#White Tunic Woman

[galleryofart]

Woman in a Large Hat

Artist: Caesar van Everdingen (Dutch, 1616/17-1678)

Date: c. 1650

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Rijksmuseum, The Hague, Netherlands

Description

A young woman in a white tunic stands in a wooded landscape and looks out at the viewer from beneath a broad, disc-shaped hat. In her left hand she holds up a small basket of plums. The fluttering end of the ribbon that serves as a belt suggests movement, as if she is walking or dancing. The picture was unknown before the 2009 auction at which the museum bought it. It is not signed but is so typical of Caesar van Everdingen in style and execution that there is not the slightest doubt about his authorship, and Huys Janssen certified as much with his attribution in the sale catalogue.

[wheresarizona]

Columba 

summary: It isn’t until you’re in his home that you learn it’s General Marcus Acacius who’s summoned you for your services—you’re not sure why he did, when the other courtesans standing beside you, hoping to be chosen by him, have bodies that look nothing like yours.

pairing: Marcus Acacius/Plus Size f!reader (Courtesan)

rating: E (18+!! This is smut. No y/n, explicit smut, plus size reader, courtesan reader, age gap (reader is of legal age in today’s standards), takes place pre-Gladiator 2, dommy Marcus Acacius (loves giving orders), he’s a tiny bit possessive, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), creampie, rough sex, backshots, woman on top, oral sex (m receiving), vaginal fingering, breast worship, hair pulling (m receiving), slight breeding kink, (1) pussy slap, dirty talk, spanking, spit mention, some biting, with hair like that he wants it pulled, some sweetness at the end) 

word count: 4.8k+

a/n: I took one look at Marcus’ hair and immediately thought, that guy likes his hair pulled. I also decided that since he spends weeks to months with a bunch of men at a time, when he comes home, he really appreciates a curvy woman. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be able to write anything for him until I saw the movie, but the trailer got me. This is unbeta’d, all mistakes are my own. I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

Masterlist

It was the marble bust atop a pedestal that revealed whose home you were in. The opulence of the domus’ atrium, with its four tall marble columns surrounding the impluvium's shallow, sunken pool in the middle of the room and the compluvium’s opening in the ceiling above it, allowing the moon’s light to filter in, told you whoever lived here had notoriety—then you saw the face carved out of stone, recognizing the curls and strong nose you'd only ever seen as he was paraded past you down the street in honor of his latest victory, and you knew.

General Marcus Acacius is a man feared by many for his ferocity and skills in battle. It's been said Mars, the God of War, blessed his birth, while others believe his bloodline is descended from the God himself. What you know to be true is he's a gifted General that the Emperors and Gods have smiled upon, and in his presence, an intimidating figure you didn't dare look at unless you were addressed.

There are four women standing to your right, all of you younger than him, naked, and courtesans of the highest standard—well-educated and well-versed in politics along with the pleasures of the body—and highly sought out by society's elite. 

Marcus is at the opposite end, silently making his way down the line with what you can only assume is a scrutinizing eye, and you fear there's been a mistake that you're here—the other courtesans are all built similarly with small breasts, flattened stomachs and thinner waists than yours, whereas you’re curvier, and have more meat on your bones, with your bigger chest, soft noticeable belly, and grabbable hips. Clearly, he requested a particular type of woman, and it doesn't appear you're it. Staring down at the tiled floor seems better than seeing the disappointment on his face when he gets to you. 

His sandaled feet come into view as he stands before you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your bare body—golden snake bracelets coil around each of your upper arms, and at the unexpected gentle touch of his fingertips to one, you flinch. 

"Do I frighten you?" His voice is a low, deep rasp that shivers down your spine. 

"No, Sir," you answer.

His thumb strokes over the snake's head and along its body. "Why do you flinch?" 

Raising your head, you see he’s wearing a white tunic with a gold pattern lining around his neck, down his arms, and along the hem, a belt securing it at his waist; golden cuffs covered his wrists. You’re met with dark eyes, a furrow crinkling between his eyebrows—his brown hair with a kiss of gray, curls like waves on his head, his facial hair dotted with a few silvery strands. It takes you a second to answer his question because the glimpses of him you caught during victory parades and the marble bust didn't prepare you for his beauty. 

Mars and Venus have bestowed their blessings upon him. 

“My apologies, Sir,” you finally reply. “It was simply surprise at being graced by your touch.” His expression is difficult to read, so you continue speaking, “I’ve heard of your prowess in battle that inspires songs and how your enemies tremble before you, but I do not believe I have reason to fear you—unless that is something you wish. Do you wish for me to be frightened of you?” 

Some men liked it if you acted afraid of them to feel powerful. Some men, usually the big, tough ones, liked to bury their faces in your bosom while you held them. The slight show of relief on Marcus’ face when you said you had no reason to fear him made you suspect he’d be in the latter category. 

“No.” His eyes are locked onto yours. “I do not need another to fear me. I wish for you to want my touch.” 

“I wish for more than your touch,” you reply. “I wish to feel your lips on mine and your weight on top of me, I wish to feel your cock inside me and to hear the sounds you make when you peak, and I do wish for your touch; I wish to feel your hands claim my body as yours.” 

His gaze turns to one of desire, and it makes you smile. 

"You," he says. "Stay. The rest of you,” he announces, keeping his eyes on yours, “leave us.”

The invitation the messenger brought to your home the day prior did not state who requested your services; it simply said the person was a public figure, and the woman picked would be paid handsomely.

The servants, who stood as still as statues against a wall, scurried to assist each of the other women with redressing.

"Come," he orders, offering you a hand you accept. He leads you to a room you realize is his personal quarters when you spot his armor in a corner, Medusa's golden head on the cuirass shining in the candlelight—she wards off evil and offers protection. There's a bed against the wall opposite the door, and he lets go of your hand, slipping off his sandals by the doorway before walking over to a thin table laden with a jug, cups, and a bowl of berries and grapes. 

"Care for some wine?" he asks without looking at you while pouring himself a cup. 

His body is tense, and you’re assuming you’re here to help him relax—he arrived home only days ago from war, and you got a chance to see him rolling down the street on a chariot as he waved to the cheering masses. It would make sense that he could use somebody with your expertise to get him to unwind. 

“No, thank you, Sir,” you answer, and he faces you again, taking a drink. “It’s a great honor that you chose me, and I do not wish to forget a single moment.” 

His cup lowers, and you're surprised to find he’s wearing a little smile. He twists to set his wine down next to the jug, and removes the cuffs from his wrists, setting them onto the table then his eyes are on yours. 

"Marcus," he says, and it only takes a few strides to have him in front of you again. 

"I'm sorry?" you ask.

His attention moves to your body, and he’s not looking upon you like an object or something he’s just purchased as most men do; his gaze is appreciative, the same kind of look you could imagine was on his face when he stared at art that pleased him. Your figure isn’t the ideal for most Roman women—your hips are too wide, your breasts are too large, your ass is too big, your thighs are too thick, and your stomach is too noticeable—yet, there are many men who sought you out and paid well for your time, and it seems the General is one of them. 

"My name." He walks around you, his fingers sliding along your upper back from shoulder to shoulder. “Call me Marcus. I want you to be familiar with how my name tastes on your tongue.” 

The touch and his words cause your nipples to harden and goosebumps to rise on your skin.

"Marcus,” you say. 

He’s in front of you again, his darkened eyes on yours. His big hands grip your waist, pulling you into him, and he shoves his face into the crook of your neck, feeling him inhale deeply. “Gods, you’re the best thing I’ve smelled in months.” The words are said against your flesh. “Like a meadow of flowers in Spring, and I fail to remember the last time I felt such softness.” He squeezes the fleshy handles at your hips and goes lower to grab handfuls of your ass, then runs his hands up your back. “Upon hearing your description,” he says, “I knew you’d be perfect, but what I imagined has no comparison to seeing your beauty with my own eyes.” His admission catches you off guard as it sounds as though he always intended to pick you from the line of women. It’s curious that he even invited the others if his mind had been set beforehand. He straightens, meeting your gaze. “Take off my clothes.” 

There's no need to reply; you just do as he ordered, getting his belt undone, the leather falling to the floor, then pulling his tunic over his head, it meeting the same fate as his belt. 

He’s completely nude, standing at his full height before you. 

You expected the scars etched all over his body, the evidence that he'd lay down his life for Rome without hesitation. There's a long, jagged one across his right pec, silvered with age, that has you forgetting yourself and softly pressing your fingertips to it.

He snatches your smaller hand, pulling it away from his marred skin. 

"My apologies," you quickly say, bowing your head in submission. "I shouldn't have touched you without permission." 

"You may touch me." Once again, he surprises you by putting the flat of your palm against the scar, his other hand grabbing your chin to lift your face. 

From his reaction to your fingers on him, you think he hasn’t been with a woman in quite some time, and you hope you can make up for all the nights he spent alone. 

It seems he's done with the pleasantries when his lips crush into yours. It's all of the encouragement you need, kissing him back while rubbing your palms up his broad chest, feeling his warmth. You snake a hand down his stomach through the trail of hair low on his belly to take his half-hard cock into your hand—he groans and twitches in your hold.

He truly has the Gods' favor—a talented General, handsome and well-endowed. 

With his hands on your waist, he walks you backward to the bed, laying you on the mattress. He's on top of you, deepening the kiss with his tongue pressing into your mouth, his hand palming your tit, making you wet with arousal and your body heat. 

It's fascinating how he's defying all of your expectations. The men who seek you out after spending months fighting are often rough and brutish, using you however they want to release their tension. There's never kissing or offers of drink; it's orders to suck their cocks, or to get on the bed in their desired position—and here's Marcus kissing down your body, along the skin of your neck to your chest. Most of his weight is on his knees between your legs while bending forward over you, and the only word you can think of to describe it is he's worshipping your breasts. He has them in his hands, moving from one to the other, licking, sucking, and nibbling on your nipples and soft skin, the sensations making your pussy weep with need. 

“Gods, Marcus,” you moan. He has you squirming with how good it feels, your fingers pushing into his curls. He takes a pebbled bud between his teeth and gently tugs. “Oh,” you gasp, your hands tightening in the tousled waves on his head.

He releases your nipple. “Harder,” he rasps, then flicks his tongue against your stiff peak, and you do as requested, pulling his hair harder. A loud groan rumbles from his chest as he continues laving at your tits, skimming his hand down your stomach, your skin tingling under his fingertips, until he’s sliding two fingers through your wet slit. You tighten your hold on his head, your toes curling when he starts rubbing your clit, and the realization hits that he intends for you to have just as much enjoyment as him. 

"Marcus," you whine.

He’s one of those men who has you praying that he’ll wish for your company again, and you wouldn’t even make him pay if you got another chance to warm his bed. 

The push of his thick digit into your pussy makes your breath hitch at the slight stretch, his thumb pressing to your sensitive bundle of nerves, moving side to side—you know he’s going to make you come, and you silently thank the Gods.

His finger is pushing in and out of you, his thumb continuing its movements, and he lifts his face to look you in the eyes, his own are so black there’s hardly a sliver of brown remaining. "Come for me," he commands, slipping a second digit inside you—you’re so wet you can hear the slick slide of his fingers pumping into you. The muscles in your belly are tightening, and the fire in your core is building. "Come for me, sweet girl." His head dips to lightly bite your nipple before soothing it with his tongue. "Once you come, I'll do as you wish and sheath my cock into this perfect cunt." 

The hot heat of his mouth envelops your pebbled bud, and he sucks—it's your undoing; your eyes close as you fall over the edge, coming with a moan of his name. His digits and mouth continue to extend your ecstasy while your chest heaves with labored breaths and your heart pounds. 

He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop, his hand sliding from your pussy, up your stomach, leaving a trail of your release on your skin. His voice deepens, “You’ve done well for me, and I keep my word—turn over.” 

He helps you to roll onto your front, and you get up onto your hands and knees—a familiar position. He takes a moment to admire you in front of him, his palms feeling the thickness of your thighs and hips. His fingers dig into your plump asscheeks as he spreads them and dips his head, hearing and feeling him spit between them, the hot saliva dripping from your asshole down to your opening. He shuffles up behind you, sliding his cock through the wetness of your come and his spit to lubricate himself, then notches it at your entrance—you both moan as he slowly starts feeding himself into you. 

Gods, he’s big. 

There’s a slight burn with how he’s stretching you, your inner walls having to accommodate his ample girth, and once he’s pressed all the way to the root inside you, a breath leaves you that you hadn't realized you'd been holding in. 

He has a tight grip on your waist and pulls out almost all the way, immediately pushing back into you hard enough there's a clap when his hips hit your ass. This was expected, Marcus setting up a rhythm that punches the air from your lungs each time he thrusts forward—he’s working out what he doesn’t wish to feel, and with how slippery it is between your legs, he's moving easily, and the brutal pace feels amazing. 

Many times, you’ve had to fake your enjoyment to make those employing you think they’re talented lovers—the majority are selfish in bed and care little about your comfort but want their egos stroked. Marcus, on the other hand, earned your favor when he took the time to ready you with his fingers and allowed you to climax. 

He's pounding into you, the collide of his body against yours making your asscheeks shake, and with how his cock is pressing into something truly divine, he’s also earned your screams of his name and whatever incoherent words are babbling from your mouth—he has you dizzy with pleasure, heat coiling in your belly, and there’s no doubting the Goddess of Beauty and Sex has given him her blessing. 

Sounds are spilling unbidden from your lips, Marcus loudly grunting with each stroke, the wet slap of skin hitting skin echoing in the room, and you look over your shoulder—the candlelight around the room shows the glisten of sweat on his golden skin. His head is thrown back, his eyes closed, and his jaw slack. Hair is sticking to his forehead, and a beautiful rosy flush has begun on his chest, rising up his neck to paint his cheeks. You can't think of another you've laid with who looked so breathtaking while taking their pleasure, and you could only imagine how glorious he’d look on the battlefield. You don't know what comes over you, reaching your hand back to touch his hip, and suddenly, he’s looking at you, his eyes glazed with lust. 

It’s as though he’s been in a trance, losing himself in your body, and now he’s come back to be in the moment with you. He falls forward, his hands sinking into the mattress on either side of you, blanketing your back and slowing his pace. His chin is on your shoulder, and he bites the shell of your ear; all of his weight goes onto one arm to free up the other that roughly grabs your breast and plucks at your nipple.

“You take me so well,” he says into your ear, his cock continuing to slide in and out of you. “Your sweet little cunt will milk me dry, and then I’ll have you again and again after that to keep you full of my seed.” 

His words steal a moan from your lips. 

“Does that please you, my sweet girl?” he asks. “You wish for more of me? Has another ever fucked you so good?” He gets his hand between your legs to circle the pearl of your pleasure, and your jaw drops, eyes closing—he’s going to make you come again. “Answer me,” he growls, lightly slapping your clit, and you clench around him. 

It’s challenging to think, but you say, “No,” and push your ass back against him as he thrusts forward, fucking yourself on him to get closer and closer to your end. “I’ve never had such fortune.” 

“You do now—by morning, I’ll have you ruined for any other man, and your cunt won’t soon forget the shape of my cock.” 

He means every word that slips from his tongue, and it sets the fire in your belly ablaze. You’re holding yourself up on shaky limbs, the muscles in your stomach knotting up—you’re close.

“Marcus,” you moan. 

His warm breath tickles your ear as he speaks into it: “I love how my name sounds from your lips. I know you’re close. Give in so I can feel you ascend to the heavens.” 

His words, the fullness of his thick shaft moving in and out of you, and his fingers swirling around your sensitive bundle at the apex of your thighs has you shattering—stars burst behind your eyelids as white-hot pleasure erupts in your center, your pussy clamping down on him hard enough he slows to a stop, and groans in your ear.

You exhale panted breaths, your heart beating rapidly, and the blissful euphoria ripples through your body, slowly ebbing away. 

Somehow, you find your voice, "Allow me to ride you." 

He kisses your shoulder, his beard scratching against your bare skin. "You want to mount me?" he asks. 

"Yes."

"Then you shall." 

He pulls out of you, an achy groan leaving him as he lies beside you on his back, and you get up onto your knees. He draws your attention with how he’s splayed out on the mattress, his long legs slightly spread and arms crossed over his head. His cock is still hard, it shiny with your juices, and resting against his lower belly, cushioned by the tantalizing path of hair that led directly to it—and he’s looking up at you, his eyes dark with want that keep lowering to your bosom, and back up to your eye line, the pink of his tongue wetting his bottom lip, that you suddenly wish to bite. 

There’s the common knowledge about Marcus all of Rome is aware of—the family he comes from and the military achievements that have led to him being the victorious General the Gods have blessed the city with, and now you’re versed in his more private attributes—he likes his women to be sturdy with sizeable breasts, he enjoys the pleasurable pain of his hair pulled, he’s a generous lover, he prefers to be in control unless you can tempt him enough to hand over the reins. It’s quite tempting for him to lie back and watch your tits bounce as you ride him. 

Shuffling in place to face him, taking his hard length in hand—he didn’t ask, and you didn’t offer, yet you want to take care of him like he took care of you, so you scoot back enough that you can bend down at the waist, wrapping your lips around the tip of his cock.

The sound of Marcus’ loud moan and the way his back arches as if it were the string of a bow shoots straight to your cunt—you can taste the mix of your essence and his arousal that’s steadily dribbling from the sensitive head that you lick and suckle; your hand easily stroking up and down the sheath of skin on his shaft. The muscles in his thighs and stomach have tensed like it’s taking everything in him to hold back and not fill your mouth with his come.

“Enough,” he grits the order through his teeth, and his palm lands on the side of your ass with a hard slap that echoes against the walls, the sharp sting getting a moan out of you—your head lifts off of him to see he’s scowling. “I’m not spilling down your throat,” he continues and smacks your ass again. “Ride me, or I’ll have you under me.” 

“Apologies, Marcus,” you reply demurely and sit up on your knees once more. Quickly, you move, throwing a leg over his waist to have your thick thighs hugging his hips. You rise, grabbing his cock, you press to your entrance, and you watch his face as you slowly start to impale yourself on him, relishing in how his mouth falls open and the tight grip he has on the meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into them hard enough it bordered on painful. 

The fullness is incredible when you sit flush against him, and you love how he fills you. Your palms find purchase on his broad chest, and you rise until only the tip of him remains inside of you, and you drop back down—the rhythm you set has you moving in his lap, up and down in quick succession, Marcus groaning, his eyes locked on the jiggle of your breasts. 

Sweat forms on your skin, feeling it on your forehead and a single drop sliding down your spine, your eyes closed as you focus, your moans stuttering each time you sink onto him. 

His hands are resting on your backside, rising and falling with you, his voice rough with pleasure, “That’s it, ride me, bounce on my cock.”

This isn’t about you, and though it feels good riding him, your goal is helping him achieve his own high, and you’re determined to do so—your hands leave him to press your tits together, and you gasp in surprise when he sits up and shoves his face into them. Your pace doesn’t waver, and you look at him to see he’s keeping himself up with an arm braced on the bed behind him, the other hand grabbing a handful of your ass, and you know he’s not going to last much longer. 

Your fingers slide into the unruly curls at the back of his head, and you yank them hard to make him look at you, Marcus hissing while his cock twitches inside you. In this position, you’re taller, and he gazes up to meet your eyes. 

“I want you to come,” you pant, continuing to fuck yourself on him. “I want to feel you flood my cunt with your seed.” The noise he makes sounds like a whine. “Then I want you to do it again, and again after that—I want you to fill me to the point I’m brimming with you, and you’re in me for days.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut as he groans out a long, drawn-out Fuck

With his beautiful neck on display, you duck your head and lick up the taut skin of his throat, wishing you could suck a mark into it to remind him of you for a while after you part ways. His free hand roughly grabs your chin to pull you close enough for him to slot his lips against yours, and you have to slow to a grind as he messily kisses you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

He breaks away to fall back onto the mattress, his fingers getting a tight grip on your ass, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifts you enough to start thrusting up into your soaked pussy rapidly—he’s grunting while baring his teeth to chase his high, and all you can do is press your palms to his chest for balance while keeping yourself raised enough for him to pound into you. 

The slick push and pull of him, moving in and out of you, has you chanting his name, and it sounds wet between your legs, hearing the clap of skin on skin of him plowing into you. Perspiration makes his tan flesh glint under the candle's light, his hair is a mess atop his head, and his expression is wild; it’s no surprise when his strokes get uneven and his eyes close. Marcus tugs your ass down to bury himself as far as possible in you as he gives in, coming with a guttural groan—you feel his cock jerk and the wet pulse as he paints your insides with spurts and spurts of his spend, wringing himself out until his body goes completely lax.

He pulls you forward to lie on top of him, wrapping his arms around your middle, and turns you both onto your sides. There’s a hiss that slips from his lips when he removes his softening length from your cunt, and you smile at Marcus sliding down the bed far enough for his face to nuzzle in your bosom while hugging you tight. Your fingers stroke through his sweat-damp curls, his hums of appreciation sounding like the purr of a cat. 

Minutes pass in silence as your breaths even out and your hearts slow. After some time, he says something you can’t make out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” you reply. 

His head lifts, and he kisses under your chin. “Stay,” he says again. 

“I have no intention of leaving. I’m here until you send me away.” 

“And if I don’t wish to send you away?” 

His lips trail along your jaw. 

Your eyebrows pull together. “As I said, I’m here until you request my leave.” 

“And if I never request your leave?” 

He’s kissing your neck now, the question making your eyes round. “You intend for me to be your mistress?” 

It’s not uncommon for a courtesan to become one’s mistress. Some of you are from families of wealth and do this line of work for the powerful connections, while others are freedwomen who’ve worked their way up to earn their notoriety—either case, courtesans are respected and thought to make great mistresses. 

“That is all I can offer since I have no plans to marry,” he answers. “You can stay here with or without me when I’m ordered away, and whatever is left of my salary and spoils of war after the household debts are paid, you may keep.”

He makes you frown. 

“Why me?”

Marcus gets his arm out from under you and scoots up the mattress to look you in the eyes. 

“You’re everything I desire in a woman with your beauty and intellect, and you can sate my needs in bed—you’re perfect, and I want you all to myself. I do not wish to share you with anyone else.”

It’s in this moment you realize you’re the one in control here—you don’t need him, you’re self-sufficient, and there are many who’d eagerly take his place, but your looks are rare in your profession, and he needs his deal to be enticing enough for you to take it. 

“What if I decline your offer?” 

“Then I pray you’ll allow me to keep your company until I receive my next orders.” 

He seems to be a good, honorable man who wants to please you, and he had you tempted to accept on the merit of his skills in bed alone—there’s just something that won’t leave your mind. 

“Before I make my decision, answer this question: if you believe me to be so perfect, why were the others here?” 

He presses his large palm to your cheek. “It was in your power to deny me your company, and though the other women weren’t of my tastes, they were better than nothing.” 

You see no flaws in his answer. 

“I accept your offer on one condition.”

“And that is?”

You no longer find him intimidating, and you’re now comfortable brushing errant hairs off his forehead and sliding your fingers through the curls above his ears. 

Your eyes lock onto his. “You return home to me,” you tell him. “You fight with the might of Mars, and you always return home to me.” 

That earns you a small smile, and he takes your hand into his, kissing the center of your palm. 

“I will, my Dove.” 

Masterlist

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to be tagged in my fics, please fill out the form in my bio, on my masterlist, or just let me know!

[eraenaa]

Bound by Blood

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen Princess Reader Tag List

Synopsis: They can no longer hinder Aemond from taking whatever he wants, and you are the only one he desperately wants. 

Warnings: Non-Con, Targcest, ¿Harsher Aemond?, Mature, 18+, Oral Sex (f receiving), Fingering, P in V Sex, Jealousy, Possessive, Mentions of Death, Not Proofread

Word Count: 5,475

You bit your lip as you prevented a giggle from escaping your lips. You were merely walking down the halls of your home when you heard a peculiar sound that stirred your curiosity. The sound led you to the chambers of your brother, Aemond. You peeked through the ajar door, and your eyes widened at the scene; your brother stood in his chambers, without his tunic, whilst a lady stood before him, naked. She was peppering kisses on his bare chest whilst Aemond’s head was turned to the ceiling, his lone eye shut in what you presumed was pleasure. 

You could not help but let out a gasp left your lips as Aemond pushed the lady to kneel before him. Your hand covered your mouth as Aemond turned his gaze towards you. His lilac eye widened in surprise that mirrored yours. You gathered the skirts of your dress and bolted through the halls of the keep. You let out a bubbling laugh as you ran, hearing your brother’s footsteps following you as well as his voice calling your name. You found yourself seeking refuge behind the white, ashy trunk of the Weirwood tree, peeking from the trunk to see if your brother had followed you. You let out a yelp as you felt a firm hold on your waist and your body being pushed against the trunk of the ancient, sacred tree. 

“You dare spy on me?” Aemond questioned, now dressed in his tunic. You laughed at your brother, whose hold on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the bodice of your dress, tickling you. “You were with a woman,” You stated and let out another laugh as he did not cease his torment. “You surprise me, brother. I was led to believe you were indifferent to such acts… of pleasure,” You mused as your laughs died down, but your beloved brother did not relinquish his hold nor the close proximity of your faces. Aemond hummed, breathing in your scent and savoring the mirth in your eyes that was caused at his expense. “You were not meant to see such a scene,” He said sternly and watched as you shrugged. Aemond swallowed thickly as his eye glimpsed downward and saw the light heaving of your chest, your skin aglow with the light of the afternoon sun. 

“Tell me, was the lady in your chambers a gift from Aegon?” You asked in curiosity. You often see ladies of pleasure secretly threading the halls of the keep, but they were usually meant for your eldest brother. “Our brother is bedridden,” Aemond stated, and you nodded. “Ah… so you have taken it upon yourself to continue on his traditions,” You teased and watched as your brother’s jaw tensed. You licked your lips and rested your hands on his shoulders. “She was no whore, she was a lady of house Redwine,” Your brother defended. Your brows shot up in surprise. “A noblewoman,” You say, and he curtly nods, brushing away your hair that was jostled by the wind. 

“Will you marry her then?” You asked innocently with a tilt of your head. Aemond scoffed and shook his head, his face contorting in disgust. “No,” He immediately responded. His heart growing soft at the confused pout on your lips. “I have no wish for a marriage… especially with someone so… plain,” Your brother explained, and you nodded. Aemond pulled you away from the trunk of the tree and linked your arms together, escorting you back to the castle. 

“Speaking of marriages… when is mine?” You inquired, and Aemond halted in his steps, his body tensing at your query. “Aegon was the one to see through the proposals, and seeing that he is now bedridden and the duties of the king have passed towards the prince regent, I ask you, brother, when will I be married?” You asked, your innocent eyes gazing up at your older brother, who tried hard to mask his rage at the thought of your marriage. “Never, if I can help it,” He stated seriously, but you took it as a jest. “Aemond,” You whined as your brother continued to walk. “The war is finished, and I am of age now.” You reasoned, but Aemond only shook his head. “We will discuss such matters in due time.” He said simply, but you protested. “It is due time! I am six and ten; mother was married when she was five and ten— Helaena even sooner!” You reasoned, already feeling as if you were ready for such responsibility. 

Aemond let out a grievous breath at your words. “Is it not my duty as princess to marry? To bind our house with another to strengthen our name?” You asked your brother the teachings of your septa as to what your duty was embedded in your mind. “Your duty, my dearest sister, is to be here with your family, with me,” Aemond said, and you frowned. “Brother, even grandfather believes it is time for me to marry!” You insisted, “Whatever reservations he had years before had changed. Remember? He was the one who insisted for me to stay when the small council wanted to ship me off to Dorne so we could have them as allies?” Aemond clenched his fists, restarting himself to point any anger towards you. 

“Why this insistence on marriage? Tell me, sister, has any of the lords caught your attention for you to act as such?” Aemond questioned, words laced and dripping with jealousy. He watched as your cheeks bloomed with color and your eyes widened, fear and dread swirling in his heart as your bodily reactions were answer enough. “N-no.” You said; Aemond rolled his eye and shook his head at your lie. His mind already imagining the way he shall kill and hurt the one who had caught your attention. “There is no one, Aemond… Not yet, at least.” You said as you realized your brother did not believe your words. “I only wish to perform my duty,” You added quietly, your eyes widening in plea. 

“And you are performing it now. Your duty is to be here, to support and be with your family.” He reasoned, swaying your mind to let go of such matter. You huffed as you saw in Aemond’s eye that he would not discuss the matter as of now, stomping away from your brother with pouted lips and irritation at his stubbornness.

“He does not wish for me to be married! He would turn me into a spinster!” You grumbled as you did your needlework in your mother’s chambers, your grandsire and older sister present as well. Your mother sighed at your words, her gaze turning to her father, their suspicions made years before now manifested and now presenting themselves quite obviously. Your grandfather sighed and patted the back of your head, your hair that mirrored your mother’s cascading behind your back. “I shall see to it that your brother sees reason,” He said; you turned your gaze upwards in hope. “In the meantime… why not acquaint yourself with some of the sons of the lords here in court… just so when your brother finally agrees to your marriage, we are prepared, and you will know the true manner of your future intended.” Your grandsire advised, and you nodded your head in agreement.

“Are the matters for the day settled then?” Aemond asked grievously. Overly tired from having to sit in the room of the small council and tend to the matters of the realm. He was counting down the hours until he could escape the room and see you, who had always had a way to make him forget about his problems and exhaustion. “Not quite,” Otto spoke. “There is still the matter of marriage for the princess,” He added, and Aemond began to seethe in his seat. 

He watched as the men around the table leaned in closer to his grandfather, hanging on every word he uttered about your marriage. The lords zealous at the idea, Aemond would wager that they would be presenting their sons to you, the renowned beauty of the realm. “This matter can be discussed another time; my sister is not yet of age,” Aemond gritted out. “The princess is six and ten. She is of age. And she as well has made known her wish to be married, my prince,” Otto replied, averting his gaze from the fiery glare of his grandson. 

Aemond sat in his seat with great irritation as the matter of your marriage was discussed. Names of undeserving lords were thrown into the air and were being jotted down as future prospects for your hand that was already meant for another. Aemond sat stoically as the small council was dismissed, his body still wrapped in rage, and he feared if he moved, he would let it show and might just take a life with his bare hands. “The time has come, my prince. It is best to make your peace with it.” Otto spoke before exiting the room, looking towards his grandson, who had made his contempt on the matter quite obvious. 

After a long moment of calming himself down, Aemond finally stood and exited the room of the small council and found himself staying towards the tiltyard to train. However, the rage he tried to be rid of quickly returned as he saw you with a son of a lord. You leaning close towards the punny boy, a wide smile on your lips as you conversed with him. Ser Criston made hastened steps and stood before the prince, blocking his view of you who were acquainting herself with a son of a lord. “Ready to train, my prince?” The knight asked, hoping to distract Aemond as he, too, saw plainly the affection and fondness he had for you ever since childhood. A fondness that your mother and grandfather had tried hard to deny and keep tame. 

“I need a sparing partner,” Aemond gritted and unsheathed his sword, his eye clasped on the boy you kept chatting with. “Here I am,” The Knight said, his eye warily going towards you, who let out a laugh and moved to touch the arm of the lord before you, batting your lashes at him and presenting him with a smile from your pink lips. “My prince,” Ser Criston called, pushing upon Aemond, who stepped forward to charge toward the boy from house Lannister. “You cannot maim him,” Ser Criston reminded as he pushed the prince towards the other side of the tiltyard, Aemond’s lilac eye following you as you linked your arms with the young lord and sauntered off the tiltyard. 

“Aemond,” Ser Criston sighed, “She is your sister,” He reminded him of a fact that he knew all too well. “Exactly, she is my sister. And it is my duty to protect her from the dangers that come with undeserving men,” Aemond replied. “What danger? There is no danger at present, and I was here supervising her.” Aemond scoffed and walked off in search of you, but the knight followed him. “Supervision? Where was this supervision of yours when my sister was practically flushed against that lord? Flirting with him like a blushing whore,” Aemond spat and Ser Criston halted in his tracks as the bitter words left the prince’s lips. The knight’s brown eyes shifted between the prince and you, who stood by the hall and had heard the words spoken against you. 

You stared at your brother wide-eyed and brimming with tears as you heard the foul word he uttered against you. Aemond felt his heart pit as he realized that you had heard the untrue, bitter statement brought by jealousy that he had uttered. “Princess!” Ser Criston called as you ran through the halls once more, the knight looking back at the prince in disbelief for he had uttered such foul words. 

You ran to your mother for comfort, her readily taking you in her arm as you buried your tear-stained face in her neck. “Why, my child? What has happened?” The queen asked and ran her hands soothing through your hair that you had inherited from her. You did not speak and only continued to sniffle and let the tears pour out of your eyes. You hear the patter of hastened steps and the clink of armor, Ser Criston preventing your brother from entering your mother’s chambers where you sought comfort. “My love, what has happened?” Your mother asked once more, her gaze shifting between you and Ser Criston, who bared the room to prevent your brother from entering. 

You stayed quite still and let your mother assist you to a seat. You cast your gaze downward and continued to cry in silence, and your mother went to your family’s most trusted knight. “The prince saw as the princess was acquainting herself with one of the lords and… he had spoken offense.” Ser Criston whispered, his heart twisting as he watched you silently cry. “What offense?” The queen lowly questioned. “The prince, in his rage, had accidentally compared the princess’ likeness to a… whore,” Ser Criston’s hold on the hilt of his sword tightened as he heard you stifle a sob. 

“Oh my love, that is simply untrue. You know that it is untrue,” Your mother kneeled before you. You were always her most sensitive child; how could you not be when you were always showered with praises and sheltered from any cruelty of the world? Great lengths were taken to keep you innocent from the hardships of life, and though this matter of offense seemed small for others, it was not for you. Especially when you consider the fact at how much your brother frowned upon women who earned such titles, and for him to compare you to such— it was too much for your fragile self to bear. 

“Your brother was simply tired. He did not mean to say such words; he did not mean it.” Your mother said as she tried to comfort you. You were unconvinced; you recalled his words earlier and the animosity and irritation he had shown the past few days when you brought up your wish to be married. His reactions were not at all brought by tiredness. The day had come when your favored brother had started to resent you. Your tears only multiplied at the thought. 

“How could you say such a thing?” The queen hissed at her son, who stood idly outside her chambers. It was night, and your tears only ceased when sleep had overcome you. “I was overcome by rage,” Aemond reasoned, and his mother rolled her eyes. “But that does not mean you shall disparage your sister! What even is the reason for your rage? Why are you so against for her to know the lords that she shall marry?” The queen asked, and Aemond gritted his teeth. “You know why,” He whispered harshly, watching as the eyes of his mother widened with dread. “Aemond… we have discussed this,” The queen whispered. Pulling him into another room in her apartments and away from any prying ears. 

