#White Tunic Woman

[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.

[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!

[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.

[hunnylagoon]

The Girl That Time Forgot

Ellie Williams x Reader

Find me in one thousand years, I will always be waiting here.

Premise: Ellie is the only time traveller who uses her uncommon gift to rewind time and constantly pester you-the only immortal who made a deal with death in 412 BC and is cursed to walk the earth for all eternity. Forever was promised but you never knew the price.

Warnings: death / murder / mentions of suicide / self-harm / toxic relationship /sickness / violence / angst / war / mentions of drugs / lovers?friends(ish)?enemies? it’s complicated / mild gore / things get nuts

ONE-SHOT | WC 18k (so you know what you’re getting into)

AID PALESTINE!

Athens, Greece- October- 412 BC

Come back in one hundred years, you'll always find me here.

Rain splashes against the skin of your face in lands of ancient Greece, where the winds themselves whispered stories of gods and heroes, neither of which you were. You were nothing more than a frightened woman running away from an unforgiving husband in the dead of night where your quickened heartbeat falls in rhythm to the ocean which is almost as angry as the storm that roars above.

Carefully you dodge the jagged rocks sticking out from the sand, you had memorized each and every one after days of burning your skin on the shores. Water surged against the rocks near your feet, white froth sizzling in the waves retreating like it was trying to drag you in and take you for its own.

Your heavy breathing was devoured by the heavy rain and cracks of lighting, the sounds of thunder so deep it was like Zeus himself was stomping in the clouds. Despite the night being dark you trusted the moonlight that glimmered off of the ocean to guide you. You have nothing more than the soaking wet clothes on your back, jewelry to sell, and the drachmas you had stolen from your husband tucked away safely in a wool tagari purse.

Someone grabbed your wrist, stopping you in your tracks "Hey!" They say, though you can't quite make out the figure in the dark you know it's a woman from the voice alone. "You need to go home." Fear pushes adrenaline to course through your veins at the sound of an unheard tongue babbling in your ears.

Your eyebrows furrow, clutching the bag even harder in your free hand. "Φύγε από μένα!" You scream, trying to force your voice to be louder than the malicious storm that brews over your head. You try to pull your hand away but the woman stands firm hardly even moving.

"Fuck," She mutters, you don't understand a word. In this moment you feel like a rabbit preparing to get devoured by a wolf, whoever this woman was you were shaken to your core like you had just uncovered a dead body. "I forgot that you can't speak English yet."

You struggle under the grip of the woman, using the hand which was holding tightly onto the tagari and begin to hit the woman before you to pry her off your wrist "Δεν θα πάω πίσω, τον μισώ μέχρι θανάτου!" You shout voice loud as thunder.

"Ow!" She said wrinkling her nose and trying to apprehend the hand that was hitting her "Can you stop?" She asks, even though you can't understand her it's worth a shot in her mind.

This does nothing to stop your protest, you only hit her harder hammering your purse against her head until she finally lets go of your wrist to block your swinging. Lighting cracks and just for a moment you catch a glimpse of her. Short brown hair that falls at her shoulders, and freckles across her face, something you had never seen before. What frightened you wasn't the sharpness of her green eyes but her clothes, an alien concept to you. She didn't wear a tunic but a scratchy blue fabric tight on her legs and what to you resembled a baggy grey burlap sack with a piece of cloth hanging off the back. In recent years it has come to be known as jeans and a hoodie.

"Δαίμονα, μάγισσα, φύγε!" You smack her once more for good measure and turn quickly on your sandal-covered heel to get away from her. You were as wild and untamed as the ocean itself, with eyes that sparkled with a craving for more than honey dripping down your tongue and salt smeared across your lips.

"Remember I tried to help you this time!" She shouts, her voice is so far off in the distance that you barely heard it through the storm. Even if her words were clear it made no difference, you didn't speak her tongue, and any warning fell unheard upon your ears "Have fun being twenty forever!"

You ran even faster than you had before, you didn't even turn around to see if the woman was still on your tail.

The salty spray stung your cheeks as you ran, your breath ragged and steps unsteady. The wind howled in protest, whipping at the wet hair that stuck to your face and neck, tearing at your white peplos, turned translucent on your body by the water. But you paid no heed to the fury of the elements, for you were driven by a desperate need to escape.

As you reached the edge of a rocky outcrop, your leather sandal caught on a slick stone, sending you tumbling to the ground. With a sickening thud, your head struck against the unforgiving rock, and the world around you spun into darkness.

You were dead. Body limp on the plethora of rocks, the tide slowly lulling over your body until it swallowed you whole and sucked you in deeper. Ropes of hair twist before your dull eyes, unmoving into the deep.

You sink further in and open your eyes though you are still deceased, your body still falling cold. Selene stands before you in the form of midnight. Her body was ebony and deep blue, half woman, half moon. Long black hair like ink tipped with moonlight spills down her breasts and her hips, she watches you with her pale eyes imploring.

The goddess before you turns to lead the way, enticing you to follow. Each step sends knives through your limbs. Your mouth tastes like blood and your lungs burn red hot though every time you try to breathe you choke and sputter of nothing, still, you follow Selene into the nothingness ahead.

Finally, she turns, one finger pressed to her lips, signalling you to be quiet. Beside her, a pale soldier appears in fine silver armour chiselled against his muscular body. The areas that the armour does not cover, his arms and an area of his legs between the middle of his thighs to just below his knees, tattered bandages hang around his limbs, They sway in the nothingness and shed by themselves. You see open wounds deep and red, beginning to bleed but his pasty skin sews itself up, leaving no scar behind, nothing but smooth flesh. Wings larger than the man himself sprout from his back. Thanatos.

Thanatos bows his head, hiding his deep sunken eyes beneath a Corinthian helmet. You should be afraid that you face the god of death but you aren't. This is a better fate than being hauled back to your husband.

He takes his helmet off, long dark hair falls onto his shoulders and he regards you. Thanatos is wordless as he stares at you, taking in every of your face, every curve of your body. He doesn't speak but you understand him well, too much beauty to go to waste.

Selene has left you to take her place back in the night sky, she watches you were she hangs on a beam of moonlight. In one hand Thanatos holds a silver knife. Your voice betrays you, for once your loud screeching voice is lost.

He holds out his hand, pitch black at the fingertips. You can tell he is trying to strike a deal as if he had put his words into your mind without ever even moving his lips.

You look at his hand and then at his face, death was less frightening than you had imagined, handsome for a god who took so many lives. He lets his offer sit and settle within you, he doesn't try to sweeten the deal, he offers you another chance and that is that.

The second you shake Death's hand, he pulls away from your grip and takes the silver dagger to your heart. With ease, he slices back layers of flesh in one swoop leaving your bones exposed before him. Using what seemed to be little effort for the god of death, he breaks your ribs and pulls out your heart.

You watch it beat in his hand, the blood drifting out of it like ribbons that hook around your limbs, you know you have made a mistake. For the first time, Thanatos smiles. Oh, how the wolf wore the sheep as a wicked disguise. he squeezes the heart and at the crush of his hand, you feel ice shoot through your veins.

Your eyes open, properly open. You were alone. You wake up in nothing more than a metre of water and immediately cry out in pure terror at the horrifying images that your mind has conjured up. You run through the salty ocean and back to the shore.

The storm hadn't subsided which helped to camouflage your sobs as you frantically felt around your body with shaking hands to be sure that the god of death hadn't ripped out your heart. Surely enough, your rib cage was intact. You fall onto your hands and knees heaving up all of the ocean water you had swallowed.

The purse that held your resources for escaping had either been devoured by the ocean or stolen off your body. Your wirey hands touch the back of your hand, you expect to shudder under the pain of the open wound that knocked you unconscious. Instead of pain shooting from a gash in your head, you are perfectly intact.

You look down at your hands, no trace of blood.

Maybe it was time to start believing in myths because you were in one.

Rome - July- 116 AD

Don't they know it's the end of the world?

At the center of the world, you had been buried alive for three years after switching places with a Vestal Virgin who looked remarkably identical to you in exchange you gained a large sum for your alleged death. When you were buried you hadn't thought much about how you would get out, you just knew that you wouldn't suffocate or starve.

After the second year passed you were beginning to think that offering to get enclosed in a stone tomb with bread, water, oil, a candle, and a bed wasn't a great way to live your abnormally long life. The air grew stale, and the silence of the tomb echoed with the whispers of the dead that surrounded you on all four walls.

Before sleeping every single night, you prayed to the gods to take your life but they never listened. What you once thought to be a blessing had turned out to be a curse, no blessing would make you crave death the same way you craved sunlight and cream. You had given away the gift of aging for a sweet pleasure that quickly became bitter on your tongue.

The first few moons after you had slipped into unconsciousness you truly believed it at all been some strange hallucination caused by smacking your dead until you took a steep tumble and fell on your husband's hunting knife only to pull it out of your body and watch the skin over your stomach fix itself up, leaving no evidence behind that it had ever happened aside from the blood on the knife.

All you know to do is survive.

It's not like you hadn't tried to find a way out of it, some loophole that would shatter the deal and set you free. You had 527 years to try and make some sense of it, but you had given up and resorted to trying to find a way to end your life. Every time you did that, Ellie always showed up to help but you were back together.

