, crumbling stones, the mortar that binds them together weathered and pitted, the surface rough to the touch. Torches start flickering in sconces the moment Ada steps in, casting dancing shadows across the floor and ceiling, their guttering flames the only source of illumination in the otherwise Stygian gloom. The temperature is cool, a damp, subterranean ambiance that seeps into the bones, and it's hard to breathe, suggesting how unused to guests this place is. An old chapel, or a hidden crypt, or a forgotten dungeon, it's difficult to discern. Perhaps it served multiple purposes at various points in the estate's long and tumultuous history, because it's quite literally empty save for a symbol spanning the entire floor, intricate and complex, made up of concentric circles, filled with an interlocking, overlapping pattern of sigils that seem to shift and blur when viewed from different angles, a visual puzzle that defies comprehension. The design is etched into the stone, worn and faded in places, but still retaining its essential form.

At the center of the pattern rests a low, circular altar, its surface polished to a mirror-like shine, reflecting the flickering torch light in eerie, wavering patterns. It's constructed of a dark, lustrous stone, possibly obsidian, its edges smooth and rounded, the product of centuries of erosion and neglect. And upon the altar, a singular ornate silver goblet, surface engraved with swirling motifs, sits in mute anticipation, their contents obscured in shadow.

"The ritual itself is straightforward enough," Ada says softly, her words settling into the silence as if they belong here as much as the dust and flickering of the fires, "We'll take a bit of our blood, from whatever location you prefer, and mix it together in the chalice. Then, we drink."

"That's it?"

"No, we're introducing our bloods to each other. If the bond takes, then we'll move onto the next step, which is to drain me."

Your brain had somehow decided on the logic that it should be the opposite, and it shows in your face with all its glory for Ada to see and address.

"You have to take all of my vampiric blood for it to transform you. I'll guide you through that, and in exchange, once you're done, I'll drain you of your human blood. Once the exchange has been completed, the transition will have begun."

Blood is the carrier, you remember her once saying.

"Transition. That's... a nice euphemism."

"It's not instantaneous. Nor is it pleasant. I'm sorry to say that, and I wish there were a less painful way, but the process of changing from one state of being to another is inherently traumatic. Your body will undergo a series of dramatic changes, and the pain will be excruciating. But I promise, I'll be here the entire time. You won't be alone. You won't suffer a moment more than necessary."

Ada's assurance is a balm to your frayed nerves, her confidence is contagious, and you find yourself drawing strength from her calm, measured demeanor, the steadiness of her gaze, and the unwavering conviction in her tone.

"Yeah," you agree, a faint tremor in your response. "No need to sugarcoat things. I appreciate the honesty."

She doesn't attempt to soothe you further, nor does she offer platitudes or false assurances. Instead, her focus remains on the practicalities of the task at hand, her actions methodical. In a swift, precise gesture, she produces a slim, razor-sharp blade, its metal a dull, tarnished hue that catches the firelight in an unsettling, almost sinister gleam. With a deftness that speaks to a lifetime of familiarity with the weapon, she makes a diagonal cut on her forearm. Dark, viscous fluid wells up from the incision, oozing down her arm in rivulets before dripping into the chalice, where it begins to pool, a small reservoir of liquid life, or unlife. And, after a beat of hesitation, she extends her free hand to you. Her gaze is steady, patient, a silent encouragement that requires no verbal prompt or cajoling, a trust that is offered, and an invitation that awaits acceptance.

With a deep, shuddering breath, you accept her proffered blade, its grip strangely warm to the touch, the handle smooth, worn, and well-balanced, a tool designed to inflict maximum harm, a sharp contrast to the delicate skin of your wrist. The act of inflicting self-harm is a strange, disconcerting experience, a primal, instinctual revulsion that must be overcome.

"It has to be your decision," Ada reminds, a gentle, yet firm, admonishment. "I can't be the one to do it to you."

You nod, a jerky, spasmodic motion, a tacit acknowledgment of the irreversible nature of the path you are about to embark upon, a crossing of the Rubicon from which there is no return. With a grim determination, the edge meets the flesh, the steel parting the tissue, a sudden, stinging pain that radiates outward, an immediate, throbbing ache. Blood wells up in the wake of the incision, a crimson cascade that flows freely, splashing against the obsidian surface of the altar, a red rain that puddles in the shallow depression at the center of the stone. You quickly move to aim the flow into the chalice. The darker, thicker substance of Ada's essence seems to envelop and consume your own, a slow, inexorable absorption that is both mesmerizing and disturbing to witness. Soon, the gash ceases its flow, the wound already beginning to clot, and the two of you reach for the cup at the same time, fingers brushing against one another in an unexpected, almost electric contact that sends a jolt of sensation racing along your nerve endings, an involuntary gasp escaping your lips.

"To new beginnings, and the end of loneliness," Ada toasts, a solemn, resonant declaration that hangs in the stagnant, crypt-like atmosphere.

She drinks first, and then you, the mingled flavors of coppery tang and earthy undertones filling your mouth, a taste that is simultaneously repulsive and alluring, a sensory contradiction that leaves you reeling, your senses overwhelmed, and your thoughts scattered, fragmented, like the shards of a shattered mirror, a kaleidoscope of fractured images that coalesce and dissipate in a hypnotic, disorienting dance.

A wave of vertigo washes over you, a dizzying, nauseating onslaught, and for a moment you're afraid if this is 'the bond not taking' as Ada put it. You're left clutching her, arms wrapping around her middle to anchor yourself in her solidity, hoping her blood doesn't reject yours. You want to be with her, truly. To never have to leave her side, or her company. For the nights to stretch on endlessly and the sun to never rise, to spend the rest of eternity in her presence, in her embrace. A selfish wish, perhaps. A desire born of a deeper, more fundamental yearning, a hunger that transcends the petty concerns of mortality, and the fleeting pleasures of the mundane world. You want her, in every sense of the word, and you're willing to sacrifice everything, to cast aside the trappings of a fleeting, transient existence, in order to secure her affections.

She is the most earth-shattering thing to have happened to you—this bloodsucking creature of the night wrapped in the skin of a goddess most fair, her heart of ice, and her soul of a crimson sunrise stuck perpetually below the horizon, waiting to arise. There's beauty in that, you think, a kind of frozen, suspended animation that is at once tragic and enchanting, a limbo that has held her captive for centuries, a timeless purgatory from which there is no escape. Not without someone to pull her out of the snowdrift and the avalanche that is her past, and the present, and her future, to thaw the coldness that has seeped into her bones. And that someone is you. Only you. As she is the only one who has pulled you up from the glass ceilings of the world and pushed you forward to break through them. She's seen the potential in you and nurtured the growth of an oak that will withstand a forest fire. The only one to ever see the true worth in a woman that had nothing to offer, and gave her the whole world.

"You're fine," she whispers, her breath warm against the shell of your ear, her hands cradling the back of your head, a gentle, reassuring pressure that anchors you. "It'll pass."

And it does pass. Eventually, the dizziness recedes, leaving in its wake a peculiar, tingling numbness that spreads outward from the center of your being.

"What was that?"

"The bond taking," she explains, the relief in her tone palpably apparent. "The foundation has been laid. But we have much more to go."

To your surprise, compared to your shaken and dumbstruck state, she's much more eager. It's like a switch has flipped, and the cool and composed lady of the house is gone, and in her place, a starving, desperate creature, and the flash of her fangs emerging makes your stomach drop, your mind going blank.

"You have to drink from me," she reminds, her thumb tracing idle circles on your knuckles. "Take from me. Drain me. Make me weak, and fill yourself to the brim, and then drain some more. I'll take care of the rest."

"I... How?" Your query is a hushed, tentative utterance, the words barely audible even in the sepulchral silence of the chamber.

The prospect of the act itself is daunting, how do you even drink from a person? Let alone drain them to the last drop?

"If you were a vampire, this would be much easier, but..." She takes the blade once more, and casually, gracefully, sits down on the floor before the altar, pulling you down with her. "I'm going to puncture a major artery and you'll suck."

"Suck..."

"Don't let it flow. Suck. Pretend I'm a fruit."

"A fruit," you repeat, in disbelief.

"Yes, a fruit," she smiles, and you could swear that's the sweetest smile you've ever seen. "And to make sure it's not too fast or messy, the carotid artery is best. Right here." She taps her neck twice, right at the base, where the pulse is the strongest, and you swallow. That's... that's a lot. You don't see her hand move, but suddenly two deep streams of blood begin to trickle down her chest, and she leans back, exposing her neck. "Come now, love. We've a long night ahead of us."

Love. Love. Love. The term of endearment echoes in your mind, a sweet, melodic refrain that reverberates in the hollow chambers of your chest, and pulls you forward as if you're connected to her by a leash. Panicked by the blood ruining her dress, you're quick to latch onto the wound, and the first taste is unlike anything else. She's given you only drops before, to cure illnesses, to heal wounds. Never a mouthful. It's thick, rich, and lingers in the mouth. A sweetness to it, a bitterness in the aftertaste, a hint of something smoky, a complexity of flavor that defies easy description, and the texture is equally remarkable, a silky, luxurious quality that belied its macabre origin, a tactile sensation that evokes a sense of opulence, of indulgence, of a feast fit for a queen.

Suck.

You feel her arms encircle you, a comforting, protective presence, her fingers carding through your hair, a soothing, rhythmic motion that helps to ground you amidst the sensory overload. You slot yourself between her legs to keep her in place, and she lets out a low moan, a sound of surrender, of submission, a signal of her willingness to yield, to offer herself up to you. And as the moments stretch on, the initial shock and horror of the act subsides, giving way to a burgeoning, undeniable hunger, a primal, insatiable need that propels you to draw deeper, to consume more of her essence, and to fill the aching void within you that has been left empty and wanting for far too long.