“No, you discussed this,” Aemond spoke more loudly, fiery rage returning in his veins. “She is your sister. I… I cannot have another pair of my children married and offend the gods further!” The queen said frantic. Aemond shook his head. “You have known how I feel for her for years now… you knew perfectly well. You let Aegon and Helaena marry, but when it is me, you dare deprive me of the only one I want?” Aemond asked, voice almost heavy with emotion, anger, and sadness, but his anger loomed greater. “We cannot go against the laws of gods and men once more,” Alicent sighed, but Aemond shook his head. “That is where we differ, Mother. She and I are born Targaryens. We are dragons who do not succumb to rules such as yours.” Aemond spoke lowly, Alicent feeling fear for her son’s decisions. 

“My brother is clinging to life as we speak; the stranger shall arrive and take him any moment now. And seeing his heirs were taken by war, his seat and crown shall pass to me. And when I am king, not even you or Otto or even the kingdom can hinder me anymore, Mother.” Aemond swore. “She is mine. She has always been meant to be mine.” Aemond proclaimed and marched out of the apartments of his mother. 

You stood teary-eyed before a burning pyre, your eldest brother succumbing to his sickness and injuries. You turned your head towards your mother, who had her head cast down as tears were shed for her firstborn. You then turned to Helaena, who stood straight in her spot, whatever sadness she had greatly covered or overpowered by her numbness. Aemond breathed out as you had not even looked at him since the day he mistakenly uttered such a foul word against you. 

“Sister,” Aemond tried to call you and take hold of your arm, but you stepped towards your mother, and she wrapped her arms around you in comfort. “I’ll escort them back to the castle,” Daeron spoke as he returned from Old Town after the events of the war and only returned to Kingslanding to aid his older brother, who now held the title of king. Aemond gave a nod and turned his longing gaze to you. The death of Aegon was nothing unexpected, but still, it was still a death that had undone the stitches of the wound the war had left. Aemond felt a pang in his heart as you did not run to him for comfort as the news came. All Aemond wanted to do was wrap his arms around your frame, to seek comfort with you, who had always been his greatest solace. 

But you kept your distance from your brother. The closeness that you two had since childhood started to drift apart as you heard his conversation with your mother the night he offended you. 

It was not you were that unaware of his fondness towards you, but you took his affection in the manner of a brother showing love to his sister and nothing more. But ever since hearing that confession that was not meant to be heard by you, you recalled yours and Aemond’s relationship. Now noting that perhaps the glances shared were not so innocent, the touches may have lingered and had hidden agendas. That the words spoken had innuendos in them, but you were just too oblivious and naive to notice. 

You sat solemnly in your chambers, staring at the fire as your fingers twirled your hair. The matters of your marriage paused as the kingdom was in mourning for your brother. You were brought out of your thoughts as you hear Aemond call your name, him standing by the door of your chambers. You stood in shock, moving to take your robe to cover yourself, who was only dressed in your shift. Your eyes widened as Aemond hindered you, pulling you flush against his body, wrapping his arms around your frame, and burying his head in your neck. 

“I’m sorry,” He uttered against your skin. “Please, sister, forgive me. I cannot bear for us to be like this, please, my fire.” He confessed and pleaded, holding tighter onto you as you stood idly, your arms not wrapping themselves around Aemond just like times before. “Aemond,” You sighed and tried to push him away, but your small action made the pang in his heart twist further. “What must I do for us to return to the way it was? My fire, please. Do you wish for new dresses? Jewels? What do you want, tell me, and it shall be yours,” Aemond pleaded, moving his face from the crook of your neck and standing straight, his cold, callous hands cupping your soft cheeks. You shook your head at your brother’s attempt at bribery. “Nothing. I— we cannot return to the way it was before,” You said quietly. Aemond frowned at your words; he knew what he had uttered against you was foul, but such a measly insult cannot result in him losing you.

You breathed out a grievous breath, trying to push him away once more, but he kept rooted at his spot. “I have heard what you had told Mother,” You said, watching as Aemond’s confusion morphed into realization. “And?” He asked, voice serious, the softness it harbored as he pleaded for your forgiveness gone. “And what? Aemond, you cannot be serious. You and I are brother and sister. We cannot—“ Your words were interrupted. “Aegon and Helaena were brothers and sisters as well. So were the conqueror and his wives. This is the tradition of our house. I love you— I burn for you in the way of the dragon.” He proclaimed, his face threading nearer to yours. You tried to push him away as your noses brushed, as his scent was starting to intoxicate your senses. “Aemond, please, we cannot— they will never approve of this. The gods w—“

“Fuck the gods!” Aemond screamed blasphemy, your eyes widening at his words and how his other hand placed itself on your waist. “I am king, and no one shall question and get in between me and what I want.” Aemond seethed. “That is not a king; that is a tyrant.” You said, growing in fear of your brother. An emotion you never thought you would feel when it came to him. “Call it what you want, my fire, but I shall still have you,” Aemond swore, and you resisted him as he captured your lips. “Aemond… no… please, do not do this, we cannot do this.” You breathed out as you managed enough strength to push him away. Your cheeks flushed and lips swollen by his kiss.

“Deny me as you will, sister, but I know you better than you know yourself. You are mine. You had always and will forever be mine.” Aemond uttered and pulled you against him once more, no matter your protests. “I regret that it must come to this, but you must learn who you belong to— I must pluck those thoughts of reservation out of your pretty little head, my fire,” Aemond murmured against your skin, nipping the flesh of your neck and leaving his mark, undeterred by your pushes, which he felt were half-hearted. He smirked as he pried out a sweet moan from your lips. 

“Your body betrays you, my fire. You can lie, refuse, and deny what you feel for me, but your body tells me the truth of it.” Aemond hummed, his fingers finding the hem of your shift, and started to hike it upwards. His calloused fingers brushed against your milky skin that he had never had the pleasure to touch before. 

You gasped as Aemond shifted his head toward your bosom. His eye gazed upwards as you watched his every move. You bit your lip as he took the string of your shift in his teeth and pulled at it, loosening the sheer cover you had on. Aemond hummed in contentment as you finally wrapped your arms around him once more, pulling him closer as his mouth enclosed your bosom, his tongue flicking the taut bud and resulting in a whimper escaping your lips. “Aemond… we… don’t,” You resisted further, your mind conjuring the reaction that will be caused by your damnable actions with your brother. 

“Do you truly mean that, sister? Do you truly wish for me to stop?” Aemond hummed, feeling you tremble as his hand caressed the soft skin of the inside of your thigh, his touch inching higher to your heat. Instead of an answer, you could only whimper as Aemond cupped your dripping heat, his answer given by your body. “Of course you don’t. Not when you’re dripping in want for me,” Aemond moved his slender fingers to rub your cunt, earning a moan from you, your sweet voice echoing through the room and he could only hope that it would reach down the halls in order for all to hear how you belonged to Aemond.

You whimpered as Aemond stole away his hand from pleasuring you. He pecked your lips, and you looked up at him through hooded eyes. “Do you wish for more?” Aemond asked, bringing his fingers that were slick with your essence to his lips, a groan slipping from his throat as he tasted you. You did not answer his question, “If you wish for more, my fire, just say it. Tell me you want more. Tell me that you are mine. Submit to me, sweet sister,” Aemond urged, “Be my wife… my queen, just as it ought to be,” Aemond insisted, leaning closer to you. He lifted your gaze that was planted on the floor, looking deeply into your eyes, and saw pure, unbridled want in them. 

Aemond sighed in contentment and smirked as you went to the tips of your toes and met your lips with his. Wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him to you. Aemond lifted you off your feet and made you wrap your legs around him as he led you both to your feathered bed, never parting your lips, kissing you like a man starved because he was. All he had ever wanted was you. It was plain to him that even in childhood, when he thought of love, all he thought about was you. When his eye was taken, he did not fear seeing the world impaired; he was frightened at the possibility of no longer seeing you. When the war had begun, he had not wanted the throne; all he wanted was for you to be safe and sound. When Daemon had lunged at him atop his dragon, when Aemond thought his life would be taken, his last thought was of you. It had always been and will always be you. 

When Aemond laid you down, he gazed at you with this overwhelming thought that all he ever wanted would be his. That you will finally be hit, that you shall be bound to him, a dragon tethered to another by fire and blood. “You’re mine,” Aemond stated as his fingers moved to fully remove your cover. “I—I am yours,” You stated, and Aemond felt an urge to weep in happiness. He took your lips into his once more, trailing his kisses downward, placing wet, open-mouth kisses upon your skin.

You whimpered as Aemond paused by your heat, uncertain what he shall do. An odd, almost animalistic sound left your lips as you feel his mouth upon your sex. “Aemond… wha—“ Your words faded as a moan took over your thoughts as Aemond flicked his tongue upon the pearl of your cunt. Greedily sucking and licking at you, devouring you to the point that the world began to be incoherent. You knew you were moaning, verbalizing the pleasure he gave, but you could not even hear the noises you let out, but Aemond did. He smirked against your cunt as his arms hooked at your thighs and his hands held yours, his ears ringing with your moans and the way you called out his name. 

A groan left your lips as Aemond inserted his finger in you; his heaving breathing reached your ears as he could not believe how you clenched upon the digit. 

Aemond marveled as he watched his finger disappear in and out of you, already impatient that it would soon be replaced by his cock, but he had to ready you first, he could not be so cruel to subject you to such pain just because of his wants. “Oh gods,” You moaned as your eyes rolled back, and a twisting in your core that was unfamiliar started to take you. “Aemond,” You called, apprehension in your tone as you did not know where this feeling let. You propped yourself by your elbows and gazed upon him through dazed eyes as he inserted another finger and his lips were latched upon your cunt. “Are you to come, my fire? Are you to come by my fingers and lips?” Aemond hummed and used his thumb to rub the swollen pearl. 

A whimper left your lips, and soon it was followed by your loud moans that were caused by your orgasm. Aemond held down your frame as you spasmed before him, your body shaking by the pleasure he had caused.  Aemond moved his frame atop yours, capturing your lips, and you sighed as you tasted your essence on his tongue. 

“You’re mine, sweet sis,” Aemond hummed as he aligned himself at your entrance. “I’m yours, brother… always yours,” You moaned as he glided the tip of his cock against your fold. Aemond groaned at your words, feeling he could come by just your words. Aemond’s breathing shortened as his cock penetrated you, he wiped and kissed the salty tears that spilled from your eyes as your maidenhead was taken. “Aemond… I— I can’t,” You cried as you could not bare the pain, “Just a bit more, my fire, and you’ll feel the pleasure that only I could give you,” Aemond hissed as you clenched around his length painfully but pleasurably so. 

It felt like an eternity before the pain subsided, and you started to let out small moans of pleasure. Aemond hurried his head in your neck and nipped at your skin, his thrusts slow and cautious as he was still measuring how much of him you could take. “More, Aemond… please, more,” You moaned quietly, and Aemond’s hand ventured to your folds and grew circled upon your pearl as his pace quickened and you clung to him, your nails scratching his shoulders, presenting him with stinging pleasure. 

“Oh… it’s good, it’s so good, Aemond,” You called and your king took one of your tit into his mouth, nipping at the bud of your ample bosom, feeling as you clenched tighter around him. “Are you to come again, my fire? Will you come for me again?” Aemond hummed as he watched your eyes roll back once more, and the words slipping from your lips grew incoherent. Aemond gave a long, deep thrust, and your legs wrapped around his waist as you came undone. Aemond soon followed and filled you with his seed as your name slipped his lips in a cry of pleasure. “You’re forever mine, my fire. My sister, my wife, my queen,” Aemond affirmed and kissed your lips once more as you started to slip into slumber brought by exhaustion. 

Aemond gazed down at you as he rested his bareback by the headboard of your feathered bed, and you slept soundly by his side, your body covered by a thin sheet, your breath fanning his skin. Aemond heard the faint knock of the door, and before he could deny entry to whoever dared to disturb your peace, your mother entered. He watched with satisfaction as her brown eyes widened in scandal as she realized what had transpired between you and Aemond. 

“Best not to cause a scene, Mother, my sweet sister needs her rest,” Aemond whispered as he ran his hand through your silky hair. A smirk rose to his lips as realization shone in his mother’s eyes that there was nothing that could be done anymore, by the eyes of the gods and man, you were Aemond’s, fully. The blood on your sheet and his seed in your cunt was enough evidence that you were his. Your mother could only leave the chambers, pale in shock as whatever actions she had made to take you from Aemond had failed. 

You stirred and hummed as you heard the door shut loudly, and Aemond was quick to hush and lull you back to sleep. “Go back to sleep, my fire,” Aemond whispered and soothingly ran his hand through your hair and he felt his lips twitch into a smile as you did as he said and went closer to him, draping your arm atop his body and pulling him closer to you. 

The day after next, when your soreness had faded, you rode atop Aemond’s dragon as he flew the both of you to Dragonstone, your own dragon following Vhagar as they both were present to you and Aemond’s union. A Valyrian wedding commenced on the shores with your dragons as witnesses. Aemond peered down at you with a beaming smile, leaning in to kiss your lips and taste the copper of your blood. “My wife, my queen,” Aemond murmured in sheer joy. “My husband, my king,” You whispered with a smile on your lips and kissed the man you will forever be bound to. A wedding that no man nor god could contest for the two of you were dragons who did not answer or bend to any other’s will.

[rhaenyra-storms]

Cregan Stark x reader where he teaches reader how to use a sword for safety reasons.

i think cregan would love to teach you some moves with a sword

pairing: cregan stark x f!reader warnings: training with blunt swords, a little teasing, reader is shorter than cregan words: 927

It wasn't a secret to anyone that the Lord of Winterfell was madly in love with you. He wanted to keep you safe – at all times. It wasn't uncommon for him to order a few more guards to follow you whenever he deemed a situation a little more dangerous. Especially if you were travelling without him.

Cregan would trust most of his men with his life. But he couldn't really accept the off chance that you would have to defend yourself one day. However, he had always seen you, his wife, as a strong woman – capable of defending yourself when needed and with the right amount of willpower to get through anything.

But you hadn't been taught formally how to swing a sword or what points to hit with a dagger if an opponent came too close.

He wanted to change that.

When you both found a quiet day in the castle, where your time wasn't filled with the duties of a Lord and Lady, he invited you to join him in the godswood. It was a secluded enough area so you could both train on your own.

"I really don't know if I will be good at this, Cregan," you sighed as you followed the tall man towards the weirwood tree. Winter was still far away, but the air was cold today. Your husband seemed to welcome it as he had already told you this morning that this was 'the perfect temperature to train'.

"You won't be good at it at first, my love. It's going to take some time, but-" His hand cupped your cheek gingerly as he looked down at you, his gaze briefly moving to your lips. Sometimes it was hard for him to resist pulling you in and just kissing you instead of talking.

"It's going to keep you safe. And I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you while I wasn't there," Cregan's tone had turned more serious, his eyebrows pushed together in concern. You gently placed your hand on his chest, nodding slowly. You understood that your husband was worried for you and if it made him feel better to know you'd taken some lessons in defending yourself... you wouldn't be the one to argue against it.

"I know, darling." You gave him a little smile which was already enough to make his heart melt. Cregan was a strong man, a wolf some might say, but he always seemed to melt around you.

"Good. Let's get started then." Your husband smiled back at you, an excited glimmer in his eyes. Before he let go of you, he stole a small kiss from your lips before he headed to the weirwood tree and picked up two blunt swords he had placed there earlier.

You had switched your dresses for some light pants and a white tunic today. It would be easier to move around that way and you had to admit that it felt a little freeing somehow – at least if you had to watch your step a lot more.

Cregan handed you one of the swords, making sure you closed your fingers around it properly. His fingers lingered on yours for a moment longer as he searched for your eyes. His expression was stern and serious, his hold on your hand strong, but still gentle.

"You have to keep a firm grip on the sword, alright? That's almost half the work already. The swinging will come naturally." He didn't have to teach you how to parry right away or how to distract your opponent – this would be enough for now. You would have to get a feel for the sword first.

"Alright," you nodded along and watched as Cregan stood opposite of you.

Your husband was always an imposing sight. His black armour and the Stark sigil on his chest, his dark hair tied back...

But his eyes always looked at you kindly.

"Try to attack me, my love."

You tried to hit a blow at your husband with the training sword which he easily blocked. You had wrapped both of your hands around the hilt of the sword while Cregan was defending himself easily with one hand swinging his own weapon.

You went back and forth like this for a while until you started to feel more and more confident in your movements. It even started to be a little fun as you two laughed when you stumbled or Cregan got distracted by how good you looked swinging a sword.

He'd be lying if he said that it didn't even turn him on a little to see you all sweaty, swinging a sword at him and dancing back and forth in the godswood as he blocked your blows.

"You're doing great," he kept encouraging you, watching your movements as you attacked him once more. This time though, you managed to catch him a little off guard and he was the one stumbling over some roots in the ground, falling backwards into the grass.

His sword tumbled out of his hand and you stumbled as well as you lost your balance.

Your weapon flew a few feet away. You landed on top of your husband, letting out a surprised gasp when you found yourself on top of his chest.

"I'm sorry, Cregan," you laughed, looking down at him as he moved his hand to rest on the small of your back.

"It's alright. I think I rather enjoy the sight," he grinned, a mischievous glint sneaking into his eyes.

To be fair, you enjoyed the sight as well.

[slimybeth69]

Thirst

Marcus Acacius X lady reader (no descriptions, you're a virgin though)

Summary: Your freedom had a price and Marcus Acacius was willing to pay for it... but you also had to do something for him.

Chapter 1 of 10: Warming Up Next Chapter

Rating: EXPLICIT -- Shameless smut with a little plot

a/n: NO SPOILERS to the new movie. This is cross-posted from my AO3 account

WARNINGS: dubious consent, ownership, loss of virginity, mutual mast., exhibitionism, voyeurism. Mentions of being a whore.

You had lived in a brothel before this. Had to share a bed with a woman you did not like. You didn’t even get to have sex in that brothel because you were a virgin and no one could afford it. Just your hands and mouth. Your company if they couldn’t afford your pleasure. The General could afford you though and the second you told him you were a virgin you left the brothel with him.

General Marcus Acacius still hasn’t had sex with you. He just wants you to look at him. You roll your eyes at the thought. Just watch. He didn’t even let you touch. It had been two long months and you had seen him only a dozen times. More in the beginning and now less and less. Strange. Paid all this money and won't even touch you or let you touch him. 

“Your day?” His voice is deep and smooth and it’s almost like it ruminates in your chest for a moment after he is done speaking. You try to hide your giddy excitement as he comes from the doorway that leads to the balcony you’ve been sitting on.

“Fine.” It’s short and curt and you act like you are tired of being alone with only your handmaids to talk to. He sighs from behind you. This is what happens every time and you’re over it. “Would you like to just get it over with?” You stand from your seat and he’s wearing a white and gold tunic. You’ve never seen him in it before and his bronzed thighs contrast against it so well. You do not let his beautiful skin distract you as you slip past him into the room. You unclasp the shoulder straps of your dress and let it fall to your waist. You buzz with excitement. 

You’re exposed from the waist up when you turn to look back at him. His strong hand is already wrapped around himself underneath the tunic. He walks to you, his fist never leaves or stops stroking himself as he makes his way to his chair. It’s already got the small glass bottle of oil sitting on the table beside it. Waiting. You use it sometimes to rub into his muscular shoulders after he has a long day.

Mostly it’s poured into his palm like he’s doing right now. When he leans back in his chair, his throbbing erection is already pushing the lower half of his tunic up, exposing himself to you. He is thick, already red with excitement and almost intimidatingly big. He could fit both fists on it. You watched him do it once with your bottom lip bitten between your teeth. He coats his cock in the oil, massaging it into his already smooth skin. You know he is smooth. You can see how smooth he is from here. Bronzed and smooth and strong. It’s evident as you watch him spread his legs wider so you can see his balls. One hand cups them gently, massaging them. 

“Shit.” Marcus hisses as he squeezes his cock at the base gently as he starts to stroke. You watch, your gaze dancing between his eyes and mouth, down to his hand thrusting up and down on himself. He twists his hand around the shaft while he does it. It makes somewhere deep inside you ache. You long to go over and climb into his lap. Sink yourself down into his lap until you are flush with him. 

“Does it feel good?” You ask mindlessly, watching as the tip of him begins drooling precum from his seam. You lick your bottom lip because you want to know what he tastes like. You want to show him what you can do. 

“Yes.” He moans softly and when you look back up to his face he’s staring at you. You reach up and pinch one of your nipples between your thumb and forefinger and twist it gently. Then you tug. You let out a breathless moan and he drops his eyes to your hand. He bucks his hips forward and sighs. “Gorgeous.” He breathes it to you as he strokes his cock slowly. You’ve never really spoken to each other during so you keep going, to see what happens. 

“Do you want to see my cunt?” You whisper and bat your eyelashes up in him with false innocence. His breath catches in his throat when you say it. It makes you smirk. He nods silently as his eyes fall to your middle. You pull the lower half of your dress up and pool it at your waist and now you have a bunch of fabric all pulled up around your middle. Marcus’ eyes dart between your pussy and your tits that you're still teasing and pulling at with your fingers. 

His staggered breath is rising and falling in his chest and his fist is moving with more speed. 

“Fuck.” Marcus groans quietly. The head of his cock is almost purple and his precum is now leaking down the tip of him. You lick your lips again because he does look very handsome there, stroking himself. Little beads of sweat forming on his brow as he starts to pant softly.  You run your hand down the length of your body for him, you never do this. Usually you just stand there because the first time you tried to touch him and he said no. Gave you no further instruction so you stood here after that. That white tunic and this soft bronze skin over those thighs… you dunno. Very handsome. It’s making you drenched 

“You could come touch me right here.” You purr to him quietly.

The muscles in his thighs flex when you slip two fingers into your folds. You don’t even rub, you just show him that you can in fact be touched and will not combust into flames. Marcus could do more than just look at you while he touches himself. You do let your mouth part and your jaw drop down slightly in feign pleasure– letting him know what you look like when you feel good. Marcus’ eyes flash between your face and the fingers pushed into your velvet. 

“Gods.” He sighs as his calloused and battle-scarred hand moves up and down on himself quickly. 

“Imagine yourself buried inside me. For the first time.” You coo to him as your fingers start to encircle your bundle of nerves that sit nestled at the top of your slit. “The first man to ever me inside me… the first man to ever fill me with his—”

“Fuuck. My G-Gods.” Marcus moans loudly as he brings himself to climax. He finishes all over the front of his nice, white and gold tunic. Splatters it with white ropes of his sticky seed. Several thick ropes of it. 

Your hand drops from between your legs and you snap your dress back up over your shoulders. You sit back in your chair on the balcony and sip your wine like you are bored. Marcus can leave now. He doesn’t do anything else for you other than this thrilling encounter every couple days. Thrilling while it happens but then he leaves. 

He clears his throat from the doorway. You ignore him. Does he think you are one of his soldiers? No. You are a woman and women deserve more than just being stared at. You should be ravaged and you haven’t been so you’re frustrated. Only able to give yourself pleasure after he leaves. To ease the monotony of it all you’ve started pleasuring yourself out here on the balcony where anyone could see if they just looked up. 

You do not tell him this. 

Marcus clears his throat again.

“What?” You have obvious annoyance in your tone. “If you’d like to speak to me you can come out here. I am done doing things for you today. Including getting off this chair again.” You snap angrily. 

Marcus approaches from behind you and now he’s sitting beside you on a chair that looks exactly the same as the one you are in. He is in a different tunic now. A plain brown one and now he looks terrible and horrible to you again. Barely attractive. Maybe he’s still a little handsome. 

“Did you enjoy yourself this time?” Marcus sounds curious. 

“Sure.” You mutter. You don’t catch his eyes that are obviously staring at you. 

“I thought you were warming up this evening. Then you do this?” He sounds slightly disappointed. You roll your eyes and huff softly. 

“You keep me up here. Only let me go out early in the mornings when not one or very few people are out—” You like this but you won’t let him know that. “You don’t come see me everyday like you said you would. You do not touch me. Just want to watch, which is so weird! I thought you took me from that brothel so that you could deflower me. Do the thing that everyone loves to do so much. No, you just want to tease me with your beautiful cock every four to seven days.” You cross your arms over your chest and huff one more time for good measure. 

Marcus chuckles at you, still staring. You can see him boring holes into the side of your head out of the corner of your eye. He is smiling but still staring. 

“Why is that funny?” You snap, finally turning to look at him now. Marcus Acacius is quite handsome with his messy mop of dark, loose curls. Thick dark eyebrows and facial hair to match. Only on his cheeks is it lighter, graying. Strong features. The weight he held, he carried it nicely. Filled his cheeks out softly and thigh muscles for days. Strong arms and shoulders. 

“I paid because you are beautiful. I’ll deflower you. Soon. When you’re ready.” His voice is quite nice too. He leans forward and presses his lips against yours gently. He’s never kissed you before. It’s so nice and he smells like the scented oil he spread around his cock earlier. Before you can really react to the kiss he pulls away slightly and hovers above you. “I’ll deflower you when you really like me. Not just because I paid.” Then he pecks your lips again. You're in awe! What does that mean!? You stand and try to follow him. He is too fast. He slips out of the door and locks it behind him. 

You hmph and stomp your foot angrily. 

Like him? How could you ever— Oh.  

There is the nicest most beautiful bouquet of flowers on the table that had not been there before you did your little tease for him. They are gorgeous. All different shades of white and pink and reds. It’s the biggest bouquet of flowers you have ever seen. Alongside it– a fresh unopened jug of wine. And a note. 

Save the wine for us.

Us? Does he expect you to leave this jug of delicious wine unopened until you see him again? In four to seven days? You love wine. It’s the only thing that brings you joy. Seeing his cock has been pretty joyful lately. Makes you smile when he comes. You normally hate when men come. 

 Ugh. Doesn’t fuck you. Gives you wine but tells you not to drink it. You drop the note on the table and turn… on the bed is a new dress. A nice one. White and gold like his tunic before he mucked it with his release. You smirk at the memory from less than ten minutes ago. 

What is he up to? He is not an unkind man, very polite and respectful. One of the reasons you haven’t tried to escape. He is very sweet to you. Looking at you very fondly. You’re just a brat because you thought you’d no longer be a virgin at this point. You sigh heavily and sit on the soft bed next to the dress and run your fingers along the gold embellishments. 

You want to get fucked wearing this tunic. 

Hours go by. It is late into the evening. You might be wearing your new dress, sitting on the balcony drinking the jug of wine you already had. Not the new one. You might have tried to open the new one but you could not remove the Gods forsaken cork. Your head is buzzing in the best way. The streets are alive with people and in your slightly intoxicated state you imagine yourself down there with them. You are glad you’re not down there. You grew up in the countryside, the large city of Rome scares you. 

You lie to Marcus Acacius and say you are locked away and would like to go down there. No. You do not wish for that. You feel safe up here on your balcony with your books and wine and food. New dresses now too, apparently. 

“Do you like your gifts?” Marcus’ voice drifts through the air. He sounds happy to be here. Like he might have a smile on his face.

“I did. Thank you.” You are not short or cold. You turn your head and smile at him over your shoulder. He is already smiling softly back at you– his gaze floats down your face and neck and across your new dress. He then leans against the door frame. “Admittedly I wasn’t going to wait for you to drink the wine… I just could not get it open.” You smirk now and look up at him through your lashes. 

“I tightened it.” Marcus smirks back at you. He pushes himself off the door frame, turns and grabs the jug of wine. When he sits down, he slides his chair closer to yours and pops the cork right out of the jug. You tried several times over the hours after he left. You roll your eyes as he pours you a fresh goblet and then he pours one for himself. 

The General never shares wine with you on the balcony. 

“How do you ever expect me to grow to like you when you are never around? You’ve never even done this with me before.” Your eyes scan his handsome face curiously. His tongue flicks out across his bottom lip quickly before he speaks. 

“I wanted someone untouched.” He shrugs. Not an uncommon wish for men. “You seemed eager to want to come with me.” He leans back in his chair and sets his elbows on the armrests. “Then you don’t speak. You do not participate when I want you to watch. Just drop your dress and let me look.” Marcus relaxes, every part of him does and it happens visibly in front of you. 

“You paid. What does that matter?” You squint your eyes at him with suspicion growing heavy in your buzzing brain. Marcus laughs heartily and smiles down at the goblet of wine in his hand. 

“I never wanted to touch you unless you wanted me to. Not just because you were a purchase.” His eyes flick up to yours as he waits for your response.

“Money for sex is so common. There are houses and buildings solely for that purpose! That is where we met!” You are confused, had a little too much wine and are kind of horny. “I came with you willingly.” You're blinking at Marcus. He is smirking at you like you are bringing him some kind of entertainment. “Why are you so hesitant?” 

“Do you not care that it may hurt? Or that is considered special to some?” He sounds curious now as to why you would just give it away so freely. 

“I do not care about pain. I hear that it feels very good after some slight discomfort.” You look at him down your nose and huff. “Treating me like I am fragile and will break.” Another huff and you look away from him. You make Marcus laugh again. 

“So eager to get fucked. You’ve really never been with a man or woman?” Now he sounds like he doesn’t believe you. 

“No. I have not, but that shouldn’t change anything.” You snap at him. General Marcus Acacius smiles at you when you snap at him. 

“Would you bed men and women with me once I deflower you?” He tilts his head to the side. “I like to take multiple people to bed sometimes.” He seems curious to know your answer, he leans forwards in his chair. 

“I have heard of orgies, yes. I don’t see why not—” He cuts you off.

“Not an orgy.” He says it firmly “I’d share you with another man. Watch as he fucks you. Us men, would fuck you together. You’ll watch me fuck him. We could share him. Let him enter you while I enter him. Would you like that? Or do you want to lick cunt while I fuck you?” He speaks so casually. So calmly like you’re not vibrating in your chair. “Watch me fuck her, while she licks your beautiful slit?” He leans back in his chair as if he is going to give you a moment to think about it. What is he asking of you? To be his paid and cared for personal whore? 

“I would.” You lean back in your chair and cross one leg over the other while you look at him. “I’d do more, too.” You don’t even really know what you are talking about. He brings up the most extremes and the most you have done is suck a couple of cocks at the same time. Big deal. 

“Like?” Marcus’ eyebrows dance up once and then fall back down quickly. Okay dammit, you don’t know. 

“You could tie me up.” You mimic his little eyebrow dance he did and shrug one shoulder at him. Like you're so seasoned in that. You just saw it happen to someone else once! The General likes this though.

“I have my own restraints. And a whip if you want to be bad.” He smiles and sips from his wine goblet. You might be a little over your head but you do not care because you want this man to take your stupid flower so bad. Whether he paid for it or not. He can have it. “What?” His eyes are so dark. So intense as he asks you this.

“What?” You snap at him. “What do you mean, what?” You snap again. He snickers under his breath and drops his gaze to his lap. 

“You were staring at me, little Dove.”

Next Chapter

[b3ach-bunn7]

JAPANESE DENIM

You’re one of eight princesses invited as a potential bride for Prince Satoru. With no idea what he looks like, you find yourself ranting to the Prince himself how little you want to marry him

Royal!au, fluff, strangers to lovers

—————————————————————————

You wonder how angry your parents would be if you pretend to collapse against the cold tiled floor.

Your dress trails as you walk idly around the ballroom. Your petticoat and crinoline make you feel ten times heavier, your heels pinching your toes as you drag the fabric around. You’d think you’d be used to it by now, the formal dress and the discomfort of it all. But you never have and you never will, which is why you know Prince Satoru will never pick you tonight.

Your parents weren’t even that important. You’re a princess from a kingdom that doesn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things, and you know of the eight girls here tonight you’re the least royal. That, and you’re definitely the least princess-like of them all. Unlike the majority of the girls here, you don’t want to get married. You hate the fact that you’re all dressed up to parade yourself in front of a man just so he’ll pick you to bare his children. You hate that you know nothing about him other than his name and his status. You were here because your parents had forced you to be, but you have no intention of running around and playing nice.

It’s why you’re standing to the side, looking at a painting on the wall. It's tall and so intricately detailed you wonder how long it had taken to be made. You’re sure if you look close enough at the woman depicted you could make out the wrinkles in her skin.

“The painter’s name is Choso. He’s good, no?” 

A voice pulls you out of your stupor. You hum softly. “Yes. It’s very beautiful.”

You turn to the voice and you are very glad you did. The man in front of you is incredibly attractive. He’s tall, for one, his hand curled around a glass of wine. His clothes look expensive, a fine tailored navy blue tunic with a white collar curling around his neck. His eyes are unnervingly blue, and you watch them trail up and down you. He looks slightly amused but also just as bored as you do.

“I’m Y/N. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” You nod your head. You're still unsure who he is, but his garments look far too regal for him not to be important.

He just nods back. “Likewise.” He doesn’t give you his name and you don’t ask for it.

“So. You’re not enjoying the ball tonight?”

You roll your eyes. “No. How long do you think I can wait before it’s socially acceptable for me to leave?”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re already looking to leave? The prince has not even chosen his bride.”

“And if my wishes come true, that bride shall not be me.”

“You’re one of the bachelorettes?” He asks.

You nod, sighing heavily. The man grabs a drink off a nearby waiter and hands it to you. You nod your thanks. There’s a few eyes on the two of you but you pay them no mind. You turn back to the painting and he follows.

“Yes. My parents brought me here to present me to the Prince, but in all honesty I have no intentions to be picked.”

The man tilts his head. The stark white curls on his head curve against his cheek, as the corner of his lips twitch into a smile. “You don’t wish to be his bride?”

You frown. “No. I’ve no knowledge of the man. For all I know he could be a hideous troll.”

The man laughs then, and the sound makes you smile. “An interesting fear to have.” He takes a step closer to you and his height towers over you. “Do you believe all princes to be hideous trolls, then?”

“Only the ones I’ve never met.”

He grins. You lean against the wall and he just watches in faint amusement. “Not very ladylike for a princess.”

“Columbus, if only you felt what it was like in these heels.” You cover your mouth at the curse that slips past your tongue. You shoot him an apologetic look. “God. If my mother heard me speak like that I’d be hung.” 

“Don’t worry, my lady. Your secret’s safe with me.” He places a hand on his heart solemnly and you laugh.