You didn't understand the words that came from her mouth, all you knew was that her name was Ellie and she was cursed like you. What was she cursed with? You weren't sure but she seemed a little less miserable with you.

Ellie would come into your life now and then, usually an unwelcome surprise, she always knew where to find you. The only consistent face that you've seen for 527 years. She seemed to know more about you than you knew about her.

Overhead of the tomb, you see a crack of light slip through one of the stones that sealed you in. A tremor shook the earth, and the ancient stones of the tomb began to crumble. Light spilled into the darkness as the walls collapsed around you.

Surely enough Ellie's head looked down at you. She smiles and extends a hand to help you out "Sorry I took so long, I had to time it right with the earthquake, you picked poor timing to get buried alive." She hauled you up, and you stepped over the rubble with bare feet, careless of whether you gut them on the freshly shattered stone or not, you knew that they would heal over regardless.

Despite still not understanding her tongue you were for a change, glad to see her. As you suspected, your feet had been sliced up, leading a little trickle of blood in your wake. The moment you reached the surface, you collapsed to the ground. The city was crumbling around you but they were the ones who locked you away in the first place. You ignored Ellie's unknown words and felt the lush grass for the first time in three years, the heat of the sun resting on your skin.

Beside you, Ellie wrinkles her nose. "You've definitely smelled better," This is one of the times when she dresses appropriately for the era, a toga slung around her toned figure. "Oh, I thought you might be hungry so I brought this, I know you don't have to eat but I figured it would be nice," She unfolded a piece of cloth beside her revealing a small stack of round pastries that had little brown dark spots in it, nothing you had seen before.

You furrow your eyebrows, partly in confusion, partly because your eyes were still adjusting to the light after being enclosed in darkness for three years. "Τι κοιτάζω;"

"They aren't bad I promise," She says, she had made an effort to learn Greek for you but it proved too difficult, all she knew was the odd word. "They're cookies and don't tell anyone because I'm pretty sure they don't get invented for six hundred years."

Ellie speaks freely like you comprehend every word that she says. You make a face that almost resembles a snarl as you eye her and the cookies suspiciously.

"In a few more centuries we're cool with each other," She eats one of the cookies, slowly taking a bite to show you that they were edible. The cookies are a little too good however and she eats the entire thing in mere seconds, speaking through a mouth full of crumbs "Maybe more than a few centuries," She corrects herself "It's like a thousand years and then some but you come around."

She looks once more at the confusion on your face and gives up on trying to verbally communicate, instead she just holds the cloth holding the chocolate chip cookies towards you and looking into her eyes as sharp as a wolf, you hesitantly take one.

Norwich, England- November- 1327

I can't take my eyes of you.

In the dimly lit streets of the town, where the stench of death hung heavy in the air and fear gripped the hearts of its inhabitants. People no longer walked freely around town, they were either sick and on the trek to become puss-filled corpses or they locked themselves away and observed the demise of friends and foes from their windows.

You had seen civilizations rise and fall and witnessed the ebb and flow of history itself, but nothing could have prepared you for the horror that awaited you in the plague-ridden streets of the town. As the death toll rose with each passing day, you donned the garb of a plague doctor, your face concealed behind a grotesque mask adorned with beak-like protrusions filled with aromatic herbs that helped to cover the sickly sweet smell of rotten corpses.

Armed with little more than your knowledge of ancient remedies and a desperate desire to ease the suffering of the afflicted, you ventured into the heart of the epidemic, where the sick lay writhing in agony and the cries of the dying echoed through the night like they were eating themselves alive.

"Jeez, this isn't good," Ellie appears beside you, out of thin air like she tended to do. Now she was wearing a green dress, long bell sleeves and a golden trim around the dress, she wore a white vale pushing her hair back. Though she was dressed for the time period she looked out of place in the garb of a noblewoman, surrounded by the sick and dying peasants. "I can't stick around too long because an official vaccine for the bubonic plague isn't developed until 2072."

"How many people will die from this?" You ask, voice somewhat muffled from the leather mask, stuffed with herbs.

"About fifty," She trails off "Million."

You were not a god's chosen but a god's cursed. You had already suspected her to say something along those lines. Your voice failed as you watched the searchers who had been employed by the city, dragging dead bodies off into a pit to be buried in a mass grave.

"Look on the bright side-

"There is no bright side," You turn to walk away from her, shoving Ellie into the back of your mind.

With each patient you tended to, you felt the weight of your immortality pressing down upon her—a burden too heavy to carry, yet one you could not escape. You watched as the plague consumed the bodies and souls of those around you, leaving nothing but death and apathy in its wake, a dream that this would be over soon.

Immortality was a mockery, you thought yourself to be a spectacle to the gods above, nothing more than cruel entertainment. As much as you run, you get nowhere, you always end up in the same place, watching those you developed bonds and memories with die.

As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, you fought tirelessly against the tide of death, your resolve unyielding even in the face of overwhelming odds. But with each passing day, her heart grew heavier, burdened by the weight of countless lives lost and the knowledge that she alone would bear witness to their suffering for eternity.

A boy on his porch cries for his mom and dad who will never be coming home, his sobs echo through the narrow streets like a wolf's howl.

As the moon cast its ghostly glow upon the desolate streets, you stood amidst a sea of bodies, your gloved hands stained with the blood of the fallen. The plague had taken its toll, claiming the lives of all those you had sworn to protect, leaving you alone in a world consumed by darkness.

Henry, a stonemason who had no family aside from his little brother now cries over his body. Sam, the young boy had been hit hard with the disease, the sores covered almost every inch of his body and turned black upon his ebony skin. You had watched every stage of his sickness, there was no cure other than comfort, the only thing you couldn't offer to Henry at that moment.

You could turn the brothers into poetry but you couldn't offer up the immortality that you carried like a cross you had to bear.

He held Sam's corpse in his arms, hugging him close and sobbing. Henry was freshly infected there was no way he would make it out alive though you weren't sure that he even wanted to after watching his baby brother's hands turn pitch black and seize up.

How strange that you, someone who was not deserving of eternal life, was the one burdened with it. People are dying and you can't get a grip.

With a heavy heart and tear-streaked face, you cast aside her mask, the symbol of your futile efforts to defy the inevitable. For in that moment, you realized that no amount of healing could undo the damage wrought by the plague, and no amount of compassion could ease the pain of those who had been lost.

You turned your back on the town that had become your prison, the echoes of its suffering fading into the night. For though you were immortal, you were not invincible—bound by the chains of your own existence, condemned to wander the earth as a silent witness to the fleeting moments of life and the relentless march of death.

Salem, America- April- 1692

Immortal she, return to me.

The paranoid colonial Massachusetts was not the place for a woman who never ages. You grew careless of covering up your secret and lived on the outskirts of Salem, seen by few but that didn't aid the treacherous rumours whispered about you.

You had been there when they settled in 1626 and hadn't aged a day from the time you settled. This had spread into rumours of you dancing with the devil, practicing witchcraft, and bewitching townspeople.

Though many denied your existence, all fingers pointed towards you when two young cousins began acting erratically and were given the diagnosis of being under an evil hand.

The courtroom was a hallowed chamber of unjust judgment, where the accused stood trial before the watchful eyes of the magistrate and the hushed voices of the gathered crowd. You stood, with your hands bound and your head held high, faced your accusers with a steely resolve, eyes burning with a fire that refused to be extinguished.

As the trial unfolded, it became clear that justice was but a mere facade—a thin veil masking the insidious machinations of those who sought to rid the town of its perceived evils. Witnesses were coerced, evidence fabricated, and lies spun like silk until the truth became little more than a distant memory lost to paranoia and skepticism. In the crowd, mixed in with the townspeople, you saw Ellie.

Her steady gaze on you was unmoving and ever-focused, a small smile played on her lips while she watched you face the accusations, anger simmering deep inside you like a curse.

Despite protestations of innocence, you were found guilty of witchcraft—a verdict as unjust as it was inevitable. With a silent prayer upon your lips, you were led to the gallows, where the noose awaited you like a taunt.

You had still been bound by your hands in front of your grime-covered dress from being imprisoned in a dark cellar for a month which felt like mere hours in your lifespan.

A man named David, one of the wealthiest residents of Salem and the first to seek warrants against the accused innocent aided you into stepping onto the back of a cart. The crowd surrounding you cheered while a church member slipped the noose tied to a tree around your neck.

"Hang the witch!" Ellie shouts and you lock eyes with her, feeling nothing more than bitterness and resentment. She still seems unfazed and somewhat amused like she's seen this a thousand times, she likely has. You know she had already watched you 'die' over and over again, Ellie was desensitized to it.

"Hang her!" Another man yells, following Ellie's act in tow. They scream all around you, jeering for your death which would never come. David and the churchman step off the wagon and the crowd gets even louder, anticipating a broken neck and lifeless eyes. David gave a command and the horses pulling the wagon were off, leaving your feet to flail helplessly over nothing.

Even as the rope tightened around your neck and the crowd jeered and spat their curses. Though you couldn't die the pain of the rope restricting your breathing still ran you ragged. For just a brief moment you pretend to die, and those around you cheer. There is so little hesitation in their voices, they were glad to see you dead.