Eventually, it's less of a mindless drinking to fulfill a ritual, and more of a dining experience like you're the vampire here, and you've pushed and pushed until both of you are horizontal on the ground. Pulling away from her throat, you lick at the wound, at the edges, to catch stray beads of blood, to prolong the savor of each sip, and she sighs in contentment, her body melting into the cold stone beneath, a pliant, yielding form that seems to conform to the contours of the ancient slab, an offering made flesh, and you are the supplicant, the devotee, the acolyte at the altar of a forbidden deity. Her eyes flutter open and close, her lips parted in a dreamy, languorous smile, and the soft sounds that escape her are the most beautiful music to have ever graced your ears.

You go in again and don't come up until the fountain has slowed to a trickle, unaware of how much time has passed, and are jolted out of your haze by the force of her pushing you away. That force doesn't match someone who should be rendered boneless by blood loss, and when you look at her, she looks the part of a corpse. Skin pale, pallor deathly, her lips have lost color, and her chest doesn't rise. She's not breathing, because she's not dead, just severely weakened, and the thought is a balm to your worries. Even her hair lacks its previous shine, and her eyes are glassy, vacant, a dull, listless gaze that roams the darkness, unfocused, a disquieting, unsettling sight that sends a shiver of unease racing down the length of your spine.

"My turn," she croaks, her fingers gripping the collar of your shirt, and tugging insistently, a gesture that is equal parts demand and entreaty. "Come to me."

With a muffled gasp, you acquiesce to her request, lowering yourself atop her, your bodies aligning in a strange, intimate embrace, and her arms encircle you once more, her grip surprisingly strong despite the weakness of her frame, her nails digging into the fabric of your clothing. When she tilts her head, the wounds on her neck have clotted, the scent of her potent and overpowering, a bouquet of iron and copper that saturates the stagnant, tomb-like air of the chamber. And then, with a sudden, startling swiftness, her teeth sink into the side of your neck, the pain a sharp, searing agony that blossoms from the point of contact, a radiating, throbbing anguish that spreads outward in waves of excruciating intensity. It's not the first bite from her, but the intent behind it changes everything. Where before, there had always been a measured, restrained quality to the act, a delicate, precise application of pressure and suction, now her feeding is frenzied, a ravenous, all-consuming onslaught that leaves you reeling, your senses overwhelmed, your thoughts scattered, and fragmented, a disjointed cacophony of fear, of panic, and of an underlying, simmering desire that burns low in the pit of your belly, a longing that defies the horrors of the moment, a perverse, twisted manifestation of lust that should not, cannot, exist in the midst of such brutality.

Her hand moves lower, and lower, and her palm slides under your shirt to push you down and closer to her, and her fingers dig into your hip, the pressure bruising, painful. She's taking your heat, draining the life from you, the very essence of your vitality and existence flowing inexorably from the wound, the steady ebb of your strength leaving you enervated, settling over you like a funeral shawl. Yet, the discomfort is not without its rewards, a peculiar, paradoxical pleasure that courses through your veins, a sensation that borders on the erotic, a forbidden delight that thrills and terrifies in equal measure, and as the world around you dims and fades, the edges of your vision blurring and warping, and the shadows closing in, a veil of darkness descends.

In the aftermath, the only sounds are that of her greedy gulping, the occasional, half-formed murmur of approval, and the ragged, labored rhythm of your own breathing as your body struggles to endure the ordeal. And as the last vestiges of consciousness slip away, the final image that flits across your mind's eye is the sight of her, the woman whose life is inextricably intertwined with yours, the one who has claimed your heart and soul, her smile stained crimson.

The world returns slowly, slipping into your awareness in fragments, as if someone is pulling you from the depths of a dark, unfathomable sea. You can’t remember when the night ended or how you’ve arrived here, in the dim warmth of the estate’s east-facing room, with an odd glow filtering in through a crack in the heavy curtains. The light is wrong—too bright, too solid in the room around you, tinged with a color that is neither the warm hues of daylight nor the cool, silvery tones of the moonlight that has been your constant companion throughout the long nights of Ada's company. No, this light is different, a strange, ethereal illumination that seems to cast a pall over the surroundings, imbuing the space with an eerie, otherworldly ambiance that unsettles and disorients in equal measure. It feels almost as if the boundaries between the corporeal and the incorporeal have blurred, a liminal realm in which the physical and the metaphysical coexist in uneasy harmony, a delicate equilibrium that could tip at any moment, plunging the world into chaos and confusion which you've seen nothing of the likes before.

You stir, your limbs moving with an unfamiliar languor, as if you’re piecing yourself back together. Your skin is clammy, cold sweat clinging to the fabric of the sheets that envelop you in a damp, uncomfortable cocoon. Every inch of your body aches, a dull, throbbing pain that permeates the marrow of your bones, the sinews of your muscles, and the tendons that bind them together, a relentless, pervasive agony that leaves you weak and trembling. Each breath is a laborious effort, a shallow, rasping inhalation that does little to assuage the burning, desperate hunger at the pit of your stomach, an insatiable, primal craving that demands satiety, a yearning that goes beyond mere sustenance, a fundamental, existential urge that threatens to consume you from within. But the worst of the sensations is the maddening thirst that claws at the back of your throat, a parched, desiccated sensation that seems to reach down to the very core of your being—you feel as if you could drink the world dry and still not slake the fire that rages inside you.

The warmth that surrounds you is not your own. Your eyes drift open, slow and unwilling, to see Ada sitting across from you, her silhouette sharp against the muted gold of the morning light spilling in from the window. Her figure is draped in shadow, yet something about her seems… altered. She’s watching you with a gaze that is softer, less guarded, her presence lacking the quiet, unyielding power that had always surrounded her. There’s something disturbingly human in the way she sits, unmoving, her hands resting lightly on her lap, her posture devoid of the subtle predatory grace you had come to expect.

And the light—it dances across her face, illuminating her in a way that feels jarringly real, almost blasphemous. It cuts across her skin, warm and soft, bringing out the faintest undertones of color in her cheeks, the way sunlight only ever can. Your eyes drift to her hands, to the way the light catches on the faintest creases of her skin, the shadows playing at the delicate veins tracing across her wrists. She is sitting in the morning light, with no hesitation, no consequence.

“Good afternoon, my love,” her words are hushed, a gentle caress that floats through the room. “Welcome to the rest of your life."

Sunlight leaves her weakened, you remember. So why? How? Why does she look so... Why does she smell so...

"Ada," you rasp, the word scraping against the raw, inflamed tissue of your vocal cords, a hoarse, guttural sound that barely resembles the melodic, dulcet tones of your former self. "What's going on?"

Vampires don't drink from each other. They don't make one another hungry like that. It's what she's told you when you asked about companionship in the truest sense. But she makes the hunger in your body sharpen, coiling into something darker, something fierce, but your mind remains rooted in a mixture of disbelief and something close to horror. This isn’t a dream, not some haunting vision of a life you’ve been chasing. The sunlight, the way it wraps around her so softly—it’s real.

Ada tilts her head, a slight, knowing smile touching her lips. The smile is different now, devoid of that cool, detached amusement you had grown used to. This smile is warm, edged with something quiet, almost vulnerable. Her hands rest lightly on the arms of the chair, her fingers curling slightly as though steadying herself.

You push yourself up, the movement strangely effortless, though you feel a disorienting pull, like you’re moving through water. There’s a dull pulse in your chest, slow, measured, each beat heavy, relentless, like a drum pounding from deep within. Your senses feel sharp, too sharp, as though the room itself has drawn closer, each detail magnified and blurring at the edges.

The light, the firelight from last night’s hearth, everything feels more alive, more present. You catch the faintest scent lingering in the air—the sweetness of cedarwood, of wax and smoke, mingling with something faintly metallic. Your gaze falls on Ada’s wrist, the slight line of red where her pulse should be. That red mark feels like a spark, a flash of something you can’t quite place, and the hunger stirs again, deeper this time, insistent.

Ada studies you in silence, her gaze gentle yet unwavering, as though she’s waiting for you to grasp the truth buried beneath this impossible moment. The quiet stretches between you, your mind piecing together fragments of what you both know but haven’t spoken aloud. There is no more pretending, no more stories wrapped in shadows. This is the truth, laid bare in the unforgiving light of day.

"Why are you... why are you human?"

"We made an exchange. I'm now you. You're now me. A trade."

"But..."

It's all in her eyes. All of it. The entirety of her plan, the intricacies and the machinations of the whole process are laid out, plain and clear, and the pieces click and fit into place. There's no need to say any of it. What's the point of asking questions to which the answers are obvious? Her not telling you of the real nature of the transition proves it.

Your fingers tighten on the bed sheets, knuckles white, the fabric bunching under the pressure of your grip, and it's a struggle to keep your breathing steady, a futile attempt at maintaining a semblance of calmness, to not betray the growing unease, the trepidation, that gnarls and knots within. Had it all been a lie? The affection, the bond, the connection that had blossomed between you in the shadowed halls of the estate, the shared laughter and stolen glances, the quiet moments of intimacy that had seemed so genuine, so sincere, the tender touches and whispered promises, had they all been nothing more than an act, a facade designed to manipulate, to ensnare?

And the thought of that possibility, that perhaps you had been nothing more than a pawn in her grand scheme, a willing victim in her quest for humanity, stings, an ache that lingers and festers, a wound that refuses to heal, a betrayal that cuts deep.

“You've condemned me,” you whisper, the words slipping from your lips with a hollow finality.

"I've given you what you wanted," she corrects, her tone soft, nonchalant, as if oblivious to the turmoil churning within, a tempest that threatens to consume, to destroy. "You wished to witness history being made. To see the future unfold. And now, you will be a part of that—"

"You know it means nothing without you by my side! I don't care that you've stolen my humanity from me, I care that you're depriving me of the only thing that would have made eternity worthwhile! You!"