The orchestra's music rings across the hall. The room is bigger than any ballroom you’d been in thus far, but you're not surprised. The Gojo family is the richest one around, and the extravagant decorations are enough to tell you that. You take another sip of wine. It’s expensive and you hum contentedly. You turn to the man next to you and find him already staring at you.

“Do you have any idea what the prince looks like? I suppose I should mingle some. I can feel my mother glaring at me from across the room.”

The man moves an inch closer, voice dropping to a softer tone. “If you’re so frightened he’s some hideous troll I could describe him to you. If it would ease your nerves.” He teases. 

You nod. The distance between you two is smaller than you’d thought and when you turn to face him you’re near enough to almost brush his nose with yours.

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

He breathes heavily. His eyes dart around the room. “Well. He’s tall. Devilishly handsome. Long hair, good build.”

You look out into the crowd as well. Your eyes land on a man in green silk robes, long black hair curling down his back. “Is that him?”

The man’s eyes follow yours and they darken upon seeing the same man you do. He frowns. “No. That is not Prince Satoru. That is Suguru Geto. He comes from a much lesser family than the prince.”

You know Prince Suguru, of course. Everyone around the country had heard of his fight with Prince Satoru that had nearly caused war between the two families. You peer at the mystery man curiously, at the sour look on his face. You’re interested in what his problem with that Prince is. 

 “Do you know him? Personally, I mean.”

The man’s eyes flicker to yours. “No. Why do you ask?”

“You speak with much contempt.”

He smiles slightly. “You see right through me, my lady. We’ve had a few arguments.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. “You have? How did you come across him?”

He just taps the side of his nose, smirking. “You’re a very nosey princess, did you know that?”

“Well, I’m not known for my graciousness.” He laughs.

You look back at Prince Suguru, where’s he’s talking to two young girls. “A shame, though. He’s really quite attractive.”

The man’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “I disagree. I- Prince Satoru is much more good-looking.”

“Hopefully I’ll never know.”

He snorts a laugh at the disinterest in your voice. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why come here? Get all dressed up and ready if you have such an aversion to marriage?”

You sigh. Adjust the top of your corset, finish the rest of your glass. He looks at you patiently, and you miss how his eyes dip to your chest for just a second.

“I’m a princess to a king and queen with no heirs except for me. Despite my aversion to it, I’m not stupid enough not to realise the importance of marriage. I need to marry someone who can benefit my family and my kingdom.”

Your eyes land on the other potential brides. They walk with an air of elegance you never seemed to be able to achieve, a beauty that, despite your aloofness, you can’t help but envy. You sigh slightly, hoping the man next to you doesn’t see the sadness on your face.

“And your happiness is not a factor?”

You snort. You can hear your mother in your head telling you how unladylike you are for making such a noise. 

“Don’t make me laugh. I’m not sure where you stand in your kingdoms lineage, but my happiness is never a factor.”

He hums. “I see. Just another pawn for the chessboard of politics and duty.”

You nod. It’s weird how he understands. Most men would scold you for even complaining.

“It’s quite alright. I know a man like Prince Satoru won’t want someone like me, anyway. So I don’t bother.”

“And why wouldn’t he want you?” The man taps his fingers against his now empty glass. You turn to him once more. He looks confused now.

“Look at me. I’m nothing like those other girls. I speak impolitely and I lean against walls and talk to strange men instead of him. I’m not as beautiful as they are. But what can I do?” You shrug.

“You’re wrong. I think you are very beautiful.”

His words draw you to turn to him once more. He looks at you so earnestly that you couldn’t not believe him if you tried. You bow your head in thanks.

“Thank you, sir. As flattered as I am, I doubt the Prince will agree with you.” You shake your head.

The man shrugs. He grabs the glass out of your hand, and for a moment your fingers brush against each other. They’re smooth, unmarred by work, another sign of his nobility. He places the glasses on a waiting tray.

“You never know. Keep your hopes up, my lady.” 

You go to respond but suddenly, a voice calls form the front of the hall. It’s time. You shut your eyes, cursing to yourself. You hadn’t even had the chance to speak to the Prince all night. You can already imagine the scolding you’d receive once you got home. You look back at the man and he’s already turning to leave. You reach out and grab his arm. The fabric of his clothes feel expensive beneath your grasp.

“Wait. I never got your name.”

He just taps the side of his nose again. You roll your eyes. “You’re so cryptic, did you know that?”

He barks a laugh. He bows, deep and low. You watch his white locks flutter in front of you, so soft you almost reach for them. 

“Good luck, Y/N.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

And you’re being dragged away by a waiting lady before you can see where he goes off to. You don’t have too long to wonder if you’ll ever see him again, because you’re suddenly placed between the other girls, all lined up in the front of the room. You try to smile at the girl beside you but she only scoffs, turning her nose up as she looks away. You roll your eyes. Some people.

You glance and see the Prince's two knights, two pink and black haired boys, standing at the side. They look awfully young to be fighting, you wonder, but the glare on the black haired one’s face makes you feel like they might never need to. 

The King and Queen look at the row of you with interest. All big, long robes of expensive cotton and silk trailing down the golden thrones they sit on. It’s only then, when you’re studying the intricate finery of their crowns, you notice the Queen's hair. A white, so stark and vibrant you don’t think you’ve ever seen it anywhere else. But then you realise you have. On a mysterious man insistent to make conversation with you. And it’s then, when you turn your attention to the King, you see his eyes bluer than the ocean and the sky combined, and your heart drops.

Because just as the dots connect in your head, your mystery man comes to stand at the front of the hall. Eyes trailing lazily over the women next to you before they land on you. And then he grins, winking at you quickly. 

The girl besides you gasps. “Gods, he just winked at me.” She speaks in a hushed tone to the girl next to her.

You're too distracted to try to correct her. You’re so stupid. How could you not know? Of course, it was your first time in the kingdom, but. How had you no idea that he was the prince? The man you’d practically embarrassed and debased yourself in front of, cursing and calling him a hideous troll to his face. You feel your cheeks flush as his gaze doesn’t waver from yours, an unreadable expression on his face.

The signs were all there. The way he carried himself. Something about him just screamed expensive and important, if not for his important robes or the way people had been glancing at the two of you all night. His hatred for Prince Suguru. You’re a fool.

You’re so stupid. He’d have you hung, surely. Hung or exiled from the country as a whole. 

Your hands tighten where they are clasped in front of you. You watch as the king stands, steps forwards until he is side by side with his son. He claps a hand on his back and the Prince straightens slightly. 

“It is now time for my son, the oldest and only Gojo heir, to choose a candidate to be his future queen and mother of his heirs.”

You’re sure the king says more but your brain is too preoccupied. You wonder what your mother will say. You wonder how horribly your reputation will be after this. If any man will ever want to marry you. You’re so caught up in your thoughts that it takes you a minute to hear Prince Satoru say your name.

“Princess Y/N. I choose her.” 

You can’t move. Chatter erupts amongst the people and the women next to you sound just as shocked as you feel. Satoru just looks at you expectantly. You feel your mothers hand curl around yours. You let her drag you forward, smiling and nodding at those who bow around you. She whispers congratulations as she and your father come up to greet the king and queen, and you’re placed in front of Satoru.

You bow your head immediately.

“Please, forgive me for my actions before, I- I had no idea you were the prince, I had no right o say what I did.” You say quickly.

A hand curls under your chin, lifting your head up to look him in his eyes. There’s a small, pleased smile on his lips. 

“None of that, now. Where’s all that sass I saw from you earlier?” He grins.

You scoff. “I’m not stupid, your majesty. I would never call you such names to your face.” 

“So you would behind my back?”

Your cheeks flush and you shake your head quickly. “Well, no I-“

“Please, Y/N, calm down. It is quite alright. I liked your sass. Your vim. So refreshing after my conversation with those ladies behind you.” 

You sigh. His hand leaves your chin and they both travel down to grab your hands.

“But. Why me?”

“Why not you?”

You roll your eyes, then look towards the other girls, who are glaring daggers at you from below.

“They’re better princesses than I. All prim and proper. Polite. I doubt any of them would call you a hideous troll. They’re perfect.”

Satoru can’t help but let out a soft chuckle at your response.

“Ah yes. Princesses are supposed to be perfect.  All manners and decorum, never showing any sort of flaw or imperfection."

He turns back to you, a glimmer of mischief in his gaze.

"Which is exactly why I picked you."

You tilt your head slightly. “You’d settle for imperfection? For me?”

Satoru shakes his head slightly, his gaze locking with yours.

"No. I don’t want to settle for imperfection. I just don’t want perfection. I don’t want a prim, proper princess who’s only talent is looking good."

He steps closer to you, his eyes searching yours intently. And now, with him as close as he is, you can see a dusting of freckles across his face, eyes tinged with a hint of green you’d not noticed before. He’s so beautiful and you can’t believe he’s yours.

"I want someone real. Someone who will challenge me, make me think, keep me on my toes. You are not a prim, proper princess. And I like that."

He smiles cheekily. “And I meant what I said earlier. You are beautiful.”

Your breath comes shakily at the close proximity. He smells like something rich, expensive and his thumb rubs circles on your hand.

“I’m glad. And I will try to be a good wife for you, your majesty.”

Satoru gazes down at you, an inscrutable look in his eyes. You look so suddenly vulnerable, and a small part of him feels bad for putting a hint of uncertainty in you. For putting you on the spot like this. His hand comes back up to graze your jawline.

"You don’t have to try to do anything. Just be you." He smiles. "That’s why I chose you."

Satoru lets his hand drop, but not before his thumb gently brushes across the edge of your jawline, lingering for a moment. You watch his eyes dart to your parents conversing behind you. His gaze flicks back to you, a small smirk on his lips.

“At least your parents will be off your back now.”

You grin. “I’d hope so, having married into the Gojo family.”

Satoru lets out a soft huff of amusement. "Yes, I imagine they're quite pleased."

He glances at your parents across the room, who are clearly quite satisfied with themselves. He turns his gaze back to you, his smirk growing slightly.

"I’m sure they’ll be even more pleased when they get to have grandbabies."

Your cheeks redden. If not just for his words but for the hungry way he looks at you.

“I hardly think that’s a conversation to have right now, your majesty.”

“Enough with the formalities. Call me Satoru, you are my wife now.” He takes a small step closer to you, his eyes dancing with amusement.

"And why not?" he teases, his voice low. "Isn’t a prince allowed to be excited about his future heirs?"

“Well of course. It’s just. I hardly think this is appropriate to discuss in front of all these people.”

You hope nobody can see the flush on your cheeks from the hall. Satoru lets out a soft hum, noticing how your eyes dart away from his.

"We are soon to be newlyweds, sweetheart," he replies, a hint of husk in his tone. "Discussing heirs is hardly inappropriate."

He grins slightly as he steps even closer, his body almost a breath away from touching yours.

"Afraid to discuss the… practicalities in front of everyone? Hm?"

“I- Yes. Slightly.” You laugh nervously.

And Satoru’s grin grows wider, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mischief. He reaches out, his hand gently grasping your chin once again, tipping your face back up to look at him. His thumb grazes ever so gently over your bottom lip, the touch sending a shiver down your spine.

"No need to be nervous." His voice is low, almost a murmur. "After all, we will be getting rather intimate very soon."

With all the luck in the world, your mother steps forward, bowing to Satoru before gesturing you away. The weddings to be set in three days, three days until you become a Gojo and the next queen in line for the throne. You watch with keen eyes as Satoru greets your mother like he’s know her his whole life. Has some weird manly conversation with your father, before he returns back to you.

“Three days. I trust you’ll be able to keep yourself out of trouble until then?” He raises a brow.

You bite back a smile. “Yes, Satoru. I’ll see you then.”

He nods. “Until the wedding, then. Safe travels, Y/N”

—————————————————————————

I had this idea while watching Harry Potter movie? I have no idea why. Also reader why r u lowkey like.. not like other girls omg 🙈

also I’ve lowkey been so obsessed with Harry Potter recently??? So either except some Harry Potter fics or some JJK/MHA X HP fics 😝 feeling bold

I hope u enjoyed!!

[cherubimcore]

pairing: emperor caracalla x fem!reader

author's notes: i'm in love with him, your honor

part 1

the throne room of the twin emperors was a place where decisions of life and death were made with a flick of a wrist, its magnificence designed to intimidate and impress. massive marble columns stretched to a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations, while golden chandeliers cast a warm glow over the cold, intricate mosaics covering the floor. at the center of the room stood two identical thrones, one for each emperor, their backs adorned with gilded eagles clutching laurel wreaths.

it was here that you were brought, flanked by soldiers who led you through the imposing bronze doors. you entered with your head held high, your foreign features and proud demeanor immediately drawing attention from everyone. courtiers whispered among themselves, the rumors of your curse swirling in the air like smoke.

caracalla sat on the left throne, his body slouched lazily but his sharp eyes gleaming with intrigue. his tunic was dark red, a bold contrast to the opulence around him, and his fingers drummed idly on the armrest. he looked every bit like the predator you had heard about, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he watched you approach.

geta, seated to his brother’s right, was more composed. his posture was rigid, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was no less intense. dressed in white and gold, he exuded authority and calculation, his mind clearly assessing you like a piece on a chessboard.

the guard captain bowed deeply before addressing the emperors. “great caesars, this is the captive of whom the rumors speak—the woman said to be cursed by venus herself.”

caracalla leaned forward, his interest piqued. “the infamous venus’ wraith. i was expecting... more chains,” he quipped, his voice laced with amusement.

you met his gaze without flinching, your defiance palpable. “perhaps you should have brought more, if you think I need them.”

the room fell silent. gasps rippled through the courtiers, and even the guards stiffened at her insolence.

geta raised an eyebrow, his lips pressing into a thin line. “bold words for a captive,” he said, his tone icy. “do you not understand where you stand, foreigner?”

“i understand perfectly,” you replied evenly, your voice carrying through the vast room. “i stand before men who believe themselves gods but bleed like mortals.”

caracalla laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber. “i like her,” he said, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. “she speaks with the confidence of someone who doesn’t fear death.”

your jaw tightened, but you said nothing.

caracalla rose from his throne, descending the steps with a languid grace. he stopped just a few feet from you, his dark eyes gleaming with curiosity and amusement. “they say any man who dares to love you meets a tragic end,” he said, circling you, reminding you a lion sizing up its prey. “tell me, venus’ wraith, do you believe this curse is real?”

your voice was steady, though a flicker of pain crossed your features. “what i believe is irrelevant. the gods enjoy their games, whether we believe in them or not.”

caracalla’s smirk widened. “i don’t fear curses. or gods.”

“that makes one of us,” you replied with a sharp tone.

geta rose from his throne, his movements deliberate and commanding. “brother, don’t let your amusement cloud your judgment. if the stories are true, keeping her here could be dangerous—not just for us, but for rome.”

“and if the stories are false?” caracalla countered, turning to face him. “what better way to disprove them than to bring her into our court?”

the two brothers locked eyes, their rivalry simmering beneath the surface. you could practically see gears turning in emperor geta's head, after a couple second with the twins staring at each other geta sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “it... would be good for rome's fame when the word spreads and the other lands find out we have the infamous venus' wraith here... do as you will. but if this said ‘curse’ brings trouble, it will be your burden to bear since you so adamantly want to keep her."

but that wasn’t all, was it? you saw the shine on geta's eyes while thinking about his brother’s proposition, he came to a conclusion… but you were sure emperor geta would keep that to himself until time’s right, he’s that kind of ruler, no one ever knew what geta was planning to do until he already did it and by the rumors you heard before being held captive it almost always envolved someone with a knife on their backs… literally and figuratively.

caracalla turned back to you, a wolfish grin on his face. “you’ll serve me,” he declared. “you’ll dine with the court and entertain us with your wit. let’s see if this curse of yours has any bite.”

your gaze hardened, but you did not resist as the guards escorted you out of the throne room.

you whispered eerily while being taken away.

"good luck then"

caracalla watched your retreating figure, a flicker of fascination sparking in his chest, ignoring your words.

geta returned to his throne, his expression dark. “you’re playing with fire, brother,” he warned.

caracalla only chuckled, his eyes still fixed on the doors through which you had disappeared. “perhaps. but, as you are very aware brother, i’ve always liked the burn.”

you expected to be brought to a regular cell, a place fitting for a prisoner such as yourself, a dirty prison made for those who the emperors deemed less than nothing, undeserving to have at least the minimum a human should have to survive unscarred, both mentally and physically, a place with little to no sunlight, no bed, only the hard cold floor as a place to rest, and food not nearly enough for a small person to survive making them start to think that the rats running around looked appetizing.

you had accepted this was your fate when the emperors decided to keep you in the palace.

after all the deaths you caused, maybe you even deserve it.

but to your surprise you were brought to the top floor of the castle, a place truly fit for royalty and royalty alone.

the marble halls shimmer in the golden glow of torchlight, with intricate mosaics depicting the victories of rome lining the floors and walls. massive columns of polished ivory and black stone support the vaulted ceilings, painted with celestial imagery to reflect the gods’ favor. every corner of this level exudes grandeur, a constant reminder of the emperors' divine authority.

‘a bit egotistical in my opinion’ you thought ‘but beautiful nonetheless’

while being escorted to one of the three rooms on that floor you tried to think of an actual reason for them to keep there. did emperor caracalla really mean it when he alluded to wanting an opportunity to test their powers against the will of the gods? what about emperor geta with the odd glint in his eyes the more he thought about his brother’s idea to make you live in the palace, you wish you knew what both of them are thinking. were you a spectacle for the court? a new deadly weapon in their arsenal? political strategy? just plain and simple curiosity? all the above?

too many variables for you to get even close to a conclusion.

but one thing you knew for sure, they’ll regret it… just like everybody else.

when the guards opened the double doors of your newest room you were left in awe, staring at the large room with your mouth wide open and eyes shining brightly as if you were a kid looking at their newest gift at saturnalia, it was something you expected in a palace but still, you never thought that one day you would be able to see it let alone live in it.

the centerpiece of the room is a grand canopy bed, draped in layers of silken fabric dyed deep purple and gold, your hands delicately touch the frame, intricately carved with motifs of laurel wreaths and mythical creatures, you recognized the two sirens in the middle of the bed and a phoenix in between them, you turned around seeing tall, arched windows, framed by heavy velvet curtains, opening them left you with a breathtaking view of the city below and the distant hills.

it was perfect.

now that you were finally left alone your stoic facade got replaced by a huge smile, you jumped on the bed, happy to finally be able to sleep on an actual soft bed instead of the hard ones you were used to in hotels you stayed, having to change every other week when people find out you were venus’ wraith.

you didn’t want to think about your past or variables and possibilities like you always had since you discovered your curse, you also didn’t want to try and guess what the emperors were thinking, get inside their heads, you had a feeling you weren’t gonna like there.

you let yourself enjoy, at least for a little bit, the comfort of this tiny piece of your new life, after a long time just feeling ashamed for something that was out of your control, feeling those awful thoughts leave your mind you fell asleep.

after the heavy doors of the throne room groaned shut behind you, the space was left eerily silent in your absence. caracalla leaned back in his gilded throne, the lion motifs carved into the armrests glinting faintly in the dim light of the torches. his fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the polished wood as a crooked smile played on his lips.

“she is… unlike anyone we’ve met before,” he mused, his voice low and carrying a trace of amusement. “bold enough to speak plainly, yet clever enough to know her place.”

geta, seated in the larger throne beside him, steepled his fingers, his expression unreadable. the cold silver embroidery of his tunic seemed to match the detached tone of his voice. “boldness can be dangerous. it breeds unpredictability.”

caracalla turned his head slightly, his piercing gaze narrowing on his brother. “and yet, unpredictability is what makes her intriguing, isn’t it? someone who defies tradition, dares to enter our halls, and yet does not cower. i see why the city speaks of her in hushed tones. do you think she feels the thrill of having someone’s life in her hands for something as simple as falling in love?”

geta’s lips tightened into a thin line, his dark eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the brazier. “intriguing or not, thrilling or not, she is still an outsider. a foreigner. her presence here invites gossip, and gossip can lead to dissent. we already walk a thin line with the senate.”

caracalla could be many things, bloodthirsty, a monster, impulsive, the list goes on… but on the contrary of many think, he wasn’t stupid, of course because of his disease his mind gets cloudy every once in a while, but right now his mind was as clear as crystal, he knew his brother wasn’t telling the whole truth, maybe he wasn’t even telling the truth in the first place.

but it wasn’t worth it to confront him, geta would only antagonize him, making him believe it was all in his head, his mind would be foggy and confused, making him act and feel insane like everyone believes him to be.

perhaps they were right.

but right now caracalla wanted nothing fogging his mind, especially when it was full of you.

caracalla waved a dismissive hand, the ruby on his ring catching the firelight as he smirked. “let them talk. let them wonder. she is no threat to us here.” his voice dropped, taking on a darker edge. “unless, of course, you plan to fall in love with her.”

geta’s gaze snapped to his brother, his composure unwavering but his tone sharp. “i am not the reckless one here. whatever amusement you find in her will not distract me from what’s supposed to be our duty to rome.”

caracalla laughed, the sound echoing through the chamber like a predator’s growl. “oh, come now, brother. you see the potential as clearly as i do. imagine her in the court, an exotic symbol of rome’s dominion over even the most defiant.”

maybe if he pushed a little geta would open up about his plans, once in his life he would trust caracalla with something, anything, but of course that didn’t happen.

geta remained silent, keeping his thoughts behind the usual cold and calculating facade.

caracalla’s smirk faded, and for a fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. then he leaned back again facing away from his brother.

well, it isn’t like he’s telling the whole truth as well.

the tension between them lingered like smoke in the air, unspoken truths and unacknowledged fears weaving an invisible web.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (bonus i)

a/n: on this sweet episode of Stark-fluff, Cregan and Co. visit King's Landing. And boy, does he fucking hate it. Meanwhile, Bran's eager to connect with his Targaryen kin.

The heat pressed against Cregan Stark’s skin like a second tunic, heavy and cloying. The air in King’s Landing was thick, and damp with the scents of sweat, perfume, and the shit stench of the streets below. The Red Keep loomed above, gleaming red stone under a sun far too bright for his liking. He glanced at the bustling courtyards, the laughter and chatter of nobles weaving past him, their brightly dyed garments flaring like banners. The yellows, greens, and silks of every hue were so garish compared to the quiet greys and dark furs of Winterfell. Everything here screamed of excess, even how people spoke—words spilling out like wine, too much, too sweet, too fast.

The so-called wine he’d been served during the midday meal still churned in his stomach. It was red, but not like the rich Dornish vintages he’d had once at White Harbor. This was sharp and sour, cloying at the back of his throat. The food hadn’t fared much better: dry bread, over-salted meat, and sauces thick with spices he couldn’t name. Cregan clenched his fists. How did Claere stomach this place? She’d lived here once, grown up here. And now they were back, summoned to the capital for some political matter too tedious to justify enduring this heat.

The worst of it, though, wasn’t the heat or the food or even the absurdity of the southern finery—it was sleeping without her. Some ancient southern tradition dictated they take separate chambers while they were guests of the crown. He hadn’t asked why. He didn’t care to know. All he knew was that the empty bed in his room felt colder than any winter night, and the fact that she wasn’t beside him had gnawed at his nerves all day.

It didn’t take him long to track her down.

He found her in her chambers, standing on a dais, surrounded by an army of handmaidens. It was different from Winterfell, where her attendants numbered only two or three, and they worked in quiet efficiency, more like sisters than servants. These women buzzed like a hive, fixing the smallest fold of fabric, pinning her hair with jeweled combs.

And there she was—Claere.

He froze in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest. The sight of her stole every thought from his head. She stood tall and graceful, her hair woven into an intricate crown of braids, strands gleaming in the candlelight. The gown she wore was like nothing he’d ever seen: deep blue silk that shimmered with silver undertones, its sleeves draping like pendants to reveal her arms, pale and smooth. The neckline framed her collarbones, dipping just enough to tease. The bodice cinched her waist so perfectly that it might have been poured onto her, and the slit down the front laced delicately, offering a whisper of the skin beneath.

She turned slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror. For a moment, her expression was still, unreadable, her violet eyes flicking to meet his. Then, she smiled, soft and shy, and lifted her fingers in a small wave.

Cregan chest went tight. His heart pounded so loud he thought the handmaidens might hear it. For a moment, he forgot the heat, the food, the city he despised. He forgot to hate it all because there was only her in that instant.

One of the handmaidens giggled. He blinked, realizing he’d been staring. Claere’s smile deepened, faintly amused, though she said nothing. A woman pressed the last pin into her hair and curtsied before filing out. Claere remained where she was, poised on the dais like she belonged on top of the world entirely.

Cregan shut the door behind them with a deliberate click, the bolt sliding into place with a satisfying thud. The warmth of the chamber surrounded them, faintly scented with the oils and perfumes of the South. His eyes were on her, drinking her in as she stood before the tall mirror, her figure framed by the golden light of a dozen flickering candles.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and rough, thick with hunger.

She didn’t move, her posture as calm and composed as ever. But her lips parted slightly, the barest quirk of curiosity in her brow.

Cregan crossed the room in three strides, his boots heavy against the ornate tiled floor. When he reached her, his hands found her waist, the fine silk of her gown slipping easily beneath his calloused fingers. He pulled her close, the warmth of her body anchoring him, the air suddenly still around them.

His head dipped low, pressing a firm, deliberate kiss against the slit of fabric that curved down toward her belly.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin, his voice a soft rumble. “All this skin. Why can’t you dress like this at home?”

Claere tilted her head, her violet eyes meeting his in the reflection of the mirror. A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. “I’d freeze in moments.”

He laughed, a deep, wolfish sound that rolled out of him unbidden. “Then I’d keep you warm.”

Her hand brushed over his damp hair, her fingers grazing the sweat gathered at his temple. “Not while you reek of sweat.”

He leaned into her touch, undeterred by her observation. “I’m not wearing those ridiculous coats they want me in,” he grumbled, his Northern pride rising.

“But you are sweating,” she repeated, a ghost of amusement flickering across her otherwise serene expression.

Cregan groaned, wrapping his fingers around hers and guiding her carefully down from the dais.

“It’s just a bit of water, love.”

Her gown whispered against the floor as she stepped down. She cast a glance at him, the faintest quirk of mischief in her eyes. “You would look rather noble in an overcoat,” she murmured, brushing her thumb over his knuckles.

He snorted, shaking his head with a mockery of disbelief. “Would. Will never.”

Her lips curved into something soft and understanding, the expression only she could manage. “It's alright,” she said simply. Her fingers tightened in his, her voice a quiet promise. “We can leave first thing tomorrow.”

He laughed, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly as he lowered her forehead to hers. “We got here yesterday,” he said, his tone light with affection.

Her eyes fluttered closed momentarily, her breath soft against his cheek. “I know,” she whispered.

His chest tightened at the words, an ache blooming there that wasn’t unfamiliar, but tonight, it felt sharper. He lingered in the warmth of her presence, the silk of her gown brushing against the coarse leather of his tunic. The scent of her was maddening—some southern concoction that mingled with the subtle lavender she always carried. He hated how it suited her, hated how this place seemed to mould itself around her. But Gods, how she looked here, how she belonged.

“I suppose some fresh air should help with the heat,” she drawled thoughtfully.

Her steps were deliberate, and graceful, as if she had walked these halls all her life. For a moment, Cregan’s eyes softened, and the corner of his mouth twitched into something between awe and defiance.

"Arm?" she asked, glancing at him.

“Aye, my lady, always,” he replied, his voice gruff.

His hand found the crook of her elbow. They stepped out of the chambers together, her delicate hand on his forearm.

The corridor of Maegor’s Holdfast stretched before them, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows that flickered with torchlight. Claere’s gaze wandered from door to door, deep in recollections, her violet eyes tracing the intricate carvings and golden inlays that adorned every arch.

Cregan, meanwhile, scowled away his frustration. "All this gold and they can’t even serve a proper roast. That pheasant at supper—dry as bone. And what’s that sauce they drown everything in?"

"Spiced honey," Claere replied, though she kept her eyes forward, lips curving faintly.

He snorted. “Spiced, indeed. Tasted like it came straight out of a septon’s tight arse.”

Claere stifled a laugh, her lips pressing together as they walked.

“You’re quite the guest,” Claere murmured, her voice as smooth as silk.

“Guest,” he echoed bitterly, his jaw tightening. “A guest in a city that couldn’t be farther from the North. Look at this place—all gilded stone and false smiles. Give me the cold and honest halls of Winterfell any day.”

His words came rough, unfiltered, the kind he rarely let slip outside the privacy of their chambers. But the South clawed at his patience, and his discomfort had no place to hide.

Claere didn’t answer at once. Her gaze drifted upward, catching the way the golden sunlight angled through an open archway, illuminating the intricacies of the tapestries along the walls. She lingered in the quiet, as she often did, before finally glancing at him, her expression soft and thoughtful.

“Would you like to walk by the sea?” she asked, her voice carrying the faintest lilting warmth, as though the memory of it lived in her words. “I used to love watching the ships when I was small. Perhaps you'd feel more at ease there.”

Cregan paused mid-step, her words surprising him. He opened his mouth, but the immediate retort died on his tongue. He realized, too late, how his words had landed—disdain aimed not only at the South but at the place where she had once lived, once laughed, once grown into the woman who now stood beside him. A pang of shame gripped him. She had never uttered a word against Winterfell, though the North had been slow to accept her. Yet here he was, spitting curses at her childhood home like a petulant boy.

“I’d like that very much,” he said finally, his tone softening, almost contrite.

She gave a slight nod, her lips twitching faintly—not quite a smile, but something close. She said nothing more, but he could feel her watching him as they moved through the Red Keep’s curving corridors, his silence now more reflective.

The air shifted as they descended through the castle gardens, the sharp floral perfume of the South mingling with the faint salt tang carried on the breeze. They passed fountains of carved marble and hedges trimmed into unnatural shapes, the paths too clean and the sunlight too bright for Cregan to feel at ease. Yet as they rounded a final corner, the horizon opened up to them.

The lush gardens gave way to a stone balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay, the fountain at its centre singing softly in the breeze. Beyond, the water stretched endlessly, its surface shimmering like molten gold under the afternoon sun. The wind picked up, cool and bracing against the heat, carrying with it the scent of salt and something untamed.

Cregan stopped at the edge, his hands resting on the warm stone railing. For the first time since their arrival, his shoulders eased, the weight of the city loosening its grip. As he drew a long breath, letting the salty air fill his lungs, he thought, for the first time, that perhaps the South wasn’t entirely without its charms. Not when she was here.

“It’s not so bad,” he admitted grudgingly, his voice quieter now, more grounded.

Claere stood beside him, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon, the endless expanse of Blackwater Bay glimmering under the sun. The breeze toyed with the loose tendrils of her silver hair, brushing them against her cheek, and she seemed lost in thought, her silence as soft and vast as the sea itself. When she finally spoke, her voice was peaceful, a quiet anchor in the weight of the day.

“Forgive me. I didn’t think you had to come all this way.” She turned to him, her gaze meeting his, sincere and unyielding. “It’s only Jace’s coronation. It’d be improper for me not to show my support.”

Cregan held her gaze for a long moment, the words settling between them like stones dropped into deep water. He reached for her hand, his calloused fingers brushing against hers, and for a moment, the warmth of her touch quieted the turmoil inside him.

“Wherever you go, I follow,” he said simply, his voice softer now, more certain.

Her eyes flickered a subtle acknowledgment of his loyalty, before narrowing slightly, playful yet questioning. “Do you truly hate this place that much?”

He let out a low, sardonic laugh, leaning his elbows against the stone railing. “Hate might be too soft a word. It’s too hot, too bright, and the food’s about as satisfying as eating sawdust.” He turned his head, meeting her gaze. “And don’t even get me started on that tart red piss they call wine.”

A small smile curved her lips, faint but unmistakable. “You’ve been drinking it.”

“Because Lucerys poured it himself,” Cregan shot back. “And if I’d refused, I’m certain it would’ve become some grave insult to the Targaryen name.” He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Can’t have Lord Stark burned to a crisp, can we?”

Her smile lingered, and she tilted her head, considering him with quiet amusement. “You’re still sweating.”

“It’s the heat,” he grumbled, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “And this gods-forsaken leather. What would you have me do? Strip down and sit bare-chested in the middle of court?”

Her eyes glimmered with something close to mischief. “I’m sure that would make an impression.”

Cregan turned to face her fully, his brow arching. “And what impression would that be?”

“That the Northmen are as wild as they’re rumoured to be,” she said lightly, a faint tease threading her tone. “They might start calling you the Bear of Winterfell.”

He let out a short bark of laughter, the sound startling even himself. “The Bear? Better than most things they’ve called me today.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Though I’d wager they’re far more interested in you.”

Her gaze softened, but she said nothing. She simply looked at him, her quiet demeanour grounding him in a way the chaos of the Red Keep never could. Slowly, she lifted their joined hands and pressed her fingers to his wrist, her touch light yet deliberate.

“I don’t care what they think,” she said at last, her voice almost a whisper.

The warmth in her words tugged at his guilt, a pang sharp enough to silence his earlier complaints. He turned his hand to cradle hers properly, rough fingers grazing the fine lines of her palm.

“You grew up here,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter now, tinged with regret. “And I’ve done nothing but condemn it since we arrived. That wasn’t fair of me.”

Her lips parted to speak, but she didn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she gave his hand the faintest squeeze, grounding him.

“The North is your home. You don’t have to love it here,” she said, her tone as steady as ever. “But it’s part of me, just as Winterfell is a part of you.”

He sighed, dipping his head closer to hers. “You’re too forgiving,” he murmured.

“And you’re too hard on yourself,” she countered softly.

The tension between them broke like ice under spring sunlight. She leaned closer, resting her head against his shoulder, her movements so natural it was as though they were alone on some frozen expanse instead of standing in the open gardens of the Red Keep. Cregan stiffened briefly, the ever-present sense of propriety tugging at his instincts, but her warmth quickly dispelled it. Let them look, he thought.

“I don’t like this place,” he admitted after a moment, his voice low. “But I like you in it.”

Her head tilted slightly, her breath ghosting against his neck as she spoke, barely above a murmur. “I only like that you're here.”

His chest tightened at the simplicity of her words, their truth unadorned and cutting. He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her temple, uncaring of who might be watching. His hand slid to her lower back as he eased her against the balustrade, the coarse material of his leather brushing against her softer silks. The faintest smirk tugged at his lips as his gaze dropped to hers, his large hands bracketing either side of her, blocking any escape. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but she didn’t retreat—she never did.

“I’ve made my peace with it now.”

Claere arched a delicate brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Have you?”