You begin to thrash around, kicking your feet. When the townspeople realized you weren't deceased their cheers of victory fell into silence as you coughed and sputtered on the build-up of saliva and blood choking you. An eery silence falls upon the land while they watch in horror, waiting for you to die. Ellie bites back a smile from where she watches you. You bring your hands, bound together by the wrist to reach up and grab the rope that you hung by. Gathering all the force you can you yank it harshly, over and over again until it finally snaps and you fall to the ground.

David's face falls completely. You had known him to not truly believe in witchcraft but the murder of innocents and threatening women. The look in his eyes when he saw you stumble to your feet. "Witch!"

"Ay, I am the witch!" You shout, the townfolk backing away. You slip your hand where the rope strangled your bent neck, the moment the noose comes loose you pull it off over your head, holding it in one hand. In only seconds the broken bones in your neck heal and you bring your head up, chain raised tall, the wound where the rope dug into your neck disappearing "I am older than your oldest god, I am more ancient than the winds, and more sacred than your cross." You say, only to frighten them.

"Kill her!" David shouts to which no one answers, they are either running or frozen in terror, saving themselves before anyone else.

David isn't fast enough to run, you grab him by his hair and drag his struggling body back beneath the tree where he had hung you. In the blue hour of the day, you hooked the severed noose around his neck and began to walk, dragging his trashing body back to your home on the outskirts of the town. David's body eventually fell limp, still, you dragged it over the rocks and lumps of cobblestone. You had succeeded in making him as afraid of you as you were of him.

You were the first woman who hung in the trials, far from the last. "Headed west now?" Ellie asks, walking beside you, utterly unfazed by what she just witnessed.

Boston, America- March- 1770

In the darkness I will meet my creators, they will all agree that I'm a suffocator.

In the cobblestone streets of colonial Boston, where the talks of revolution were murmured, propaganda poured. There you resided, someone once worshipped as a god whose true name had long been forgotten by history.

But amidst the fervour of the American colonies on the brink of rebellion, you found yourself drawn to the heart of the struggle after the church bells had been rung sending confused people onto the streets covered with snow and out of their homes.

It was on the night of March 5, 1770, that tragedy struck with a swift and merciless hand where a pull of a trigger would be written into history textbooks—the night of the Boston Massacre. As tensions between the colonists and the British soldiers reached a boiling point, you stood amidst the thronging crowd.

The air crackled with tension as the soldiers, emboldened by their orders to maintain order at all costs, faced off against the angry mob, assaulting them with snowballs, chunks of ice and oyster shells for hours on end. With shouts and hollers ringing through the night, protesting the raise of tax brought by King George.

Before the rage-filled crowd stand nine English soldiers holding their ground while the mob grows more and more impatient. This had started when a wig maker apprentice got in a spat with a private stationed outside of the customs house who in turn clobbered the boy with his musket.

The eight soldiers and the captain endure the jeers of the crowd led by Crispus Attucks. The Captain, Preston, refused to fire upon the crowd though as he commanded them from the front, in the line of fire.

You push your way up through the crowd, interweaving through hundreds of people. You watch the nine men stand tall against the sea of angry colonials. One of the men is hit hard in the head with a jagged rock, he falls back to the ground his musket clattering neck to him, just then, behind them in the darkness shouts a voice "Fire!"

With little to no hesitation, the man who fell over quickly scuttles to his feet, firing into the darkness of the evening. Then, in an instant that seemed to stretch into eternity, the first shot rang out—a deafening explosion that shattered the silence of the night and sent shockwaves rippling through the crowd. The other men follow, firing a volley one at a time. Beside you, you hear the thuds of heavy bodies hitting the ground, you don't have much time to process it before a bullet lands right in your head, the bullet finds its mark, striking you down with a force that seems to rend your immortal body asunder.

For a moment, time stood still—the world around you spinning in a dizzying blur of pain and confusion. "Hault!" Preston the captain orders, the soldiers cease fire at his command, confused as they believed him to be the one who ordered fire.

You used the rising surge of anger and fear emanating from the people around you to disappear into the crowd. Men grew even more angry at this, some dispersed but many stayed put. There were only a few women in a horde of hundred, it was difficult to go unnoticed with a bleeding gash on your head, you looked more monster than human, skin on your face replaced by a mass of flesh and blood. You brought your hands up to rest on the top of your head, arms out in front of you to cover what was once your face so your already scared neighbours wouldn't see a breathing corpse.

You stumbled around on your feet, pushing yourself through the mass of people, all moving in your opposite direction, making it harder for you to keep your head down. "Is something wrong?" A woman asks, you disregard her, shoving her away from you to keep moving. Your head rang with a high-pitched whistling, echoing through your brain, and you could hardly see straight with the one eye you now had, eyesight fuzzy. Each person ahead of you blurred into the next, blood gushing down your face, so much that it trickled into your eye and tinted your vision.

The wound wasn't clean by any means, not a neat through and through. The gunshot had got you right up the cheek and into your forehead, half of your face entirely blown off. The close impact of the shot caused your right eye to burst, you were scrambling away with no face and one eye.

Already you could feel your body working to put itself back together, still blood flowed down from the horror that was your face, down your neck to soak into your stay and your once grey skirts. You leave a trail of blood in your wake, dripping into the snow that is sure to be found my morning.

At last, you finally pass the crowd, though you don't stop. You stumble into the dark streets, running until you tumble on cobblestones slick with snow and slush, eyesight heavily impaired. "You've seen prettier deaths," Ellie sucks a breath through her teeth, she isn't in the dress that a woman would wear in that decade, instead, she's clad in a red coat, the uniform of a British soldier, her hair tied up and tucked beneath a black cap that all of the soldiers adorned.

She stretches her hand out to help, you take it. Instead of being gracious that she came around to help you off the ground, you take a swing at her face, and when your face makes contact with her cheek you hear a crack. Ellie takes a step back, shocked as you haven't hit her since the night you first met, 2181 years prior to that moment. "Why would you scream fire?" You cry. The second you heard the voice, you knew it was Ellie though you hadn't had time to process it before your face was blown off. "Those men are dead, Ellie, they will never go home to their families or take another breath!"

"They die anyway," She retorts, one hand hovering over her now broken cheekbone. You look at her now, your skull re-intact, eyeball sewn itself up and found its place back in your socket, flesh weaves and stretches over your bones to its rightful place. "Fuck," Ellie mutters, wincing as she touches to fingers to her newfound injury "The second that soldier gets hit with that rock, he gets back up and starts shooting, every single time."

You freeze "Every single time?" The very moment the words fall from your lips, Ellie curses herself "How many times have you been here, on this day?"

"Maybe like," She raises an arm in defence the other still cradling her cheek as she winces"Thirty-seven times give or take."

"You've never stopped it?"

"I have," She says, eyebrows furrowing with a certain longing "It ruins everything, if those men don't die, the American revolution never takes place." Ellie's gaze softens "I know that it's awful but it happens whether you're here or not, it was meant to happen."

Ellie reaches out to hold one of your blood-covered hands, but you are quick to retract it, pulling it away. Your eyes move from where her hand waits for yours to intertwine with it to her freckled face. "How many lives have we lived together?"

Her outstretched hand falls to her side. "I don't want to answer that."

"I want to know."

She shakes her head "You'd hate me."

"I already hate you," Your mouth acting faster than your head.

Ellie doesn't seem shocked by this statement, just a little hurt. "We've had good lives together, you don't hate me every time."

"Who have I been to you?" You ask, new questions surging through your scrambled mind, questions you were sure you wouldn't like the answer to. You knew Ellie had the ability to jump between time periods, though you hadn't known that she'd met you in other timelines.

Looking deep into her downturned eyes your mind runs rampant with who you could've been to her in other timelines that defined what you meant to her now. It was like trying to recall memories that didn't belong to you, but another version of yourself- what could've been.

The hushed silence finally dissipates when Ellie opens her mouth again "I'll see you in a hundred years." With that, she turns and walks away into the darkness, her body shrouded by the cold night where screams of the freshly dead hang in the winds like sickening howls.

Nebraska, America - June - 1883

I'll be seeing you.

"Not a bad place to camp, huh?" Tommy smiles at us while the sun blazes overhead, the group disregards him as they set up camp in a grassy clearing with just enough trees to offer shade to the overworked horses. Few pitched tents while the majority prepared for a night of sleeping under the clear sky, unprotected from the elements.

His question falls upon deaf ears "What's in Montana?" Another man, Issac asks. "We're going all this way and I want to know what I've uprooted my life for."

"Untouched land, you'll be a rich man." Tommy takes the cowboy hat off the top of his head, using it to fan himself off, protesting the sweltering heat that devoured him whole beneath layers.

You eye him, unsaddling your horse, Shimmer. You were in a group of people headed to settle in Montana, many of whom you had never spoken to and didn't necessarily want to. The only ones who you had properly known were the Miller family, Maria had been the one who told you about the trip initially, telling you they needed more gunslingers. With a face that doesn't age, a decade was getting a little too long to stay in Cody and here was your offer to get away.

Joel was speaking in hushed tones to his daughter, Sarah. She was nodding along to each word her father said, you had guessed it was a set of rules, him telling her not to run off or chase down wild animals.