Her laugh is a low, throaty sound, rich with an emotion that defies easy interpretation. Is it pity, or condescension, or a twisted form of compassion that colors her words? Whatever the source, the effect is undeniable: a wave of fury, a surge of indignation, that rises like bile in your throat that demands an outlet.

"I wouldn't have given this curse to you if I didn't think you couldn't handle it. Love is yet another curiosity of yours, and a fleeting one at that. It's the most fickle of things, and a fool's errand to seek the permanence of the sun in something as ephemeral as the moon. Give it a decade, a century at most. Your infatuation will fade, and then we'll be on even ground. Though, I must admit that having had a taste of mortality once more, I do understand the appeal. Perhaps there's a lesson in here somewhere. Or maybe that's just the human in me talking."

"How dare you!" The accusation slips from between clenched teeth, the venom of anger seeping into each syllable, a bitter, acrid flavor that coats the tongue, a poison that seeks to inflict harm, to exact retribution. But the vitriol of your words fails to find purchase, bouncing off her placid demeanor like raindrops against a stone wall. "How could you do this to me? How could you deceive me so cruelly?"

"The same way the past has deceived us all. With a promise of a better future, or a brighter tomorrow. Isn't that what humanity is, after all—"

"Enough with the philosophy," you snap, the word cracking in the silence of the room. "This isn't a game, or some grand experiment, or a philosophical treatise. This is my life. Our lives. And the fact that you've played with them, toyed with us, with no regard for our feelings or desires, that's... that's—"

"Cruel?" she supplies, her tone remaining infuriatingly even, a calm that only serves to further fan the flames of your outrage. "Yes, I suppose it is. Cruel, cold, calculated. Those are the hallmarks of the vampires. You'll come to learn and appreciate these traits in due time. They will serve you well in the coming centuries."

"Don't," your warning emerges as a growl, a sound that seems to emanate from the depths of a soul wracked with despair, a threat born of desperation. "Don't pretend that this is anything other than a violation, a betrayal of trust, of loyalty. Don't try to justify it, to rationalize it away. What you've done is unforgivable, and I will never, never forget it. I will never stop hating you for it."

"As you should." Ada nods, a simple, accepting gesture. "That is often the relationship between the maker and the turned. But I've been preparing you for it, and you were so eager to learn, so eager to understand."

"This whole time... teaching me your family’s history, everything—"

"Was never meant to be published." Her confirmation is a blade, sliding smoothly between your ribs, piercing the fragile vessel of hope that had somehow endured. "It was meant to be inherited. By you. You were always going to be the sole author of my clan's legacy, the curator of the Wong dynasty. From the moment I found you, that had been the purpose of our arrangement. A mortal, to immortalize the immortals. My historian. My vampire. Mine."

So… she's been teaching you all along.

Not just the mechanics of vampirism, the minutiae of a thousand-year-old blood feud, or the intricacies of a hidden society. No, she's been training you, grooming you, molding you to suit her purposes. And you've been a willing, even enthusiastic, participant in your own deception, a pawn that danced willingly to her tune. Each question, each inquiry, each late-night discussion over a bottle of wine or a shared meal, they'd all been steps in a carefully orchestrated dance, a choreographed performance in which you'd played the role of the wide-eyed, trusting ingénue, and she'd worn the mask of the benevolent mentor, the patron saint of knowledge and wisdom.

"No," you say. "You just wanted an out. An exit. A way to slip the bonds of the curse, the same curse that I've now inherited. This wasn't about preserving your legacy, or passing the torch, or any of that noble rubbish."

A tremor ripples through your hands, curling your fingers into fists. The hunger stirs, insistent, yet it’s something colder, sharper, that drives you forward now, something fueled by the raw betrayal, the sense of abandonment. She’d promised eternity, and delivered a gilded cage she wouldn't even share with you. There's a sensation of prickling on your bottom lip. Your nails have elongated, sharpened. Fangs, the first stirrings of a power that is still unfamiliar, but potent. As the initial rush of shock begins to subside, replaced by a slow, smoldering anger. You can feel the shift within, the darkness that had lain dormant beneath the surface, stirring, awakening. The shadows in the room seem to deepen, to coil and writhe, mirroring the chaos brewing inside you. A part of you, the rational, academic mind, notes the changes, the transformation taking place before your eyes, cataloging them, analyzing them, a detached observer in the midst of a personal apocalypse. Another part, the emotional, the human, recoils in horror, unable to reconcile the monster you're becoming with the person you once were, and the new one, the monster, is hungry. Furious.

"What did you expect, love? That we would play house for the next millennia? That we would settle down, start a family, and watch as our children grew old and died while we remained forever young and untouched by the ravages of time?"

The derision in her tone, the mockery dripping from her every word, sparks a fresh flare of rage, and you lunge forward, propelled by an instinct that is not wholly your own, an urge to strike, to hurt, to tear and rend. There's the telltale, muffled sensation of sunlight hitting your flesh and scalding it, but it's a faraway pain that you're too out of your body to even feel. Ada's chair is knocked away, broken into kindling, and in the blink of an eye, you're on top of her, pinning her to the floor, a snarl on your lips and a wild, untamed fury in your eyes. But Ada is no mere maiden, and the look on her face is not of fear or alarm, but of a quiet acceptance, a resignation tinged with sadness.

You've devolved into an animal, and the sight of her, of the pulsating vein at her neck, the warmth that radiates from her skin, the scent of her, the smell of her, is an irresistible lure. The thirst, the insatiable, all-consuming need, claws at your throat, and you lean in, mouth opening to reveal the newly formed fangs, sharp, deadly, ready to sink into the soft, yielding flesh and drink, to drain, to satiate.

And you do just that.

Your teeth pierce her skin, and the hot, coppery taste of her blood fills your mouth, a rich, heady flavor that sends a jolt of ecstasy racing through your veins, a primal, savage satisfaction that momentarily drowns out the anguish, the despair, the sense of loss that threatens to consume you. Yet, this isn't a kiss, isn't a tender, intimate exchange. No, this is violence, a brutal act of dominance, of retribution, and Ada's gasps of pain, her weak attempts at resistance, only spur you on, growls rumbling from deep in your chest, a beast that has been unleashed, a creature of hunger and wrath. And the worst part is, despite the savagery of your assault, she doesn't fight back, doesn't defend herself against the onslaught, simply lies there, her arms falling limp at her sides, her breath growing ragged and shallow, the light in her eyes slowly dimming, a silent surrender to the fate she's wrought for both of you, a twisted, tragic union of predator and prey.

"You don't bite the blood," she rasps, and her laughter, her goddamn laughter, is the final insult. "You suck it."

But you don't care. Because right now, all that matters is the taste of her, the warmth of her lifeblood flowing down your throat, quenching the fire that burns within, a fleeting, illusory relief from the hellish existence into which she's dragged you, kicking and screaming, a descent into a darkness that has no end.

And you don't stop until her pulse is gone and her heart can't pump any more blood for you to consume.

When you come to your senses, when the frenzy subsides and the crimson haze lifts from your vision, you find yourself hunched over her, her blood smeared across your face, your hands, a gruesome tableau of carnage, a scene from a nightmare.

"Ada?"

You reach out, tentative, trembling, to touch her cheek. It's cold, lifeless, a hollow shell devoid of the vibrancy that once animated her.

The funeral is held on a sunlit afternoon, a small, private affair attended by a scant few mourners. A handful of local dignitaries, a scattering of acquaintances, and a solitary figure draped in mourning black, her face obscured by a veil that catches the faintest hint of the breeze, its gauzy fabric billowing gently in the warm summer wind. The service is a somber, muted affair, the priest's words echoing hollowly in the ears of those gathered, a eulogy that speaks of a woman who had lived a life of solitude and secrets, a recluse whose true nature was known to none.

As the casket is lowered into the ground, a gentle, haunting melody drifts across the cemetery, carried on the wings of the wind, a requiem that seems to encapsulate the melancholy of the occasion, a farewell that lingers in the memory long after the last note fades.

You don't attend.

You can't attend.

Sunlight burns you.

The estate feels hollow now. The corridors stretch out endlessly, each doorway, each shadow, lingering with memories that never quite solidify, never quite fade. Days blur, seeping into nights, the sun rising and falling in a relentless, indifferent cycle that you watch from the tall, narrow windows lining the halls. The clocks still tick, marking time for no one, each tick a reminder of the life Ada has stolen away and left behind for you to grapple with, a gift, or perhaps a curse, that has altered the very fabric of your reality and sentenced you to an eternal purgatory. The books that line the shelves are no longer a source of comfort or fascination; instead, they stand as silent, accusatory reminders of the knowledge that had drawn you here, the obsession that had led to the shattering of everything you once knew and the construction of this new, alien world in which you are now forced to reside, a puppet bound to the strings of a power greater than yourself.

You move through her rooms with steps too soft to echo, tracing over the places she frequented, the furniture that still holds a faint warmth in your mind, though it’s long since grown cold. Her study lies abandoned, the desk cluttered with documents, notes scrawled in the delicate, measured handwriting you’d learned to recognize even in brief glimpses. You lift one of the pages, running a finger over the ink as if it might pulse beneath your touch, as if Ada herself might rise from these scattered words and continue the conversation she left unfinished.

You drift to her chambers. The thick drapes that were usually drawn tight left open for that one singular day she spent as a mortal, the curtains pulled wide to allow the sunlight to spill across the floor and illuminate the room. You close them, trying not to get burnt.