Before she could say another word, he leaned in, his intent clear.

“Aye. I should think,” he said, his voice low and wanting, “that I’m owed a proper kiss for enduring this place without setting half of it ablaze.”

She arched a brow, raising her palm to his lips, halting his advance any further.

“Might I remind you,” she said, her tone lilting with amusement, “that we share four children? If I want to make another child in the Red Keep, I should think I’m owed the courtesy of seclusion.”

Cregan barked a laugh, the sound rolling through the gardens like a wolf’s howl. “The courtesy, is it?” He grinned, unrepentant. “Perhaps I like the idea of giving the South a show.”

Her laughter bubbled again, only to turn into a surprised gasp as he suddenly swept her off her feet, hoisting her into his arms with ease.

“Cregan!” she squeaked, her hands clutching his shoulders as he carried her toward the ornate fountain.

With a mischievous gleam in his eyes, he perched her precariously on the edge of the stone basin, her balance wobbling as she grasped at his shoulder for support. The water behind her sparkled in the sunlight, a picturesque backdrop for her indignant glare.

“Get me down this instant!” she protested.

He grinned up at her, the glint in his eyes sharp and mischievous. “I thought you didn’t care what they think,” he drawled, tilting his head toward the guards, who were now openly staring at them.

Claere’s frown deepened, though it was betrayed by the twitch of a smile. “Cregan,” she warned, her tone sharp but losing its edge.

“Will you let me kiss you?” he asked, voice full of mock gravity.

She cocked a brow, folding her arms even as her dangerous perch forced her to lean on him. “After this? Not likely.”

He clicked his tongue and then, with a sharp whistle, called out to the guards. “Oy, lads!” His voice boomed with bravado, loud enough to echo off the garden walls. “Lady Stark’s making an effort to get in my breeches, and you’re just going to stand around and watch? You sick fucks.”

The guards, flustered and wide-eyed, shuffled and stammered before hastily retreating around the nearest corner.

“Cregan!” Claere’s voice was sharp, but the laughter bubbling beneath it betrayed her outrage.

“There we go,” he said, turning back to her with a smug grin, utterly satisfied. “No one’s watching us. Where's that kiss?”

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though she couldn’t keep the laughter from spilling out.

“And you’re beautiful,” he shot back, leaning in again.

She sighed, letting him haul her down from the fountain and into his arms. Her fingers curled into the thickness of his jacket, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Kiss me then.”

The kiss was brief but searing, noses stroking, smiles wide, a moment of stolen fire in the gardens of a place neither of them belonged. Claere pulled back first, her cheeks tinged with colour, though whether it was from the kiss or the embarrassment of being manhandled in full view of fleeing guards, Cregan couldn’t say.

“Do you have to make a spectacle of us every time?” she asked, her voice laced with exasperated fondness as she stepped back to smooth the fabric of her gown.

“Only when it’s worth watching,” Cregan replied, his grin unapologetic. He reached out to tug a strand of silver hair that had come loose from her braid. “And you, my love, are always worth watching.”

Her lips quirked in a reluctant smile, her eyes flicking toward the open path where the guards had retreated moments before. “You’re lucky they didn’t faint from sheer humiliation. I thought Northerners valued their dignity.”

“If there’s no fun to be had, I cannot refuse,” he quipped, his hands settling on his hips as he glanced around the gardens. The wind carried the brine of the sea, and the faint murmur of distant voices reached them, though the path remained deserted.

Claere shook her head, turning toward the fountain, her fingers idly brushing along the stone’s intricate carvings. “You’ll make the septas gossip for months. ‘The Wolf and his wild displays.’”

“Good,” he said, stepping up behind her and wrapping his arms loosely around her waist. She felt cold, from the chilly satin. “Maybe they’ll finally stop whispering about the Valyrian witch.”

Her posture stiffened briefly before she relaxed, leaning back into him. She tilted her head slightly, her voice quiet but edged. “They’ve never mattered to me.”

He frowned, his chin resting atop her head. “They’d matter to me if they ever dared say it to your face.”

“And what would you do?” she asked, her tone lighter now, teasing. “Bash a septa’s head in with your precious Northern honour?”

He smirked. “If I have to.”

Her laugh broke through the tension like sunlight through clouds, soft and sudden. She turned in his arms, her hands resting against his chest. “There are days I don’t know what to do with you, Lord Stark.”

“Love me,” he said simply, the grin slipping from his face as he met her gaze with earnest warmth.

“I already do,” she murmured, her thumb brushing absently against his cheek. “'Tis a nuisance.”

For a moment, they stood there, the world beyond the gardens blurring into nothing. It was only them, as it always seemed to be, no matter the distance or the trials they endured.

Then, of course, Cregan broke the moment.

“Shall we give them something else to talk about?” Cregan’s grin widened, a boyish gleam of mischief lighting his features.

Claere narrowed her eyes suspiciously, her lips parting to question him, but before she could speak, he swept her off her feet again. A gasp escaped her, followed by half-hearted protests muffled by her laughter as he spun her around in a wide arc.

“Put me down!” she cried, clutching his shoulders as the world tilted around her.

Her protests only seemed to encourage him. “Put you down?” he mused, his tone teasing as he held her aloft. He glanced at the fountain ahead, where the sunlight danced on the water’s surface. “Down in the fountain? Or perhaps in the sea?”

Her skirts brushed against the cool spray of the fountain, making her squirm in his hold. “Cregan Stark, don’t you dare!” she warned, though her laughter betrayed her delight.

He laughed along with her, the sound deep and rich. “Promise me something first,” he said, his voice mock-serious, though his eyes danced with amusement.

“And what is that?” she asked, tilting her head, her silver hair catching the light like spun moonlight.

“That you’ll drink the red piss wine with me the next time we’re here.”

Claere groaned dramatically, her head falling against his shoulder as she dissolved into laughter. “I’d rather face a dragon.”

Cregan chuckled, lowering her just enough that her feet skimmed the ground but keeping her firmly in his hold. “Lucky for you,” he said with a playful smirk, “you’ve already got the White Dread on your side.”

“And you,” she murmured, her laughter softening into a smile as her hand settled on his chest.

“Always me,” he promised, finally setting her down, though his hand lingered at her waist. The moment her feet touched the ground, she slipped her hand into his, their fingers lacing together as naturally as the tide meeting the shore.

They walked toward the garden’s edge, where the sound of waves whispered promises of freedom and escape. The sea breeze played at their hair, carrying their laughter over the walls of the keep.

Guards stationed nearby exchanged knowing glances, smirking behind their helms. Their love was a subject of quiet admiration, a rare warmth in Winterfell’s stoic halls. And though the couple walked on, seemingly alone, their bond was never unnoticed.

As the waves beckoned them onward, Claere glanced up at him, her violet eyes alight with mirth. “Even in this wretched place,” she said softly.

Cregan’s thumb brushed over her knuckles, grounding her in his steady presence. “Especially in this place,” he corrected with a gentle smile. "Where else would I want to be but at your side?"

X

The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been transformed into a grand stage for celebration, though the ever-present shadow of the Iron Throne loomed at the far end of the room, casting jagged shapes across the banners of red and black, each adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. Long tables stretched beneath the vaulted ceiling, groaning under the weight of golden platters, roasted meats, and goblets brimming with Dornish wine. Laughter and music filled the air, but the undercurrent of tension was as thick as the scent of spiced lamb and honeyed ham. This was King’s Landing—where alliances and betrayals were decided with a glance, and no gaze lingered without meaning.

The great doors creaked open, a low groan that silenced the hum of conversation in the hall. Heads turned, drawn as much by the sound as by the imposing figure that entered. Lord Cregan Stark strode into the chamber, his presence commanding in its stark simplicity. Draped in heavy northern velvet, the deep grey of his cloak was clasped at the shoulders with snarling wolf-heads wrought in polished iron. Against the opulence of the Crownlands’ finery—silks that shimmered like water, gold heavy as ambition—he stood out like the first shadow before a storm.

At his side, Lady Claere moved with an ethereal calm, a quiet dignity that seemed to still the air around her. Her expression, serene but distant, gave away nothing, and yet it drew every gaze like a whispered challenge. She was not garbed in the colours of flame and pageantry that adorned the court but in a pale gown that shimmered faintly, its simplicity outshining the artifice around her.

They were the North embodied: stark, unyielding, and undeniably present. The southern courtiers shifted uneasily, some bowing, others murmuring among themselves, as the Lord of Winterfell and the silver-haired first daughter of House Targaryen walked past them.

Brandon Stark, only eleven but every bit his father’s son in spirit, too tall for his age, perched at Cregan’s side. His silver hair caught the torchlight like polished steel, strikingly contrasting the dusky, layered northern doublet he wore. Brimming with youthful excitement, the boy’s wolfish grey eyes flitted around the hall as if trying to absorb every detail. From the golden chandeliers to the opulent silks draped over the high table, it was a world far removed from the rugged stone of Winterfell.

The feast was meant to honour Jacaerys Velaryon’s coronation on the morrow, yet as the Starks passed, the hall rippled with murmurs. All eyes seemed drawn not to Cregan or even young Brandon who bore the close hallmarks of Old Valyria but to Claere—the woman who, by birthright, could claim the Iron Throne if she so chose.

The Targaryen banners overhead seemed to shift uneasily, the dancing flames making the three-headed dragon appear alive. Whispers chased the Starks down the aisle, tugging at the edges of the great hall's jubilant façade.

“Princess Claere Velaryon...”

“The Queen Who Never Was.”

“Nay, her blood holds more fire than Jacaerys’s...”

“If she had wanted the throne—”

“But she married the Wolf.”

“She's the Winter's Queen now.”

The low hum of speculation reached even the dais, where Rhaenyra and Daemon sat flanking Jacaerys. Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, her violet gaze narrowing ever so slightly as it followed her daughter’s steady progress. Daemon’s smirk widened, his hand idly spinning the stem of his goblet, watching as though the feast had taken an unexpected and delightful turn.

But Claere moved with an ethereal calm, her head held high, her hands folded before her. The train of her pale blue gown, embroidered with white-gold leaves and stitched dragons, trailed behind her like freshly fallen snow. She did not look left or right, though she was acutely aware of the eyes fixed on her.

They reached the dais, where the heart of the family sat like the sun at the centre of its orbit. At its centre sat Jacaerys Velaryon, his crown a fiery band of gold wrought into dragon wings. He exuded easy authority, his smile warm yet edged with caution like a blade sheathed but not forgotten. Beside him was Baela, her silver hair catching the light like a polished jets, her sharp gaze sweeping the hall with a quiet pride that spoke of a warrior's vigilance. Their children flanked them: Laena and Daeron, poised and princely, speaking in hushed tones between delicate bites.

To their left, Lucerys and Rhaena whispered and laughed like co-conspirators, their bond evident in every stolen glance and shared smirk, while Joffrey charmed his betrothed with exaggerated gestures, his joviality a balm to the tension that lingered in the air. At the table's edge sat Rhaenyra and Daemon, aged but undiminished. Rhaenyra’s presence commanded respect, her violet eyes sharp as steel. Beside her, Daemon lounged like a coiled dragon, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder, his sharp gaze roving the hall as though he were cataloguing its players.

Jacaerys rose first, unbefitting his position, the movement subtle yet commanding. Silence fell over the hall like the turning of a tide, his authority palpable. His gaze swept over the trio approaching him, pausing briefly on Brandon before settling firmly on Claere.

“Sweet sister,” he said, his voice carrying enough warmth to veil the undertone of command. “It pleases me to see you here after so long. You look well.”

Claere curtseyed, her movement graceful, her voice soft but steady. “Brother,” she greeted, the single word weighted with a thousand unspoken meanings.

It was Joffrey who broke the formality, rounding the table to embrace his sister as if no years had passed since their last meeting. Where he had once been a mere boy of ten, burying his face in her waist, now he held her tightly, the man he had become pressing a familial kiss to her cheek.

“Lord Stark,” Jacaerys continued, his tone shifting as his gaze turned to Cregan. Joffrey lingered beside his sister, still holding her hand as if reluctant to let her go.

“The North honors us with your presence,” Jacaerys said.

Cregan inclined his head, his words measured, his tone neutral. “The honor is ours, my king.”

Jacaerys’s gaze shifted again, his smile breaking into something warmer, easier. “And you must be Brandon Stark,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “It’s good to finally meet you, nephew. The blood of the dragon burns bright in you.”

Cregan’s hand fisted briefly at his side, but his expression remained impassive.

Before the moment could stretch into tension, Rhaenyra’s voice carried over the hum of the feast. Though time had etched its mark upon her, her presence was no less commanding. Her tone, measured and regal, filled the space between them.

“Lord Stark,” she began, her violet eyes resting on Cregan, “you’ve brought your eldest, but what of my other grandchildren? I hear you have a fine brood at Winterfell.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened slightly, his discomfort evident in the subtle shift of his posture. “They are too young to travel the Kingsroad,” he replied curtly, his voice a low rumble.

The stark simplicity of his response brought a ripple of quiet across the table. Rhaenyra’s expression wavered, the faintest edge of offence flickering like a shadow.

Before the unease could settle, Claere stepped forward, her voice calm and steady as a winter wind. “They are quite well, Mother,” she said, her serene smile meeting Rhaenyra’s gaze. “Rickon already dreams of commanding the vanguard like his father. Edric”—her lips quirked slightly—“has taken to sneaking pastries from the kitchen. And little Luce…” Her tone softened, and warmth crept into her expression. “She’s discovered archery from her brothers. A proper little warrior, though she insists on naming every sparrow she meets.”

The tension broke as faint laughter rippled among those listening, and even Rhaenyra’s gaze softened. “It seems they thrive under your care,” she said warmly. “Winterfell is fortunate to have such a lady.”

“You flatter me, Mother,” Claere replied, bowing her head with a grace that seemed instinctual.

Cregan exhaled quietly, his shoulders loosening as the moment passed. The interlude was interrupted by Jacaerys, his voice warm yet commanding as it carried over the table.

“The White Wolf, is it?” he called, leaning forward from his gilded seat. His dark hair framed his sharp smile, confidence radiating like the glow of a dragon’s flame.

Brandon straightened instinctively, his cheeks reddening as all eyes turned to him. “The North heralds me too much too soon, Your Grace,” he said quickly, his voice clear and earnest.

Jacaerys chuckled, raising his goblet in a mock salute. “A Stark with humility? A rare breed indeed.” The jest drew a ripple of laughter. “But no need for titles, nephew. Call me uncle.”

The boy’s face lit up, his youthful nervousness melting into a smile. “Uncle,” he repeated, the word sitting comfortably on his tongue.

“And tell me, Brandon,” Jacaerys continued, leaning slightly closer, “is it true you’ve been training with a sword? Daemon tells me you’ve a good arm for your age.”

Brandon brightened, his excitement spilling over. “I have! Father says I’m stronger than most boys my age. I practice every day in the yard with the master-at-arms.”

“Oh, has he now?” Jacaerys grinned, casting a glance at Cregan. “Sounds like you’ll make a fine squire soon enough. What do you say, White Wolf? Would you squire for me, come winter?”

Brandon’s breath hitched, his grey eyes wide with awe. “Aye, my king. I would, absolutely!”

The table erupted in laughter and good-natured cheers from the Velaryon and Targaryen kin. Rhaena, seated beside Lucerys, smiled warmly at the boy, and even Joffrey offered a nod of approval. The boy’s enthusiasm was infectious, and soon Brandon found himself swept into the fold, his questions and stories met with encouragement and kindness.

From further down the table, Daemon’s sharp, cutting voice reached them, unmistakable even amidst the lively din of the feast.

“So, lad,” he began, leaning forward with his goblet in hand, his pale hair falling loose over one shoulder. His gaze rested on Brandon with a predator's curiosity. “What’s your dragon called? I imagine it's speed and size akin to your mother's White Dread.”

The question froze the boy in place. His youthful confidence faltered, replaced by hesitation. He looked to his mother, then to his father, but neither answered for him. Claere’s serene expression didn’t shift, though her brows lifted subtly, a small gesture of encouragement.

Brandon swallowed. “I don’t have a dragon, Your Grace. Neither do my brothers and sister.” His voice was steady, though the words were clearly an effort to say.

The silence that followed wasn’t oppressive, but it lingered long enough for Cregan to bristle. His jaw tightened, and his hand flexed once before he leaned a step closer, his steely gaze fixed on Daemon.

Daemon’s smirk widened, his goblet tilting lazily in his hand. “No dragon, eh?” he drawled, eyeing his silver hair and features. “That’s unusual for one with so much Targaryen blood.” His gaze flicked to Claere, then back to the boy. “Surely your mother would have gifted you an egg.”

Brandon’s face reddened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Cregan cut in, his voice low and firm. “The Starks have no need for dragons and wyverns,” he said, each word deliberate. “We are wolves.”

Daemon raised a brow, his smirk undiminished. “Wolves may run well in snow, but they don’t fly. Am I right, Claere?”

Claere managed a shaky smile.

“The North stands without wings,” Cregan retorted, his tone growing colder. “We always have. We always will.”

Claere’s hand on his forearm stilled him. Her touch was light, but the look she gave him—calm, steady, and unreadable—silenced the retort building in his throat. She turned her attention to Daemon, her expression serene.

“Dragons are not all that are a measure of man,” she said softly. Her violet eyes settled on Brandon, a quiet pride shining in them. “And wolves do not need to fly to command respect.”

Brandon straightened, emboldened by her words. “I shall squire for the King,” he said suddenly, his voice firm and sure. “Dragon or no dragon, I’ll serve with honour. My sword is yours.”

The table chuckled, the tension breaking like a wave receding from the shore. Daemon gave a low laugh, tilting his goblet toward Brandon. “We’ll see if the little wolf can keep up,” he said, though the words lacked the earlier bite.

Brandon grinned, his earlier unease gone. He turned back to his grandfather, his grey eyes bright with excitement. “You will see, Your Grace.”

A moment of pride swelled within Cregan. His eldest son, holding himself up before the family he had driven to keep at arm's length. Soon, the Stark trio were ushered away from the dais, away from the chaos.

Cregan and Claere were seated farthest away, though their most immediate family, their presence a clear demarcation of their difference from the Targaryens’ inner circle. The distance may have been political, a subtle reminder that while Cregan was a king in his own right, the North was far removed from the intrigues of the South. Or perhaps it was a kindness—to keep them from the full extent of Southern eyes and whispers.

Cregan, sitting as still as the mountains he ruled, seemed carved from the same stone. The velvet black overcoat he wore—tailored in the southern style—sat awkwardly on his broad frame, but he bore it with stoic determination. He tugged once at the stiff collar, a prison of its own, his discomfort as plain as the wine in his untouched goblet, but when Claere’s hand brushed his under the table, he relented.

He glanced her way, catching the soft curve of her lips, and sighed. She had asked him to wear it, after all. And for her, he would.

“Da,” Brandon’s voice broke the lull, soft but curious. The boy leaned closer, his grey eyes darting toward the high table. “Why aren’t we sitting up there?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze to the gleaming dais, where the Targaryens sat cloaked in splendour and formidable grace.

“That’s my uncle, the king. And my grandmother, the queen mother?” Brandon pressed, his young face shadowed with confusion.

Cregan’s gaze flicked back to his son, sharp as the frost beyond the Wall. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “They’re your kin.”

“Then why are we here?” Brandon gestured at the low table, where the Starks had been placed, as though set apart by invisible walls. “At home, Luce and all of us sit together at the table. So why not here? We’re family, aren’t we?”

Cregan let out a low, humourless chuckle. “Family by blood, maybe. But blood means little in this hall. The North is our seat, not this nest of vipers.”

Brandon frowned, unsatisfied. “But you are a king too,” he pointed out. “The King in the North.”

“King,” Cregan admitted, his voice gruff. “But here? Dragonblood casts a longer shadow.” His tone softened as he leaned closer, his words meant only for Brandon. “Did you know, little wolf? Your mother could sit on the Iron Throne if she willed it. She could walk up there and claim the throne as her own, not a tongue would raise against her. Not even her own brother.”

Brandon blinked, stunned. “Ma?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “She could rule the Seven Kingdoms?”

“And you,” Cregan said, his expression thoughtful, “would be her heir. A prince of the realm.” He reached out, ruffling his son’s unruly curls. “But it was not in your mother's interest.”

The boy’s gaze flickered to his mother, who sat serene and unyielding, as timeless as winter itself. Her quiet smile, so untouched by the pomp and grandeur around her. She seemed apart from it all—rooted in some deeper, colder truth that made the gilded splendour of the hall feel hollow.

Brandon’s attention followed his line of sight, drawn inevitably to the Iron Throne. That jagged, monstrous seat of swords loomed above the hall, its sharp edges whispering of blood spilt and secrets kept. It was no mere throne—it was a warning, a legacy forged in fire and fear.

“It doesn’t suit her,” Brandon murmured, as if speaking a truth he’d only just realized.

“No,” Cregan agreed, his voice low and steady. “It does not.”

Brandon tilted his head, his youthful curiosity breaking through the moment. “But why? Why did she refuse?”

Cregan’s eyes lingered on Claere beside him, silently playing with her spoon, a soft murmur under her breath, her soft profile catching the flicker of firelight. There was a reverence in his voice as he answered, low and intended.

“Because she does not rule with swords and fear. The Iron Throne demands both—and she would not let it make her cruel.”

Brandon furrowed his brow, his gaze flicking between his father and the twisted enormity at the heart of the hall. “So... she chose you instead?”

Cregan turned to his son, a rare softness in his expression. “She chose herself—and the family we built together.”

The words hung in the air, wrapping around the three of them like a protective shield. Claere paused her quiet humming, her violet eyes flicking up to meet Cregan’s for a brief moment. There was no need for words between them.

Brandon, however, found his attention drifting elsewhere. His gaze wandered to a cluster of figures seated at a smaller table on the far side of the hall, shadowed but unmistakable. There was something about them—an air of detachment, of belonging to a different story entirely. One of them caught his eye, a tall, lean figure with long silver hair and an eyepatch glinting in the candlelight.

Brandon’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with something he couldn’t quite name. He knew the man, though he’d never met him. Knew him from tales that Maester had painted of him, of his mount, Vhagar. Of how he'd claimed such a dragon, so young. Aemond One-Eye. The rogue prince whose name carried both dread and fascination.

He turned back to his father, keeping his voice low. “Da,” he asked cautiously, his words edged with unease. “How come they’re here?”

Cregan followed his son’s gaze, his posture stiffening as his eyes landed on the table. Aemond sat with a languid confidence, his single eye gleaming with sharp amusement as though he could sense the Stark lord’s scrutiny. Nearby sat Alicent, her posture rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Helaena sat, twisting a strand of her hair and shot Brandon a small smile, while Aegon, glassy-eyed and dishevelled, picked at his plate without interest.

“They, too, are your mother’s kin,” Cregan said after a moment, his voice clipped. “Her uncles and aunt. They’re not well-loved here, even now.”

Brandon’s brow furrowed again, but his eyes remained fixed on Aemond. “Aemond One-Eye is a skilled swordsman,” he said in a hushed voice, almost in awe. “Father, you must let me—”

“Bran.” Cregan’s tone was sharp, cutting his son off before he could finish. “That is where we draw the line.”

The boy flinched slightly at the firmness in his father’s voice. He glanced at Claere, hoping for some reprieve, but she didn’t look at him. Her gaze was steady, locked on the silver-haired prince across the hall.

Aemond, as if sensing their attention, smirked. It was a cruel, knowing expression, one that seemed to challenge the very air between them. His single eye glinted as it flicked from Claere to Cregan, lingering just long enough to feel like a deliberate taunt.

Cregan’s hand tightened into a fist, though he didn’t rise or speak. His jaw worked as he stared back, his wolf’s eyes cold and unyielding.

The tension in the hall crackled like frost underfoot. Brandon, though young, could feel it as he watched his father’s jaw tighten and his gaze narrow at the far table. Aemond’s smirk had only deepened as he leaned back lazily, his long fingers curling around the stem of his goblet. It was the posture of a man who feared no consequence, and it made Brandon’s stomach twist.

Cregan’s voice, when it came, was low but carried the weight of ice. “You’re a bold man, Prince Aemond,” he said, the title clipped, bitter on his tongue. “To sit there smirking like a cat in a coop, after the damage your house has done.”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, the firelight glinting off the edge of his eyepatch. His smirk widened, sharper now, more deliberate. “Damage?” he echoed, the word soft but dripping with mockery. “Surely you’ve seen your share of bloodshed, Stark. Or do Northerners keep their hands so clean they can point fingers without guilt?”

Cregan rose slowly, his chair scraping against the stone floor, the sound grating enough to make Claere glance up from her quiet contemplation. “If my hands were unclean, prince,” Cregan said, his voice a low growl, “you’d feel it across your jaw.”

“Father, don't,” Brandon whispered, alarmed, tugging at his sleeve.

Aemond leaned forward slightly, as though entertained by the rising tension. “Yes, listen to your pup, Stark. Threats have a way of turning into invitations. And I accept such things readily.”

“Aemond,” Alicent interjected, her voice sharp, though it wavered at the edges. “Enough. You shame yourself—and us.” She placed a hand on his arm, as though to stay him, but he brushed it off gently without looking at her.

Brandon, encouraged by his father’s stance, couldn’t hold back his question. “Why do you act like this?” he asked, his young voice cutting through the room like an unexpected breeze. His words were unpolished, direct. “You’re supposed to be our kin.”

Aemond turned his head sharply, his single eye locking onto the boy. The smirk faded, replaced by something colder, though not entirely without amusement.

“And what would a boy like you know of kinship?” he asked, his voice soft and biting. “The White Wolf—even the name leaves my tongue feeling sour. When a direwolf lays with a bastard dragon, do you call that kinship? Or depravity?”

Cregan’s fist slammed onto the table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “Speak those words before my family again, and I’ll make sure your other eye matches the first.”

“Enough. Both of you,” Claere said, her voice cutting through the room like a whip crack. She stood, her hands calm, but her eyes burned with a quiet fury as they fixed on Aemond. “Aemond, you’ve proven your wit. Cregan, your son has his eyes on you.”

Cregan hesitated, his grey eyes lingering on Aemond for a moment longer before he exhaled sharply and sat back down. Brandon clung to his father's shoulder as if restraining him.

Aemond met her gaze for a moment, his smirk threatening to return, but when he saw the set of her jaw and the icy stillness of her expression, he gave a slight incline of his head.

“As you wish, sweet niece,” he murmured, though the mockery lingered in his tone.

Alicent, looking harried, finally pulled at Aemond’s sleeve with more force. “Come,” she said firmly. “We’ve lingered long enough.”

With a shrug, Aemond rose, draining the last of his wine before setting the goblet down with deliberate care. He glanced at Cregan one last time, the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eye. Then, with a flick of his violet eye, he turned and strode out, Alicent following close behind.

The doors groaned shut behind them, leaving a silence that was more deafening than the clamor of conversation earlier.

Brandon sat stiffly, his small hands clutching the edge of the table. His gaze darted to his father, wide-eyed, searching for answers he could not yet articulate. “Da,” he began, his voice unsure.

Cregan’s sharp look silenced him. “The world doesn’t fight fair, Bran,” he said, his voice low, like the growl of a wolf. “Men like him thrive on your weakness. Remember that.”

Brandon nodded but said nothing, his lips pressed into a firm line.

Claere’s hand brushed against Cregan’s arm, the touch light but insistent. He turned his head slightly, his storm-grey eyes softening only for her. She leaned closer, her voice a whisper barely louder than the crackle of the torches.

“Nothing about this place feels right. I feel sick,” she murmured, her gaze flicking past Cregan’s shoulder to where Helaena sat at her table. The Targaryen princess’s pale eyes were fixed on Claere, her expression unreadable but laced with a quiet sorrow.

Cregan followed her gaze briefly before nodding. His hand closed over hers, rough and grounding, before he rose. “Let's have you rested, my love.”

Bran watched his parents, deploring.

“We’re leaving,” Cregan said firmly, his voice cutting through the lingering unease in the hall. He placed a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, urging the boy to his feet. Claere stood as well, taking Bran into the arch of her side.

As they moved toward the exit, the sound of their steps echoed in the cavernous room, every eye tracking their departure. The doors closed behind them with a dull thud, the sound resonating like the closing of some unseen door in fate’s design.

X

Cregan paced the chambers, the soft candlelight casting flickering shadows over his bare chest. There was a sheen to him, like he'd returned from a swim out at sea when really the heat was too warm by half. His tunic and coat lay strewn across the floor, casualties of his brooding temper. His hair was mussed from the constant drag of his hand through it, his jaw set like stone, holding back the sharper edge of his fury.

Claere lay on her stomach, nestled in the grand canopy bed, the silk covers draped loosely over her shoulders, her chin resting lightly on her folded hands. Her violet eyes followed him in silence, tracking his every movement. She said nothing, but the flicker of golden light over his broad shoulders, the fire in his grey eyes, and the tension in his frame—it pleased her more than she cared to admit.

“I will not allow it,” Cregan growled, his voice low and rough, vibrating with barely restrained anger. “My son, raised in the shadow of Targaryens? Bowing to them, serving their whims?” He stopped mid-step, turning on his heel to glare into the distance. His hand raked through his hair again, tugging at the strands. “What kind of Northerner bends the knee to fire?”

“A bold one,” Claere said, her voice soft, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

Cregan’s head snapped to her, his storm-grey eyes narrowing. Her calm demeanour seemed only to fuel the fire in him. “Bold?” he spat, incredulous. “No. Foolish. He’s too young to know what they’ll demand of him, what they’ll strip away. They’ll keep him here, chain him with loyalty, make him their sword—and he’s meant to rule the North, not waste his blood in service to their crown.”

Claere tilted her head slightly, the soft silver of her hair catching the faint breeze from the window. “They are his blood as much as they are mine,” she said evenly. “Is it so wrong for him to want to know them?”

Cregan let out a sharp breath, his hands bracing on his hips. “He doesn't need their approval. We're Starks,” he said, his voice cold and final as if the truth of the North was enough to silence any argument.

“And he's a Targaryen,” Claere countered, her voice quiet but unyielding. “You knew that the moment he was born.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Cregan muttered, resuming his restless pacing.

With every step, his frustration deepened, and with every sharp motion, another layer fell away, another furious mutter about the heat. His belt hit the floor first, then his boots. By the time he reached the hearth, he was stripped down to his breeches, his chest heaving with the effort of holding his temper.

“You’ll wear a trench into the stone,” Claere remarked, her tone edged with amusement.

Cregan turned, his lips twitching despite himself. “You find this amusing?”

“Not at all,” she said, though a faint smile tugged at her lips. “But you’re very… lively when you’re infuriated.”

He froze, staring at her, his expression torn between irritation and something warmer. “Lively?”

“Passionate,” she corrected, her gaze holding his.

The word struck him harder than he cared to admit, and for a moment, his temper wavered and a small smile bloomed. She reclined against the pillows, the golden light painting her features in soft relief. Her hair, loose and unbound, spilt across her shoulders like molten silver. There was a knowing look in her violet eyes that stilled him more effectively than any word could.

He crossed the room in a few strides, looming over the edge of the bed.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, though the fire in his voice had dimmed to an ember, flickering weakly beneath his frustration.

Claere blinked up at him, her lips curving into a faint smile. “Enjoying you sulking? Fuming? Growling at shadows? Jealous that your son looks up to someone who isn't you?” Her voice was soft, laced with mirth. “Perhaps.”

Cregan huffed, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. His voice dropped, low and rough. “Impossible woman.”

“Stubborn man,” she replied, her tone calm, her gaze steady.

For a moment, her words hung in the air, heavy as snow on ancient pine boughs. Cregan exhaled deeply, his shoulders sinking under her quiet truth. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw and face. It almost felt like the world's tonnage was hanging off his neck.

“Come,” Claere murmured, shifting to make space. She reached for him, her touch gentle as she guided his head to rest in her lap.

He barely hesitated before letting himself fall into her care, his weight sinking heavily onto her thighs, as though he carried the weight of every storm in Winterfell. Her fingers slipped into his dark hair, cool and soft, brushing through the strands with ease that unravelled the knot of tension coiled at the base of his neck. The quiet rhythm of her touch was soothing, a balm for the raw edges of his frustration.

“Let him be,” Claere whispered, her voice a gentle command, soft yet unyielding. “Let him find himself, make mistakes, learn. This is what he wants.”

Cregan closed his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath. He lifted a hand, weary and slow, to rub at his face as though trying to scrub away the ache in his chest.

“He’s our son,” he said. “I can’t simply let him go. He’s but a boy.”

“Nearly eleven. A man grown,” Claere chuckled softly. It wasn’t dismissive, but tender, carrying an affection that could pierce through his storm-clouded thoughts.

His lips twitched faintly at her laughter, the corner of his mouth lifting as if to meet her warmth, but the heaviness remained, pressing against him like an unrelenting tide. He swallowed hard, his throat working against the swell of words lodged there.

“Ever since…” His voice wavered, the syllables slipping from his mouth like broken shards. “Her.”

Her hand stilled, her fingers resting gently against his temple. A shared silence fell between them, heavy with the unspoken. She didn’t need to ask who. The memory of their firstborn, the one they lost before they even knew her face, lingered between them like a shadow cast by a distant flame.

“I’ve felt this unquenching need,” Cregan said at last, his voice rough and low, as if every word cost him. “To shield everyone. I'm the one who stands between my family and the rest of the world.” His breath hitched, and his fingers clenched briefly against the fabric of her skirts. “I can’t… I cannot lose another. Cannot afford to now. Not when grief is so far behind us I dare to believe we’ve escaped it.”

The vulnerability in his voice was a rare thing, raw and unguarded, and it made Claere’s heart ache for him. She bent her head toward his, her silver hair spilling down to mingle with his dark locks. The contrast was striking, a tangle of moonlight and shadow, wolf and dragon bound together by shared pain and quiet resilience.

“You won’t lose him, Cregan,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her voice threading softly through the cracks in his armour. “But you have to trust him and let him grow. No matter how far he roams, he’ll always find his way back to the pack.”

His breath shuddered against her lap, the words sinking deep into the ache in his chest. Slowly, as though the weight of her assurance began to ease the crushing guilt he carried, he nodded. His head pressed against her, seeking the solace only she could offer, a stillness he could find nowhere else.

X

The garden of the Red Keep was alive with the gentle hum of crickets and the muted rustle of leaves stirred by the evening breeze. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, mingling with the faint tang of salt from Blackwater Bay. The sun had begun its slow descent, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected off the polished stone of the courtyard fountain.