You shower your sweaty chestnut horse with little pats and scratches, and she gives you a snort in response as you begin to wipe away the grime she's accumulated over the day's journey. Your entire life was packed away into two saddle bags, there wasn't much room for luxury in the Wild West. Times were harsh and lands were rugged, more commonly violent than anything you'd ever seen.

As you move in front of Shimmer to pet her soft face, she sneezes on you, reverberating on the rubber lips. You scrunch up your nose, and bring your sleeve to wipe your face "You're lucky you're cute," You mutter, hearing the sound of giggling and looking to find Sarah "Hey little lady."

"Hi," Her accent was thick, she came straight from the heart of Texas. Sarah was still young, the things you knew about her dad were only what she had told you, oversharing their personal life.

"Leave her alone now," Joel walks up behind Sarah, her wide eyes looking up at him.

"I don't mind, Joel," You answer. "I saw some sour cherries by the river if you care to come pick 'em with me," You say looking at Sarah whose head immediately shoots to her dad "As long as your father says it's okay."

Sarah silently pleads with her daughter, his gaze is still cold like steel. "Maybe tomorrow," He answers and Sarah's face drops. Despite knowing the Millers for months, Joel was always iffy about letting Sarah out of his sight. He knew almost as well as you how vile the world was, especially to young girls.

"Maybe tomorrow," You repeat Joel's words, digging around in your saddlebags for a small wicker basket and cloth to spread out at the bottom "I'll see y'all around," You give the pair a nod before heading down the bank.

The walk was quick and scenic if you ignored the overwhelming heat and the entirely too many layers you were sweltering beneath. You closed your eyes and let your spirit lift with the sounds of rustly grass and the flowing river nearby. The air was thick with the sweet smell of wildflowers mixed with an earthy bitterness from the ground beneath your feet.

You walked towards the tree, carefully plucking ripe cherries. They reminded you of the same ones you once picked back in Greece, as you ate them the juice smeared down your lips you laughed with your sibling, pretending that you had been blood drinkers or angry gods drinking the wine that was poured for them.

You often find solace in reminiscing over all of the people you have been in the span of one lifetime. You've been a wife, doctor, witch, god, poet, farmer, handmaiden, dressmaker, priestess, and now you were just a woman picking cherries and planning out her next facade. What awaited you in Montana? Hopefully somewhere peaceful, a cabin by a stream where you could live alone and lay outside in a grassy meadow, waiting for the sun to swallow you whole.

After filling the wicker basket, almost to the brim with small sour cherries, a little larger than the end of your thumb. You turn to walk back to the campsite, though you pause at the incline of the riverbank and decide against it, instead, you find yourself sitting under the shade of the cherry tree, staring to the other side of the riverbank.

You thought that you could've spent the rest of eternity under that cherry tree where you listen to the songs the earth sings for you. Here, the air is clean. The river itself was a sight to behold, a ribbon of shimmering blue that wound its way through the landscape, its waters sparkling in the sunlight like a thousand diamonds. Here and there, small ripples danced across the surface, creating patterns of light and shadow that played upon the sandy riverbed below.

Someone sits next to you, you can sense them awkwardly shuffling around to try and get comfy, from that alone you knew it was Ellie. "Hi, it's been a while," You say, voice quiet.

"Hey," She takes a cherry out of the wicker basket beside you, she bites into it, juice dribbling down her chin, nose scrunches when the sour taste hits her tongue. "Fuck, that's sour."

"They're supposed to be, they're sour cherries," You look at her face to see a large dark bruise engulfing one of her cheekbones, it spreads under her puffy eye bag, giving her a real shiner over her eyelid. "What happened to your face?"

"You," She says, pressing her lips together "After the Boston massacre you hit me pretty hard, remember?"

Your eyebrows furrow "That was more than a hundred years ago."

"For you," She corrects "It's been a little under a week for me."

Your gaze shifts to the glimmering river in front of you "That must be nice," That familiar sense of bitterness set in once again, the reason why you could never stomach being around Ellie for too long. She could blip in and out of your life as she wanted but you were the one forced to sit through thousands of years of torment and longing for the sweet release of death that taunted you in mirrors and the eyes of those who thought they knew you well.

She falls short of words to say. In your eyes it was nice, in her eyes, she faced the woman whom she had married in another life who held nothing more than a little resentment for her now.

"I am sorry that I hit you," You mutter, spitting out the pit of a cherry beside you. "You did cheer for the colonials to hang me though."

"And I am sorry about that," Ellie rolls the stem of a cherry between her fingers, more focused on it than any of her beautiful surroundings. She had seen every bit of scenery that there was to see, her favourite was seeing the dinosaurs, they were much more scary in person than they had been "At least you're an urban legend now."

"What's it matter to be an urban legend when you've already been a god?" You say "It just does not get more interesting than that."

"Yeah, watching you eat your own heart in front of terrified ancestors was pretty cool." Ellie flicks the cherry stem into the river, watching it get swallowed and pulled away by the currents "I'm glad you aren't still mad at me, if I were you I'd probably have a knife to my throat by now."

"I think I'm finally getting wise after two thousand three hundred four years," You joke, digging your teeth into the flesh of another cherry.

"What? You don't look a day over one thousand," She teases, a smile ever so slightly playing on her face.

"Thanks, I was worried."

"Don't be, you look great for your age."

She was joking, her tone light-hearted but something inside you breaks just a little more. You look at your hands, not a wrinkle or callous, no sign of the exciting and extremely terrifying life you had lived, just smooth young skin stretched over ancient bones.

You should've been nothing more than a skeleton buried beneath centuries-old rubble and flora by now. "Yup."

Ellie fiddled with her hands, trying to think of something else to say, she didn't want the conversation to be over just yet. She clung to every word you spoke like it was scripture and she was the most devoted follower. "What are you gonna do in Montana?"

"I think you know better than me," You answer, eyes focused on the water glittering in the blistering sunlight, beads of sweat resting on your brow. "Care to share?"

"Can't say."

"How come?"

She shrugs "I don't think you want to know."

"Well, how many times have I travelled with this bunch?"

"I've lost count," Ellie lies through her teeth, she knew every statistic, she had turned back time to the ancient cities 872 times to be with you. It slowly got easier to face you every time though it never replicated the love you had that first time, a high Ellie was forever chasing.

"Oh," You respond, leaning against the trunk of the cherry tree, sinking into yourself.

The silence stretches between you two. You had actually missed Ellie in the century that she disappeared completely; you found yourself waiting for her to show up around a corner and say something to annoy you.

After swallowing back another cherry in silence you open your mouth to speak "Ellie, whatever I meant to you, whoever I was, I need you to know that I'm not that girl-

"I know-

"I don't think you do," You say, discarding the stem of the cherry beside you "I need you to forget about any life we had together, at least until you get bored of this one."

"I don't get bored of it, I could never get bored of you," She answers.

"Then why start all the way from the beginning over and over again?" You ask "Just to watch me beg for death?"

Ellie shakes her head "I just can't let go of you." She listens to herself "I guess you're right, I'm holding onto someone who doesn't exist anymore." You watch the realization strike Ellie, with each rapid blink her eyes get more and more watery "I'm sorry, I know it's selfish."

"It is," You answer, feeling no urge to coddle "I'm not her, I know that you loved me but I don't remember what you used to be to me. I'm sure I loved you a lot, but I doubt that I do every single time."

Ellie nodded, using the heel of her palm to wipe at the tears that threatened to spill "Okay," Her voice hardly above a whisper "Just see this life through and I promise I'll fix everything, you live a good life, I promise." You stare at her blankly for a moment before nodding. She must know what waits for you in the future, something sweet perhaps, like sugar resting on the tip of your tongue. "I'll always hold you close but I'm learning you let you go."

"I appreciate it," You say, the ghost of a melancholy smile on your face.

The heat of the day finally disappears into the coolness of night and with that, Ellie disappears too, likely to be seen in another year.

The night was draped in the thick, velvety darkness that you only got in the west, where the only illumination came from the crackling flames of a campfire. Around it sat your sorry crew of companions, their weary faces highlighted by the flickering light, casting shadows that danced across the rugged landscape. They had ridden hard all day, herding cattle across vast plains and navigating treacherous terrain, but now, as they rested under the vast expanse of the starry sky, they sought solace in camaraderie and laughter.

"Y'all hear the one about the preacher who walked into a saloon?" Tommy began, his voice gravelly from years of dust and tobacco. Several others in the group had already called it a night, resting their heads beneath the stars that hung in the ink black sky.

The others leaned in, eager for the punchline.

"He says, 'I'm lookin' for the man who's been sleeping with my wife!' And a fella at the bar stands up and says, 'You'll have to narrow it down, preacher!'" The group erupts into bellowing laughter at his words and you can't help but smile at the pure joy written on these gruff men's faces.

"Alright, alright, I got one more for ya," Wyatt announced, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. He was an unnerving man from the looks of it, tall and intimidating but after the first day you had spent with him, he treated you like a baby sister, ready to go to war for you at the drop of a hat. The others perked up, their interest piqued by the promise of one last ribald tale."So there's this rancher," the cowboy began, "and he's got himself a problem with his bull. See, this here bull is getting up there in years, and he just ain't performin' like he used to."

A ripple of knowing laughter spread through the group, anticipation building for the punchline. Joel sat beside you, he had no interest in the jokes nor did he find them funny, all he got from it was a small detox from his life of overworking himself into exhaustion.