The scent of her lingers here, faint but unmistakable, clinging to the silks and velvets she favored, the delicate perfumes on her vanity. You stand by her bed, looking over the emptiness of it, the indentation on her pillow long faded, the blanket still neatly folded where you last placed it. For a moment, you almost forget yourself, hand reaching out, fingers hovering over the sheets, as if the mere act of touching them might summon her back. But the silence doesn’t break. The room remains empty.

It’s in her journals that you begin to find hints—small, cryptic entries, scattered through the pages, written as if for herself, as if for no one. She wrote of immortality with a detachment that borders on disdain, speaking of centuries passed with an exhaustion that’s now all too clear. The words unravel before you, each entry filling in pieces of a life that feels infinitely beyond your understanding. She’d written about her weariness, about a desire for rest, for release, for an ending.

And you begin to wonder—was it always meant to end like this?

Her plan, her machinations, the chess moves that had brought you together, that had ensured the transfer of power, of life, from her to you, was there ever an alternative? Was there ever a scenario in her mind where the two of you would walk the same path, hand in hand, sharing in the eternity she had found such a burden in, or was she always going to choose leaving you behind? You had taken the mortal life she'd yearned for so long from her at the height of her freedom, hadn't you? Hadn't you? She could grow old, and have a family, and watch her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, and die knowing that her legacy would be preserved, and treasured, and remembered, and even though it wasn't planned on your part, you hadn't allowed that victory to remain hers. In her last moments of mortality, she'd felt you tear that from her, and that had been your retaliation. A fitting punishment.

So why doesn't it feel like one?

You're still the losing party, aren't you?

You sink to the floor, clutching the book, her last words pressed against your chest, and in the silence, a final thought settles over you—a quiet, aching realization that you may spend eternity searching for a truth she never meant for you to find.

[kckt88]

Scorched Hearts II

Summary:

'We loved with a love that was more than love - Edgar Allen Poe'

Aemond and Valaena make time for one another before the petition for Driftmark.

Warning(s): Angst, Drama, Language, Secret Relationship, Uncle/Niece Incest, Kissing, Oral Sex, P in V,

AEMOND x O.C Niece

Word Count: 4232

A.N - Just and excuse for smut!! ;-)

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon or Fire & Blood characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are very much appreciated, do not copy/post to other sights without my permission.

Tag List - @jasminecosmic99 @kaelatargaryen @yesterdayfeelings-blog @immyowndefender @0eessirk8 @darylandbethfanforever9 @killua2dot0 @msassenach @xcharlottemikaelsonx @moonnicole

Valaena sat on the edge of her bed, the soft glow of candlelight flickering across the chamber as she combed her long, dark hair.

The rhythmic strokes of the comb were soothing, the quiet of the room broken only by the gentle creak of shifting wood behind her.

"You know the  maids that can help you with that," came Aemond’s familiar voice, low and teasing.

A smile played on Valaena's lips, but she didn’t turn around. "I know," she replied, her tone light, "-but you know that I prefer to attend to my own hair."

Aemond stepped closer, his hand extended toward her. "Come," he said softly, his violet eye gleaming in the dim light. "We shall take the secret passageways to my chambers."

Valaena set the comb aside and placed her hand in his, feeling the warmth of his touch as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

With a nod, she rose to her feet, and Aemond led her through the darkened passageways, hidden behind the walls of the Red Keep.

The stone corridors were narrow and dim, the silence between them punctuated only by the soft echo of their footsteps.

They paused at an alcove when two guards passed by, their conversation muffled.

Aemond held her hand tightly, and once the guards moved on, they continued, navigating the shadowy passages until they reached a hidden partition.

Aemond pushed against the wall, and a door swung open, revealing his private chambers.

He gestured for Valaena to enter first, and she stepped inside, the scent of parchment and leather filling her senses.

The room was distinctly his—dark wood, the soft flicker of firelight, and bookshelves filled with ancient tomes lined the walls. A weapons cabinet stood proudly in one corner, gleaming steel on display.

Valaena ran a finger over the smooth surface of a large desk, her gaze drifting to the tapestry above Aemond’s bed—a scene depicting Harrenhal, the ruined castle looming ominously in the woven fabric. A soft laugh escaped her lips.

Aemond, standing behind her, asked, “What’s funny?”

Valaena shook her head, her smile widening. “Nothing-just that this space is so you.” She walked over to a chair, where a discarded cloak was draped.

Lifting it, she pressed the material to her nose, inhaling his scent—the comforting mix of leather, smoke, and something uniquely him. She lowered the cloak, her gaze softening. "Everything in this room is you."

Aemond unbuckled his belt and placed it and the dagger on the desk. His eye never left hers as he moved toward her, taking the cloak from her hand and tossing it onto the back of a chair.

Valaena, a playful glint in her eyes, began backing away, a smile tugging at her lips.

Aemond followed, his movements slow and deliberate, his voice low as he said, "I've imagined this moment, hundreds of times, having you here, in my chambers."

Valaena's back met the cool stone wall behind her, and she looked up at him, her breath quickening. "And what did you imagine you would do with me in your chambers?"

Aemond came to a stop just in front of her, his tall frame blocking out the light behind him as he braced his hands on the wall, caging her in.

His lips curved into a sly smile as he leaned closer, his breath warm against her skin. "Would you like me to show you?" he murmured.

Valaena bit her lip, her heart pounding in her chest as she nodded.

Aemond didn’t hesitate. His lips found hers in a fierce, hungry kiss, his hands sliding down from the wall to her waist. Valaena melted into him, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as the kiss deepened.

With a soft growl, Aemond moved her away from the wall and began pulling at the ties of her nightgown.

“Don’t rip it-” urged Valaena as she took a step back and pulled open the cotton material and let it fall to the floor.

Aemond smirked as he gazed her naked body before he eagerly pulled off his own clothes, leaving them both bare.

Aemond circled Valaena slowly, his steps measured and deliberate, his eye tracing every curve of her body like a predator hungrily stalking its prey.

There was an intensity in the way he moved, his gaze devouring her from every angle as if he were committing every inch of her to memory.

With a commanding presence, he stepped back from Valaena, his voice low and authoritative as he spoke.

"Kneel" he ordered, his words cutting through the thick air of the room.

Without hesitation, Valaena obeyed. She sank gracefully to her knees, her eyes never leaving Aemond's as she positioned herself in front of him, her posture submissive yet confident, entirely at his mercy.

Slowly, Aemond reached down and caressed Valaena’s cheek, his touch gentle and reverent despite the raw desire simmering beneath the surface.

His thumb brushed over her soft skin, tracing the line of her jaw before he brought it to her plump lower lip, pressing against it with a possessive tenderness.

“Open your mouth,” he murmured, his tone commanding yet intimate, a whisper meant only for her.

Valaena, always eager to please him, parted her lips without hesitation, her breath warm against his thumb as she obeyed his command.

Aemond smirked and then spat into her mouth.

“Swallow” he ordered.

Valaena closed her mouth and smiled as she swallowed.

“Sȳz riña” muttered Aemond (Good girl).

“Ivestragī nyke kostilus ao ñuha zaldrīzes” whispered Valaena (Let me please you my dragon).

“Skorkydoso?” asked Aemond curiously (How?)

Valaena smiled and rose higher on her knees she placed her hands on Aemond, slowly moving them up his lean body, her fingers tracing the contours of his muscles with delicate but purposeful intent.

She felt the tremble in his body as her nails scraped lightly across his skin, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound primal, raw with desire.

Her touch held him captive, and as her hands continued their slow, torturous path, she whispered to him, her voice soft but commanding.

“Take off your eyepatch, I wish to gaze upon your beauty in its entirety”

Aemond hesitated for only a moment, his lips parting in a quiet whimper, the sound so rare for him, so vulnerable.

She knew what her words, her praise, did to him—how they disarmed him in ways no one else could.

His heart raced in his chest, and the possessiveness in him faltered for just a second, replaced by something deeper, more intimate.

Without a word, Aemond reached up and pulled the eyepatch from his face, the black leather slipping from his fingers to fall carelessly to the floor.

He stood before her, exposed in a way few had ever seen him, the sapphire a mark of his strength, his pain, and his triumph.

Valaena gazed up at him, a soft smile curving her lips as her eyes traced over his face.

The sapphire, so stark and striking, only added to the beauty that was uniquely his.

“Ñuha gevie zaldrīzes”  whispered Valaena, her voice laced with adoration (My beautiful dragon).

Aemond’s breath hitched at her words, his body responding to the warmth of her gaze and the tenderness in her voice. She saw all of him—the scars, the vulnerabilities—and still, she called him beautiful.

It was a power she wielded over him that no one else could ever claim.

Valaena leaned forward and pressed a series of tender kisses to his bare stomach, her lips brushing against his pale skin.

Aemond closed his eye and let out a low groan as he felt her teeth grazing against him.

Each kiss sent a ripple of pleasure through Aemond, his body responding to her affection with a barely contained hunger.

Aemond’s hand instinctively moved to her hair, his fingers weaving through the dark strands as he tilted his head back, his chest rising and falling with laboured breaths.

His voice, deep and rough with need, cut through the silence like a blade.

“Kostilus” he rasped, his voice a low growl, urging her on (Please).

As Valaena continued her trail of kisses, Aemond’s grip on her hair tightened, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eye was half-lidded, his focus entirely on the woman kneeling before him.

She grinned as she looked up at Aemond before taking one of his stones into her mouth, her tongue teasing the soft delicate flesh.

“FUCK” moaned Aemond.

“Does ñuha dārys like that?” asked Valaena (My King).

“Oh. Gods. Yes” whimpered Aemond.

“What was that?” asked Valaena as she moved to the other and caressed it with her tongue.

“Kostilus ñuha jorrāelagon” begged Aemond (Please my love).

“Ao līs umbagon ñuha zaldrīzes” replied Valaena (You must wait, my dragon).