Seated at a table draped in white linen, amidst the sprawling garden, Rhaenyra Targaryen watched her grandson with a quiet awe she had not felt in years. The boy was a Stark through and through, with his storm-grey eyes and the faintest dusting of freckles across his pale cheeks, but there was something unmistakable about him that spoke of his mother. His hair, pale as Luna's wing, caught the light with the faintest sheen of white, a gift from the dragonblood running through his veins.

Brandon tore a piece of warm bread from the loaf between them, his fingers deft and sure.

“You should have seen Rickon last week,” he said, his voice animated. “He was trying to teach Eddric to shoot. They’re both useless, of course. I keep telling Rickon to stop puffing his chest and aim properly, but he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she reached for a cup of spiced wine. “And you, darling? Were you the one to show them how it’s done?”

Brandon grinned, a flash of teeth that was all wolf. “Of course I was. Someone has to keep them in line.” His face softened as he leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Though Luce is worse than both of them combined. Did you know she refuses to sleep anywhere but on my shoulder these days? If I so much as move, she howls loud enough to wake the gods.”

The mention of her granddaughter brought a rare, genuine smile to Rhaenyra’s lips. “She sounds as demanding as her namesake,” she said, her voice touched with both fondness and melancholy.

“She’s a little terror,” Brandon agreed with a dramatic sigh, though his tone betrayed nothing but affection. “But I love her the most.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on him, her mind slipping into memories of Claere as a child—how her daughter would sit by the fire, pouring over flowers in a soft mumble, her silver hair glowing in the firelight. Brandon had that same intensity, that same spark of life. Yet where Claere had always carried an air of distant melancholy, Brandon seemed unburdened, his laughter bright and unguarded.

“You’re a breath of fresh air, Brandon,” Rhaenyra said softly, her words catching the boy’s attention. “I don’t know that I’ve laughed this much in years.”

Brandon tilted his head, his sharp features softening. “You should come North more often, Grandmother. You’d find plenty to laugh at with my brothers around. And Luce. She’s probably tormenting her septa as we speak.”

Rhaenyra laughed again, a sound that surprised even herself. Her hands reached for the bread, breaking off a piece and toying with it absentmindedly.

“Perhaps I will,” she murmured, though her heart clenched at the thought. The North was Claere’s world now, a place she had only touched briefly, where Rhaenyra’s legacy seemed small against the towering walls of Winterfell.

Brandon, as if sensing the shift in her mood, leaned forward, his tone light. “Tell me about Syrax,” he said, his grey eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Mother told me she was a golden dragon. Is she as fierce as she sounds?”

Rhaenyra’s expression softened further, her thoughts turning to the dragon she had not ridden in years. “Syrax is a queen in her own right,” she said, her voice reverent. “Golden as the sun, proud as the first flame. She was my companion through the best and worst of times.”

Brandon’s eyes lit up. “Do you still ride her?”

A shadow passed over her face, though her smile remained. “No, sweetling. My time as her rider has passed. But she’s still mine, and she would not turn away the blood of my blood.”

Brandon tilted his head, curious. “What do you mean?”

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb brushing over his hair. “You should try and claim her,” she said softly, her words carried beyond their simplicity. “You’re of her blood, of her fire. She would accept you. I know it.”

Brandon blinked, startled. “Me?” he breathed, his voice tinged with awe.

“You, my brave boy,” Rhaenyra said, her tone firm. “You’ve got the blood of kings and queens in you, just as much as the wolves. You’re meant for something greater.”

For a moment, he seemed speechless, his grey eyes searching hers. Then, with a grin that was as wild and free as the North, he leaned back and said, “Maybe I will.”

X

The midday sun poured through the windows of the Red Keep’s solar, gilding the stone floor in rippling light. Outside, the distant din of King’s Landing played like a faraway melody: the clang of market bells, the chatter of traders, the call of gulls drifting from Blackwater Bay.

Inside, Claere lounged on a cushioned bench, her legs stretched out lazily across Cregan’s lap. One foot was bare, her silken slipper dangling precariously from her other toes as she shifted, wriggling to catch the light. Her fingers danced in the air, casting fleeting shadows against the high, arched walls. A butterfly flapped its wings, morphing into a crocodile that snapped its jaws before melting into a sparrow.

Cregan sat at ease, a knife in one hand, an orange in the other. He peeled it with the care of a man sharpening a blade, the rind coming away in one long spiral. His head was bowed slightly, but his eyes flicked up to her now and then, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You’ve gotten better at that,” he muttered, gesturing toward her shadow play. “Not as dreadful as the last butterfly you tried.”

Claere scoffed, her toes pressing lightly into his thigh. “I had two children hanging off my arms when I made that butterfly. I should like to see you do better with little Luce clawing at your hair.”

“I’d make a proper direwolf,” he said, leaning back as he flicked the orange peel onto the table. His grey eyes glinted with quiet challenge.

She raised an eyebrow, her hands pausing midair. “A direwolf, you say? Go on, show me.”

He set the orange down, wiped his hands on a cloth, and raised them. The shadows twisted into something vaguely lupine—more of a blob with pointed ears.

Claere giggled, her laughter soft but unrestrained. “Is that supposed to frighten me? It looks more like a sheep with horns.”

The golden light softened the sharp edges of his face, his Northern ruggedness somehow at odds with the languid peace of the moment. Claere traced his profile with her eyes—the set of his jaw, the faint curve of his smirk—and felt a pang of gratitude for this rare interlude.

“What's going on in your head?” he asked, not looking at her, his hands now occupied with dividing the orange into sections.

“How much you remind me of a bear every now and then,” she said with mock seriousness. “Big, grumpy, growling at anyone who comes too close.”

He chuckled, low and rumbling. “I’ll remember that the next time you call me wolf.”

She smiled, her hand reaching out to take a slice of the orange he offered her. The sweetness burst on her tongue, and she closed her eyes briefly, savouring it. The Red Keep, for all its burdens and shadows, had afforded them a rare reprieve, a pocket of time carved from the relentless press of duty.

But the peace shattered like glass underfoot when the door to the solar burst open. Two guards stumbled in, dragging a soot-covered figure between them. The acrid scent of smoke and singed hair preceded them, and Claere and Cregan froze, their shared moment breaking apart as reality surged in.

The boy's tunic was torn, his face smeared with soot and ash. A gash marred his cheek, sluggishly oozing blood. The acrid stench of smoke clung to him, mingling with the scent of charred leather. Beneath the grime, his sharp grey eyes were unmistakable.

“Brandon.”

It was Cregan who moved first, surging from his chair, the knife and orange clattering to the ground. His heavy boots echoed against the stone floor as he closed the distance, his towering frame lowering to kneel before the boy. His hands, rough and calloused, reached out instinctively, gripping Brandon’s shoulders, scanning his son for injuries.

“Who did this?” His voice was low, cold, edged with barely contained fury.

The guards, though hardened men of the Keep, faltered under the Warden of the North’s glare. One cleared his throat nervously. “He—he snuck into the Dragonpit, my lord.”

A tense silence followed as the words sank in.

“He tried to claim the Queen’s mount, Syrax.”

“Bran,” Claere sighed, her voice tinged with exasperation as she rubbed her temple, though the faint tremor in her hand betrayed her fear.

“Out,” Cregan growled, cutting her off. His voice was thunderous, and the guards didn’t wait for a second command. They dropped their hold on the boy and backed out of the room with hurried bows, the door slamming shut behind them.

Cregan rose to his full height, looming over his son. His face, lined with the weight of leadership and fatherhood, was dark with anger.

“Did you fall on your head one too many times, boy?” His voice was sharp with the ferocity of a father's fear, his Northern accent biting. “Do you want death so much you have to go find it? You thought to claim a dragon—dragon! Alone! Do you think yourself fireproof, huh?”

Brandon stood his ground, his chin lifting defiantly, shoulders squared, the faintest hint of his father’s stubbornness mirrored in his young face. He said nothing, his jaw tight, and with a deliberate step, he brushed past Cregan and toward his mother.

“I’m talking to you, Bran!” Cregan’s voice thundered again, but the boy didn’t falter. “You’re scrubbing the stables when we get back, do you hear me? The filthiest ones. I don't care how long. Every day until your arms give out!”

Brandon didn’t so much as flinch. He quietly moved to Claere’s side, his head bowing as he settled beside her.

“Sit,” Claere commanded softly, her tone holding none of Cregan’s fury but all of its authority. She reached to dampen a cloth from a jug, her movements calm and deliberate as she began to dab at the soot and grime streaking her son’s face.

“Hold still,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Brandon obeyed, though his eyes flicked to his father’s looming form across the table.

“Don’t coddle him, Claere,” Cregan growled, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “He needs discipline, not mothering. Look at him; there's no remorse in his eyes. Ungrateful little... He could have—” He cut himself off, the words sticking in his throat.

“He did not. It's alright, Cregan,” Claere said quietly, her tone cutting through the tension like a blade.

Her husband’s jaw tightened, but when she glanced up at him, her steady gaze held him in place. It wasn’t reproachful, but neither was it yielding. Slowly, his shoulders eased, though the storm still lingered in his grey eyes.

“What happened, Bran?” Claere asked again, her focus returning to Brandon. Her voice was soft, coaxing.

“They were all going to the dragonpit,” Brandon mumbled, his voice barely audible. “Laena, Daeron. All of them left me behind, Ma.” He sniffled, his small chest hitching with restrained tears. “I wanted to go, too.”

Claere sighed, her hand pausing as she rubbed at the soot on his neck. She leaned forward slightly, her silver hair cascading like a curtain around them, creating a small, private world.

“And you thought claiming a dragon would make them see you differently?” she asked, her tone free of judgment.

Brandon hesitated, then nodded, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “I just wanted to be... like them. Like you.”

Claere’s breath caught at his words, but she schooled her expression, her thumb brushing his cheek as she cupped his face. “Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered. “You don’t need to prove yourself to anyone—not to them, not to me. You’re already enough.”

Cregan shifted behind her, the sound of his boots against the stone floor filling the quiet. His anger had ebbed now, replaced by something deeper—guilt, perhaps, or worry.

“Bran,” Cregan said, his voice quieter but no less firm. “We don’t need dragons to make us strong. What makes you a man isn’t fire or glory—it’s honour, and knowing how to protect those you love.”

Brandon glanced at his father, his small face torn between shame and defiance. “But they think I’m weak because I don't have a dragon.”

“They don’t know you,” Cregan said sharply, stepping closer. “Not like me or your mother does. Not like your people do. You’ve got more fire in you than you know, son. You don’t need to risk your life to prove it.”

Claere glanced back at Cregan, her eyes softening at the rough edge in his tone. She reached out, resting her free hand on his arm.

“He’s young,” she said gently, reminding them of the earlier conversation they shared. “He’s learning.”

Cregan nodded, though he didn’t look at her. His focus remained on Brandon, the lines of his face softening at last. “A month in the stables,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’ll think twice next time before putting yourself in danger.”

Brandon’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded. “Fine.”

Claere smiled faintly, dabbing at one last streak of soot. “There,” she said, brushing her hand over his hair. She placed a deep, long kiss on his cheek. “Clean enough to sit at the table again.”

The boy managed a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He slid off the bench and stood uncertainly between them, looking from his mother to his father.

Cregan let out a long breath and crouched to his son’s level, resting a broad hand on his shoulder. “Next time you feel left out,” he said quietly, “talk to me. We’ll find something worth your bravery—but not this. Not dragons.”

Brandon’s lips parted, his defiance flickering for a moment as if he might argue. But then, seeing the unyielding lines of his father’s face, he relented. His shoulders sagged, and his voice was smaller than before.

“Yes, Da.”

Cregan’s hand squeezed his shoulder once, a silent acknowledgement of the promise before he released him. He smacked the back of his head lightly, ushering him away.

“Get out of here and get cleaned,” Cregan told him. “You look like pigshit.”

Brandon lingered for a moment longer, then turned and padded toward the doorway.

Claere’s gaze followed her son as he disappeared into the corridor beyond. Her hand, resting on the table, tightened briefly into a fist before she relaxed her fingers.

“You were harder on him than usual,” she said softly, her voice carrying none of the reproach it might have.

Cregan didn’t answer immediately. He straightened with a groan, his exhaustion evident in the slump of his broad shoulders. Dragging a hand through his dark hair, he looked at her, his jaw tight.

“One of us had to be,” he replied, his voice low and heavy with something unspoken. “Taming dragons. Tsk. Foolish fuckin' lad.”

X

The air was crisp with the bite of late autumn, the scent of hay and manure thick in the stables back in Winterfell as Brandon Stark worked the rake over the uneven floor. His arms ached, his back stung from leaning too long, and his frustration simmered just beneath his skin. Scrubbing the stables wasn’t the worst punishment his father had ever doled out, but the indignity of it gnawed at him.

His brothers, as always, were more hindrance than help. Eight-year-old Rickon had armed himself with a brush and was vigorously sweeping, though his efforts did little more than stir the hay into scattered piles. Five-year-old Ed trailed behind him, copying his every move, while Luce, the youngest and the most spirited, darted about the stalls, her voice rising in an off-key rendition of "Foxy’s Hole." She seemed utterly oblivious to the tension simmering in her elder brother.

“What’s the capital like?” Ed asked suddenly, his small hands smudged with dirt as he crouched to pick through the straw. “Are there dragons everywhere?”

“And the Kingsguard,” Rickon added, pausing his dramatic sweeps to look up. “Is King Daemon as strong as they say? Did you see Caraxes?”

Bran froze for a moment, the rake still in his hands. The images came unbidden: the Red Keep with its high walls and colder shadows, the whispers in court that hissed behind every smile, the weight of Targaryen eyes on him. The songs had lied, just like the stories of dragons made for little boys’ dreams.

“It’s not what you’d think,” he muttered, his voice low as he looked away.

Ed wrinkled his nose, his face scrunching with confusion. “But it’s the Red Keep!” he insisted. “Mummy grew up there. It must be grand.”

Rickon elbowed him and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Bran’s just mad because Da made him clean out horse dung.”

Bran’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the rake handle until his knuckles whitened. He wanted to snap back but forced himself to take a breath instead. Straightening, he raked his fingers through his hair and spoke before he could think better of it.

“I’m going back next winter,” he said flatly. “To squire for the king. For Uncle Jace.”

The words dropped into the stillness like a stone into a frozen lake, shattering the moment. Rickon stilled mid-sweep, and Ed’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief. Even Luce, who had been twirling in circles, stopped and turned her wide violet eyes on him, her expression unreadable.

“You’re leaving Winterfell?” Rickon blurted, aghast.

A sharp whistle sliced through the crisp air, cutting through the chatter and the rustling of hay. All four siblings froze, their heads snapping toward the gates where Cregan Stark stood, his broad frame outlined against the slate-grey sky. His weathered face carried a familiar authority and warmth, and with two fingers, he beckoned them forward. Rickon and Ed bolted instantly, eager to obey, their boots thudding against the frozen earth.

Bran lingered, his hands tightening around the rake. He cast a sidelong glance at Luce, who clutched his hand, her small fingers curling tightly around his. She wasn’t moving.

“Go on, then,” he muttered, sighing. “Don’t make him wait.”

Luce shook her head stubbornly, her violet eyes wide with mischief. “I don’t want to.”

Bran rolled his eyes, kicking the rake aside with frustration. “Fine. Let’s go.” He extended his finger to her, and with her tiny hand wrapped around his, he trudged toward their father, his steps heavy with reluctance.

When they reached the gates, Rickon and Ed were already beaming under Cregan’s rough hands as he tousled their hair. His gaze shifted, landing on Luce as she hovered behind Bran, half-hidden. He arched a brow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Snuck away from your septa again, have you?” His voice was a low rumble, laced with gentle reproach.

Luce’s grip on Bran’s leg tightened as she tried to disappear behind him entirely. Cregan’s brow lifted higher.

“Rickon, Ed,” he said, his tone turning firm, though there was still warmth beneath it. “Take your sister back to her lessons. She’s not to be running loose.”

“But—” Luce began, her protest dying on her lips as Rickon swooped in, his grin wolfish. With a quick motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her over his shoulder.

“No use arguing, Luce,” Rickon teased, cackling as she squirmed and kicked her little legs. “You’re outmatched.”

“Bran!” she wailed, reaching for him as Rickon carried her off. Ed trailed after them, giggling at her indignation.

Bran watched them go, his arms crossing over his chest, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze to the ground. The heat of his frustration simmered again, bubbling up beneath the surface. The stables were punishment enough; he didn’t need another lecture.

“You’re sulking,” Cregan observed, his deep voice cutting through Bran’s thoughts. There was a faint teasing edge to his tone, but it was undercut by quiet understanding.

“I’m not,” Bran snapped, though the words sounded half-hearted even to his own ears.

Cregan stepped closer, towering over his son with that familiar weight of presence. He reached out and nudged Bran’s shoulder lightly, forcing him a step forward. “Come on, lad,” he said, his voice softer now. “I’ve something to show you.”

Bran frowned, his arms tightening across his chest. “If this is another punishment—”

“Far from it,” Cregan interrupted, his lips quirking into a faint smile. “But keep dragging your feet, and I might change my mind.”

Bran sighed heavily but relented, falling into step behind his father. Together, they crossed the courtyard toward the kennels, the air alive with the low growls and soft whines of the direwolves housed within. The sharp scent of pine and frost hung thick around them, mingling with the earthy musk of the animals.

At the edge of the enclosure, Cregan stopped before a small pen. The low growls and soft whines of the wolves fell away as Bran followed his gaze. Inside, a lone wolf paced nervously, its coat a deep, glossy black that seemed to drink in the pale light. Its sharp yellow eyes darted toward them, wary and unblinking, its every movement tense with distrust.

Cregan crouched by the pen, his hands steady as he unlatched it. “Come closer,” he said, his voice low but gentle.

Bran hesitated, his eyes fixed on the wolf. Its wiry frame was all sharp angles, a creature of feral instincts and quiet resilience. Yet something in its gaze—something untamed and fierce—stirred something deep in Bran, a strange pull he didn’t quite understand.

Cregan slipped inside first, his movements deliberate as he reached for the wolf.

“Found him in the woods,” he said, his tone soft but resonant. “All alone. Half-starved, snarling at shadows.” He chuckled quietly, scratching behind the wolf’s ears. The creature flinched at first but gradually stilled under his touch. “Sniveling little fighter,” Cregan added, glancing back at Bran with a small, knowing smile. “Reminded me of someone.”

Bran bristled, though he stepped closer, his curiosity outweighing his indignation.

Cregan cradled the wolf with surprising gentleness, lifting it from the pen and holding it against his broad chest. The wolf let out a low, hesitant growl, but Cregan’s steady hands quieted it. “Go on,” he said, extending the wolf toward Bran.

Bran’s breath caught as the creature’s sharp gaze locked onto his. For a moment, he froze, unsure. Then, carefully, he reached out, taking the wolf into his arms. Its warmth was startling, a living, breathing contrast to the biting cold of the air. It wriggled slightly, testing his grip, but Bran held firm.

Cregan watched him, his expression softening. “What would you have named your dragon?” he asked suddenly, his tone light but pointed.

The question hit harder than Bran expected, and his grip on the wolf tightened. He frowned, his shoulders tensing.

“You don’t have to rub salt in the wound, Da,” he muttered. “I know what I don’t have.”

“Humor me,” Cregan pressed, his voice steady, his eyes holding Bran’s. There was no teasing now, just quiet patience.

Bran hesitated, his face heating with embarrassment. “Frostbane,” he mumbled, barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s laugh rang out, a warm, rich sound that echoed through the kennel. Bran scowled, turning away, but his father’s hand was quick to catch his shoulder, holding him in place.

“Don’t turn your back on me, boy,” Cregan said, his voice softening. He reached out, his large hand brushing the wolf’s sleek black fur. “Frostbane’s a damn fine name. Look at him—sharp, fierce, a survivor. Just like you.”

Bran blinked, startled by the words. He glanced down at the wolf in his arms, its yellow eyes watching him with an intensity that mirrored his own.

“He’s yours,” Cregan said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Not just any wolf, Bran. A direwolf for a Stark who’s more than he thinks he is. Who doesn’t need dragons to be great.”

Bran’s throat tightened. The weight of his father’s words settled over him, heavy and warm, easing the sting of the day’s frustrations. “Mine?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost disbelieving.

Cregan nodded, ruffling the pup’s ears. “Yours. He’ll grow to match you—strong, proud. A king of the wilds, like his friend.”

Bran’s chest swelled with a mixture of pride and relief. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting as the wolf squirmed in his arms.

“Frostbane,” he said again, testing the name aloud.

“A Stark name,” Cregan said, watching his son with a faint smile. “And one that’ll make the whole of Winterfell remember who you are.”

X

it's humbling when your inbox is as empty as your soul :') This feature was just something off the top of my head lmao I don't even know if it's that good but worth a shot!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[softpascalito]

Dulcissima I Marcus Acacius x Vestal!Reader I Chapter II

! This Fic contains major spoilers for Gladiator II ! Proceed with caution !

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x Vestal Virgin Reader Rating: Explicit / MDNI Word count: 12k+ Tags: Secret Relationship, Vestal Virgins, Religious Guilt, Gladiator fights, Gladiator II compliant (more or less), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Ancient Rome, Age Difference, Slow Burn (ish), More tags to be added (!)

AO3 // Series Masterlist // Masterlist // Fic Playlist

notes: ! last major spoiler warning for gladiator II below the cut !

thank you all so much for the love on the first chapter. we delve a little bit into their backstory now (gladiator II is set around 211 AD). feel free to let me know if you are interested in reading how these two get to where we picked up before <3 i also have a little acacius playlist that fits the vibe of this fic very well. feel free to check it out here!

vestal (vigins) - priestesses of vesta, virgin goddess of Rome's sacred flame (details will be explained later in the story) dulcissima - sweetest (fond nickname) domus - a roman house palla - a traditional mantle for women paludamentum - a cloak worn by high ranking military officials

Chapter II

209 AD

The domus sits just on the edge of Palatine Hill, on the side opening towards the Forum Romanum and Via Nova. You have passed below it more times than you can count, though you have rarely walked the small street that weaves up the hill and leads to the edge of the property.

Many of the neighboring houses are too harsh for your taste, with columns twice as wide as your body and barely a shrub of greenery in front of them. A supposed sign of strength, no doubt. But when passing the house with the large garden, you like to take as much time as you dare, occasionally catching a whiff of the lavender that grows all around it.

It reminds you of the shadowy figure you often saw walking those same gardens after dark, many years past. A bereaved woman, shrouded in dark cloth, keeping her head down as she tended to the plants with dainty fingers, decorated with a thick gold ring that framed a green stone. You remember lingering too long on your way past the iron fence once, fascinated by the way her dress flowed in the wind. She had called out to you, beckoning you towards her.

Lucilla was not a terrifying woman but you knew that every misstep could cost you, especially in your position as a vestal. She had knelt down in front of your trembling form, brushed your hair out of your face and looked at you with an expression you did not understand. But she had whispered words that you did. Asked you not to collect the water after dark, to stay with the older vestals. Then she had offered you a small bundle of lavender.

You stuffed it under the linen of your bed later that night, breathing in a scent that felt like a world where a woman could freely roam her garden and the city beyond, who did not have to be afraid.

The guard at the gate gives a small bow of courtesy when you reach him and moves to the side, allowing you to tread the stone path that leads up to the house. “The General is inside. Please, knock.”

A gentle “Thank you” escapes your lips as you reach to lift your stola just enough to not step on it. The torches lining the way are extinguished, not needed during the day. A short glance down the hill allows you to spot your own home, right beside the rounded building that is the Temple of Vesta.

When you reach the wooden door, you raise your hand and will yourself to knock with enough force to make it heard.

You can hear someone calling out from inside and a few seconds later, a man with broad shoulders opens the door. His gaze flies over you briefly–taking in your white tunic and the palla wrapped around your shoulders. The thin veil attached to your headdress and all the linen of your clothes tucked neatly into place are usually enough indication for whoever is stood in front of you to understand your status.

“General Acacius?” You ask softly, your eyes taking in his brown eyes and the curve of his nose, one that looks like it belongs on a statue rather than a living man.

“Vero, that is me. Please, come inside.” He gives a small bow, gesturing past himself and you nod at the invitation, gracefully stepping into the house and finding yourself in an atrium that renders you speechless. The columns that line its sides are slightly worn, flowers stretching along them towards the upper floor. Stone basins and pots holding a variety of plants stand at almost every corner of the open space, making it feel more like a garden than the stuck-up room you would have expected in a Generals home.

Acacius’s hand hovers behind you, guiding you past the fountain that holds a few orange fish and to the opposite end of the open room, though he never actually touches you. “Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you,” you repeat your earlier words, lowering yourself onto the chair he indicated.

“Would you like some wine? Perhaps some grapes too?” He waves to one of the servants, who promptly places two glasses on the table, though Acacius takes the carafe and dismisses him with a small nod as he begins to pour you some of the dark red liquid. You make to reach for your glass to hold it steady but he shakes his head quickly. “Allow me. Please.”

You nod at that, leaning back and waiting politely while he pours himself a drink as well. It allows you a moment to take in his form up close, the white tunic and his red paludamentum wrapped around his body. A cloak fastened with a gold brooch, one that–similar to your headwear–makes him a respected man no matter where he goes. You wonder if he feels the same about it, that some days it's more like a heavy curse weighing one down. Then again, he is a General of Rome. You are a priestess of Vesta. Your paths may cross today but you are certain they look very different from one another.

He sits down across from you, a small sigh leaving his lips as he toasts in your direction and takes a sip of his wine. Then, he leans to the side and produces two rolls of parchment. “I had to make some adjustments to my will. It was kept by one of the other priestesses, but I believe she has finished her service with the Vestals since I last saw her.”

You give him a small smile as you take the parchment from him, nodding. “Yes, she left the year before last. But of course I will be just as happy to keep the will for you.”

His eyes fly over your face briefly and he gestures to the rolls on your lap. “I crossed out the old version. I married, you see.”

You stare at him for a moment before nodding a little too quickly. “Of course. Yes, I–The lady of this house I presume–” You break off, realizing your mistake. If he indeed married Lucilla, he is now the head of this house. “What I meant–” you add hastily. “–is that it is your house now. And the house is beautiful, I mean–” It’s the second time you stop in the middle of the sentence. But this time, it is because you have dared to look back over at the General. And he is not even trying to conceal his amusement.

You bow your head in another silent apology and he tuts softly. “You are quite right, you know. As far as I am concerned, she is the woman of this house.” A smile plays around his lips. “And I would not have it any other way.”

It’s clearly not his atrium that surprises you. He is not what you would expect a General to be. Especially not one that is about to entrust you with his will. “I give my word that I will see it is stored safely,” you reassure him, carefully taking another small sip of the wine.

Acacius nods. “I appreciate that. You have my thanks.” He pauses briefly, his gaze darting around the atrium for a split second before landing back on you. “You seem uneasy. Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No. No, of course not, General.” It is not a lie, per se. But you are all too aware that it sounds like one.

“Is it your first time taking a will?”

You do not know how he does it. He seems to have read you so easily–or he is just very well connected to know such a thing. “Yes. It is, but I promise–”

“I trust you,” he states almost casually while reaching for the grapes and offering you some as well. You politely decline.

“Forgive me but … you met me mere moments ago. How can you know I am trustworthy?” Your eyes catch his and this time you hold his gaze, not missing the small glint in them.

“All of Rome trusts the Vestals. If not you, who would we put our faith into?”

“The gods. You should put your faith in the gods,” you say quietly.

“I prefer to put my faith in people,” Acacius responds, though his voice is slightly lowered as well. “The gods do not fight our wars.”

You stand up so abruptly that you almost drop the scrolls. “I should go.”

He seems perplexed for a moment but quickly catches himself and nods, standing up before leading you back the same way you came. You allow yourself a quick sideward glance at his face and are met with a professionally neutral expression. At the door, you turn towards him, giving a last, small bow. “My General.” His title falls off your lips like the silk they sell at the market, flowing effortlessly. His brown eyes lingering on you as you address him–even if normal custom–as yours, make your stomach clench slightly.

Acacius lets his hand hover beside you again, never quite touching you. Yet you almost seem to be able to feel his touch. “I did not mean offense.” His voice is much softer than it was when he greeted you.

“Of course.” You force yourself to smile and step away, shaking your head at the brief moment of confusion you allowed yourself. He is a General, you are a Vestal. He has sworn his vows and you have sworn yours. And both include promises that are enough to keep you at a few feets distance for several lifetimes. “Please, call for me if you ever need to make adjustments to the will. And–” You force yourself to smile a little wider. “Congratulations on your marriage.”

You turn around before he can speak again, suddenly wanting to put some distance between yourself and the house you so longed to see from inside–until you did.

***

211 AD

“You have to go, dulcissima.”

Acacius' voice is quiet, the back of his head resting against the stone pillar as he watches you drag the chaise lounge across the atrium, muttering under your breath when you have to maneuver it around the small fountain in the middle of the space.

“Please.”

You shake your head just as you reach him, gesturing for him to sit down. His begging breaks your heart–it always has. But the thought of leaving him here with open wounds is worse.

“Let me see your arm.” He doesn't move, forcing you to become a bit more stern. “Acacius. Let me see the arm. I am not leaving until you do.”

A curse slips out under his breath but he does as told, sitting down and allowing you to inspect his wound. The rustle of the chain on his ankle breaks the quiet as he moves and you pointedly ignore it as you crouch down in front of him.

You let your hand hover above his skin for a moment, taking a small breath. It is still difficult to break the rules you have been taught for so long sometimes. You tell yourself that this is not even a sin, that you are merely caring for a wounded Gladiator. It tricks your brain enough to lower your hand onto his skin. You do not believe it tricks Vesta.

“He should not have fought you,” you mumble quietly, thinking back to how Lucius was swinging away the moment he entered the arena.

“He did not understand. And it is how the Colosseum works, you know this.” Acacius mutters back, tensing slightly when you run your finger over the cut the sword left on his arm. It doesn't seem too deep but you know Acacius must be in much more pain than he lets on.

“I hate that place,” you whisper, surprising yourself with the force of your words. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you stiffen when you feel a calloused hand tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before brushing over your cheek.

“Oh, sweet,” he mutters, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. “I am fine. I made it out, see? I promised I would.”

“They were going to shoot you,” you choke out, trying and failing to hold back the tears now slipping down your cheeks. You feel his lips touch the crown of your head briefly.

“But they didn't. Now, please, I will take care of this. But you have to leave.”

You wipe your tears with the back of your hand and shake your head again, blinking a few times to clear your vision and shift your attention back to his wound. “How would you take care of this? They have sentenced you to death. The Emperors have called for it, in front of the whole empire.”

“I can talk to them. I have things to offer, even now. They do not know how to lead an army. But they need someone who does. And–”

“You would sell your soul to stay alive,” you whisper as you reach for a piece of cloth and begin to wipe down the crusted blood.

Acacius sighs. “No. But I would sell my soul to stay with you.”

! when commenting or reblogging, please make sure to hide spoilers from others !

[heian-era-housewife]

Synopsis | A sore and tired Toji visits Japan's famed pleasure district for a much needed massage. Maybe getting older does have its benefits!

Content | mdni 18+, Toji x f!reader, mention of Shiu (because of course), smut, sex, piv, hot oil massage, candle oil, happy ending~

Word Count | ~2.4k

Toji stood with a groan, several audible "pops" accompanying his stiff movements as he hoisted himself from Shiu's passenger seat.

"You going to make it, old man?" Shiu asked from behind the steering wheel.

"Yeah, yeah. Look who's talking." Toji waved him off, closing the door behind him, Shiu's voice coming through the open window.

"I'm not the one about to snap in two like cheap chopsticks." Shiu studied him for a moment before searching through his wallet and leaning over to hand Toji a business card.

"What's this?"

"A little place I go when I need to unwind."

The sleek card indicated some type of therapeutic health club. A woman's name was scrolled on the back.

"Ask for her. Tell'em Shiu sent you."

"You know I ain't about to pay for some ritzy day spa." Toji laughed, handing back the little card.

Shiu's eyes narrowed for a moment before he reached once more for his wallet, pulling out a few large bills and shoving them into Toji's outstretched hand, forcing him to take both the money and the unwanted business card.

"For real?" Toji asked, surprised by Shiu's gesture.

"Consider it an investment in your health... cheap bastard." He added under his breath. "Need you in top condition so you can keep making us money."

Toji glanced at the cash in his hand, taking note of the little numbers in the corners, then back at the name on the card, letting out a small huff.

"She that good?" He asked, quirking a brow.

Shiu smiled, inhaling deeply on his cigarette, heavy lids fluttering shut on the smoky exhale. "You'd be amazed what a good massage can do," he said before rolling up the window and driving off.

He thought about gambling it. Getting a nice meal for once. Buying some actual furniture for his crummy one-room apartment. But when the simple climb up the stairs to his front door had him creaking worse than the old wooden steps themselves, he decided a massage might be just what he needed, afterall. One quick shower later, he was back out the door, card and cash in hand.

~~~~~

He arrived in Shinjuku's entertainment district, the red lights of Kabukichō bathing him in a crimson glow. Tokyo's "sleepless town" cried out in a cacophony of buzzing neon, flashy slot machines, and the biting scent of cheap booze. Toji's scar stretched in a wily grin as he imagined the kind of trouble he could get into in a place like this. He tried to picture Shiu wandering the streets of the pleasure district, snickering as he envisioned the half-wasted handler navigating the narrow alleys in search of Korean soju and a pretty face to share his cigarette.

"You old dog." He smirked. Sorely tempted to blow the money elsewhere, he looked once again at the name on the business card. It was your name. "This better be worth it." He sighed.

~~~~~

Nicer than its seedier counterparts, the building had a sleek design, revolving doors of tinted windows framed in golden brass. The subtle trickle from a tranquil water feature and the smell of white orchids working in tandem to fill the sultry atmosphere. Toji let out a low whistle as he entered, the black marble interior echoing his appraisal as he approached the front counter.

Two women, each dressed in white linen tunics tied in a neat bow to one side, giggled softly to one another, cupped hands concealing their quiet exchanges. Toji was fairly certain he already knew the topic of discussion, their eyes boring holes through his tight black shirt and tracing the veins along his biceps. He was used to being gawked at, but always found himself feeling a little hot under the collar nonetheless.

"I uhh..." His mouth felt numb and awkward as he struggled to find the right words, pulling the cash and card from his pocket and laying them both on the marble countertop. "I'm here to see her." He said, tapping the name on the back of the card with a large finger. The two women leaned in, eyes growing wide as they read the name. They exchanged a skeptical look, before glancing worldessly back at Toji.