"Now, this rancher, he's heard all kinds of remedies for puttin' a little pep back in a bull's step," the cowboy continued. "But none of 'em seem to do the trick. So he finally decides to consult the local veterinarian."

The rest leaned in, hanging on every word.

"The vet takes one look at the old bull and says, 'I got just the thing for him. There's this new experimental treatment I've been workin' on. It involves a little bit of whiskey.'"

The campfire erupted with uproarious laughter, the group hooting and hollering at the unexpected twist, it ws far from the funniest joke you had ever heard, still, you laugh. Some slapped their thighs, others doubled over with mirth, and a few wiped tears of amusement from their eyes.

"And you know what?" the cowboy concluded with a grin. "After that little glass bottle was emptied, that ol' bull was buckin' like a bronco."

As the laughter at last subsided, the fire crackled softly as men began to say their goodnights and lull for the night. They sat in comfortable silence, their thoughts drifting to the vast expanse of the frontier and the challenges that awaited them come dawn and dreams of the promised land of Montana.

"Y'know, fellas- and madams," Wyatt addresses you and Maria, "We've been tellin' jokes and carryin' on like a pack of fools, but there's somethin' to be said 'bout the bonds we share out here on the range," he began, his husky voice tinged with sincerity.

The others nodded, aside from Joel who was studying the fire in front of him, tuned out from the conversation.

"I reckon there ain't nothin' quite like the brotherhood of the trail," he continued. "We ride together, we work together, and when the chips are down, we stand together. Through thick and thin, come hell or high water, we got each other until death takes us all." Wyatt takes another swig of his moonshine "We may come from different walks of life, but out here, under these stars, we're all just cowboys," the cowboy mused. "And there ain't no bond stronger than that."

"That ain't true," Issac poked up "I know that not one of us will see each other once we get to Montana, we're all goin' our separate ways."

"Don't mean there's no bond," You peep up.

"How's that?"

You shrug "Your heart is just too young to realize."

The group stops for a moment before erupting into ragged laughter, Tommy almost has tears in his eyes at the fact that you had called the man seemingly 15 years older than you young "Kid, you're too young to realize how bad life gets."

"Sounds about right."

Cape Cod, America - May - 1937

To say the things he truly feels and not the words of one who kneels.

In the hazed ambiance of the club, the air reverberated with the lively tunes of Duke Ellington, and the floor pulsed with the infectious rhythm of swing. Amidst the whirl of dancers, there you were, dancing so exuberantly that others backed away in fear of you swinging on them; though that was the nature of swing dancing, almost a fight to keep your nose unbroken.

But even the most seasoned dancers could only keep up for so long. As the night wore on and the music continued to play, you found yourself in need of a moment's reprieve. With a smile still lingering on your lips, you tapped your partner, Richard's shoulder, signalling your desire to take a break. You hadn't known him well by any means but he was a good dancer.

Leaning against the cool plaster of the club's wall, you breathed deeply, chest rising and falling in time with the music. You closed her eyes, savouring the lingering sensations of the dance. Little did you know, your moment of respite was about to be interrupted in the most unexpected yet delightful manner.

A voice, smooth and warm, broke through the cacophony of sound around you. "Mind if I join you?" the voice asked, accompanied by a gentle tap on your shoulder. Opening your eyes, you found yourself face to face with a strikingly handsome man, his eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief. His black hair parted to the side and slicked over as well as his dark eyes soft as snow added to his undeniable charm.

A bemused smile tugged at your lips as you nodded, welcoming the interruption. "Not at all," you replied, voice carrying a hint of amusement.

With a casual elegance, the man leaned against the wall beside you, his gaze drifting out across the dance floor. "You're quite the dancer," he remarked, his tone tinged with admiration. He was wearing a white button-up tucked into pinstripe trousers being held up by black suspenders.

"Thank you. I've had a good bit of practice." You smile softly "Your name is?"

"Jesse," He answered "Care to tell me who I'm talking to?"

"Midge," you lie, it was the name you had picked up for your residence in Cape Cod.

"Midge," he repeats smiling as the name rolls off his tongue "You might just have the prettiest smile in Cape Cod."

You can't help but grin "And I thought I had already met all of the gentlemen around these parts."

"Must've been wrong," He said with his crooked smile. Then, after a moment's pause, he extended a courteous offer. "Can I buy you a Coke? It's the least I can do for such a captivating dancer."

You couldn't help but be charmed by his sincerity and manners. With a twinkle in your eye, you nodded in agreement. "I would like that very much."

Your conversation flowed effortlessly as you sipped on your cokes, exchanging stories and sharing laughter amidst the ringing of the club and chatter of individuals all around. With each passing moment, the two of you scrambled for things to talk about, desperate to keep the spark of conversation alive. You had just prayed that you could pull yourself away from his magnetic charisma.

As the night wore on, the music gradually began to fade, signalling the end of another unforgettable evening. Reluctantly, you rose from your seat, a sense of disappointment tugging at your heart while you watched Jesse lean back in his chair studying you like a textbook.

"Well, it looks like the night's coming to an end," you remarked, a wistful smile gracing your lips.

Jesse nodded, his expression mirroring her sentiment. "Indeed it has," he replied, his voice tinged with a hint of hopefulness. "But perhaps it's just the beginning of something new?"

"Perhaps," You agreed, gaze lingering on his handsome face.

That was when you had broken the only rule you created for yourself 'Don't fall in love'. One year later you were so head over heels for Jesse that you were getting married. Dressed in your floor-length wedding dress, hair carefully curated after spending hours trying to perfect it.

You hadn't any family to fill up your side of the aisle, so instead you had asked your friends from work and the jazz club to take their places. After telling Jesse you were orphaned, he didn't bat an eye at this. You had frantically searched for someone to fill the shoes of your father who walked the earth centuries prior on the shores of Greece, it was a relief when Jesse's father stepped up.

Walking down the aisle of the church, arms hooked with Jesse's father you see him then, standing at the end waiting for you and he looks like the rest of your life. "You clean up nice," You mutter to Jesse quietly to be sure no one else can hear your little remark.

"I try my best," He smiles, hands in front of him as he waits patiently for the pastor to speak up. He looks handsome as the day you met as you look remarkably the same, not a new scratch or wrinkle upon a single inch of your skin.

As you exchanged vows, the both of you unable to fight the wild smiles on your faces, the world seemed to stand still, as if holding its breath in anticipation. With each word spoken, you pledged your love and devotion to one another, promising to stand by each other's side through all the joys and challenges that life would bring and you meant every word.

The reception was nothing short of perfect in your eyes. Everyone gathered at Jesse's parents' home, flowing in and out as they pleased. You however preferred the outdoors aspect of it, where people chatted happily with a glass of champagne in hand.

"Congratulations," Ellie says "Little bummed that I didn't get an invite," There's an odd sense of bitterness in her voice. She's wearing a blue tulle dress at tea length, blending in perfectly around the other guests, long white gloves to cover the tattoo on her forearm, and she even had her shoulder-length hair pin-curled.

"I figured you would be coming around either way."

"You know me too well," She takes the champagne flute out of your hand and swallows it back.

"You're actually the one who knows me too well."

She nods, faces expressionless while she looks around at the scenery of the yard. "Good luck."

"I'm sorry?" You furrow your eyebrows trying to seek out some tell on Ellie's face that would give you any indicator of what's racing through her head. Still, she's unreadable.

"With your marriage."

"Okay?"

"What's the plan here anyways?" She asks picking up someone's glass of wine the second they place it down on the garden table and turn their head away. "In thirty years, you're still married to Jesse, he's sixty getting wrinkly and you're still young and beautiful?"

As Ellie goes to drink the wine you take it out of her hands, putting it back on the garden table. You think of something to say to her, anything, but the words die in your throat, shrivelling up, never to be said.

"I will say that you becoming a history teacher is very funny."

"Did you just come here to sulk?" You ask.

She shakes her head slightly "I've come here to celebrate your union," Ellie glances around the yard once more.

"Then celebrate," you throw your hands out "I don't see you doing anything other than slinking around."

"Honey, who's this?" Jesse strolls up beside you, putting one hand on the small of your back. He smiles brightly as he looks at Ellie, he has known all of your friends which wasn't a bountiful number to begin with, just other teachers you worked with and some people you danced with.

"Oh!" You force a smile onto your face "This is my old friend from New Orleans, we really have some catching up to do."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Jesse," He holds out his hand.

"Ellie," She says shaking it.

"When did you become friends?" He asks "Midge hasn't told me a whole lot about her school days."

Ellie looks at you, she doesn't say anything but you get the message being conveyed. 'What the hell are you doing?' she shifts her eyes to look at the groom "God this one was just wild, keep an eye on her," Ellie forces a fake laugh.

"Really?" He has that goofy lopsided smile painted on his face as he looks at you.

"Yup," Ellie says "So, when are you planning on having kids?"

"Oh," Jesse chuckles, somewhat nervously "We haven't discussed that much."

"It seems like something you should talk about before getting married-

"Thank you," You cut her off "Ellie," You couldn't stand the idea of outliving your child let alone your husband, though it was already an inevitable fate.

"Of course," She's wearing a smile that is bordering somewhere between penitence and condescension, Ellie's looking at you like you're in the gutter.