Aemond stared down Valaena, his mouth hanging open as her warm, wet mouth wrapped around the head of his cock.

Her tongue gently moving around the tip – tracing the ridges and licking off that drops of pre-cum that had started to leak out.

“Fuck, Valaena” groaned Aemond as he threaded his fingers through her hair.

Valaena ran the flat of her tongue along Aemond’s length, tracing every hard inch of him. Her hand moving over the hard length of him.

“Your taking me so well. Such a good girl-” moaned Aemond as Valaena took his cock in her mouth.

Valaena slid her other hand around Aemond’s body and grasped the flesh of his arse, digging her nails into his skin.

“That’s it-FUCK-yes-don’t stop” groaned Aemond, his hips thrusting faster.

Valaena responded to his statement by relaxing the back of her throat, and swallowing as much of his cock as she could, her head moving back and forth.

“Shit-Valaena I’m going to spill. Oh, fuck, I’m going to-” shouted Aemond his head tipped back as he exploded.

Valaena took every last drop, swallowing his warm seed and licking him clean. When Aemond recovered, he saw her self-satisfied smile.

Aemond as he watched his softened cock slip from Valaena’s mouth and leave a trail of seed dribbling down her chin.

“Such a messy Prince-” muttered Valaena as she put a finger to her chin and wiped away the seed only to put the finger into her mouth.

“Fuck” muttered Aemond, his cock twitching.

“What is it you desire now my love?” asked Valaena.

Aemond offered her his hand and pulled her from the floor, he shuddered when the warmth of her body pressed against his, her hand released his and trailed up his arm, her nails scraping against his skin.

“I want-” whispered Aemond as Valaena coiled her fingers in his long hair and gently tugged at the silver strands.

“-What do you want?”

“I want you to ride my face until I’m ready again” gasped Aemond

“Are you sure” asked Valaena.

“Sit on my fucking face” ordered Aemond as he moved away from her and laid on the bed.

Valaena climbed onto the bed and  hovered above Aemond’s face; her knees splayed on either side of his head.

“Such a pretty cunny-" breathed Aemond as he ran the flat of his tongue along Valaena’s soaked slit, from bottom to the top, tasting her.

“Oh, my god” moaned Valaena her eyes rolling into the back of her head.

“That’s it ñuha dōna. Let me hear you” (My sweet).

“YES. It feels so good. Don’t stop. Aemond. Please” begged Valaena.

“FUCK” growled Aemond.

“Ooooh A-Aemond” shrieked Valaena.

"Delicious" purred Aemond as he began lapping at Valaena, running his tongue along every fold.

"More" panted Valaena "Please. I need more”.

Aemond inserted two fingers, sliding them in and out of her slick wet folds.

“Oh" whimpered Valaena; her chest heaving as she began to gently roll her hips against him.

“That’s it baby, ride my fucking face” groaned Aemond as he pulled Valaena closer.

“N-No A-Aemond you’ll suffocate” exclaimed Valaena.

“When I said sit on my fucking face, I didn’t mean hover. I want your entire cunt on my face. Now do as you are told-” ordered Aemond as he wrapped his hands around her thighs and pulled her further onto his face, his nose rubbing on her pearl.

Valaena was now giving off a slew of whispered swear words, moans, and pleas as she moved her hips.

“Yes-yes, don’t stop” moaned Valaena.

 Aemond then rolled her onto the bed, her back colliding with the soft mattress with a dull thud.

“Ohhh Aemond” whined Valaena at the sudden movement.

“I can’t wait to get my cock inside you. I don’t want to wait any longer, come for me baby,” moaned Aemond, his face pressed between her shaking thighs, his fingers curling inside her.

Finally, he felt Valaena’s inner walls start to flutter around his fingers, squeezing them. Valaena’s back arched taut as a bow and she screamed her release.

“Hmm” muttered Aemond as he pressed a series of kisses to her inner thighs, his teeth nipping at her skin.

“P-Please A-Aemond. Need you” begged Valaena.

Aemond rose to his knees, his chin shining with her slick, he smirked as he swiped his fingers over his chin and then placed them in his mouth savouring her delicious taste.

Aemond moved up Valaena’s body pausing to grasp hold of her left breast as he ran his tongue over the rosy nipple, his teeth grazing the stiffened peak.

“Oh-yes“ gasped Valaena, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

“Issa jorrāelagon-Issa glaeson-ñuhon” growled Aemond as he seized his wife’s lips in a ferocious kiss, his hard cock throbbing against her thigh (My love-my life-mine).

Aemond wrapped a hand around his cock and slowly ran it over Valaena’s wet entrance, she began squirming impatiently against him as he continued to tease her.

“P-Please, I want you” exclaimed Valaena desperately.

“Hmm” rasped Aemond as he slid inside her with a singular thrust. His hips coming to a stop against hers.

Aemond started to thrust slowly, trying to prolong the feel of her squeezing his cock.

"Faster, Aemond" begged Valaena.

"Patience, ñuha dōna" chided Aemond as he ran his nose up her neck (My sweet).

“Yes, Aemond, just like that-" panted Valaena.

Her hands ran over his arms, over his shoulders. Her fingernails raking down his back.

“Mark me harder-“ growled Aemond.

Valaena dug her nails into his skin and clawed at his back deep enough to draw blood.

The fire between them was unmistakable, an unrestrained passion that filled the room with heat and tension so thick it was almost suffocating.

 “Gods-" grunted Aemond, speeding up slightly, revelling in the pain.

"Fuck me, Aemond. Fuck me with that big, cock of yours. You feel so good inside me”.

Aemond groaned loudly, knew exactly what Valaena was doing, but he couldn’t help himself. She wanted faster, he was going much faster now.

His pace had increased with every filthy word that dropped from her luscious lips. Now he was quickly thrusting in and out, shaking the bed, the headboard banging loudly against the stone wall.

Aemond lifted Valaena’s legs onto his shoulders, and wrapped his arms around her thighs, squeezing them together as he thrust his cock into her soaking wet cunny.

“Aemond! I’m going to come. Oh, fuck!” screamed Valaena.

“That’s it baby-come for me” exclaimed Aemond as he felt her clenching on his cock.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen, but he didn’t want to spill his seed. Not yet.

Not even waiting for her orgasm to fully subside, Aemond moved Valaena’s legs off his shoulders and quickly manoeuvred her onto all fours, she whimpered as his cock slipped out, but he bent forward to press a series of kisses to her glorious arse, his large hands kneading the soft pale flesh, before he sunk his teeth into her.

“AEMOND” squealed Valaena.

“Hmmm”

“P-Please Aemond” whispered Valaena, her voice slightly muffled as she pressed her face into the mattress.

Aemond stuck his finger in his mouth before he ran it over her puckered hole.

“Is this alight?” breathed Aemond.

“Y-Yes. Put it inside me. I can take it” whimpered Valaena.

“Tell me-Tell me if it’s too much” replied Aemond as he slowly pressed his finger inside her.

“Ooh Aemond, yes. Please. More” babbled Valaena as he moved his finger in and out before adding a second.

“Your doing so well-my darling” moaned Aemond as he moved his fingers inside her, his other hand slowly stroking his cock.

“I want you-please Aemond”

Aemond moved into position and sheathed himself inside Valaena once again, his eye rolling into the back of his head.

“FUCK-” groaned Aemond,

“God. Yes. Aemond” moaned Valaena, his fingers in her arse and his cock deep in her cunt was so good.

Aemond began to thrust in and out of her in deep achingly slow thrusts, his fingers moving in rhythm with his cock.

“Harder-more-please ñuha raqiarzy” wailed Valaena (My beloved).

“Issa vaogenka hāedar” growled Aemond, his fingers moving faster (My dirty girl).

“Aemond-”

“That’s it-take it-take all of me” muttered Aemond as he removed his fingers, and grabbed hold of Valaena’s hips and increased the pace of his thrusts.

Valaena took one of Aemonds hands that was on her hip and brought it to the back of her head.

Knowing what she wanted, Aemond placed his hand on the back of her head and pushed her face into the mattress, her back arching.

His cock reaching deep inside her as he moved with such ferocity it could rival an animal, his long silver hair unbound and sticking to his sweaty back.

Aemond then grasped both of Valaena’s arms and held them behind her back as he pounded into her, the sound of his hips slapping against hers echoed around the room.

Valaena’s cries of pleasure were muffled by the mattress, her face buried in the soft fabric.

Her body arched in response to Aemond’s relentless rhythm, each cry escaping her lips in a series of desperate moans that reverberated through the room.

Aemond’s grip on Valaena was fierce, his movements relentless. He drove into her with a force that seemed almost brutal, but Valaena took every thrust with an almost frantic eagerness.

Her body trembled under him, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she surrendered completely to the intensity of their coupling.

“Fuck-that’s it-that’s it-” moaned Aemond.

He released Valaena’s arms and then took hold of her long hair, twisting his fingers into the tousled strands before he pulled her backwards, her sweaty back colliding with his chest.

Aemond held her tight too him as he fucked her, his cock reaching deep inside her.

One hand grasped her hip, his blunt fingers digging into her flesh. Whilst his other released her hair and moved to her throat, squeezing gently.

“Give it to me please” pleaded Valaena her head lolling back onto Aemond’s shoulder, her arm reaching behind her to tangle in his hair as their lips connected in a messy, passionate kiss.

Aemond could feel the tension building in his abdomen again, as he thrust his cock inside Valaena.

“I want you to come on my cock again, but not like this-” muttered Aemond as he once again withdrew from her wet heat and laid across the bed.

“-Aemond” exclaimed Valaena breathlessly.

 “Ride me-” replied Aemond as he pulled her on top of him. His hand moving to his cock, rubbing it along her folds before she sunk down and completely engulfed him.

 “Yes-” gasped Valaena as she rolled her hips against Aemonds.