"Oh...uh.." Why was he suddenly so nervous? It was just a massage, right? "Shiu Kong sent me..." he finished lamely.

At that the women burst into a fit of flirtatious giggles. It was clear they knew the name. Perhaps a little more intimately than Toji anticipated.

You dog. He thought to himself once more.

They beckoned him past the counter, escorting him down a hall into another low lit room. Light danced along the walls from the dozen or more flickering candles scattered tastefully about. At its center, lay a large and rather comfortable looking massage table.

"Once you've undressed," said one of the women, handing him a warm, plush towel, "you may lay face-down on the table with this."

"Un. . .dressed?" The penniless man had never stepped foot in a health spa before, and certainly no place as upscaled as this. The closest he'd come to a real massage was the way he sometimes used the bothersome spring from his broken-down mattress to dig into his sore muscles after a long day as he drifted uncomfortably to sleep.

His question was met with another fit of giggles. His ears burned red, not realizing he'd said something funny. "Like...all the way?"

"Yes. All the way." The other woman clarified with a sly grin. Toji shifted uncomfortably. "We'll leave you to it. Your masseuse will be in shortly."

Their quiet laughter followed them back down the hall as they gossiped about the good-looking man all the way back to their post. Toji, meanwhile, made quick work of peeling off his snug-fitting shirt and grey sweats, the candles’ warm glow illuminating his chiseled features. He looked down at his body, hesitant hands pausing along the hem of his boxers before dragging them down the length of his thighs and around his ankles. Cheeks flushing at his own indecency, he wrapped the towel snuggly around his cinched waist and quickly laid himself face down on the lavish table.

He didn't even hear you enter, flinching slightly as your cool hands made contact with his broad back. Tiny bumps prickled where your cold fingers trailed between his shoulder blades.

“Sorry, dear,” you said softly, reaching for one of your flickering candles. "Let me fix that."

Toji flinched again as warm droplets trickled down his spine. Tilting the candle, you allowed small amounts of oil to rain down on his back, pooling and dripping around his well-defined muscles. The touch-starved man shivered as your fingers deftly worked the warm oil into his rugged frame.

Most clients were greedy - hungry. This one was different, you thought to yourself. His reactions, almost innocent in nature, forced you to surpress small giggles. His little grunts and groans as you found his tender knots, were contrastingly cute coming from such a brute of a man. It was...refreshing.

Toji lay, focusing on your touch and doing his best to relax into the sensation. Warm oil beaded in places, rolling down his skin and forcing him to shudder against the featherlite feel. The weight of your hands on his rigid shoulders was already worth the trip. He had almost forgotten how it felt to be touched by another person.

He was learning to relax, settling in as you moved around the table, working your way from his ankles up his calves. But as you made your way steadily higher, reaching the sensitive skin on the backs and inner portions of his thighs, he began to tense once again, growing increasingly aware of the pulse now thrumming between his legs.

"Shhh. Just relax," you whispered. Turns out it's quite difficult to relax when you're fighting a massive hardon. Thankful he was on his stomach, Toji focused his breathing, and his thoughts, until the grinding pressure against the table below softened, proud of himself for reeling it in before you were any the wiser.

A short while later, just as he thought he might drift to sleep, you gave him two small pats on the shoulder as you asked him to roll over. The large man shifted his weight with surprising ease, turning so his back lay flat against the table.

Staring upward, his eyes gave a soft twinkle in the candlelight as he saw your face for the first time.

His smile was sweet - almost boyish, his signature scar curving playfully at the edge of his lips. You were cute, he thought, easy on the eyes in your silken robe that hugged your curves just right.

"Hey," he said with the awkwardness of a teenager, finally realizing he'd been staring.

"Hey," you giggled, finding his complete lack of suave oddly alluring. "Shall we continue?"

"Mhm," he nodded, puffing his chest out slightly in a way that left you stifling more laughter.

You worked his shoulders, his biceps, his strapping forearms, and even his hands. With the help of the warm oil, you intertwined your fingers between his, sliding your small hands almost playfully within his large ones. It wasn't until you made your way back up to his chest, leaning over him to reach his sculpted abs, that an indecent rush returned to his lower half.

You stood behind his head, bent forward at the waist, tender arms outstretched across his chest. But your breasts... Your breasts were just inches from his face. Their warmth radiating down against his cheeks. So close, he swore he could hear your heart beating. Or was that his?

He squirmed against the growing pressure, trying desperately to stave off what he knew would soon be futile. He could feel his length growing against the towel that shrouded his hips.

Thankfully, mercifully, you withdrew your hands (and your sumptuous tits) just in time for him to talk himself off the proverbial ledge. His breathing steadied. His body relaxed. The sweat that now formed on his brow glistened softly in the candlelight. But as you moved to his ankles, repeating your previous path up his calves and across the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, an impressive bulge began to grow beneath his towel.

He tensed. Hot embarassment creeping its way up his neck. "Relax..." you whispered again, trailing ever higher.

He was a goner, towel now strainging against the force of his twitching length, his own shadow betraying him as the candles cast his throbbing silhouette in a mutinous display against the adjacent wall.

"Shit, I'm sorry, I-"

You cupped his balls in one of your hands, rubbing them gently against your palm.

"Sorry for what?"

Toji froze, mind reeling. You continued your work, carressing his supple skin, fondling the base of his shaft.

"T-this..." he began to say.

"Yes, handsome?"

"This ain't a normal massage place...is it?" He concluded.

"No, baby," you giggled again.

"Hm."

Moments later, your shadows danced against the wall, parting and rejoining as you kissed him passionately, his scant towel falling to the floor as he sat up to meet your lips. Your silken robe quickly joining it. He cupped your ass, scooping up lustful handfuls and placing you squarely on his lap, your legs wrapping nicely around his hips.

The two of you rocked, both sat upon the massage table, a mix of sultry purrs and moans escaping your lips as they intertwined. You rolled your hips, soaking his lap in your honeyed nectar, soft pussy lips gliding along his length in a way that was making him feral. With his strong hands, he lifted you just enough to line up his glistening tip before lowering you slowly, deliciously, onto his aching cock.

Toji hissed as you bottomed out, plush walls gripping him almost painfully. With a moan, he held you closer, pulling you in against his chest and pressing his lips into your neck. Leaning back slightly, he rutted up into you, rolling hips bucking up against your tender folds.

He was big. Much bigger than the average client. Each hungry thrust sent stuttering breaths spilling from your lungs, soft moans keeping time with his rythm.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he growled, nearly laughing as he said it, the difference in size almost humerous, but ultimately euphoric.

Suddenly he hoisted you, lifting you effortlessly in his arms before laying you carefully on your back against the massage table. Your eyes widened with the shock of the sudden change and he couldn't help but think once again how cute you looked. Grabbing himself at the base, he pumped his way back into you, leaning over to meet you face to face with a large hand on either side of your head.

And there was that smile. Even as he fucked you mercilessly into the table, he managed an innocent smile. That was all it took.

Your orgasm washed over you in pounding waves, your fluttering walls crying out in ecstasy as they swallowed Toji's thrusting cock.

With a groan that matched his force of will, he pulled himself from your heat, warm cum hitting your cheek, having covered a surprising distance. He glazed your tits and your tummy, painting you in streaks of creamy white. You gasped, shaken, both by your climax and the sheer amount that spilled from the hulking man.

Coming down from his high, he looked down at the mess he'd made, finally meeting your startled gaze.

"Hey," he said.

"H-hey," you breathed, soft giggles building steadily into full and bouyant laughter.

Bending down, he grabbed the forgotten towel, cleaning you with surprising tenderness.

"Thanks," he said softly, wiping your cheek. "I mean it."

There was only one other client with such good manners.