"Looks like rain," Ellie glances up at the increasingly greying sky before walking inside the cover of the house. "Bad idea," She whispered in your ear as she brushed past. In mere moments after she enters the house thunder cracks and rain dumps from the sky, heavy and harsh, beating against your skin.

Everyone rushes inside, covering their heads as rain showers and soaks them. You and Jesse are frozen, you watch Ellie's figure retreat into the group of people clamouring into the house while Jesse's eyes are trained on you, he can't hold back a laugh.

"Oh no," Jesse's eyebrows furrow as he takes one of your hands in his own and puts the other on the back of your head, staring at your face, makeup running from the rain, hair weighed down by fat droplets dribbling off your collarbone "You spent so long on your hair, what are you gonna do?"

You shake off Ellie's words, cryptic as usual. Your attention snaps back to Jesse once you can no longer see her. The gentleness of his touch, that is his beauty "I'm not sure but I've got half a mind to kiss you," You giggle.

"Yeah?" He takes a step forward "I like that half," Jesse plants a gentle kiss on your lips "The other half is great too."

"You're so odd."

-

It was a quiet Saturday evening in the summer of 1943, the echo of a fuzzy-sounding record player scraping a vinyl filled the room, enveloping you in a certain tenderness.

Jesse, in his crisp white shirt and neatly pressed trousers, held you close, his hand resting gently on the small of your back as they moved together in perfect harmony. Your hair cascaded softly around your face as you rested your head against Jesse's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat matching the cadence of the music.

As you danced, the cares of the outside world didn't seem to exist, leaving only the intimate space you shared. The faint scent of your flowery perfume drowned out concerns. In the dim light, your shadows danced on the walls. Jesse had never been the better dancer between you though he was particularly tense on this night, his eyebrows were stuck furrowed like every thought running through his head was a worry.

The final notes of the song faded into the stillness of the night, Jesse hesitated, his embrace tightening around you as if reluctant to let you go. Sensing his unease, you looked up at him, concern etched in her features.

His unease wasn't difficult to sense, you pry yourself away from him to take him in completely. "Jesse, what's wrong?" You asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

Jesse took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knew he had to say. He held you at arm's length, his eyes searching over your features. "I've been drafted. I received my notice this morning." His voice trembled just the slightest as he took a shaky breath.

Your heart skipped a beat, breath catching in her throat and you thought that this must be what death feels like. For a moment, the world seemed to spin out of control as the weight of Jesse's words sank in. Six years with Jesse was not enough, you needed an eternity.

"We can find a doctor to exempt you-

"You know that's not right," He spoke so softly and you knew he was speaking the truth. You could never convince Jesse to do something as heinous as faking some disease or injury to get him out of the war.

"I know," You say and he steadies himself, staring deep into your eyes and through your soul "My whole life, all I've ever known is loss and I have never cared about anything the way I care about you-

He pulls you forward into his arms, rubbing that familiar calloused hand on the small of your back to soothe you "It's all gonna be alright, love, I'll be back before you know it and then it's smooth sailing for the rest of our lives."

You copied the crook of his neck, the warmth of his arms, the curve of his nose to memory. You caught all that you could before it slipped through the empty gaps of your mind. You hadn't realized that he had been doing the same, memorizing the smell of your perfume, the texture of your hair, the way your eyes caught the light.

He told you to look to the future when he finally walked back through that door and you could dance again but the only thing you could see was the end of the world, starting with you saying goodbye to him.

July 12, 1943

My Dearest Love,

I hope this letter finds you well and in high spirits. It's been quite some time since I last wrote to you, and I apologize for the delay. The days here in Europe seem to blend into one another, filled with moments of both intense action and serene contemplation.

As I write this letter, I find myself missing you more and more. You are what keeps me going through these harrowing and relentless days

Please know that you are always in my heart, my love. No matter where I may be, you remain my constant source of hope and inspiration. I dream of the day when this war is finally over, and we can be reunited once more, never to be parted again.

Until then, stay strong, my love. Know that I am fighting for you, for us, and for a better tomorrow. Keep me in your thoughts and prayers, as I do for you each and every day.

With all my love,

Jesse

December 18, 1943

My Dearest Love,

As Christmas draws near, my thoughts turn to you more than ever. I find myself reminiscing about the holidays we've shared together, specifically the weekend we spent at the cabin. How I long to be by your side once more, to hold you close and celebrate the season of peace and goodwill together.

But even amidst the turmoil of war, I see you in every good thing. Here in the trenches, my comrades and I have found solace in each other's company, we are united in our common humanity and our dreams for a home cooked meal.

I am reminded, now more than ever, of the importance of compassion in times of strife. It is love that sustains us, that gives us the strength to endure even the darkest of days. And though we may be separated by miles and oceans, our love remains as strong as ever.

As I write this letter, surrounded by the sounds of gunfire and the cries of my fellow soldiers, I find comfort in the knowledge that you are thinking of me, just as I am thinking of you. Your love is my guiding light,

This Christmas, as you gather with our loved ones know that you are in my thoughts and prayers. Though we may be apart in body, our spirits are forever intertwined, bound together by the enduring power of love.

Wishing you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. May the coming year bring us closer to ending this war.

With all my love,

Jesse

March 19, 1944

My Dearest Love,

The world is now brighter than the sun because you're here, that is why I will remain giving you everything that I have.

I have been looking at the moon over and over again and wondered if you stare at it the same time as I do, please say yes. I think the battlefields are turning me into a poet, I would love some critique from a wordsmith such as yourself.

Everything here is frightening (redacted)

In light of the events I've just shared, I am looking forward more than ever to waking up and saying good morning to the sleepy woman lying next to me, that's you if you were curious. Here's to the future!

With all my love,

Jesse

August 8, 1944

My Dearest Love,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you today, for the horrors of war have taken their toll on both body and soul. The past few months have been filled with unimaginable hardship as (Redacted)

The knowledge that our sacrifices are not in vain, that we are fighting for a better future for generations yet unborn keeps these weary bones standing straight.

But oh, how I long for the comforts of home, for the warmth of your embrace and the gentle touch of your hand. In the midst of so much death and destruction, it is your love that reminds me of all the beauty that still remains in the world.

I fear that I may never see you again, my love, that this cruel war may rob us of the future we had planned together. And yet I'm not ready to give up. For as long as I draw breath, I will continue to fight for a world where love triumphs over hate, where you and I can go back to life as it was.

All of the living are dead and I have noticed an oncoming silence.

With all my love,

Jesse

May 7, 1945

My Dearest Love,

I can scarcely believe it – the war is finally over, and victory belongs to the Allies!

We won! Or we think we did, a true win would likely have less bloodshed.

But amidst the celebrations and rejoicing, my thoughts turn to you. How unmanly to cry though I find myself doing so as I write this. The thought of being reunited with you fills my heart back up despite those who have emptied it, for you are my everything, my reason for living.

I cannot wait to return home to you, my love, to begin our lives anew in a world free from the shadow of war. Until then, know that you are always in my thoughts and prayers and that my love for you knows no bounds.

It looks like I'm coming home soon! I'm looking forward to some dance lessons with my one and only.

With all my love,

Jesse

Though you weren't the only one occupying the seemingly empty house, you lived with ghosts. Every step you took they lurked behind you as permanent reminders of everyone you've ever let down; months stretched into years and you clung onto each word in Jesse's letter like it was doctrine. The moment you received that final letter from Jesse you ran out into the streets and hugged the very first person you saw.

"Ellie now isn't a great time to be here," You tell her as she stands behind you in your vanity while you reapply your lipstick "Jesse's home today," You can't help the smile that stretches across your face. After years of hearing from your husband in nothing more than ink over paper, you would see him again and not just in the pictures that you had hung around every corner of the house.

"I'm here to celebrate," She says though she doesn't seem enthusiastic in the slightest. She wears black cigarette pants and a short-sleeved blouse tucked into them. You, on the other hand, had pressed your hair flat only to do it up in pin-curls, wearing your finest dress and most expensive jewelry for your husband's return home.

"If you're going to water down today, you could at the very least pretend to be happy." You were so ecstatic that you didn't even mind that Ellie had chosen today to bum around your house. For once it wouldn't be empty with nothing but your hollowed cries.

"I am happy," She answers "Are you going to wait here for him?"

You shake your head while you put in earrings that Jesse had gifted you on your third anniversary "I'm going down to the train station so I can hug him the second he sets foot back in Cape Cod."

"Nice," She nods "Have you thought about what you're going to do if it doesn't go as planned?"

You furrow your eyebrows, putting the other earring down on the vanity so you can turn back and look at her. "What do you know?" Your smile dropped at her words. Ellie isn't as unreadable as usual, she has traces of guilt across her features and that makes you all the more concerned. "Ellie, what happens?"

Before she can even open her mouth, you hear a firm knock at the front door. "That," Ellie says, you push yourself up from the vanity so fast the chair tips over. You snatch the other earring off of the vanity and awkwardly force it into your piercing as you rush down the hallway as fast as you can in your heels, clickity clack over the floorboards, Ellie trailing slowly behind you.

Your heart was pounding so fast that it reverberated in your head like an echo bouncing off the walls of your mind. A click. A slow creak and you open the door. Sun floods into the room and your heart pinches at the sight of the officer, clad in military excellence with baubles and an olive green jacket.