“That’s it, take it. Take all of me”.

Aemond placed his hands on her hips and marvelled at Valaena as she rode him.

Valaena dug her nails into Aemond’s chest as she moved her hips against his, his cock hitting the sweet spot inside her perfectly.

“A-Aemond” moaned Valaena as he suddenly sat up, moving his hand to her breast again and taking her nipple into his mouth, his teeth biting down on the rosy bud.

“Let go baby, I can feel you clenching around me” exclaimed Aemond, as he moved to the other breast and lavished it with the same attention.

“AEMOND” screamed Valaena her vision going white as she came around his cock.

He pulled her closer and then rolled her back onto the bed his cock never leaving her warmth as he pounded into her with a series of deep penetrating thrusts, her legs wrapped around his waist, trapping his body against hers as he chased his own end.

Aemond’s grip on Valaena tightened as he neared his own climax, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more forceful.

The noises he made were almost otherworldly, a mix of loud guttural growls and breathless moans.

“I love you-I love you-I love you” groaned Aemond as he exploded.

Aemond’s body tensed against Valaena’s, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he rode out his orgasm. Then, as his pleasure subsided, he collapsed onto her, his chest heaving as he relaxed against her.

Valaena’s body shifted slightly beneath him, her own breath coming in soft, satisfied sighs as she remained still, embracing the weight of him.

She looked up at Aemond with a tender, loving gaze, her hands caressing his back as he rested against her, his breathing gradually slowing.

As Aemond and Valaena lay intertwined in the dim light of his chambers, listening to the wind and rain raging outside.

Aemond’s arm rested protectively around her, his head nestled against her shoulder. The crackling fire in the hearth cast flickering shadows over their bare skin.

Aemond tilted his head, his sapphire eye gleaming softly as he looked at her. "What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Valaena smiled, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on his arm. "Do you remember that time I fell and scraped my knee in the gardens?"

Aemond chuckled softly, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Yes," he said, the memory vivid. "You wouldn't let anyone assist you. I seem to recall you tried to bite a septa who dared take hold of you and force you to your feet." His smile widened as he added, "Hmm, what was it she called you? Ah, yes. A vicious little beast."

Valaena smiled sadly. "She deserved it, the crusty old bag."

Aemond turned, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at her. "I do remember you had a particular dislike for that septa," he said, his tone more serious now. "But why? You never really told me."

Valaena’s gaze dropped to the sheets, her fingers idly playing with the fabric. After a moment, she sighed. "She wasn't very kind to me. In public, she acted as though she respected me—bowing and addressing me as Princess. But in private-" Her voice trailed off.

Aemond’s brow furrowed in concern. "-What do you mean?" he asked, his tone soft yet insistent.

Valaena hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly. "She used to tell me that my kind shouldn’t exist. That we were creatures born of sin and depravity." She swallowed hard, her voice wavering with the weight of old memories. "-She would whip me with a cane if I answered questions about the Faith of the Seven incorrectly. She never let me forget that my egg didn't hatch. Told me that I wasn’t a true Targaryen because of it-"

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his hold on her instinctively growing firmer as if he could shield her from those old wounds.

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the side of her head, his lips lingering there for a moment. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "I had no idea you went through that."

Valaena smiled weakly, her hand slipping to rest on his chest. "It was a long time ago," she said softly. "But it hurt-to hear those words"

Aemond understood all too well what it meant to be a Targaryen without a dragon. He remembered the sting of feeling less than what others expected, the whispers and the doubts.

It was, in fact, what had drawn them together as children—the shared pain of being dragon less while the others revelled in their bonds.

Back then, the others had their dragons. And they had each other.

Aemond’s voice was a soothing murmur in the quiet. "Well, look at you now," he said, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on her skin. "The rider of Silverwing, the dragon who once belonged to Good Queen Alysanne."

Valaena smiled at that, a flicker of pride in her eyes. "Yes," she said, her voice carrying a hint of satisfaction. "Luckily, the septa has since passed on. Otherwise, not only would I spit in her smug ugly mug- I’d have Silverwing burn her alive."

Aemond chuckled, the sound low and affectionate as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. "Hmm," he hummed against her skin, his lips brushing her collarbone. "My vicious little dragoness has her claws."

Valaena laughed softly, running her fingers through his silver hair. "You love it," she teased.

Aemond looked up at her, his eye gleaming with a quiet intensity. "I do," he admitted, his voice tender. "Very much." He snuggled closer to her, his face pressed gently against her breasts, his breaths slowing as he began to drift into sleep, content and safe in her arms, unaware of Valaena gently moving his hand to rest upon her stomach.

TBC

[aftermidnightspecial]

⛧Demons of Abbadon⛧ - Male Demon (Raumael) x GN Chubby Human Reader

Wordcount: 3,573 Summary + warnings: Smut with plot | size difference | You are an aspiring demon lord and intend to summon a strong demon. But when things don't go to plan, you get more than you bargain for when Raumael answers your evocation. Coming to an agreement, you seal the contract, paying the price with your soul and body. ⛧ A/N: Shout out to the anon who requested a demon fic. C: And special thanks to @sea-stone for beta reading this for me and letting me know I needed to add more smut.

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You steadied your breath, fingers trembling over the spine of the ancient tome that rest in your hands. Your skin was drained of color and clammy in the candlelight. The sheen of your skin glistening in the low illumination of flickering flames that lapped hungrily at the wicks of the wax pillars. Each candle you had painstakingly lit till the room was bright and the temperature had risen substantially. The shadows that quivered and jumped along the walls tauntingly made you wince. Even your own traitorous shadow took part in this hellish provocation.

The chalk circle and neatly drawn sygils were scrawled over the floorboards in curious flowing patterns woven around your bare feet, where the same symbols and patterns were mirrored on your flesh. You close your eyes, desperation creasing your brow. Without further hesitation, despite your own wavering spirit, you parted a remarkably dry mouth and read. The ancient words spilled from your lips like boiling water, hissing and bubbling forth. The wooden planks beneath the chalk enchantments shuddered and began to quake angrily, the patterns on the floor rolling like the waves of the ocean. 

This didn’t deter you, despite the roiling of your stomach, you continued reading, steeling yourself to this unsettling exhibition of power. As you continued to speak the words, the pages of the book ripped themselves free, and like a flock of doves, took to the air. A maelstrom of yellowed pages swirled around you. The paper flew past you violently, lightly slicing your flesh with each pass. You stared ahead, the page you needed to read from hovered in front of your face, bound by your speech, transfixed even as every object around you seemed to come to life by your words. 

You faltered momentarily as the sygils that you’d drawn on your skin began to burn, but nothing would stop you now. Speaking the words that were on the page and in your heart, having memorized them prior to the evocation you were relying on. The final moment was upon you. Summoning forth the infernal being from the depths of the eternal burning pit to break free from the chains of Abaddon and do your bidding. 

Hesitating for a moment, you revel in the power that surged around and through you. The same that had lifted up the books and pages, even your desk chair was spinning throughout the room.

Suddenly, the candles died, flames extinguished. It was now the sygils you’d drawn on the floor and on your own skin that glowed brightly in unholy illumination.

You let the demonic name roll off of your tongue in a smooth chorus, your voice powerful and commanding despite your normal demeanor. The floorboards cracked open, splintering and peeling back upon themselves. Dark smoke billowing from the gaping wooden maw, the large hole the magic had created was vomiting out ash and brimstone debris, sounding like a rumbling freight train was coming through the floor. 

You tumbled backwards, taking deep, gasping breaths of air as you caught the briefest glimpse of the dark silhouette through the smoke. The figure that had emerged felt every bit as evil that you thought It might. Though instead of a disgusting monster as you’d expected, It seems you have evoked something else. Someone else. Rising from the hole, was an imposing, masculine figure, cloaked in smoke and shadows, but Its glowing eyes were on you, now examining you with dour displeasure and a furrowed brow.

"Oh no." You swallow, frozen in place.

There was an awkward stretch of silence as the smoke was beginning to settle, but It was the demon who decided to speak first. "Why am I here?" It drawled as It scorned you with, glowering with boredom. You could hardly process what was happening, merely in shock, suffering from both excitement and horror from what you’d done.

"A-Agannud?" You managed to ask, your voice only quavering slightly in Its presence. That is, you assumed the demonkin standing before you was the one you’d summoned.

The monstrous creature scoffed, as if he'd been insulted by such an accusation. "Wrong, wrong, wrong.” Its scowl turned Its lips down, serrated teeth on display. 

The Hellspawn stood amongst the rubble of the room, the gaping hole in the floor having sealed itself at some point. You were now utterly alone in your bedroom with a demonic entity that was contained only by the chalk sygils you’d scrawled on the floor earlier. At least you hoped that the sygils were containing It. But you were no longer so sure. 

It was something of a beast, but also had enough human qualities to give you pause. A human-like face, though… Its neck was perhaps slightly too long, even if the neck was thick with muscle and sinew. The facial features were obscured as Its coal black skin absorbed the light, made looking at the demon for too long a troubling task. It was also larger than you expected, perhaps seven feet tall, with muscular arms that were also perhaps a bit too long to be human. As It shifted Its weight and moved, you could have sworn Its shape changed, but It could be the low light playing tricks on you in a most unsettling way. Its lower half was still obscured in shadows and smoke, drawn around It like a cloak made of oblivion. For a moment, you could have sworn that multiple sets of eyes opened elsewhere upon Its body to observe you before they closed.

"N-no?” Unnerved, you pressed on regardless. You had studied this, you knew how to talk to demons. “How? I summoned Agannud? And, well, that has to be you?" 