"Oh no. Thank you," you said with a small wink. "And hey," you added as he pulled on his shirt and sweats. "Give Shiu my thanks, too."

~~~~~

As Toji walked back through the black marble hall, past the front desk, he was met once again with the shared whispers of the two women who swooned and giggled as he gave them an awkward wave goodbye.

Stepping back out onto the sidewalk of the bustling pleasure district, he felt like a new man.

Amazing, he thought, what a good massage can do.

Tags ~ @queentoji

[atyourmerci]

✩Your Galaxy✩

✩ ✩

Abby Anderson / Mandolorian AU

Summary: Abby as a Mandolorian. No specific relationship to reader yet (will obv get into if this turns into a fic).

Warnings: smut, MDNI, some fluff holy fuck Madda wrote fluff?? Fingering, cunnilingus, switch!abby, switch!reader, cannon typical violence, no y/n, only description of reader is having hair, making up shit about space and Star Wars uni that I don’t know!!!it’s fine!!!

A/N: hey babies, so I’ve been sittingggg on this idea for a sec and idk if it will gel with you guys so pls lmk if this would be something you’re interested in. I guess this is a blurb?? If you wanna see it turn into a fic pls let me know:))

✩ ✩

Mando!abby who takes off her gloves so she can feel how wet you really are, even when you promise her.

Mando!abby who let’s you trace your fingers along her face in the darkness of the night so you can imagine what she truly looks like. The first time you weren’t expecting her vulnerability, she had just fucked you senseless as you laid there heaving when she pulled your shaky fingertips to her defined face, allowing you to let them roam freely.

Mando!abby who took her helmet off for the first time when you were laid inbetween her thighs, lapping at her swollen clit. She wanted you to hear her pathetic whimpers that no one else had. You squeezed your eyes shut tightly when you heard the rustling of the helmet come off, but she trusted you… “k- keep going baby I- jus’ wanna watch you”

Mando!abby who couldn’t help but to admit her real name with you as she had you bent over her bed, helmet off heavy breathed over the shell of your ear, driving her soaked fingers into your needy cunt. “F-fuck Mando…” you pathetically breathe out, muffled by the thin white fabric of her bed. “Abby,” Mando remarked flatly. It took you aback at the unrecognizable name, your body froze as your mind raced, did she call you the wr- “call me abby,” she corrects herself. A guttural breath you didn’t notice you were holding escapes your lips. Abby…Abby. A delicate name for the otherwise ruthless murderer. The name swirled aimlessly in your mind over and over again…abby.

Mando!abby who’s secret you knew. She was able to go unrecognized as a woman in her field, tweaking her modulator so her voice came out husky, her build making her larger and more threatening than any other mandolorian you had seen before. She didn’t want them to treat her differently, think less of her ability. You accidentally stumbled upon her well held secret when she came back to the ship with a gash across her abdomen. She tried hiding it from you, but it came up so close on her chest you unknowingly forced it out of her. You froze at the sight of her black bra peeking under her tunic, cheeks flushed. “Don’t say a fucking word,” she bit under her breath. You internally pulled yourself together with your new found information on the mysterious killer, wild eyed averting your gaze back to her cover eyes, eyes that you’ll never see. “Okay.” You said with an attempt at confidence. An attempt at reassurance. She had no reason to trust your word, but she did.

Mando!abby who insists on showering your body even if the lights are on. A stupid fucking ship. If the shower was running the lights had to be on. This was an automatic off zone for you when things started with you and abby. Not only could you see her face, but her entire body would be revealed to you in the intimate space of the well-lit shower. Her body that you had only seen bits and pieces of in desperate, heavy breathed moments, but never her face. But when you had returned from a rather brutal hunt, blood caked in your hair, she insisted to clean you off. “B-but abby-“ before you can protest she began removing your blood soaked clothing out of your sight behind you, “just close your eyes, I’ll stand behind you. I’m not leaving you by yourself for another moment,” the tang of her sweet voice fluttered your ears, unmarked by the hardness of the modulated voice of her visor.

Taglist: @wishbones999 @bookpagecandlescent @littlegingerperson5 @lookforthelight1 @fict1onallyobsessed

[the-mandawhor1an]

Searching for the stars | Marcus Acacius x f!Reader

Summary: You're about to end your work day as an achaeologist, when a call comes in that will change your life forever. Who would've guessed that the stranger causing havoc on your excavation site in the middle of the night could end up being the very owner of the villa that has long been buried.

Words: 2.7k

Tags: Time travel; Marcus is a little drunk; Mentions of death; Yeah that's it this time around.

Speech in italics indicates that Latin is being spoken.

Notes: At long last, my entry for @burntheedges's Roll a trope challenge! My trope was time travel with Marcus. I know, I know. There's not much and this thing here ended up being soooooo cliffhangery. But I've decided I will revisit these at a later point, so consider this the pilot chapter for a mini-series. I have more plot points open but I want to give them the attention they deserve, and I couldn't do that while also working on my costume project.

Comments etc. are appreciated, thank you to @rivnedell for beta-ing this for me.

Divider by @saradika-graphics

Have you ever looked up at the sky and wondered?

Wondered why the stars seem sad? 

They mourn the loss of their dear sisters

Who descended from the sky to sparkle in your eyes. 

I will make sure their departure was never in vain.

You are the light of my life. 

I love you.

It was dead of night, your head in your hands, leaning above an ancient tablet. The words carved into the semitransparent block of wax touched you in a way you never thought possible. A declaration of pure devotion and love, written by a man almost two millennia ago. This deep connection he felt for the woman he addressed these words to must have been unbreakable. A love like this must’ve been nice, you thought to yourself. To be practically worshiped by a man.

You leaned back into the backrest on your chair and rubbed your eyes. The clock over your desk, endlessly ticking, told you it was close to two in the morning, meaning you’d been up for 20 hours. Time to head to bed instead of yearning for men who had been dead for a long time. 

Just as you were about to switch off the light in your office, your cellphone buzzed in your pocket. “Philippe, what the fuck, it’s –” you started when you picked up the call from your coworker, turning silent when you heard the shouting in the background of the call. “Sorry, we need you at the site right now. We have an intruder.” There were several male voices in the background. How were you of any help there? “I don’t understand, can’t the police –” “Just come,” he urged. With a sigh you pinched the bridge of your nose. “Fine, I’ll be down in a minute.” 

It had been a little longer than a minute until you approached the excavation site, hearing the shouting in the distance. The city was relatively quiet compared to the site, out in a field in the outskirts of Rome. Philippe waved you down, two security guards held a stranger, forced onto his knees, both arms in a death grip and his head forced to face the ground. He wore dirty, off-white robes, similar to the tunic a Roman would’ve worn underneath a toga. It didn’t look like a costume, either. “Drunkard, we found him stumbling along the ruins. He’s mumbling and we can’t tell if his accent is just super thick, or –” Just as he wanted to give you more insight, you heard the gravelly deep voice of the stranger. His words were slurred and you were tired, to it took a moment for your brain to register his words. 

“You’re on my land. LEAVE!” With a look of absolute bewilderment, you looked at the man, then to Philippe. “He speaks Latin?” “That or that’s the weirdest dialect I have ever heard. My Latin is rusty, I figured you’d still be up and might be able to help.” 

“This is your land?” You asked and knelt before him. His face was still turned to the ground, his breath was labored. “Yes it is, woman. Tell these men to get their hands off of me. What happened to my villa?” What a warm welcome. Something about his words made you wonder. You knew this villa belonged to a Roman general once. Said general had practically been an obsession of yours, so your heart started beating faster. With a nod you motioned the guard forcing his head down to take the hand away.    

“Woman?” Philippe asked. You turned to him for a second, still on your knees. “He claims to be the owner of this land. Asking us where his house has gone.” “What do you mean? The owner is a farmer.” “I think he’s trying to claim that he is … the general” Philippe roared with laughter, until he realized you meant it. “You actually think that is possible?” 

You turned back to the man. His breathing had calmed, but he was still mumbling to himself, about the gods, and something about the stars. Wait a second, the stars.

You hesitated for a moment, not sure if you should mention something that only the man he claimed to be would know. “Don’t you think the stars look sad tonight? I’ve been told they’re mourning.” His demeanor changed when he heard you refer to the poem you had been over for the past hours. His head turned upward slowly, almost like time was stopping, dark brown eyes finding yours. You recognized the strong facial features, although they were a lot dirtier right now. His gaze was still hostile, his forehead wrinkled, but a hint of confusion hid in his furrowed brows. You continued as you suddenly had his attention “They have lost sisters, haven’d they?” 

He swallowed, parting his lips to say something, but the words failed him. His eyes turned glassy. That might be the confirmation you had expected to see, although it pained you to see a man of his stature seem genuinely pained. He responded, “They mourn the ones that descended to sparkle in your eyes. How do you know that?” “You’ve told me… in a way. I found your scriptures, general,” you replied to him with a soft smile. It was cruel to quote what basically amounted to a declaration of love to his wife, but you figured this was something only he would have known. You looked at the two men still restraining him and asked them to let him go. He landed on his hands, not tearing his eyes from you. He was cautious, yet curious about the woman before him, speaking his language and knowing something only one woman should have known. 

“Where am I?” he asked. It was like the little interaction had sobered him up enough that he was coherent and beginning to understand his situation. If he could even understand, because you sure didn’t. “You’re in Rome. About 1800 years after your time. I’m sorry, this is probably not what you wanted to hear, General Acacius.” You straightened up, standing in front of him, offering a hand to help him up, which he declined. “You’re lying, this must be Elysium. Where is Astra?” He rose to his feet, unstably so, and stumbled into you. Your instincts kicked in and you put both hands on his chest, catching the falling body. “Astra is dead, Marcus,” you said, this time more empathetically and your eyes crossed paths again. He was so close that you could smell the wine in his breath and a hint of rosemary, possibly coming from his dark brown curls. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but please, allow me to prove it.” A strong heart was beating underneath your finger tips, his breathing was steady. Face turned downward, he watched your hands for a second until he locked eyes with you again and nodded. “Fine.” 

Accompanied by a very confused Philippe and security, you make it back to the temporary ‘head quarter’ which consisted of fully furnished, heated cargo containers. The stranger was, for the most part, cooperative but a little confused about his beloved city changing so much. Neither electricity nor any kind of wireless device was familiar to him, but he took the culture shock surprisingly calmly. Maybe he still thought he had passed, after all. 

As soon as the other men had left you after more than a couple of reassurances that you could handle the visitor, said lost soul regained his voice. “Show me the scripture,” he asked you, albeit in a rather demanding tone. “Right here,” you motioned over to your desk, where the tablet sat. He walked over and carefully swiped his fingers over the wooden frame that had saved the tablet from erosion over the years. “Please, be careful,” you urged, panic audible in your voice. Said relic was invaluable and probably one of your favorite discoveries of all. His hand removed from the delicate piece and he sighed deeply. The pain in his voice was palpable. “I wrote that as part of my marriage proposal for Astra. I am surprised it survived if this really is 1800 years old.” “I’m sorry you lost her. And I didn’t want to be so harsh out there, but that was the only way I thought I could verify your claim to be Marcus.” 

Marcus huffed and turned to face you, but something else piqued his interest. Right behind your back, there was a replica of one of the busts that depicted him. One of the first traces to his existence you had found in your career. The replica was made in ceramic, made to look like marble, but a lot less expensive and less delicate. 

He stared at the bust in disbelief. It had his armor on, looked similar to him, but still, what you were telling him didn’t make sense to him. You watched him from the side and were actually impressed how well the sculptor had managed to capture his features. His prominent nose, the strong brows, the serious look on his face. Even the fullness of his hair they had somehow managed to simulate despite the unmoving medium it was carved into. His hair war unruly after the fight with security, but the curls were still there. It was hard to deny that he was handsome, even more so in the flesh. 

"What do they say about me?" he asked calmly. His fingertips brushed over the sculpture’s hair. He pulled back, remembering how protective you had been over the wax tablet, but you nodded in silent reassurance that it was fine to touch. 

"You were a fierce warrior, but deep down you were a broken man, yearning to be reunited with your lover. You fought like you never feared death, in fact you would have embraced it, but the gods didn’t grant your wish. You might have never seen yourself as a man of words, but the few I found made your love for her very obvious. I’m really sorry that you lost her." 

A frown crept up to his lips with the mention of his wife. As much as the characterization fit, he hated that he was known for the pain he endured and the pain he caused. You saw the muscles in his jaw flex. "How did I die?" He turned back to you.

You shook your head. "We… never found out. You disappeared one night. The last accounts of sightings said you got drunk one night, stumbled across your estate and begged for the gods to have mercy, to take your life so you could be reunited with her. And you vanished. Some speculate you killed yourself in a nearby creek, or maybe died accidentally." 

"That was just before I woke up here," he said in confusion. His arms crossed in front of his chest, a sigh rumbling through his lungs. You couldn’t help but scan over his arms, so on display without any fabric covering his sunkissed, muscly biceps. 

You crossed your arms in front of your chest, mimicking his expression, more on accident than consciously. “I’m not a very religious person, especially as very little people believe in the Roman Gods any more, but… it would explain why you’re here. Maybe you need to do something here and then you get to be with her.” You couldn’t believe what you were saying, but he was here after all, and you were actually convinced that this was Marcus Acacius. If this was a dream and you had fallen asleep on your desk, this sure felt real, realer than any dream you ever had. 

“Perhaps,” he mumbled and wiped over his face with his right hand, never breaking eye contact with the statue. His gaze wandered to the walls, all of them plastered in hints about him, everything you found out about the general in your years of study. “You know a lot about me.” You nodded in response. ”Yes, I’m … a scholar. I studied history and you more specifically,” you explained, motioning towards the walls of information with your hand. It was odd, to say the least, to have your subject more or less in front of you. There was so much you wanted to ask him. You had to stop yourself though, the shock probably needed some time to settle for him. For you it would also take some time to accommodate to the fact you had a Roman General in your office. ”You are surprisingly calm for someone that just woke up 1800 years in the future,” you added as an afterthought. 

His dark brown eyes met your again. Gone was the drunk attitude and all that remained was a broken man. ”I thought I must be dreaming at first. But I could never imagine a world like this. And then I thought this might be Elysium and you were my guide” His lips curled into a soft smile. It seemed genuine, and you were impressed how open minded he was, given where he came from. It must have been extraordinarily strange to wake up here. Strange clothes, strange languages, artificial light and electricity. 

”You might want to get some rest. Sleep the wine off and start arranging yourself with the new environment. I will see if I can get you something to wear in the morning. Unfortunately you can’t stay dressed like this,” you motioned to his tunic. It might have been quite normal back then, but now? They would think he was some weird larper. 

”Do you live here?” he asked. You shook your head, a little confused by the question. ”My house isn’t far from here, though. A few minutes walk.” “And you will sleep here?” ”I prefer my bed to be honest, but it’s for the best if someone stays with you.” He made a little grunt before he said ”I won’t be trouble, go sleep in your bed.” 

You shook your head. “I know you mean well but I can’t leave you alone. This … place isn’t safe for someone who’s not familiar with anything.” He scoffed again, but didn’t press the issue further. 

You left the office for a second to get a mattress and a blanket to make yourself a little bed in front of the couch. You motioned for him to flop down on the couch before laying down next to the sofa on the small mattress. ”We’ll get some clothes for you tomorrow. I’ll take you to my house so you can wash yourself,” you said with a yawn. Marcus turned to look at you, his gaze was intense like he was studying you. 

”What is it?” you asked him when his staring lingered for way longer than necessary. ”Are all women today strange like you? Why are you helping me?” was all he asked. Well. Why did you? ”You’re stuck here,” you started, looking at the ceiling. “I might be the only person that can maybe help you find whatever you’re supposed to find. It probably is a bit of my pride as well. I’ve studied you for so long and I would regret not spending time with you. You can teach us so much about Rome in your time. About the emperor. About the wars you were in. About the arena.” “You don’t want to hear about that,” he simply stated and turned his back towards you. 

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it. Then we’ll just find out what your reason to be here is.” You also turned your back toward him, hearing the rustle of his pillow about half a minute after. It fell quiet in your office, only a few hours before the sun rose again. 

While you couldn’t remember any of your dream that night, Marcus must’ve encountered some divination during his rest. The voice of his late wife echoed in his mind, soft and warm like her lips whenever she kissed him. 

‘We will be reunited, my love. Find me where you laid me to rest.‘ 

He woke up a mere 5 hours later, his heart ardent with the knowledge of what he and his new found ally would have to do. Find Astra. 

Taglist: @jennaispunk @burntheedges @whocaresstillthelouvre @roughdaysandart

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Word List: Fashion History

to try to include in your poem/story (pt. 2/3)

Exomis - a short, asymmetrical wrap garment pinned at the left shoulder, worn by men in Ancient Greece

Eye of Horus - or Wedjat eye, is an ancient Egyptian symbol that represents the eye of the falcon-headed god Horus and symbolizes healing and regeneration and was often worn for protection

Faience - a man-made ceramic material that was often used in ancient Egypt to make jewelry and devotional objects; it is usually a blue color

Falling Band - a flat and broad white collar often with lace on the edges, worn by men and women in the 17th century

Fibula - served as a pin to both hold garments together and to show status of those with prestige or power within society; was popular in Greek culture

Fichu - a triangular shawl, usually worn by women, draped over the shoulders and crossed or fastened in the front

Fontange - a linen cap with layers of lace and ribbon, worn flat and pinned to the back of the head

French Hood - a rounded headdress for women that was popular in the 16th century (from 1540)

Frock Coat - a collared man’s coat worn through the eighteenth to the twentieth century; rose to prominence mainly in the nineteenth century, especially Victorian England; characterized as a knee-length overcoat, buttoned down to the waist, that drapes over the lower half of the body like a skirt

Frogging - ornamental braid or cording that can function as a garment closure, or be solely decorative

Gabled Hood - a woman’s headdress that is wired to create a point at the top of the head and has fabric that drapes from the back of the head

Gigot Sleeve - a sleeve that was full at the shoulder and became tightly fitted to the wrist; also called leg-of-mutton sleeve

Guipure Lace - a type of continuous bobbin lace made without a mesh ground; its motifs are connected by bridges or plaits

Himation - a rectangular cloak wrapped around the body and thrown over the left shoulder worn by the ancient Greeks

Huipilli/Huipil - a woven rectangular shirt worn by women in Central America beginning in ancient times

Jerkin - a close-fitting men’s jacket, often worn for warmth, sometimes without sleeves; worn over a doublet in the 16th and 17th centuries

Justaucorps - a long-sleeved, knee-length coat worn by men after 1666 and throughout the 18th century

Kaftan - (also caftan) is an ancient garment, which originated in ancient Persia but then spread across Central and Western Asia; a kind of robe or tunic that was worn by both men and women

Katazome (stencil printing) - a traditional Japanese method for printing designs onto fabric using a stencil and paste-resist dyes

Kaunakes - one of the earliest forms of clothing; made from goat or sheep’s wool and meant to be worn around the waist like a skirt, it is recognizable by its fringe detailing

Kente - a Ghanaian strip woven textile that has striped patterns and bright colors with corresponding meanings

Knickerbockers - or “knickers” are full or baggy trousers gathered at the knee or just below and usually fastened with either a button or buckle; were initially worn by men in the late 19th century and gradually became part of women’s fashion; the garment was usually worn as sportswear and became especially popular among golfers and female cyclists, hence the term “pedal pushers”

Kohl - a black material made out of minerals such as galena and used for eyeliner and eye protection in ancient Egypt

Labret - a type of lip-piercing worn by various cultures to indicate wealth, prosperity and beauty

Love Lock - a lock of hair from the nape of the neck hanging over the chest to show romantic attachment; it was a popular hairstyle between 1590-1650

Lurex - a shiny synthetic fiber made of aluminum-coated plastic with a glittering metallic sheen

Mantua - a jacket-like bodice with pulled back overskirt that bustled in the back, often in elaborately patterned fabric, first worn in the 17th century

Medici Collar - a collar that stands upright on the back of the neck and opens in the front; this type of ruff was introduced to France by Marie de’ Medici in the 16th century, taking her name two centuries later

Moccasins - a type of soft animal skin shoe that were worn by Indians in North America

Muff - a tubular padded covering of fur or fabric, into which both hands are placed for warmth

Mule - a backless shoe

Muslin - a simple plain-weave textile made out of cotton and available in varying weights and finishes; historically, there were also varieties of muslin in silk and wool

Needle Lace -often known as “needlepoint lace”; is a term referring to the technique in which the lace is made of entirely needle work; it developed in the 15th century and then became very popular throughout the 16th century

Nemes Headdress - starched, striped linen headdress that draped on the shoulders and had a tail at center back worn only by royals in ancient Egypt

Panes/Paning - a method of decoration using long parallel strips of fabric arranged to reveal a contrasting fabric underneath that was fashionable from the 15th-17th centuries

Panniers - an under-structure used in eighteenth-century fashion that created a shape wide at the sides and flat at the front and back

Pantalettes - (also referred to as pantaloons) are loose, pants-like undergarments that covered women’s lower halves in the late 18th and early 19th century

Particolored - the combination of different colors within the same garment along the vertical axis

Passementerie - an additional accent or embellishment in silk or metallic threads, such as an embroidered braid, tassel or fringe

Pattens - wooden-soled platform over-shoes, which were commonly worn from the 14th century to the 18th century

If any of these words make their way into your next poem/story, please tag me, or leave a link in the replies. I would love to read them!

More: Fashion History ⚜ Word Lists

[emmy-hunterson-schofield]

Amina (An Emperor Geta fanfiction) One-shot 🏛️⚡️⚔️🌸

"No! Don't take them! Take me instead, Imperator Geta…" Her voice faded in a fearfully soft note, echoing throughout the senatorial chamber of the palace. "Imperator Caracalla… you may take me as a captive."

"She doesn't mean that, Your Highnesses…" Marcus Acacius begged for his daughter's life with the two deranged co-emperors, feeling the silent presence of his wife Lucilla at his side, her eyes watching the teenage girl offer herself so selflessly in the midst of their betrayal.

"Silence, all of you!" Emperor Caracalla shouted, his white sleeping tunic slipping off his pale shoulder in his manic movements as he grabbed a sword from one of the nearby guards and lunged toward Acacius and Lucilla. "Slaughter him! And crucify her!"

Geta had the quick reflex of dealing with Caracalla's mood swings, the younger twin's brain slowly being eaten away by the disease simultaneously spreading through his loins… he grabbed Caracalla and held him back as the young girl stood in between her father and stepmother.

He allowed two of the guards to restrain Caracalla, the ill man catching his breath and slowly beginning to calm down. "Brother… what could this girl have to offer us? These traitors need to be punished!"

Geta tightened the sash of his dressing gown around his waist, his dark eyes locked on the youthful girl standing straight as an arrow, her head held high as her own eyes bravely met his… the emperor searching for any sign of fear or hesitation in her pleading to sacrifice herself for her family.

She forced herself not to back away from the tall flame-haired man with the fathomless orbs as he came closer to her, his towering height looming over her petite stature causing his shadow to darken everything around her… the tips of his cold fingers came underneath her chin and she shivered from his touch, blinking away tears from her eyes.

Tears of defiance or horror, he could not decipher…

"Tell me, little blossom… what you shall forsake for your deceitful family?" Geta's voice was huskily low, a slithering nasal tone of impatience, his thumb brushing along her jawline as he held her still, tilting up her face to maintain their eye contact, the top of her head barely coming up to his shoulders in their differing heights.

She swallowed a thick, aching gulp of bile in her throat, recalling the rumors she had heard of the emperors' depravity and demented excess of using others' suffering for their amusement. "I offer you… my freedom… and my virtue… I won't try to leave and I shall stay as your prisoner… but only if you let my father and stepmother go free and unharmed."

Geta considered her words, his fingers loosening on her chin as he lowered her face back down so she looked at the marble floor. His thumb caught a tear upon her fair cheek, apple-red with the warmth of blood in her veins. "You give me your word that you will stay… for the consequences shall be dire if you try to escape… I'll shatter Rome into pieces column by column to bring you back."

She watched Geta lift his thumb to his own lips, his tongue tasting the lone diamond tear from her eye… her lips were dry as she swallowed none existent saliva down her esophagus as she imagined his threats coming to light if she dishonored their bargain…

Rome aflame with destruction and chaos…

How many people would be killed in her name if the Emperors went on a vengeful rampage to find her?

Surely her family would suffer the most…

Her father would be slaughtered in the Coliseum and her stepmother crucified, a woman truly more like a blood mother to her as her father's first wife had died birthing her eighteen years ago.

She opened her mouth to speak, her voice just steady enough to keep from shaking, forming her words in a simple cadence toward the tyrannical ruler, his eyes having not blinked since his fingers had come into contact with her skin, his black pupils dilated with emotions she was too terrified to comprehend.

"You… you have my word, Emperor Geta. I will stay and belong to you." She folded her hands together in front of her stomach in a docile manner to display that she wasn't going to challenge them.

"Then our bargain is sealed." Geta spoke loudly, his voice reverberating through the chamber in an echo. "Release the General and Lady Lucilla and escort them back to their dwellings. Post more guards at every door so they don't take away what's mine."

"What?! Brother… now you'll have the whole Roman army at our door! Taking the general's daughter!" Caracalla shouted, though he was ignored as Geta had grabbed the girl's arm as she tried to reach out for her parents.

"Father! Please let me say goodbye, my Imperator! Please, I beg you!" She called out in desperation as she watched the guards block Acacius and Lucilla from getting to her for one last embrace as a family.

"No! Don't take my daughter!" Acacius bellowed a paternal borne rage as he witnessed his only child being held back in the older emperor's grasp.

"Your Grace, please! Don't make her throw her life away for our sakes!" Lucilla cried out for her stepdaughter, losing yet again another child she had loved though they were not of biological relation.

"She volunteered of her own free will to give herself to me, Lady Lucilla." Geta grasped the teenage girl around the waist to keep her from her family, his hold firm and surprisingly strong given his lithe and lanky build compared to the obviously muscular build of gladiators she had seen fighting in the Coliseum. "She'll want for nothing and her personal possessions will be brought to her chambers from your home."

"If she's harmed in any way…" Acacius' voice lowered an octave in a threatening growl, his hand reflexively reaching for a sword that wasn't there at his hip.

"As long as our agreement remains unbroken, she'll be in no danger…" Geta felt his new prisoner struggle in his arms, her energy slowly deteriorating as she was becoming exhausted from the emotional and physical toll the entire ordeal placed on her. His nose nuzzled the top of her head, his lips brushing the crown of her wild curls, his eyes meeting the enraged glare of Acacius in the mocking affection toward his daughter. "Lead them away from the palace grounds, whatever it takes. For now, it's time to give our lovely guest the welcome she deserves."

The girl had turned in his arms, her fists weakly beating on his chest as she cried and whimpered, angry with herself, her father and the whole situation she found no way out of. He ears were ringing as she barely heard her father and stepmother calling out again for her, the guards ordering them to move.

She was frozen on the spot, the blood rushing down from her head as her knees buckled…

She buried her face in her hands, truly realizing what she had given up in her haste to save her family.

Before she could fall to the ground in a feat of dizziness, her legs were swept up from underneath her, by a cold ringed hand hooking beneath her knees and two arms holding her close to a carved chest covered with a royal red dressing garb.

Emperor Geta carried her away through the dark moonlit halls of the palace and she refrained from touching him, her hands clutched together in her lap. Geta was ever the marble ivory statue come alive from stone in his build as he moved with the refined grace and effortless gait in which he walked.

Many statue busts of past Caesars mocked her with their stares as they passed through the many halls as she was laying in Geta's cradling hold.

What he lacked in physical musculature, he made up for in internal strength and cunning…

She sniffled, tiredly leaning her head on his shoulder as she inhaled the soothing scent of his bath soaps and incense.

However he yearned to give her the illusion of freedom in his home, she was still a hostage, a pawn to be used in a political game to keep leverage over the general and the queen regent. "The palace is now your home, so you may explore to your leisure. There is a garden to admire and pools for you to swim within. And anything you require, servants will attend you."

He spoke so causally as he carried her to a grand door leading to the largest bedchamber in the palace not accounting Geta and Caracella's.

"But… what will you want me for? Am I to be your concubine?" She dared ask for the specific reason for why he would want to keep her as he had been promised her virginity as well as her free will.

"We need not worry about such a matter tonight, little blossom." Geta continued to carry her as they conversed, stepping over the threshold of the door and she absorbed the grand décor of her bedchamber, a room for an empress than a general's daughter.

The emperor went toward the massive bed and slowly lowered his arms and allowed her to lay on the soft covers of the mattress, her head and shoulders sinking into the pillows as he heard her sigh out in exhaustion, a convulsing sob erupting from her throat as she looked up at her captor. "How could you not permit me to say goodbye to them… I may keep my promise to not leave, but I'll never give myself to you… not to a monster like you!"

"Oh, you will, my blossom. Not tonight or tomorrow… but you are mine. I'll have your body and your love, for that will be a greater punishment for your family than death. To see their beloved daughter as the grand jewel of the Emperor's treasure." Geta leaned above her, quickly pulling the sheets and covers over her small body in an imprisoning cocoon, the weight holding her down against the mattress and pillows should she try to slip out of bed…

The snake wrapping its coils around its prey, preparing to devour the fragile creature…

He held down her shoulders as she struggled beneath him against the pillows and she opened her mouth to cry out, however pointless the effort was as everyone would obey the Emperor's orders no matter what she said, her throat was dry as a desert, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

"Shh… nobody's coming to your rescue, little blossom. Just accept your fate and all will be well." Geta spoke softly, leaning close as he inched toward her face and she caught her breath, seeing his regally handsome features overwhelming her full vision, creeping closer and closer as her drive to get away began to fade, her heartbeat calming in her chest.

She moaned in her fatigue, slowly becoming intoxicated with the hypnotic method in which he spoke, their noses brushing as she saw only the dark deep brown of his irises, her reflection looking back at her, vulnerable and trapped.

"What are you doing to me?" She mumbled, her tongue numb in her mouth like she was inebriated, though she hadn't consumed any alcohol.

"Quiet, sweet one. Speak no more. You must sleep as it's late in the night." His fingers stroked along her hair, brushing the strands from her face as he watched with inner glee as her eyelids began to droop, seeing her succumb to his command. "Look into my eyes and obey me…"

He pulled the silken sheets up to her chin, ensuring she was securely tucked into bed as though she were a child rather than a girl on the verge of adult womanhood.

"Forget all you knew before tonight… Acacius and Lucilla… they are no more in your memory. There's just you and me and Rome…" He stroked her cheek with the back on his fingers, careful not to scratch her fragile skin with his many rings. "Just surrender to my voice in your ears, lulling you into sleep, dreamless and calm as Somnus would see as best for your mind."

Geta watched with silent satisfaction as she still fought to remain awake, her lovely eyes glazed over in her entranced state, half-covered by her closing eyelids. His wine-coated breath brushed her lips and he yearned to wet them… his tongue licked over the rosebud shape of her mouth and he sealed her lips closed with a kiss. A small sigh emitted from her throat as her body relaxed further into the pillows, her breathing evening out as she sank deeper into slumber, the emperor still looming over her. His shadow darkened her peaceful visage and he spoke still to her, wanting to make certain she was under his influence.

The maiden Amina being offered as a martyr to the Gods and engaging Eros' affections…

"You will be bound to me forever in marriage… as my wife and my empress at my side. Every night, I'll adore and worship you in our bed and by day you'll be given everything you desire. Jewels, gowns, nourishment, flowers, books… Anything you want…" His fingertips caressed the softness of her long eyelashes as they remained still on her face, signaling that she was indeed floating in a mental abyss of darkness.

Geta then moved his fingers down the length of her small nose, then the rosy round curve of her cheeks… her moistened lips slightly open and she inhaled and exhaled, his twitching fingers moved to touch her mouth in silent intimacy and he wanted to kiss her again… leave a mark of wonder upon her feminine beauty… as a man would do upon the woman he would claim as a bride.

She was his prisoner for now… but in time he would make her learn to accept herself as a soon-to-be wife of Emperor Geta and if she said the word, he would burn it all the ground and allow her to bathe in the blood and ashes of the aftermath.

He would see her at his side, no matter what measures he had to take to possess her. Even if she would despise him for all eternity, Geta always got what he wanted in the end.

Now, she belonged to him and he would keep her with him forever, even after Rome fell at their feet and the Gods claimed them for damnation.

Geta moved to lie down beside her above the covers, whispering more hypnotic verses to keep her in the clutches of sleep, his fingers stroking her long hair pooling around her head on the large featherdown pillows. His aching fingers touching her face once again, tracing along her chin…

"It's all coming into place now, little blossom… seeing you sinking into an irresistible sleep after such torment tonight. I admire your bravery as foolishly in vain it was. But, now you've paid the price with your freedom and your unbreakable vow. I'll take your virtue on our wedding night, for you shall be my bride. In time, you will come to see it's all for the best and you will be loved and cherished in my blackened heart as I will do anything you say… except let you go. You will be pampered and nurtured as a goddess would be… but only if you stay."

She remained dutifully silent in unconsciousness, her breaths the only response in the shadows and moonlight dancing along her innocent splendor. A wide prideful smile spread across Geta's lips as he pulled her close to his chest, enfolding his arms around her in a selfish, domineering grip of sinful need, laying her head upon his pectoral where his heartbeat vibrated beneath her ear.

"For tonight, you just sleep, little one. You're mine, now and for eternity." He bestowed one more condemning kiss upon the sleeping maiden's lips, still cradling her close and determined to never release her… "For this city will burn if you leave and Rome's blood will be on your hands."

Even her dreams were no escape, his voice hissing and seething his threat in her ear despite the gentle cage of his arms around her.

Only death would be a mercy for her if she could not be free and protect her family… and the fate of Rome.

[barbieaemond]

The King of Qarth II

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Qartheen f!reader (use of third perspective)

PART 1 | SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

Warnings: mentions of child sexual abuse, mentions of child bride, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, grinding, handjob, knife kink if you squint, self indulgent use of sorcery

Word count: 11k

Author's note: Aemond and the Salt Queen gets to know each other and do some good ol' bonding on shared trauma(s).

English is not my first language.

Taglist: @zae5 @arcielee @multyfangirl @zaldritzosrose @succnfuccubus @kckt88 @venmondiese @mariahossain @miraclealignertlsp369 @ilikechocolatemilkh @credulouskhaleesi @bunbunbl0gs @alphard-hydraes-blog @gemini-mama @freyaniobe @toodlesxcuddles @youngestxhearts @helen06dreamer

“Don’t run from me, kori” he screamed as she ran into the night “Please! Come here!”

He tried to chase her but her feet were faster, barely touching the ground as the nine-year-old girl ran away from the Palace of Dust.

She felt she could run forever, that she could not stop, not until she had forgotten what she had seen. What were those invocations? Why was that woman naked and screaming? Why was her father slaughtering animals on a stone altar and drinking their blood?

“Knowledge comes with a great cost.” was all Fydor repeated when the jarring rumors about what was being done in the House of the Undying reached her young ears and her mother, when the Shadow of the Evening had already stained her father's lips and fingernails blue for good.

“What does it mean, Father? What knowledge?”

“Any kind of knowledge, kori. Everything that was, that is. Everything that could be.”

But she did not want to know. Knowing had cost her her mother. She just wanted to run, but the black-barked trees with blue leaves seemed to envelop her like shadows in flesh, a labyrinth changing its thousand deceiving paths with every step she took.

For a moment she turned, her father was running after her but he was far. Until he wasn't.

She went crashing into him as the other Fydor continued to run behind her. He had done this before, all the Warlocks of Qarth did, appearing in several places at once.

White as a sheet, she watched her father lower himself toward her in that strange embroidered tunic like one who performs a ritual. Even in the darkness of that labyrinthine wood, the blue stood out on his lips and in the sclerae of his eyes.

“You don’t have to be afraid...but why? Why did you come here?”

“I heard the screams.” the little girl said with her lower lip trembling “When is Mother coming back?”

“She won’t, kori. It’s only you and me now.”

It was the first and only time she set foot in the Palace of Dust. Visits to her father were rare, although he longed to see her. Sometimes she could swear she could hear him talking in her head, telling her that the shadows protected her, that he protected her through them. Other times she would give in and invite him to the Palace of Salt, almost glad to see him but not quite.

There were always two opposite grooves in her lips when she looked at him. He was the man who avenged her and lost his tongue for it; he was the man who drove her mother to flee, abandoning their daughter.

She felt like that right now as she walked away, as she ran away from him, just like when she was nine. She could hear him echoing in her eardrums, as she left the courtyard with Prince Aemond, with the voice of the past, as if he had regrown his tongue.

“What did he say?”

“Trees wail…leaves are bleeding…” she hears, not the Prince speaking.

Aemond pulls her arm and feels her tensing at his touch, blinking at him as if she wasn’t there up until now. “What?”

“Your father. What did he say before we left?”

"Nothing of your concern.” She says lightly and resumes her walk. He stands still for a moment, sure, as he is sure of the noble blood in his veins, that whatever the warlock said through his hands, did concern him.

Unfortunately, he’s forced to set that thought aside as they leave the Palace; Aemond halts his stride, narrowing his eye at the strange wheelhouse waiting before him. A wheelhouse without wheels, and not even a carriage; more like a bed waiting to be moved, with veils and curtains on each of the four sides. A palanquin, he recalls the word from some book he read. This is how aristocracy moved in the East.

He turns his head as air shifts behind him, and a moment later he’s almost growling at one of the Sorrowful Men, bold enough to lay hands on him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The Salt Queen rolls her eyes and walks to him. “Leave it. I’ll deal with the Prince. He’s already accustomed to having my hands on him, am I right?” she says with a tight, luscious smile, and oddly enough, but perhaps not so much, he doesn’t flinch as she starts to search his blue silks for any weapon.

Her hand slips beneath the soft fabric, gliding on his bare skin, chest and ribs, and she stares at him deliberately, just like him. “Perhaps your Highness just couldn’t wait to get her hands on me again.” he retorts with the ghost of an obnoxious grin.

She says nothing, staring at him as she searches his waist and then through the blue folds underneath. “Ah.” she tuts at one point, slowly drawing his faithful dagger. “And here I thought you were just pleased to see me. You won’t need this.” she says, keeping the blade. “Unlike you, I don’t bite. Unless asked of course.”

He hears the stretch on the word asked and nods slowly, plastering a fake, chastened frown. “I see. My deepest apologies. I didn’t think I had to ask since you have been throwing yourself at me at every corner. Speaking of which, your husband seemed quite proud of your performance earlier at breakfast. Will you be rewarded for your noble services?”

She only blinks at his vitriolic remark, but there is not a trace of outrage on her face. “Someone might say it is not wise to insult someone, especially a woman, when she is armed.”

“Why, do you know how to use that?” he asks, lowering his gaze and tilting his chin to point at the blade.

“No, but how difficult could it be considering how little it takes me to get you to let your guard down? Just like any man, I might add.”

He has no time to bite back, annoyingly moving his jaw at being deemed an ordinary man who crumples at a woman’s touch, while she turns her back and moves the curtains aside to enter the palanquin.

Aemond follows and finds himself cursing internally as he tries to adjust inside that odd, restricted transport. He wouldn’t even call it that. It’s nothing but a mattress with soft cushions on it.

Were Qartheens accustomed to doing everything lying on those damn cushions?

He might just sit, but he is too tall, and the canopy of the litter is too low, greeting his head with a slight bump. The Queen stifles a smile, already settled on the cushions with her legs tucked under her, and she watches him sigh deeply, resigning himself with clear annoyance to lie down on the cushions, holding onto one elbow.

Aemond tries to look at ease, not bothered by the woman and how much she's close to him, as close as if they were to confide a secret to each other, and just as he thinks he has settled down, the Sorrowful Men are lifting the litter, and he is jolted forward, slightly on top of her.

She lifts her arm to hold him by the shoulder, and in that split second, Aemond ties his hand around her arm to keep his weight off her. She tenses, just as before, just as she did the night before in his room. To her misfortune, she is now the one who suffers from too much proximity, or rather, a total lack of space. She feels the long single braid dangling on her, tickling her chest. She can see the specks of blue in his iris, the small cleft on the tip of his nose, the way that vicious mouth flaunts a perfect shape.

If only she could actually read minds, she would know that that last thought mirrors in his head.

He shouldn't care, he shouldn't even linger on that thought. This woman has done nothing but trample on his pride, has done nothing but mocking and taunting, and she seems quite adamant on keeping doing so. But perhaps it's because her mouth is close now, and for once silent, slightly open; an offering hiding a thousand more. And he had not taken it. In the throes of rage and pleasure, he had not kissed her. And he wishes. He wishes to know. Would she taste sweet? Tart?

Would she taste like salt?

The thought slips to the back of his mind as she clears her throat and straightens up, forcing him to distance himself, although they are still uncomfortably close. With one hand she knocks twice against the canopy, and the Sorrowful Men start walking.

Aemond leans better on his elbow to curb the swaying of the litter, and sighs glancing at the woman beside him. “Never heard of horses in this part of the world?”

“Horses barely survive in the desert, ask any Dothraki. Besides, what you Westerners do with those poor beasts is barbaric.”

His eyebrow is raising, ready to rebut, but as he opens his mouth, she offers him a small plate full of dates and dried figs. He moves his hand to dismiss it, causing her to frown. “Do you ever eat?” she takes one fig between her fingers and bites. “You should try one. Perhaps it’d make you less…bitter all the time.”

He glares at her but in doing so, he stumbles upon her mouth and the saccharine juice pasting her lips. She reads this as if he is reconsidering, so she stretches the half-bitten fig, and given their closeness, it takes her little to bring it to his mouth.

Aemond tilts his head back to decline and sighs. "Do you always think about eating here?"

"God no, we have much more pleasant pastimes." she says, chewing the other half of the fruit. "Would you like to hear about some of them?"

Aemond is not looking at the woman, and yet he can feel her luscious smile like something vivid, prickling his skin. "I can imagine."

"Can you? It doesn't seem so."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, perhaps our intimate encounter misleads me, but...you seem that kind of man who fucks his wife only on all fours, to feel in power and all those manly excuses."

"I am not." he hisses.

"Really?” She tilts her head curiously and looks at him closely. “Ever let her be on top? Ever been tied up? Blindfolded?"

He looks away at that, scoffing. "So, it's either eat or fuck."

Aegon would have thrived here, he thinks dimly.

"Fine. What should we talk about then?"

"Why do we have to?"

"The war? I, for instance, think it's only your father's fault. He wanted a son, right? And he had three. People unfit to take a decision should not be allowed to rule, if you ask me. On the other hand, though, what your mother did upon his death—"

"Keep my mother out of your mouth."

She hears the threat in the hissing way the words come out of his mouth, so she hushes, and turns her head toward the bustle of the city blurred by the veils and curtains of the litter. “Silence it is.”

And silently, he thanks the Gods for a moment of peace, free of this constant enquiring and teasing. That same silence though, only makes him think of Alicent. Is she still in chains? Is she wondering about him day and night or did she choose to banish him from her mind as he banished her?

Perhaps now that he is in a rather civil city, he could send word to her? Let her know he’s alive and that he was…what was he doing here?  

But even if he did know, he could not trust any of these people.

“What is exactly your husband’s plan now?”

“What do you think? You promised them dragon eggs. They won’t let you go until they have their little lizards to play with.”

Aemond scoffs, glancing distractedly beyond the curtains “Do you think you can fool me? Speaking of them as if you are not into it as well.”

“I am not. We may have different customs, but even here women are pawns in the hands of men. Men choose what we shall do, who we shall marry…how they shall fuck us.” He drags his eye back on her at this, watching her as she adds “But I have no interest in keeping you here, or having a creature spitting fire as a pet. I prefer cats, if you must know, or snakes.”

“I see. So, you just follow his orders? He tells you to fuck whoever is housed under your roof, and you obey?”

“I fuck who I wish to. And if you don’t want to taste how sharp your dagger is, you might want to stop addressing me as a whore.”

“Who you wish?”

“Yes.” She catches a glimpse of his eyebrow raising in a rather boastful way and looks away, huffing. “Quit it, dragon prince. You might be handsome, but it wasn’t that special.”

“Why? It was hard to tell in the midst of all that begging.”

“Because I don’t like to feel like I’m ten again.”

The smug expression on Aemond's face disappears as quickly as the Salt Queen speaks those words, wrinkling his forehead as he grasps their meaning. But she looks at him with a passive face, and she speaks of this person, herself, and yet another, with the distant tone with which one speaks of the dead.

“I was raped when I was ten. Bent over my small table while I was painting seashells.”

Aemond looks genuinely startled, and why wouldn’t he? He is not sure he can trust this woman’s word, but something in the back of his mind, namely the way she was tensing like steel as he took her from behind, tells him she’s speaking the truth. After all, it seems her tongue is made of nothing else.

“Don’t look at me like that.” she says “I’m not telling you to make you say you’re sorry. Everyone knows. There is no such thing as secrets here. It helps the trades, makes for more honest negotiations.”

The litter stalls as Aemond barely registers they must have reached the walls, but he doesn’t move, staring at the woman, cautiously, enquiringly, as something unfolding right before him.

“And what are we trading?”

She was starting to move to get out of the palanquin, but she halts at his question, raking his half-lying figure with her eyes, the long slender hands laced together on his abdomen, the little smooth portion of chest peeking from the blue silks. “It depends on what you are offering…”

They share a long earnest look, unwavering on both parts, until the curtains are moved. “Your Highness, we have reached the walls.”

The woman blinks and takes a light breath. “Let’s go, shall we? Before your lizard starts chewing the walls.”

She barely moves and he’s seizing her wrist, drawing her eyes back on him instantly. The Queen witnesses something new curling his features, cracking his mouth open and then shutting it back—a reluctance, almost a regret that does not settle well on that ever-so-strict face; it seems unwanted, rejected, and yet it keeps coming back, twitching his mouth twice. “Had I known…I would’ve behaved differently.” He says staring down, whereas she stares right down at him, at the grimace twisting his lips, as if tasting salt. “I know how it is…to feel—”

“Powerless?”

In more ways than one.

He doesn’t utter the words, but the way his eye pierces through her is nothing but a confession. 

“You could have stopped me.”

“Yes, I could. That’s what troubles me.” She says in a hushed tone, and now she’s the one staring down, grimacing. “I didn’t want to.”

Being a dragonrider, one might think Aemond should be used to deal with strange creatures. And yet, his brow is furrowing steeply as soon as they’re out of the city walls. There are some men waiting for them, common men dressed in dark robes, acting as keepers for a four-legged animal that Aemond has never seen in his life. A camel.

The Salt Queen fakes a frown upon reading the confusion on his face and says “Surely you didn’t think we would walk in the desert.”

“Because it’s hot or because it goes against all the lying around you do here?”

She bursts into a short laugh, drawing his eye to her, and says “It seems you have found your humor. I’m glad. I like men who can make me laugh.”

It was not really his intention, rather a mere observation, but he says nothing, lingering for a moment on her lips curved up, before returning to look at the creature before him, slowly ruminating something as it stares at him with two dark, waning eyes.

“I don’t know how to ride this—thing.”

“Ah, it’s a bit tricky. You see,” she goes to stand right beside him, leaning against him so that he feels her bare shoulders against his arm, and as she gestures towards the camel, she says “You have to get on it and keep yourself balanced on the hump with one knee. Very dangerous, I must warn you. Most men die by merely trying.”

She turns to look at him with her lips cracking in amusement, but as she sees the earnest, not at all amused, face he’s wearing, she sighs deeply. “And it’s lost again.”

“It’s just a bit slower than a horse.” She explains taking a step away as one of the Sorrowful men hands her some blue fabric, like a scarf. Aemond sees her handing one to him and she speaks before he asks about it. “For your skin. To shield you from the sun if you don’t want to peel your face off because of burn blisters.”