"Who are you?" Your stomach drops at the sight of the stranger who stands in the place where your husband should be.

The man stared at you, a certain solemn yet controlled grief lurking in his pale eyes. "Ma'am, I am Sergeant Reynolds of the 45th Infantry regiment. Are you Mrs. Midge Maisel, wife of Jesse Chang?"

Your throat went dry. "Yes," You curled your fingers inward, feeling nails push into the soft palm of your hand until the skin broke and you pushed even harder.

You didn't know who helped you sit down when you couldn't move. You only remembered fuzzy voices and the pace of your heart becoming too fast for your body to handle. There was not enough air in the world for you to swallow. The world felt so far away, as did anyone who tried to comfort you or explain the circumstances of Jesse's death.

"After Germany was concurred, he intercepted a grenade ambush from stragglers, saving the lives of many in his platoon."

Everything had stopped spinning, leaving you nauseous where Ellie sat beside you her face smeared in your vision blurry from tears.

Accept our sympathies

Funeral arrangements

The return of personal effects

Bits and pieces of Reynolds's words jumped out at you but you couldn't hear them. Restless nights for centuries were instead what clouded your mind. Outside you could hear families and friends celebrating the return of their loved ones, while you ushered the man out of your door screaming at him to leave. Music played, a celebration you would not take part in but watch bitterly from afar while you plan out the next life you will live.

Ellie begins to speak when the eery silence becomes unbearable "I know you don't want to hear it but this was inevitable-

"Leave," You mutter, resentment simmering inside of you.

"What-

"Leave," You repeat "You knew this was going to happen and you didn't tell me? You didn't stop it?"

"I can't turn the world upside down just to make you happy-

"Then why are you here?" You ask, rage carved in deep despite the tears across your face "I thought you were in love with me and that's why you won't leave me alone."

Her words fail her. She stares at you blankly, trying to scrounge up an answer that would put you both to rest. "We have a good life-

"Ellie, this is not a good life, for you maybe because you don't have to watch me suffer since you can keep skipping to the parts where I'm happy again," You correct her words, fat teardrops streaming down your face while you try to compose yourself the same way that you would a song or a speech. "I'm going to tell you now so you have to get it into your head- We are not friends, I certainly don't love you, I don't even like you and if I ever see your fucking face again, I'm bashing it in."

Bethel, America- August - 1969

If we were vampires and death was a joke, we'd still go out on the sidewalk and smoke.

They wandered through the makeshift villages that sprung up amidst the chaos, where hippies and freaks shared food and shelter, and strangers became friends in the blink of an eye. Your hand was clasped tightly with Dina's while your pupils went wide under the influence.

She refused to let go and lose you in the crowd of sweaty bodies, despite your states you understood well that you would easily lose each other in the sea of people at the music festival and wouldn't cross paths again till night time. She was wearing a turquoise bell-sleeved top paired with a skirt of all sorts of funky patterns and had on at least six beaded necklaces. You'd think that she'd be hard to miss but in this crowd, she blended in perfectly, looking a little bit like everyone else as everyone seemed to bleed together.

You were already high out of your mind the world warping around you, everything moved in frames like an old film. The ground was morphing and breathing under your feet, you giggled with each step, following behind Dina to find the rest of the little group you had come to Woodstock with.

The two of you were nowhere close to the stage, you had only partially come for the music. To you, it seemed like another historic event to add to your list. While most people sit on the ground swaying to Janis Joplin, your small circle of friends was dancing; it was something like them loosely waving their bodies around.

"No one asks me for dances because I only know how to flail!" Dina shouts, laughing so hard that she leans on you for support. You laugh too, head resting on top of Dina's. Her words weren't funny at all but everything seemed funny when fractals hoovered around your eyes. You lifted your head just slightly to see that same freckled face that had haunted you for centuries.

"Ellie!" You shouted, letting go of Dina's hand and making your way towards her, eyes half-lidded and hazy. Dina lulled in place watching you run away from her.

Ellie looked frightened that you had stuck true to your promise of bashing her face in the next time you saw her but instead, you wrapped your arms around her tightly and began to sway gingerly. It was just the beating of hearts like two drums in the rain.

"I'm sorry," You mutter into the crook of her neck. "I missed you, you should visit more."

Hesitantly, Ellie hugged you back, folding her arms around your torso and letting herself sink into you. In the past 2380 you had never hugged Ellie, you hardly touched her. She closed her eyes letting delusion flood her brain, thinking back to the first time she had seen you and then seventy years later when she realized you were immortal and every other timeline she had lived with you.

"I missed you too," She muttered, trying to ignore the fact that you were only saying this because you were high.

You pull back away from her and take her in, all dazed. You give her a boop on the nose with your index and erupt in giggles while Ellie furrows her eyebrows. An idea strikes you and it's apparent on your face as you light up, eyebrows shooting up. "You should come to tell my friends about all of your time-travelling stories!"

Ellie starts to shake her head but you pull her away despite that. She trails behind you as you refuse to let go of her hand, dragging her back to the grassy patch where your friends danced, some of them taking a quick break flat on their backs. "This is Ellie, we've been friends for a long time."

The group acknowledges her, mainly with waves and giggles but Jimmy goes the extra mile, standing up and extending a lanky arm "It's good to meet you."

"This is my best friend in the world forever!" You sling an arm around Dina, calling for Ellie's attention. Dina leaned into your touch, a drowsy smile on her face. "Ellie can actually travel through time."

You tell the group and they all look toward her, eyes squinted and bodies relaxed. Ellie didn't mind, knowing that they were too high to believe her by the time they sobered up even if they did she could go back and fix it. She nods along "It's true and she's immortal." Ellie points at you.

"No, you're not," Dina pokes you.

"I believe it," Weston speaks up from his spot on the ground where he lies with Patricia, her ash blonde hair strewn across the grass "I have never seen this woman so who am I to not believe her." As opposed to the majority of the group whose pupils were dilated from LSD, the whites of his eyes had turned red from the herbs he smoked.

Stevie is still dancing, her loose white dress rustly so slightly in the gentle breeze. Dawn dances with her, her hair the colour of fire tied neatly into two twin braids, she doesn't care about anything besides the way her feet carry her.

"One time I cut out my own heart and I ate it," You giggle, head resting on Dina. Her face was sunkissed, accentuating her freckles. She had let her dark hair run loose.

Jimmy looks at you, through his sunglasses. He has Ellie sitting next to him, his ebony skin a contrast to her paleness. "How does that work?"

"I slice my skin open and then I break my ribs, rip out my heart and shove it in my mouth.

He looks you up and down "Ribs look fine to me."

"I can show you," You look around to find something to cut you open, and you see a large rock with some smaller ones stacked around it. You walk over, all eyes on you as you put your wrist on top of the larger rock.

In your free hand, you pick up a smaller jagged rock that fits into the claw of your hand. You raise the jagged stone up and smash it into your wrist with little effort after the strength you have gathered over the years.

Dina lets out a scream watching your arm bend out of shape, wrist twisted so your hand doesn't sit where it's supposed to. You bring the rock up and slam it down again, making sure to dig into your skin, flesh mangled up on your arm and you brought it up to show everyone. Jimmy scrambled to his feet in a panic, racing through the crowd to find a medic.

"No, it's healing!" You shout after Jimmy. Weston looks at your mangled arm with wide eyes before buckling onto his knees and throwing up. Dawn and Stevie pause their dancing, Dawn froze in fear and Stevie backed away. "Do you see?" You shake your arm trying to show them that the wound was fixing itself.

-

"I can show you," You look around to find something to cut you open, and then your eyes settle on Ellie who shakes her head at you. You knew this meant she had seen the outcome and it wasn't good so you decide to drop the topic, plopping yourself onto the grass.

"Don't you wanna dance?" Dina asks.

You shake your head. You had reserved dancing for Jesse who you knew you wouldn't see again, not even in death since it would never come for you.

The day had eventually faded away into night, the concert still rang loud but you stayed far in the back of the crowd, lying on the ground with Ellie and looking at the stars. "I'm really sorry for everything you've been through," Ellie breaks the pure hum of music.

"I'm really sorry for everything you've seen," You answer. "I thought the war would finally be over," You murmur, thinking back to Jesse and the idea you conjured up of his corpse; you imagined him to be blown into a million pieces, a thought that never left your mind no matter how high you got or what you drank you knew it wouldn't end. You had thought World War two to be the last until the Vietnam War plagued the news and began to pluck men from neighbourhoods all around.

"It doesn't end, not ever," Ellie tells you.

"You should fix it."

"I've tried," There's a hint of sadness in her voice "If one ends, a new one will always spring up."

The two of you fall silent for a moment, heads side to side but you don't look at one another, only the stars. There's something so calming yet unnerving about the inky black sky; it reminded you of the nothingness that consumed you on the night you had given up your mortality.

"I don't want to live," The words fall from your lips so effortlessly. The LSD was wearing off, leaving you to be in control of your thoughts and your body all over again.

"I know."

"I've seen more men die than I can count."

"I know."

"I can't seem to hate you though."

Ellie turns her head to look at you and you do the same. Her green eyes are shining beneath the moonlight, just the shadow of her face illuminated. You lean forward just the slightest and connect your lips into a kiss, Ellie seems surprised but she doesn't fight it.