"You sound unsure. Are you positive it was Agannud you called forth from the pits of Abbadon?" Its voice rumbled in such a deep register that you felt the vibrations from your perch on the floor. Quickly you stood up but it did little to fortify your nerves. This demon was still towering over you, Its lips twisting into a smirk, serrated teeth gleaning in the light of the sygils.

"Well yes? But-" You were saying but, It cut you off before you could work through your logic.

Its glowing abyssal eyes were on you now, there was no escape from their scrutiny. “There is your answer. You're not confident enough to summon anything, so you could not know who you called forth. It's not a game you know. There is a price, I have a price.” The demon paused as It lowered itself to Its haunches so that they were eye level with you now. With little pause, It rest Its elbows on Its knees. “The price is high." It growled. 

You froze, frightened of what was going to happen now. You had played with the darkest of magics and now there would be a tremendous penalty. Your life? Your soul? Could there be anything worse than losing your soul? You considered how to release him back to the depths of Abbadon, but would you ever get an opportunity to have summoned such a powerful demon? You had heard of Raumael and there was a reason you had not named him. Some entities were simply too strong to be controlled.

It continued to speak, "You are so very fortunate, because you've managed to catch my attention instead of that nobody, Agannud.” A toothy grin stretched Its maw, bringing no comfort to you, unable to partake in Its amusement.

“Though I have to admit, I'm rather embarrassed on your behalf. Despite how strong your evocation was, the fact of the matter is that your prompt was untethered, open ended, very erratic, and poorly executed.” An unnerving chuckle rumbled from the breadth of Its chest. “And that is exactly why your evocation normally would have gone unanswered. Damn my curiosity." It chastised you endlessly, sounding like a disappointed teacher rather than an infernal spirit here to do your bidding.

Its cutting remarks did nothing to fortify your will to speak out against that of which you’d summoned. But this was a demon you had called upon, sort of, and while it was an imposing figure with a crushing demonic aura to match, you had to take control. You took a step forward and steeled yourself for what came next. 

 "I don’t think so, demon. Tell me your name?" You commanded It with the same self confidence you had used to summon the creature itself.

It looked terribly unhappy with your renewed disposition, but It didn't have much of a choice and was forced to answer. "Raumael." It replied with contempt.

Flashing Its sharp, wolfish teeth your way was likely meant to scare you, but instead you found that the demon Raumael may actually have something of a nice smile. So much so that your cheeks began to feel warm, something that had little to do with the hellfire that radiated off of him.

“Then Raumael, you will do my bidding.” You commanded.

"I don't really feel like it. Maybe some other time." Raumael snidely remarked.

You balked, “What? You’re my demon! You have to?” baffled, you continued. “Those are the rules.” 

“Not without a contract they aren’t. As I already told you, my price is high.” Raumael drawled, bored by you it seemed.

You clenched your jaw, aggravated. 

He began to laugh, the deep rumble echoed throughout the small room. While It was unsettling, you didn’t find It unpleasant. “Hmm. Perhaps you will be the one following my orders and I’ll have your soul anyway.” The demon stepped closer to you, on the edge of the circle, towering over you, peering down over the ample curvature of his pec muscles. Perhaps Abbadon had a gym, you considered as this demon was fit.

You swallowed and shook your head, not so sure things wouldn’t wind up that way. “You aren’t leaving until you sign my contract. You get to walk around up here, but will do as I ask.” 

The demon tilted his head, “Will I?” his tone mocking.

“You will.”

“Then you will pay my price.” Raum said as he stood and towered over you.

“Which is?”

“Your eternal soul. When you die, I will drag you down to Abbadon.”

You swallow, uncomfortable. “Anything else?” 

“Your body.” 

“My body?!” The suggestion was unthinkable. “Demonic possession is out of the question!”

“That is not what I’m asking for.” Raum said as he beckoned you to come into the circle with a crook of his claws.

You stayed still, the request unclear. 

Obsidian eyes pierced yours, “I want to seal the contract with your body.” The demon parsed out, and as if sensing you were still dumbfounded, clarified, “Not possession.” 

This was an uncommon practice, but not entirely unheard of to seal a demonic contract with a sexual act. This seemed to be the case here. But with a demon as powerful as Raumael at your command, you’d accomplish everything you had set out to do. What was a bit of sex and your immortal soul in exchange for unlimited infernal power at your fingertips?

Steeling your nerves, you step into the circle with the onyx skinned demonkin, your body tense, moving with all the flexibility of an eight hour old corpse. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly as his claws circled the nape of your neck, the other prickling at your hips as he reclined you within the illuminated ring of sygils. The glow from the enchanted glyphs better elucidated the demon’s features, a handsome, masculine face, you thought. Though the longer that your eyes roamed his features, the more things you found were not quite human. Like your sight was playing tricks on you.

The ashes and debris surround your head like a corona of chaotic wreckage, but it did nothing to dissuade your demon from sealing your contract. Raumael languidly climbed atop you with his long limbs on either side of your smaller, human body. His dark, substantial frame absorbing the light, as if his flesh was made from the abyss itself. Intense mercurial eyes stared down at you, lips parting as he lowered his head, his warm mouth brushing your shoulder.  You clench your fists and tense up, waiting. 

"This doesn't have to hurt, little Master." He advised, claws tracing the length of your arm with surprising care. 

"I'm not your master yet." You manage.

"Per our agreement. You'll be my Master while we're under contract. You may not find the other monikers used for mortals so flattering.” 

You nod with hesitation, continuing to observe the way he moved, his larger body engulfing you, knees pushing your legs apart. A razor sharp claw cut through the fabric of your shorts to expose the tender flesh of your lower torso. A shudder wracks your body, feeling wound as tight as a coil while the warm air of the room washed over your bare skin. 

“Calm yourself and you just may enjoy this.” He said gruffly, his large body pressing down on you. Suddenly, distinctly male anatomy prodded at the cleft of your rear, his other claw slid down the length of your spine, careful not to shred your delicate human skin. 

You nod your consent, trying to relax as he licks two of his fingers before reaching down to get you slick with saliva, mindful of his claws, he avoids penetrating you with his digits. The pads of his fingers firmly rubbed the tension from the tightly clenched flesh between your legs. To your surprise he moved back, his lips kissing your collarbone and down the center of your chest. Raum’s hand released your nape and was instead put to work as they began to fondle down your torso, sliding over your chest, his mouth descending to take a pert nipple between his lips, rolling his tongue over it. You cried out, surprised and trembling as his serrated teeth brushed the tiny bud of flesh, sending a jolt of arousal through your entire body. 

Raum’s lips moved onward, kissing and nipping their way southward as you squirmed under his attention, he couldn’t have looked more pleased. You considered him as you peeked through your lashes at the immense demon, long talon-like digits tracing down your ribcage before settling on either side of your hips, squeezing your padding as they explored your body. Raum wasn’t complaining about extra flesh, if anything, the demon seemed to enjoy touching and squeezing you like a glorified stress ball. 

Everywhere Raum’s skin grazed yours was left warm, as if his pleasure was dependent on your own arousal, reveling in your soft frame. He left you trembling, arching into his caress as he seemed to want to cause more of your wanton behaviors. The way you mewled and tensed and shuddered for him. You entirely went stiff, physically aching for more than delicate touches, you wanted so keenly to be filled.

 “Please.” You rasped, muscles all over your body clenching and unclenching with need.

This plea only slowed the demon, who now seemed to be moving at a glacial pace. He was in no hurry to take you, to penetrate you and seal the contract. Your impatience would be your downfall, clearly. In a desperate attempt to take what you needed, you foisted your hips upwards at him, but not quickly enough. He pulled back, his cock still out of your reach. “Not yet.” He said, watching as your face contorted, awash with lust.  

The head of his length pressed firmly against you, parting your flesh indelicately, but went no further than the tip of his colossal length pressing at the tender split at the apex of your legs.. “Is this what you want, Master?” He asked as claws circle your waist, your belly compressed underneath razor sharp nails. His lips curl as he elicits a gasp from you as his cock throbs with need against you, precum dribbling into your hole. 

Nodding eagerly, your shoulders pinch together as you twisted beneath the weight of him, a moan slipping past your lips, surprising you as you thought you’d sealed yourself against enjoying the act, but you’d fallen so far so fast. Raum had seen to it that your body would enjoy itself whether you liked it or not. 

Raumael slanted his slightly too large mouth over yours, sliding his hips forward so that your bodies were pressed hard against each other, his talons gripping tightly at your nape. It was a possessive hold, a possessive kiss. 

Your lips softened and gave way to his tongue, tilting your head upwards to receive more of his heated kiss. Your breath escaped as he folded atop you, his hips finding their rhythm quickly as your flesh parted for his ample girth. You groan as you’re stretched, your tender flesh splayed wide to accommodate his fat cock as he rocked your body against his, his claw firmly on your lower back holding you. His rock hard length slid deeper inside you, knocking the air from your lungs with each bone-rattling thrust. 

You cry out, every part of you feels like it's on fire, your hands clawing at the massive pecs that hovered above your face before finding purchase on his broad shoulders. You weren't sure when you stopped thinking of him as It and more as a he. Perhaps when his cock barged its way inside of you, or earlier even when you'd noted his physique and handsome face.

Squirming underneath his weight, the heat of his skin warmed you to your core, as he pushed into your body, all of your nerve endings suddenly at attention as the burn of his hellfire washed over you. You wrapped your legs around him, welcoming the heat as you felt yourself unfurling, digging your nails into his shoulders as the glow of your orgasm was building. Your thighs quivered as your body seemed to have a mind of its own.

You gasp, mindlessly as his breath stirred against your shoulder, serrated teeth and warm lips pressed on the soft skin there. The demon’s hard length thrust into you, hot like coals and smooth as silk, as the base of his mound crashed against your hips. Slick with precum and fluids mixing in an obscene union. Your body was raw and pulsing as you tensed with every thrust, toes curling in pleasure, nails raking over his obsidian skin. Your breath hitched as every part of you felt as if you had shattered in that moment. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, your eyes rolling back as you silently clenched, holding onto your demon for dear life.