He grabs the cloth, unfolding it between his hands as, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Queen wrap her own around her head, leaving only a crevice for her eyes. He tries to mimic her gestures, but his braid gets stuck, so she walks to him raising her hands, and without a word she helps him, wrapping his head and face in blue.

“Come. Since it’s your first time, you’ll ride with me.”

Then, she moves towards the camel, while the armed men will follow on foot, dragging the cart of dead pigs and goats. With silent relief on his part, Aemond finds out that it seems even easier than riding a horse. At first.

The camel kneels on the sand on his four legs, and Salt Queen straddles it, sitting in the saddle. She swings each leg on both sides of the creature, her silks gliding like water, effectively baring her skin from the ankles to her thighs; she makes room for him, turning her head to beckon him to sit behind her and, inevitably, she sees him staring down at her bare legs. “So, you found something else to stare at other than my breast. Good.”

Aemond looks up and then away, moving to get this over with. He sits on the saddle, behind the woman, their bodies barely touching, at first. As she grabs the reins, she slightly turns her head saying “Follow my lead.”

She pulls at the reins and since camels stand up with their back legs first, Aemond is jolted forward, colliding against the Salt Queen who promptly instructs him. “Lean back…”

He does so, and she does too, resting her shoulders against his chest. “And now forward.” She adds when the animal gets onto its front legs. Aemond lurches forward, and having no handhold, he grips her left side not to crash his body on her.

“Pigaí.” She says in Qartheen and, slowly, the camel starts walking. Aemond briefly looks behind, watching the Sorrowful Men move accordingly, four of them dragging a wooden cart full of carcasses, but soon he finds himself too occupied with keeping balance to spare a glance behind.

A camel’s walk is nothing like the gait of a horse. It’s odd, irregular, jerky; it keeps jolting him backward and then forward, each time forcing him to bump against her back, to hold onto her, sometimes her arm, sometimes her hip, her thigh even, like a toddler who's just learning to walk.

Hearing his short and clearly annoyed sighs, the Queen smiles behind the tajel, keeping her gaze fixed on the dunes at the horizon, and softly shakes her head. “Always so rigid…”

“What” he asks without even intoning the question, because the camel and this hiccup-like swinging is getting on his nerves, not to mention the heat, sticking the silks on him, or the woman's body which, for all the right reasons but rather inconvenient under the circumstances, is making his blood flow down too fast.

“You are too rigid.” She says, slightly raising her tone. “You have nothing to prove to this poor beast, or me.”

She takes his hand that he held like an iron clamp on her side and turns her head a little, enough to catch his eye. "Let yourself sway, don't fight it."

Keeping his eye on her, his grip lessens, just as all the stiffness in his body. She feels him sway, brushing naturally against her without tensing every time their bodies touched. And yet her throat stiffens as he keeps swinging against her, and she’s glad she’s giving her back and wearing a tajel, so he cannot see her lips parting as air hitches in her mouth.

The camel’s hooves avoid human and animal remains in what is nothing but a Garden of Bones; the sun is scorching, the air so humid, heavy, it feels like cotton when swallowing. But fortunately for them, she is not late to come into view amid those white dunes.

"By all the Gods..." The Queen cries out in disbelief, widening her eyes as she sees a huge black spot in the middle of the yellowish-white desert; a mountain, of flesh and fire.

The camel must sense her agitation, or perhaps he’s wise enough to know what he is up against. He starts to flail, to paw, and the Queen is forced to pull on the reins, unbalanced back and forth. Aemond holds her by the arms with his eye strained on Vhagar, but the quadruped seems to have no intention of staying there a minute longer.

He screeches to the point that both Aemond and the Queen are thrown from the saddle, landing on the sand, one on top of the other. The camel flees, despite one of the Sorrowful Men attempts to catch him.

That little cackle, however, awakens the dragon, or perhaps she simply sensed her rider. Vhagar raises her huge head from the cat-like crouched position she was in, her amber eyes wide as well as her giant wings. Aemond is barely in time to stand and help the woman do the same when the earth beneath them shakes as if in an earthquake.

The Queen of Salt whitens like a sheet as she sees that terrifying beast advancing from a distance, a distance that drastically runs out because each stride of the dragon covers miles.

She freezes on the spot, her mouth wide open, because the dragon keeps advancing, and for a moment she seriously thinks she is breathing the last breaths of her life.

Aemond shields her with his body, and Vhagar stops, opening her mouth wide and roaring so loudly that the queen has to cover her ears. Even Aemond scrunches his face under the scorching gust that sweeps over him, so scorching that the glimmer of flames ignites at the back of her jaws. She's not happy to see him. Or rather, she's not happy about being abandoned to starve in the desert, even for one day. Ageing makes even beasts more irritable.

“Lykirī, Vhagar!” the Prince shouts “Lykirī!”

But she does not listen, not immediately at least. She continues to roar, intent on voicing her disappointment. Then, finally, she closes her jaws. The Queen looks at her with wide eyes, her chest rising and falling quickly, her hands laced firmly around Aemond's arms. Vhagar lowers her head toward him, still showing her fangs, and flares her nostrils, smelling something, someone, foreign.

“What is she doing?” the Queen asks in a whisper.

“Hush.”

She tilts her head back, looking at him from behind and still whispering, says “Need I remind you my father is a warlock? If your dragon eats me, I will come back to haunt you.”

He doesn’t bother to retort, even more so because Vhagar makes a sudden movement, turning her head sharply as her nostrils smell what she has been craving for too long. Aemond follows her gaze, barely having the time to register the Sorrowful Men on the right, at a good distance but not far enough for a starving dragon.

“Get away from there!” the Prince warns them “Move!”

As soon as that last word leaves his mouth, Vhagar moves with impressive speed, given her size and age, but hunger quickens her limbs. Her head sinks on the cart as the armed men scurry away without logic, raising a cloud of dust and sand as her fangs pierce wood, flesh and bone.

She perches on the sand to enjoy her much-needed meal, which disappears by the second under the gaze of Aemond and the Salt Queen, still pale as a sheet and stunned by what she's witnessing, flinching every time she hears jaws snapping and bones cracking.

“Where are you going?” she asks as Aemond tries to take one step.

He turns, glancing at her hand gripping his arm, and looks at her for a moment before raising his eyebrow “Scared, are we?”

She gives him a flat look as if he has just informed her that the sky is blue. “Self-awareness is not cowardice.”

Aemond moves, circling the beast, and the woman dims it wisely to never leave his side, keeping a constant eye on the beast, unaware she’s still gripping his arm as she moves. The Prince stops somewhere near Vhagar’s left wing and the Queen watches as he seems to inspect it closely. Out of curiosity, she does the same, spotting a large wound toward the right end, healed but not quite. Aemond places one hand on the scales but as soon as he does that, Vhagar turns her head sharply, blood coating her jaws and fangs, and growls, clearly still annoyed with him or maybe just unhappy to be bothered during her meal.

“She’s just like you, isn’t she?” the Queen remarks “Sour and petty.”

Aemond ignores her, taking a step back, momentarily resigning not to tend to his dragon, as long as she’s in that mood. “Perhaps you could stop gripping me so hard now.” he says at one point, feeling the Queen’s nails digging through the silk.

She looks lost for a moment, and then withdraws her hand, looking away. She finds though that all she can look at is Vhagar, her giant dimension blocks her view entirely.

“How did you manage to tame such a monster?” she asks at some point, eyes full of dread, and yet wonder.

“She is not a monster.”

“No, of course not. She’s as sweet as a kitten.”

She observes the beast, her green and bronze scales, battered in several spots and frowns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, and I rarely am, did not dragons take decades to grow? She seems very old and you...” pausing, her eyes scan him from head to toe “you don’t look older than twenty-five?”

Aemond keeps his gaze fixed on Vhagar as he answers, that empty egg made of nothing but stone lost somewhere in the back of his mind. "My egg didn’t hatch. I claimed her when I was ten.”

"Ten?” she asks, disbelief and awe running together on her tongue.

He turns his head and tilts his chin down, and then up, as only pride can do. "Ten.”

She looks at him, not able to hide a righteous gleam of admiration, but then she’s crinkling her forehead, in that peculiar way of hers.

 "Was it worth it?” she asks, upon acknowledging that new piece.

"What?”

"The exchange. Was it fair? Your eye for a dragon.”

Do not mourn me, Mother. His mouth twitches as he remembers, almost relives it. It has been years and yet, he can almost feel the right side of his head numbed with too much pain, the stench of his own dead flesh. The needle going in and out but not actually stitching anything back together.

“How did it happen?” she asks, and her tone is different now. That constant veil of mocking in the way she phrases her questions is nowhere to be found.

“Do you want me to believe you don’t know yet?”

"I told you twice. I cannot control this…power, it comes and goes. I must admit though, it is coming quite often in the last few days…I wonder why…”

Aemond looks at her, sees her search on him a mystery to which he has no answers in the first place. He learned this from Alys.

Magic repels answers, it must live and thrive on mystery.

On chaos, you mean.

And what’s the difference? That’s what you really yearn for. Chaos.

He sighs to cast her out, and says “My nephew took it with a knife.”

"And you killed him. This is why they call you Kinslayer, is it not?”

She cannot see his expression behind the tajel, only his good eye, still, cold and unwavering, like a star, and beautiful in the most cruel way.

"We may have shared blood but he meant nothing to me. And he got what he deserved.” he said, trying a flat empty tone, but she hears the edges quivering, crumpling, like salt eroding rocks.

"And what about that boy? Did he get what he deserved?”

"What boy?”

"The ten year old you.” His eye seems to glow with new light at her words, like the sun catching the flashing steel of a blade, and even with the blue scarf hiding his face, she knows his teeth are grinding.  "I was never one for revenge.” She concedes, turning her head to the desert. "It may be the sweetest morsel, but somehow it never leaves you sated.”

"It sounds like you have tasted it.”

"Yes.” She admits, turning to look at him. "But it’s stuck in my throat.”

Aemond doesn’t need to ask, because as she said, there are no secrets in Qarth.

"You must have wondered why my father cannot speak.” she tells him, looking away, dredging up from her mind, from her memories, traces of a child who is no more. “There’s an ancient tradition here, when a wedding takes place. It’s called the sacred exchange. The bride and the groom can ask each other for one favor, anything, and they cannot refuse.” She returns her gaze to him, and says “My husband asked for my father’s tongue as my sacred gift.”

“Was it him?”

"No, not him…the night before our wedding, Irryo, Xavos’ brother, came into my room to give me his wedding gift. The purest silk I’ve ever seen. He made me wear it, stripped me bare with his own hands…said he wanted to see how I looked...”

She doesn’t need to utter the words. Aemond sees a little girl, a child, painting seashells, unfinished, falling from the table in a clatter of tinkles and choked cries.

"The wedding took place in a hurry an hour later. I said my vows with my silks still stained with blood. They were scared of my father’s wrath, you see. But it came anyway. Irryo died during the wedding feast. His eyes burst into his skull.”

“Your father’s doing.”

“Perhaps." she shrugs "I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, as I don’t know what to make of it now. I didn’t ask him to avenge me. All I wanted was for him, anyone, to say they were sorry for what had been done to me.”

Did he not want the same?

Apart from punishment, and then revenge, did he not want just one word of kindness from his father? Some sort of regret from Lucerys? 

She feels his eye on her, even if he’s not really looking at her, perhaps at some ghosts locked in his mind, so she glances at Vhagar, quite contented after her meals and currently resting on the sand. “We should go back to the Palace before it gets too hot out here. I will give orders to save more dead beasts for your dragon.”

The journey back to the walls is a silent one. It spreads, silence, like an oil stain as they climb back onto the litter; each of them has caught something of the other, something similar, different cracks etched with the same cruelty, and matching.

Their gazes match, as they remove the tajel from their heads, as she hands him some water. She looks around distractedly, but the curtains are closed and even if they weren’t, the sound of water rushing down his throat brings her eyes on him, and then closely, she watches his tongue flicking outside for a moment, she watches a drop of water running down his chin. And wishes to lick it off with her tongue.

Somehow, it’s like he can hear what she’s thinking, locking his eye on her. They don’t speak, it’s almost as if both of them are waiting for something.

"Your braid needs to be redone." She says at one point, and he turns, not looking at her face, not at first. She sees his eye trailing slowly over her until he speaks.

"Is that your offering?"

Closely, she rakes her eyes on his chiseled features, and she is not even aware she is imperceptibly leaning closer. A moth to a flame, they say. But she has always been the flame. And now, she finds she’s the one willing to bathe in the light, or burn.

“If you wish."

It comes out like a whisper, drawing his eye on her lips, unearthing that same desire from earlier, the thirst to know what she tastes like. "What If I wish for something more?"

“Such as?" she asks, raising one hand to touch his braid and undo it, smoothly, as if she had done this countless times before.

"Don't be shy now. Everything is a trade in Qarth. Even pleasure."

Swiftly, he clamps his hand around her wrist, stopping her, drawing a slight wince beneath her skin.

"Pleasure is not something to be traded.” He says, and it’s the flame now that is moving. “Only taken."

The short intake of air she breathes on his mouth is a seal. His lips meet hers abruptly, they part instantly and ravenously, like a starved man tasting a morsel, and then loosening to taste it, to taste her. Perhaps it’s desert, perhaps it’s herself, but she does taste like salt. She’s bitter on his tongue, in his nostrils; she muffles his ears until he hears only her sweet sighing in his mouth as he slips his tongue inside.

And he wants more of that, just as she wants more. He feels her unfolding beneath him as he towers over her, so differently from the previous night. She’s not tense. She’s loose like water, he feels her seeping in everywhere, around his neck and shoulders, in his mouth when her tongue darts in, in his blood when she softly rubs against him. His breathing becomes heavy, from lack of air, from hardening, and maybe he shouldn't, maybe this isn't really the right place. They could wait until they get back to the palace, but then she lies back on the pillows and reclines her head, offering her neck. Without thinking, he lowers himself down on her, in fact lying on her, and she instantly makes room for him by spreading her legs wide.

She gasps softly as he trails wet kisses on her neck, growing greedy as he travels down, to what he’s been secretly coveting since the first time he unapologetically landed his sight on.

Cupping her bare breast with his large hand, he holds it firmly, humming pleasurably as he takes the hard nipple into his mouth. Accordingly, she bucks her hips against him, feeling his hardening tease her center through that thin layer of silk. Between that and the swirling of his tongue, hot and wet around her nipple, she is panting, spreading her legs wide to cage his hips and push him against her, desperate for more friction.

Despite his ache for the same and more, he glances up, still torturing her nipple, hard and slick at this point, watching her as he grazes his teeth over that darker spot of skin, forcing a choked, loud whimper to escape her mouth.

“Careful, your Highness” he teases “lest you want to give your peasants a show.”

“What do you think these curtains are for?”

“You want me to fuck you here? Now?” he asks with a playful scorn in his voice, but she can hear his breath creaking, his tone lower and throatily.

She raises from the cushions, holding on one hand while the other slips between them, hovering on his groin, brushing feathery. “I believe you want to.” She breathes on his lips, parting as soon as he rocks his waist to catch her palm.

“We could wait to be in the Palace but…” she takes his hand and brings it between her legs, on that thin layer of silk, damp again his knuckles. “Would you be so cruel and leave me like this, for so long?”

He swallows something close to a growl upon feeling how wet she is for him, how her cheeks are barely flushed as she exhales heavily, her face scrunched lustfully for the little, shallow pleasure she finds from his fingertips.

Curtains or no curtains, Aemond is deaf and blind to anything else around him. With his fingers, he moves the fabric and twists his wrist, so that his palm is straight against her pulsing core. She sighs hoarsely as her wetness coats his hand, arching just as slightly, goading him to do more. She has been watching and coveting his fingers once too many times, the thought alone of having them inside her crumples her face in a pleading way, and she has no shame in voicing it. “Please, Aemond…”

Upon hearing his name, spoken in that exotic and alluring way, he bares his teeth and harshly slips not one, but two of his slender fingers inside, watching her tilt her head back, her mouth open and out of breath, but she’s looking at him and she’s quick to regain air, barely curving her lips up. “So you do know how to use your hands…”

“You never shut up, do you?”

“Well, make me.”

His cock twitches on its own at her words, and he kisses her, roughly, flexing his hand to start pumping his fingers in. She moans loudly on his tongue, lacing an arm around his neck, still holding herself onto the cushions with her other hand, angling her back so he can reach that special spot more easily.

“Oh God—yes---” she moans when he does, rocking her hips to meet his deft fingers in a sweet lewd sound that muffles any other coming from the fuss outside that litter. Her breath grows short and labored, mewling obscenely every time he curls his fingers, his gaze on her fixed and focused like on some holy mission.

He desperately wants to bury himself inside her, right there; he’s almost thankful for the much more loose clothes they wear here instead of the constricting breeches he was used to, even though he feels his flesh on fire, and he’s practically panting on her pleasure; his own is of no concern to him right now, not when she’s so close, not when he can watch a little more of her face distorting with wanton abandon, her neck lumped with sweat, the way her breast swings with her motions.

But she, on the other hand, seems eager to end this torture, and start another. The tensed muscle in her arm gives away, making her back fall on the cushions once more, but the other is still tied around his neck, so she drags him down with her and then she’s rummaging through the blue silks, eager to free his length, but he grips her wrist and holds it firmly above her head. “No…I have a score to settle with you.”

“What? You proved quite enough you know how to use your hands.” She says breathlessly, cracking half a smile “I swear on all the Gods, yours and mine, I won’t doubt you again.” 

Aemond is just about to retort but suddenly the palanquin stops, and they are abruptly brought back to the reality just outside those curtains. They hear a male voice and he looks enquiringly at the Salt Queen who visibly rolls her eyes and says something in Qartheen which, given her tone, Aemond is sure is some kind of curse.

She fumbles with her thin gowns, covering her nudity while he takes some distance, returning to lean on one elbow with once more clear annoyance, this time much more justified. And once more, he’s thankful for the loose silks, able to hide his otherwise plain arousal.

The Queen sighs deeply, to keep herself together, to stop the ringing in her ears and the aching stir below her navel; then she opens the curtains and smiles warmly. “Syradhor! I thought I recognized your voice.”

The man in yellow silks, with several sapphires embroidered in the fabric and worn on his fingers, bows for a moment saying, “Your Highness.” He takes her hand that she promptly offers and lightly kisses her knuckles, trailing his eyes on her with two eyes blind with admiration. “Any man who finds himself in the presence of such beauty can count himself as the luckiest in the world. What a blessing for me to be granted such fortune once more.”

Aemond is staring at the man, unimpressed, doing all he can not to scoff at the love sonnet-like speech, and a rather dull one. “Prince Aemond. A pleasure to see you again.”

Aemond recalls the man as one of the Merchant Kings who greeted him at the walls two days prior, but his face is all he remembers. “Which one is this?” he deadpans to the Salt Queen, evidently not happy to have been interrupted. She hears the annoyance in his voice and stifles a smile saying “This is Syradhor, the Ore King.”

The Prince barely tilts his chin down to greet him and the man in yellow takes a step forward, addressing the Queen. “Your Highness, since you are here, I am gladly extending my invitation to you as well.”

“Extending?” she asks.

“I—Yes, I was expecting Prince Aemond today, to formally receive him in my Palace.”

“Were you?” he drawls.

The honeyed benevolence leaves the man's face like a summer storm, because that's the way he is, as eager to please as he is quick to anger. “What is meaning of this? Did Xavos not inform you?”

“Of course.” Of course not, is what she means to say. But before she can utter another word, Aemond speaks. “Well, I’m afraid we have to delay this formal reception.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Syradhor.” The Queen steps in “you must understand, the Prince is new to our customs. He’s not aware of our welcoming traditions. As it happens, that was precisely what the Prince and I were discussing before you interrupted us.”

“Were we?” he says lifting his eyebrow.

She flashes daggers at him and continues with a broad smile. “I told him not to delay his visit to your Palace, for if ever a foreigner refused to visit one of the Thirteen—" she looks directly at Aemond, informing him at that very moment. “It would be considered the highest of insults.”

Aemond looks at her, unblinking, before sighing deeply, and deciding to play along. “Yes, I do recall now. Her Highness was quite vocal on the matter.”

She keeps smiling, for reasons entirely different from what the Ore King might think, and then he raises one hand towards the crowded street. “Please. My Palace is just around the corner.”

Aemond comes out of the litter, being careful to let the silks fall over all the right places.

“I hope you have a good time, my Prince.”

He whirls his head watching the Salt Queen stay still on the cushions and the Ore King looks just as stunned. “Will you not delight my Palace with your presence?”

“I am afraid I can’t, Syrhador. I was just asking the Prince for advice on some urgent matters I desperately need to attend to.” She pointedly looks at Aemond with a ghosting smile and then she shrugs, lightheartedly. “I suppose I shall take those urgent matters into my own hands.”

Her words and what they mean, stir something within him, more annoyance at the mere thought of wasting time with this little man —his shoulder reaches just above Aemond’s ribs— when he could be fucking her senseless on that litter, on his bed, hers, he’s not picky at this point. And more giddiness, making his blood boil at mere thought of her chasing her pleasure with her own hands.

But then she’s shutting him out, shutting the curtains, and ordering her men to move.

The sky is of a delicious pink-red shade when he returns to the Palace of Salt.

Four hours, that was the torment he had to endure in the presence of Syradhor and his family. Four hours in which he barely opened his mouth, and when he did, all that came out were monosyllables uttered from time to time in a manner closer and closer to snarling.

The Ore King had embarked on a soliloquy about alum, a precious mineral useful as mordant for dyeing wool, embalming animals and human bodies, and making wood fireproof. It would’ve been interesting for a former scholar as Aemond was, but it was difficult to think straight amid the chattering, duck-like squawking of Syradhor’s daughters, and even more difficult when he had brought the cup of wine to his mouth and sensed her intimate sweet-tart smell stuck on his fingers, awakening all the wrong thoughts.

In the end, he was so sick of the whole affair that he had curtly refused to be escorted to the palace of Xavos on another litter, and the Ore King had sent four of his guards to walk with him, along the streets of Qarth.

His spirits when he crosses the threshold of the Palace of Salt are at an all-time low. If only he didn't have to face another litter trip lying on cushions after spending four hours sitting on those same fucking cushions, he'd go straight to Vhagar. He's always been a solitary creature, just like her, and all these talks and pleasantries, fake or true, were like pouring a barrel of water into a narrow vase. He was toppling over.

Surprisingly though, as soon as he sets foot in his chambers, his foul spirits seem to instantly improve as he finds his room lit with candles, and not at all empty. The Salt Queen is sitting comfortably in an armchair, with her legs dangling graciously over the left armrest; a little book is clutched in her hold.

“My Prince.” She greets him as he lingers on the door, lifting her gaze from her reading.

Aemond closes the door, never tearing his gaze off her. It betrays nothing, only the faint irritation for the four hours wasted, but not the way his lungs swell upon seeing her.

“Did your Grace have fun?” she asks with sheer curiosity, closing the book with a light thud.

“Fun?” he repeats, as if she had just suggested she had proof unicorns from Skagos were real.

“Surely it was not that bad? I mean, yes, Syradhor is boring and yes, he has that annoying habit of touching you as he talks, but he has a great collection of wines. I should have told you. There’s no other way to survive him.”

“He has a litter of daughters” Aemond sneers, walking to her “each of them duller than the other.”

“Well, that happens when you fuck your relatives. You, above all, should know that.”

He looks at her questioningly and she leans forward to place the book on a little table, the soft fabric of her lilac gowns slips on her skin just as his eye slips on her bare thighs, glowing as gold under the candlelight. “His wife is his niece.” She says, looking up and catching his staring.

His eye trails slowly over her until locking her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“You forgot this.” She says, raising her hand with his dagger held between her fingers.

Aemond stops before her, raising an eyebrow as he looks down at her “You were waiting for me, to give me back my dagger?”

She takes a good amount of time, while looking at him, feeling his eye, darkened due to the dim light and boring into her, to utter a simple “No."

“Then why?”

She rises, handing the blade, and says “I believe we had a score to settle.”

Aemond takes the blade from her hands, nodding slowly, and then circles her to go sit where she was a moment ago, placing the blade on the armrest, along with his hands. “And what was it?” he asks with a faint smirk. If she’s keen on playing games, he will let her play this one. “Somehow, it’s eluding me now.”

She watches him cross his long legs, tilting his head as he awaits, and she says “Your braid needs to be redone.”

“Hmm.” Aemond looks around, almost amused, and sees his bed, not exactly in order as it was when he left, but slightly crumpled.

Did she lie on his bed? Did she touch herself and peak, writhing on his sheets? The thought alone tickles his spine, but still, he betrays nothing, only the faint tapping of his fingers against the armrest. “You’ve been here all this time to give me back my dagger and redo my hair.”

She watches his fingers moving and she’s moving. She would like to take his hand and pick up where they left off, but she just sits on his lap, forcing him to uncross his legs, and spread them a little to make her room. “I deeply cherish my guests and their welfare under my roof.” She jests, although it’s partially true.

The only difference is that she never spent hours waiting for one of her guests, or any man, nor fantasizing about all the ways that man could take her, not as fervently as she did as her hand moved relentlessly between her legs, finding but a mere flicker of the pleasure he had just started to spill from her.

“And did you…” his tone is coarse, so he pauses to swallow. He hates that his voice is coming out so low, he hates that this woman can reduce him like this in a matter of minutes, that his cock is already stirring. “Did you eventually take that urgent matter into your own hands?”

She takes a long lock of silver hair between her fingers, running them through it while she quietly answers

“Twice.”

“Here?”

“Yes.” She looks at him, while her fingers start to work on that lock, making a little braid using only one hand. “Disappointing.”

“The room or your hands?”

“Oh, the room was quite fine.” she lets the little braid rest among the other locks and trails her fingers on his chest, and a moment later underneath the silk, like tentacles. “I only wished I had your hands inside me.”

Her touch licks flames on his skin, on his chest, collarbone, and neck; she touches him with intent, as if she wishes to know what he is made of. “You could have come with me.”

“I didn’t lie, I had some matters to attend to. Besides, coming with you would have left us in quite a situation.” She reasons with diplomacy, not making a blink as her other tentacle slides over his stomach, disappearing underneath. “Sneaking around the Ore Palace to find a place to fuck.”

Aemond exhales heavily as she takes hold of him, parting his lips as she palms him thoroughly.

“Did you think of that while you were with those pretty girls?” she asks, watching his eyelid flicker “I know they’re pretty. Dumb, but pretty.”

He has no idea who she’s talking about. He rests his head against the armchair and opens his mouth as her ministrations grow cadenced and yet unbearably slow.

“Did you think of me?” she asks, softly panting along with him for the mere sight “of taking me in some hidden corner? Of putting your hands on me if I had been there?”

His nails dig into the armrest, around his dagger, until his knuckles go white. Truth is that he did. Sipping that cup of wine, the smell of her on his fingers only made him think of her, and how she would squirm if he touched her right there, under the table. How she would bite her lower lip to swallow her moans as she came all over his fingers.

“I did.” She admits with almost religious honesty. “I came twice thinking of your hands.”

Not a moment later, they are both growling with need as he slams his mouth on hers in a mess of tongues and teeth, and then she gasps, because his hand is on her core, moving already, gathering her wetness and spreading it. “Did you think of this? Hmm?” he croons, watching her closely, rejoicing upon seeing her face scrunching just as it did earlier, wantonly, pleading.

“No…” she mumbles.

“What do you mean no?”

Her hand slips behind his neck, in order to keep his head firm and his face glued to hers. “Inside…” she cooes urgently “I need them inside.”

It’s almost shameful for a proud man like him, how swiftly he obeys, but even if he didn’t want to, she’s so wet for him, dripping and coating his palm, that his fingers would’ve eventually slipped inside.

He sticks them all the way in, flexing and curling, hitting that spot and spilling a loud moan from her, who instantly sinks her hips down, rocking to goad him to start moving. He grants her this other little mercy, pumping nimbly with a squelching sound, going rock hard as she arches on top of him, keeping one hand clamped around his neck and the other on his knee, to find the right angle.

“There you go…” he rasps, watching his fingers disappear inside, feeling her spongy walls hot and squeezing “’Tis what you wanted?”

She is too occupied with trying to catch a puff of air to be bothered to answer, but he wants one. He stops altogether, winning a whine of protest and a flashing glare before her face wrinkles with desperate need.

“Not talking now?” he mocks and then swiftly, he is curling his fingers in a cruel way, drawing a choked whimper out of her throat.

“Yes. Yes, it is what I wanted.”

“Hmm. Go on, then. Take it.” And he spreads his legs a little more to give her room “Fuck my hand.”

Exhaling a small breath of air, she talks almost to herself. “A woman must do everything these days.”

“You won’t be saying that later.”

“Why, what happens later?”

“I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk.”

“That sounds a bit pretentious.”

“And you should have learned by now not to doubt my word.”

And doubt him she won’t, not now. She starts to move, swaying her hips and arching her neck as soon as pleasure washes over her. She would like to savor it, to take this slow, as she likes it, but her low muscles are so tensed and aching; she feels the peak near and can't do anything but run towards.

Aemond watches with labored breath as she rocks and grinds on him desperately, growing frantic by the moment, feeling her arousal down to his wrist, dampening his own silks, spilling a faint unbearable pleasure from the way her flesh grinds against his cock. And he finds himself moaning out of pleasure and pain as she draws near to her peak, gripping his neck hard, pulling at the roots of his hair while emitting a string of short and sharp cries next his ear, until she’s trembling all over, coming with a free and loud moan on his hand.

She tries to regain some air, panting in his ear as she rides the last throes. This, this is what she’s been fantasizing, even dreamed of it. No man has ever made her feel like this, a pulsing heart pounding in every inch of her body, a living flame bathing in fire.

Slowly, she tilts her head back and he takes his hand off her hot, pulsing flesh. She looks down, at her pleasure wrinkling his fingertips, and then up, straight into his turbid eye. He brings his fingers to his mouth to clean them, to taste her, but she snatches his wrist and, staring at him, she engulfs his index with her lips.

He’s tempted to look away, and not wonder how her perfect lips would close around his cock, but he keeps watching as she keeps tasting herself, on his middle finger, and then the ring one.

“How do you taste?”

“Me? Oh, this is not me.” She draws close until she nudges her nose against his and says “Pleasure tastes like the ones we desire.” She kisses him, slowly, darting her tongue in his mouth until he’s humming, tasting bittersweet. “This is your doing.”

A moment later she gasps, holding onto his shoulders because he rises abruptly, lacing his arms around her to hold her and take those few steps that separate them from his bed.

They fall on the soft mattress and her hands fly to his silks, willing to tear them apart until he’s bare. And he helps her, moving his lean shoulders to let the slippery fabric fall. She had thought Qartheen silks suited him perfectly, but now she thinks she’d rather have him like this all day. Her eyes roam freely on his lean body, dented in a few spots by burns and scars of war, a soldier’s body and yet not burly: he’s all refined and graceful, like a sculpture. It makes her mouth go dry, pushing her eyes down, on the thin waist and the prominent v-shape of his muscles.

Willfully, she grasps the soft belt cinching his waist, but he stops her wrists.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks with short breath, and the candles around catch the flashing steel of his dagger, held in his left hand.

“Valyrian steel?”

“The sharpest blade in the world.” and deftly, he twirls it.

It catches her eye for a moment, but then she drags her gaze back on him, relaxing on the sheets with an ounce of challenge in her eyes. “You will have to show me.”

Something wild bursts in his eye, wide and piercing. “Are you offering?”

She cracks a half heated, half cunning smile and says “I’m demanding.”

Aemond lies beside her, holding himself up on one elbow, and with bated breath, she watches his other arm move, bringing the dagger, and its pointy end, to the lilac woven shielding her torso. Slowly and cautiously, he slips the steel under a stripe of silk, locking his eye on her as she startles from the coldness of the blade. He flicks his wrist up, and the steel cuts the silk instantly and smoothly. But he doesn’t stop there, dragging the blade down, cutting all, unraveling her body, and not missing the way her stomach jolts, her breath hitches, and not out of fear.

He trails his eye all over her body, glowing under the candles, lingering on the soft patch of hair below her navel; his mouth goes dry and his mind blank. He lets the blade go and drifts down, grabs her legs and forces them open, hardening impossibly more upon seeing her previous peak still coating her cunt in a glistening veil.

She sees him hovering right on her center, anticipation quickens her breath but perhaps also a faint reluctance for what he’s about to do. She would complain about it with Dora, saying most of her lovers just sat there lapping at it like some thirsty dog in the desert. Once, she had even opened a book while having a man’s head between her thighs.

It is therefore with great shock that she abruptly gasps, out loud, when he slams his mouth on her cunt, raising his eye to watch her. She tastes sweeter than he’d expected, and he’s not one for sweet tastes, but this one, he wants it all.

His tongue swirls up and down her folds, circling slowly, making her back arch, her  jaw slack open. “Oh God—” she moans once, and twice, unconsciously pushing her hips against his face, feeling the sharp bone of his nose nudging her bundle.

“If you have to sing my praises, then do it properly.” he rasps against her flesh, stopping, but not quite. He brings one hand on her apex, circling it with his thumb, torturing but not as she wants. “Please—” she begs freely, writhing beneath him.

“Please what?” he teases, licking his lips “You like to talk, don’t you? Then use your words.” He presses his thumb deeper and faster, and she whines, in pleasure and protest. “Please—with your tongue”

“Please…?”

“Aemond—”

“Again.”

He has half a mind to make her say his name until she loses her voice, but at the second time she utters it, her vowels even more open given her debauchery, he caves and grips her thighs harshly to keep them as spread open as he can. What happens next is a string of cries and choked moans as his tongue licks and sucks and pierces inside; he eats her thoroughly humming with sheer delight and occasionally groaning as, without being able to avoid it, he grinds against the mattress to gain some relief. 

Pleasure coils in her belly as it never did before. She’d never been able to reach her peak like this, whether the occasional man was not that good at that practice or maybe because she’d never longed for anyone as she longs for the Prince. She’s not able to control her voice as she comes straight into his mouth, she’s not able to control her muscles shaking all over, nor her hand, flying into his hair, pulling and pushing him against her as she practically rides his face in the last spasms.

She lies there for a moment, ears numb and heart pounding like a hammer, but she has little time to come to her senses; he moves, leaning on top of her, mouth and chin slick. It makes her strangely proud to see it. This time, her hands are free to roam, discarding the last silks until he’s completely bare. Aemond slips between her legs, hissing at feeling her moist flesh against his. He cannot wait any longer, as he moves to angle her hips and bury himself inside her, she grabs his face, forcing him to look up.

“Show me.”

It takes him barely a moment to get what she means. He freezes on the spot, and looks down with a grimace.

“You saw mine.” She says sofly. And it’s true. Even if he didn’t know, he saw, he touched, her wound.

And maybe it’s because he did, and he knows it to be true that this time there’s no reluctance, or rejection choking down his words. “I am sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter, you couldn’t—”

“No. Not about last night.”

All I wanted was for him, anyone, to say they were sorry for what had been done to me.

Air hitches in her throat as she stares at him with wide eyes. He has that unwavering stone-like look on his face and she knows he means it. No second purpose could ever force his tongue into saying that, because he doesn’t have any. He had her already, and he would have her again, whether he had spoken those words or not. But he means it. He chooses all his words too carefully to waste them on lies.

All she knows now, is that she wants him. A foreign, fierce willing like the one that possessed her the night before, urging her to stay right where she was, to goad him to take her harder, instead of begging him to stop.

She grips his neck and surges to kiss him, moaning with liberation into his mouth, swallowing his soft growl as her hand slips between them, grabbing him and guiding him against her entrance. He pushes in ever so easily, and she throws her head back on the sheets, gasping at the stretch while he rests his forehead on her chest, struggling to breathe as he buries himself inside her.

The bushes pierce through his feet, bleeding on the ground, a pain he is well accustomed.

One must walk barefoot in the Wood of Shadows.

The long blue robe rustles in the wind; it is loud in his ears, wailing, as it does nowhere else.

He stops next to a black barked tree and leans his ear against it. Glancing up, a mantle of dark leaves wave in the sky, bleeding blue.

He hurries up, resuming his path. His right hand trembles incessantly as it always does next to it. Fortunately, he holds the little vial in his other hand, safe.

The Palace of Dust is covered in dark, not even a torch lighting the way. They say there are no walls or ceilings there. They say there is no such thing as time in the House of the Undying.

He opens one door and enters a round room, clothed in dark, except for one, faint white light coming from a hole in the ground. A water well, translucent; soft waves curl the surface, rippled by no trace of wind.

There is only one man standing in the light, looking into the water. The others are scattered around the room.

“Is he Seeing?” asks the man with the trembling hand.

“Hush. Did you bring it?” answers another, coming into view under the faint white light.

“Here.” He hands over the vial. “I’ve never seen so much of it. Leaves are bleeding as we speak. It’s like an awakening.”

“It is awakening.” says the other, his eyes barely visible under the cloak.

“But why?”

He receives a long scornful look. “You are weak. That is why you’re reduced like that.” the other says, glancing at his hand “You cannot bear it.”

“We are awakening.” Says another voice from somewhere “We awaken in the presence of the most ancient and powerful magic.”

“Fire?” tries the trembling man.

The one with the vial turns his head, nodding. “And blood.”

He walks to the man standing before the well. He is looking into the translucent water. He doesn’t blink. Seems like he’s not even breathing. But there’s a strange curve on his blue lips, hardly visible. Almost a smile, a fond one.

“Fydor.”

Only then, the man blinks and turns his head.

“Freshly collected.” the other lifts his arm, showing the little vial. Under the well’s light, the liquid shines with a vivid blue.

The mute warlock takes it and swiftly lifts the cap. The other hurries to take a step back, while the one with the trembling hand widens his eyes with almost dread. His fingers start to shake maniacally, as he watches the man in the light drinking the Shadow.

All the others, at once, seem to emit a choked snarling sound, as thirsty men in the desert upon seeing a pool of water.

The empty vial falls to the floor, breaking in little pieces, the water in the well moves as rippled by an opposite wind, and Fydor makes a choking sound; his eyes rolls over like in a seizure, and then they stop.

The pupil is gone, all is left is the white, but it is not white, not anymore. Too much Shadow of the Evening. His lips, nails and white of his eyes are blue for good.

At times, it lasts for hours. Others, it’s barely a minute. But there’s no time in the House of the Undying.

When it ends, it could be morning outside, they do not know, and they do not care.

“Fydor?” the same one asks when the warlock’s pupils are back in their place. 

The man looks at him for a moment, and then starts moving his hands jerkily. “It is time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to act.”

“What about your daughter?”

For a moment, Fydor looks into the well. “Kori is on her own path now. I cannot interfere. She won’t let me. But seeds must be sown.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Keeping his blue eyes on the water, transfixed, he moves his hands. “What do you do with an old forest so new trees can grow?”

“Burn it.”

The man with the trembling hand looks between the two, warily. “What does it mean?”

Fydor turns, slowly, a shadow falling on his face. “It is quite simple, acolyte. For there to be order, there must be chaos first.”

thank you so much for reading!! 💕💕

[jealousofmydreams]

Indulgences of the beast

Synopsis : In which Father Charlie, the symbol of faith and sacrifice, succumbs to his own temptations as the restraints of his inner beast are broken free, allowing it to roam and pursue its desired prey.

warnings : {dubcon, drowning, suffocation, forced infidelity, breathplay} NOT THIS CHAPTER

a/n : i have not watched the show, only saw one of too many clips of it and wrote this. nothing is probably accurate so read it for fun. also had to divide the story in parts because i exceeded the word count..

ACT I

"Today, under the blessing of the Lord, we appoint our brothers and sisters as priests of the Andréas Cathedral,"

Father Charlie stood on the platform, with the other clerics. He observed the crowd before him. The agitated and regid newcomers and their families overflowing the small church.

In the midst of the function, his eyes were in search of a certain woman.

His gaze landing on the small figure hidden in the shadows. Even in the sunlit room, she managed to find a way to remain hidden.

Her dark tunic was up to her neck, tight and closed around her throat. The long robe flowing by her ankles and her cincture hung loosely on her waist as if it was hastened quickly. Her veil was tightly bound to her forehead and unlike most, she wore dark gloves.

The newly appointed nun, who had gone through the same procedure many months ago, was an egnima even he could not descript.

She hid herself with the thick black and white cloth. Yet, somehow, the woman who tried so hard to remain hidden, was the foundation of his morbid interest.

She was nameless, one of many among the nuns and priests slithering the church.

Yet, she became a a vital part of his being, for reasons he himself didn't fully comprehend.

Almost as if she could feel his stare, her eyes flickered to him and her slumping back, straightened up. With a lift of his chin, he wore a gentle smile but could not find himself to let their gazes shift.

It wasn't until the faint murmurs of amen resonated, did she eventually look away. The latin word slipped past his lips, like a rite, but he remained fixated on her lips that were tightly pursed. Almost as if she was revolting to utter the word that was meant to be as scared as the vows she took.

The faint smile Father Charlie wore, grew.

ACT II

He always found her in her designed corner, by the willow tree.

In the small courtyard, where stood a tree that never grew as tall and high as the ones around the church, hid the woman he was searching for.

He could barely see a glimpse of her, the leaves quick to sway and ripple her figure.

Even so, he would recognize her form anywhere.

She was reaching up into the tree. Her legs slightly trembling from the strain as she reached up into a groove. Her fingernails dug deep into the twisted trunk. Her other hand fumbled around the roots, seemingly looking for something. Her forehead pressed against the trunk and he could hear the soft huffs she let out.

With light steps, and a quick look at the courtyard that showcased that no one else was present, he quietly entered the domain of the tree. With one finger, he lifted the long branche full of leaves, the wind muffling his presence.

"I don't believe this little shrub has anything left to give, sister," although his words were quietly spoken, she was still surprised by his presence.

With a yelp, she retracted her hand and turned around to face him. He had folded his hands behind his back and tilted his chin in wonder. The meek woman had her mouth agape and she could feel the heat rise up in the back of her neck and her ears.

"I-I," she bowed twice, "Forgive me, Father, I was merely looking for a keepsake," as she spoke, her eyes widened. It seemed lies were not her forte.

"There's nothing to be forgiven," he brushed off her worries. Although his words were kind, his eyes were ominous. With idle steps, he kept walking towards her but she could no longer look at him.

His presence always intimidated her.

She looked anywhere but him, and kept rolling and squeezing her hands together. When she finally heard his approching steps, she took one back. His scent suddenly overwhelming her senses.

However, there was no space left for her to run. The tree's trunk dug deeply into her back, as if it was seeking revenge from the way she dug into it earlier.

With a surprised and jerky movement, she accidently caught his eyes. Instinctly, she held her hands in front of herself. Afraid if she didn't, he could cross the invisible boundaries she put around herself.

At her gesture, a chuckle slipped past his lips. "I thought everyone had left to welcome the new novices,"

Even when he spoke, she could not find it in herself to look at him. Her eyes kept straying away. To the grass, to the leaves, to her hands, to her feet.

Never him.

She felt as if he was looking for her faults, any for him to correct.

"Long and boring ceremony I must say," He lightly skimmed her fingertips with his own. With a quick motion, he pressed his palm in the back of her hands, and brought both hands in one of his.

The sudden touch made her squirm, and she bit her lips in case she mumbled mindless apologizes.

"Few wandered off, I myself have, but most have retreated back to their chambers," although his words were meant to be distracting, she was still stiff under his touch.

As she looked pointly at his chest, he took his time to wander his eyes over her features. He could not remember a time he ever got close to her as he was now.

He traced her with his eyes, she could almost feel it as if he was trailing his finger along her face. She kept licking her dry lips until they had a clear sheen of gloss.

He fought the urge to lick it himself.

"Father, forgive me..." The words she tried to hold back, flew out then. However, he could not focus on the words she spoke.

Instead, his gaze lingered on a lone leaf that had fallen and rested on her hair. He carefully brushed his knuckles past her cheek, sending her shivers which he dutifully noted. Just as his fingertips closed around the stem, his attention was brought somewhere else.

To a white note flickering in the crevice of the tree.   

The features on his face stiffened. As he was reminded why this willow tree seemed to be such a scared place for her, beyond the church itself.

She became quiet then. She could almost feel the air changing too, as if he was controlling it with his mere emotions.

Or perhaps she was the one who was easily affected by him.

With the small amount of confidence she mustered, she took a side way glance at him and almost wished she hadn't. The glare that overtook his face, scared her.

Before she could do anything, he suddenly pressed himself to her. Her hands, still held between his, wegded between their bodies. Her nose pushed into the middle of his chest. She was close enough where she could feel the ridges of his body, the thick cotton almost felt thin then. Her sharp intake of breath had her swallowing his scent, involuntarily.

His scent almost choking her.

Her lips parted slightly, his fabric sticking to them as she gasped when she felt his thighs pressing against her trembling ones. She barely managed to keep her eyes open.

She tried to form words, to speak up. However, before she could voice them, he suddenly withdrew from her, just as quickly as he had pressed against her.

She looked up at him in surprise.

The glare focused on her now. Even though he had a small smile, she couldn't help but feel as if it was a facade. As if he was merely holding himself back.

"Your keepsake," He didn't say anything else. Merely let go of her hands and put the small crumpled letter in her palm.

He left before she could respond.

ACT III

The steps she took were as quiet as the night she snuck into. The dark forest hid her well from any roaming presence.

At this point, she had grown familiar with this path. The tall building that was often used as storage, dwelt empty most days.

She could feel the ruffle of her long skirt and kept tugging at her hair, fidgeting. No matter how often she snuck out, the anxiety brewed in the pit of her stomach.

The quiet crunch of the dry grass and the musty smell of the cold night embraced her as she entered the designed area. Just as she entered the empty terrain, which was behind a tower she deemed empty, a familiar face appeared out of the shadows.

She barely caught her breath before she ran in his arms. She threw her arms around his chest and his around her waist.

Both unaware of the lingering presence in the edifice, hiding and watching in the corner of the window.

Father Charlie had his own duties to attend to. Back then, he wasn't mindful of his surroundings, too conflicted of his own doings.

One night, spend in his own agony, wandering alone, he stumbled upon the scene just as the one happening before his eyes.

How many time as he seen this scene happening over and over again?

He lost count. The fist forming over his heart was never familiar. He could feel the lump in his throat, the scorching envy bleeding in his chest.

He could hear her quiet giggles, could almost feel the warmth of her body, as he had the day against the willow tree.

They would embrace as they always had, lock lips and whispers sweet nothings into the nights.

Charlie has forgotten the number of times he had dreamed of this moment as if it was his own.

Her whispers of her lover's name echoed, her pants became louder as they held each other. The unknown man had one hand lingering on her waist and the other one creeping up on her robe, always caressing yet never daring. She whimpered aimlessly, her arms wrapped around his shoulders, her lips licking and sucking his as if she was in heat.

His cold hand held her covered flesh, caressing the curve of her back and trailing up to her upper back. He dragged the fabric lightly until her ankles were peeking into the cold air.

However, as he pressed light pecks to her neck, his skin pickled.

As if he was preyed on.

He opened his eyes, barely focusing on what he was seeing when he froze. He could see a small shadow in the empty room.

The woman in his arms was quick to sense his change of mood. Her heart was thrumming widely and her blood was coursing in her veins, yet she couldn't fathom why he had stopped.

Father Charlie had long lost the will to remain hidden. He wasn't her. No matter what, he wanted to be seen, and so desperately did he wish to be seen by her.

His fingers gripped the window legde, his glare evident even through the darkness.

He watched as she helplessly looked at her lover running away.

Like a coward, Father Charlie thought.

The lost woman pressed her cold hands to her chest, confusion replacing her longing. He had kissed her one last time and with an excuse on his lips, he ran away.

Surely cows and pigs held no duties this late at night? Especially so suddenly, she thought.

Lost in her thoughts, it wasn't until she heard the cry of a crow, her confusion shattered.

With a quick look around, she hurriedly pressed the back of her hand to wipe her lips, and ruffled her robe until it was neatly in place. She took one glance around and quickly left the area.

The shadow hiding, following her suit.