Raumael held you in a bruising grip, pumping furiously into you, every muscle tense and strained. You felt him swelling, growing harder, filling you more than you ever could have anticipated. He lifted you by your pelvis off the floor, angling you higher to meet his fearsome thrusts, his face contorted with evident focus. The demon’s dark brow furrowed, lips curled in a snarl as a spasm began to shake him. With a guttural hiss, his body jerked as he suddenly flooded with you what felt like an endless supply of hot, slick fluid, flooding out of you as you were filled to capacity as it smeared your inner thighs and trickled down the cleft of your bottom.  

Suddenly then, the illumination of the sygils stopped. The only light that was cast upon you was the tiny sliver from beneath the closed door and a pair of dark eyes reflecting that miniscule glow back upon you. Your body was numb, like it was made completely of static and you felt utterly drained, slick with sweat, a mixture of yours and his. 

There were several minutes where both of you only focused on breathing, the demon still having pinned you beneath him, his cock stuffed inside of you as cum gushed out and pooled on the floor. A terrible mess you both had made. 

"Is that it?" You asked, breaking the silence, your breathing unsteady.

All the candles flickered to life suddenly and your demon peered down at you, quite offended. "Did you not cum too?" Raum scowled as he sat back on his haunches, carefully releasing you from his grip as his erection slowly dissipated.

"Oh! No, I did!" Your face turned scarlet at the questioning and you realize how that may have been misconstrue. "I meant...our contract is sealed?" 

"You can't tell?" Raumael scoffed, unimpressed as he observed you closely now. 

"It’s just that you're my first." You explain as you sit up, gesturing to the sygils and then to him.

"First?" Raum perked up, as you seemed to summon every ounce of his attention. 

"Yes...first demon and..." You trail off. 

He glanced down at you for a moment, "Oh, that makes things interesting. You should have negotiated our contract, Master. I would have given you a better deal." He chuckled, but very tenderly began to clean you up. This bit of information seemed to garner a modicum of sympathy from the devil. 

Perhaps it wasn’t too late to renegotiate?

“No.” He said simply, as if he was reading your mind. This did not stop him from examining you for damage. How cute he was concerned, but there was a very legitimate reason for it. You shouldn’t confuse his concern for care. It was contractually his job to make sure you’re okay. 

“But-” 

Raum shook his head. “Absolutely not.” He reaffirmed. 

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Original works Masterlist

[inkbun]

Strange Fruit

Words: 792

Pairing: Dracula/F!Reader

AO3 link

(Not canon adherent at all. This woke me up in a dream at 3 am, so I wrote it)

When you arrive, the first thing he notices is your smell. You reek. Not of piss or shit (the usual scents humans wafted in the throne room), but the deep wet tang of arousal.

Disgust curls his lip. “You want me to fuck you.”

That sent you reeling, a bug-eyed chorus of “no no no” and some piss-poor explanation about working with his wife in Wallachia as a physician’s assistant.

The way you bow – step-tap of polished black shoes as you lower too quickly and rise again, flushed – reminds him of a dog tripping over its feet to greet its master.

But a physician is useful to keep his blood bags alive, so he agrees.

The indiscretion follows, an apple tumbled from the cart. Bruised. Rotten.

To your credit, it is months of careful performance before your need breaches the surface.

You move about the castle like deer approach an open clearing – footfalls flitting, never landing. You turned apology to rosary, words worn to smooth beads in your mouth: “Sorry”, “I’ll come back later”, “Didn’t mean to disturb”.

The bleating deference was cause enough to kill you. But you hadn’t lied when you told him that you worked alongside Lisa, or that you were an eager learner.

In the months since you moved into the castle, you’d caught on quickly.

You spent the first few weeks updating your knowledge, poring through the library’s texts at a rate he thought only his wife capable.

Soon after you entered the lab, dusting off Lisa’s instruments and continuing in her notebook.

The first time he saw you with it, black leather tome smudged with her loping cursive, he stopped. You held the gaze a moment, then went back to work.

It was the only time you didn’t apologize.

One night soon after he heard a noise on his way to the tower. Slrrp, then again – fainter, irregular, accompanied by a hitching, pleasured gasp.

When he looked through the cracked door, you were two fingers deep in your cunt, dress rucked up as you writhed.

It was mundane, really.

Sex. Money. Power. Humans were the same since time immemorial.

The sight hardly moved him; the scent bade him enter.

Beneath the iron croon of blood and animal musk of your wet was a resurrection – rose, parchment, clove, orange. It wasn’t the exact blend, but close enough to be an unmistakable copy.

A pang churned his stomach, would’ve forced the air from his lungs had they still respirated.

“You’re wearing her perfume,” he says, not bothering to announce himself.

Your eyes fly open, your hands rush to cover. The performance is not altogether convincing. Yes the motions are correct, as is your shriek of discovery.

But your eyes – heavy-lidded, almost relieved by intrusion – give you away.

“You want me to fuck you,” he says, peering at your form like a vivisection under magnifying glass.

This time, the truth. “Yes.”

The humans he kept were forgemasters, explicit in purpose and even more so in their passionate hatred of humanity.

You were meant keep the feeding populace relatively healthy – a glorified veterinarian. Beyond that…you were a tenuous link, an unwelcome echo that insisted on miming the inimitable.

Still, even a dull shadow was worth indulging if it ignited a flicker of what once was.

“Wait.”

The command freezes you in place, though he can practically hear the frisson of your nerves.

When he returns, he holds a bottle out to you.

Crystal, glittering under candlelight with a brass rose stopper. You uncork it without a word, dabbing the amber liquid on all the points his teeth could tear.

“Not a word.” You nod and lay back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The act itself is clinical.

You’re prepared enough for him to enter without preamble; he’s determined enough to make quick work of it. But your eyes still widen and your fingers still grasp at his shoulders – he grunts, live flesh fused against dead.

When your cunt clenches – choked sob ripped from your lips – it conjures Lisa. Fair where you are not, angelic where you bray.

His wife, where you…you…

A strangled, growling release cuts the thought short. When he looks down, you’re on the cusp of your own fit, pleading gaze boring into his.

For a moment, he considers splitting your neck with his nails. But he looks at the perfume on your nightstand and ruts once, twice until you’re brought over the edge.

Silently you compose yourself as he dresses to leave, crackling hearth flame the only sound.

In the doorway, he turns.

“Again, at this time tomorrow.”

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Can you possibly write something where Aemond is attempting to initiate some smutty times with his wife but she's just ignoring him (in the teasing way) and so he goes down on her and she keeps trying to keep up a regular conversation but of course when she breaks and begs for more Aemond just stops and teases her back

Hello, nonnie! Sorry I have made you wait over a week for this. Life is busy and my ask box is bursting at the seams, but I am always happy to hear from people, so thank you for reaching out and thank you for this request.

She lays in bed, engrossed in the book she is reading. It's a classic tale of romance; a prince, a damsel in distress, a heroic rescue, true love's kiss. She knows it is fanciful rubbish and yet she cannot stop reading. The story has her gripped.

So lost in the poorly constructed plot, she fails to hear when her husband, Aemond, enters their bedchambers and begins preparing for sleep.

He looks at the cover of the tome between his wife's fingers and rolls his eye. Not his taste at all. It serves no educational purpose, but for some reason, that is unfathomable to him, his beloved cannot seem to get enough of these stories.

"Too engrossed in your fictional prince to acknowledge the real one that lays beside you?" He teases.

Her gaze flickers over to Aemond and she smiles. He is bare chested, his long, white hair is loose around his shoulders and his sapphire eye gleams in the candlelight. The urge to close the book and melt into his embrace is strong, but she is feeling the need to tease him a little this evening. She shifts her focus back to her book.

Aemond regards her carefully. So that is how she wants to play things? So be it.

She finds it hard to focus on her reading as she can see Aemond in her peripheral vision shifting down the bed. She had anticipated him continuing to attempt to initiate conversation or even tease her about her choice of literature. What is he up to?

Her eyes go wide, immediately losing her place on the page as she feels Aemond pull back the sheets and push her nightgown above her hips.

Aemond hooks both of his arms underneath the crooks of her knees, pulling her legs apart and situating the upper half of his body between them. Now face level with her cunny, he sees how it glistens with arousal.

"Is this for me or the make believe man in your book?"

He smirks when he looks up and sees how flustered she is, attempting to keep her composure and continue her reading. She is not convincing at all.

Aemond leans in and licks a long stripe through her folds with the flat of his tongue.

She tries and fails to conceal a whimper as she is unable to focus on the words. She has now read and re-read the same sentence multiple times.

Aemond smirks. "I bet the princess in that story never has her cunt feasted on like this..."

He sucks at her pearl, before licking at her like a man starved. He alternates his attention between the apex of her sex and the centre of it with obscene sounding slurps and quiet grunts.

Her breathing is rapid. The words in the book no longer register as recognisable. Her grip on its cover has her knuckles turning white. Aemond inserts two fingers into her, curling them upwards, as he continues to pleasure her with his mouth and she feels herself clench around his digits.

Aemond knows she is close. He can feel it in the way her cunt tries to expel his fingers from her as it contracts. He continues to lick and suck at her, dragging his fingers back and forth until he can tell she is right on the precipice.

She drops the book to her chest, her moans are lewd to listen to. And Aemond pulls away, robbing her of her release.

"Aemond, you wicked man!" She all but screams.

"What?" He says, cocking his head with faux innocence, as he sits up on his haunches. "You have dropped your book and lost your place...and I wanted to make sure you got your...happy ending."

He smirks.

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