Once you pull away, you can only seem to make out one sentence "Don't leave this time."

Greenport Village, America - April - 2011

A handshake of carbon monoxide, no alarms and no surprises.

As the late afternoon sun cast its golden hues over the rolling hills of the Greenport, you made your way home planning a quick visit to the beach before doing so, arms laden with bags filled with groceries from the quaint village market, arms laden with provisions that you had no need for, save to fill the endless hours of your existence.

You walked with your timeless beauty that seemed to shimmer like a mirage in the fading light, you had called the Greenport Village home for six years now, finding a position there as a history teacher, your favourite job of the hundreds you had worked. Though the passing decades had left their mark on the landscape and its inhabitants, you remained unchanged, frozen in time like a moth preserved in amber.

You still struggled to come to terms with the fact that death would never take you though Ellie tried to make it easier. All these years and it never felt any better, it was still difficult to swallow the truth.

There was no solace to be found in the quiet beauty of the world around you. For two thousand years, you had walked the earth with Ellie, you, a solitary figure doomed to wander the endless expanse of time and her, the shadow that trailed behind and mocked your existence without intending to. You had seen kingdoms rise and fall, witnessed the birth and death of countless generations, and yet you remained unchanged, untouched by the ravages of time. All of the identification you had forged didn't make you into who you said you were.

Walking towards the beach, you could've sworn that you recognized every face you saw but that was just how long you had lived; everyone you've ever known slowly bleeding into everyone else like a suicide cleanup. You would outlive the kids playing on the seesaw and the toddlers scrambling around them, you would outlive their offspring too and every other generation after that.

Eventually, you found yourself in your usual spot in the park, an old beaten bench outlooking the sea where sunlight danced off of it like sparks.

After the seventies, you had accepted that the land was your only friend, ever-changing just like you, yet it remained miraculously intact. You had Ellie, on occasion, though calling her a friend would be a loose term. You weren't sure what she was but butterflies and maggots had a field in your intestines every time you thought of all of the things she knew about you and how little you know of her.

The lack of trust always lingered. You never knew if she had gone back in time and forced you to forget about something she said or something you asked. How many times had you begged her to go back to the beginning and let you ebb away with old age?

As you sat in silent contemplation, lost in the labyrinth of your centuries-old thoughts, a frail figure approached, leaning heavily on a gnarled cane. It was an old woman, her face etched with the lines of a life well-lived, her eyes twinkling with a spark of something you couldn't make out.

You shifted slightly on the bench, making room for her unexpected companion. The old woman, her steps slow and deliberate, lowered herself onto the seat beside you, exhaling a contented breath as she settled into place.

For a long moment, you sat in companionable silence, each lost in your own reverie. "You must be an old soul," The woman next to you speaks, covered in sunspots and wrinkles, grey and white streaks all through her black hair. "When you're old all you want to do is sit and stare at the scenery."

"Yeah," You give her a tight-lipped smile "I'm mature at heart."

The woman furrows her eyebrows for a moment, deep in thought as her brown eyes rake over every single one of your features, studying you like scripture. "I'm sorry," She shakes her head "You just look like a girl I used to know."

"Really?" You ask and then it strikes you like lightning. Despite the withering of her face, it's the same bump of her nose, the freckles across her skin, the curve of her jaw, it was your Dina.

She waves it off "She's long gone by now, haven't heard from her in years." Dina looks off to the ocean, the screech of kids is far off in the distance. Her face drops just the slightest at the mention of this.

"Who was she?" You press, just wanting to hear Dina's voice after decades of replaying memories and performing autopsies on expired conversations like you could somehow revive them and the people who came with.

"Oh, um," Dina hadn't expected you to carry on the conversation, people had stopped caring about what she had to say when time hit her and dragged her skin down. "A friend of mine, way back before you were born. If you could see her, gosh," Dina mutters, salt and pepper hair braided down her back "You could've been her twin."

Your heart was slamming against your ribcage like it wanted to be set free. "Uh, I'm sorry if this seems odd," You say with a shakey breath "But could you just keep talking? I don't want to have to think right now."

Her eyebrows knit together just the slightest, concern growing with your words "About what?"

"Just," You shrug "Reminisce maybe," Nearby there were birds on a wire chirping, it felt like every one of them was talking to you, beedy eyes prying into your veins "I just like stories."

Dina slips a small smile, her teeth not quite as white as they used to be but her smile holds all of the comforts nonetheless "My stories are no good, I'm sure you'll have better ones when you're my age."

You shake your head on impulse, grasping the pieces of her that you still held close to your ancient heart. "No, I don't think I'll get there," You aren't trying to ramble yet here you are, scrambling to reconnect the two of you like this is a film that ends well.

Her smile falters, trying to comprehend the odd woman beside her, beginning to contemplate that you're high on something, suspicion growing more solid with each shake of your hands and blink of your watery eyes. "Are you alright?" She lowers her voice.

"Yup," You nod, already feeling her slip through the space between your fingers all over again like she had years prior. At this point in your life, you should've been a better liar but you just sat there, tears rolling down silently while you forced your teeth to bear a smile. You wanted to tell her how nice it was to see her and remind her of all of the days and nights alike you had wasted on each other.

It was easy to see how she didn't believe you, from your trembling hands gripping your thighs in an attempt to steady them to the manufactured smile you wore on your face, sadness seeping from your pores. Unlike Dina, you felt that age had made you no wiser. Years you spent studying and chasing careers just to end up faking death and restarting all over again from scraps, losing a little piece of yourself every time.

She places one of her calloused and withered hands over yours where it grasps to the fabric over your thighs. She meets your gaze "Whatever it is, you'll be okay."

Something inside you shifts, then cracks, and crumbles completely. The agonizing pain accumulated by thousands of years spilled out of you in the form of tears as salty as the ocean spray that simmered on your skin. It was like every awful thing you had ever felt was going to burst through the gaps of your teeth.

There was entirely too much going on in your head when you inched forward and wrapped your arms around Dina, chin resting on her neck. It took a minute but you felt her bony hands rest on your back while she returned the gesture, albeit confused.

You were glad you got to see her again. Every time someone passes through your life you think of all of the things you would do to speak to them one more time. You had finally been given a blessing, something that balanced out the bitterness of eternity. "I'm sorry, Dina."

The second you spoke you regretted it. With what little grace you have left you manage to pry yourself up, sheepishly standing to your feet and trying not to wobble like a colt. Dina's bygone face held more confusion than ever, mouth slightly ajar as she watched you with wide eyes like a doe. "Honey, I think you have the wrong person."

Your feet move faster than your head, not leaving Dina behind a second time but a complete stranger. You had only been sick with nostolgia. Panic shot through your veins like box cutters trying to find their way to your heart, which they surely would.

Your day's shopping had been left behind at the bench along with all of the dreams you once etched into indigo skies and sandy shores, now all they did was rot at your feet, at least they had the pleasure of aging.

The feeling of screaming was creeping up your body in shivers, you hugged yourself all the way home, swivelling your head every minute to be sure that ghosts weren't following you but they always had a way of sneaking up on you.

What purpose did you serve? Anything mildly important you had ever done was lost to time, gone, forgotten. You didn't get the luxury of having children with the one you love, you didn't even have anyone to love. You drag your mud-covered heels all the way up the steps of your stoop slamming the door behind you.

With trembling hands and a mind consumed by anguish, you began to tear through her home with frenzied desperation, your movements fueled by a maelstrom of emotions too powerful to contain, the urge-no, the need to die. You ripped books from their shelves, their pages fluttering like wounded birds as they scattered across the floor in a flurry. You overturned furniture with reckless abandon, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass echoing through the empty rooms like a orchestra of destruction.

You open your cabinets, dragging your hands behind all of the ceramic and glass, pushing it to the ground and watching them shatter at your feet. What need did you have for a fridge full of food when you don't have to eat? Or a feathered bed when you don't need to sleep, you can't even bring yourself to sleep these days.

Each crash and thud seemed to reverberate through your empty, a haunting reminder of the pain and turmoil that threatened to consume her from within. Memories, once cherished and dear, now lay shattered and broken like all of the ambition you should have forgotten, fragments of an overwhelming life that had slipped through your fingers like grains of sand.

With a guttural cry of anguish, you sank to your knees amidst the wreckage, body racked with sobs that seemed to tear at your very core. You clutched at your hair in despair, her fingers intertwined in the tangled strands like thorns in a bed of roses.

Your eyes snagged on the cabinet below your sink. You crawl over to it, shards of shattered glassware sticks into the soft palms of your hands, porcelain china cutting up your knees. It didn't even feel like anything, you just wanted to feel something.

You pull the cabinet open pushing the other cleaning supplies aside and grabbing the ammonia and bleach. Twisting the caps of and discarding them among the wreckage, you take a deep breath before raisng the bottle of bleach to your lips and drinking, the harsh and ancrid taste making you cringe but you kept swallowing until you could feel a burning in your throat, taking a quick shallow breath and then doing the same with the ammonia, tears brimming your eyes and hitting the few beams of sunlight that struck through your closed curtains like the glimmer from the ocean.

God, it tasted rancid but for a moment, a brief one it had felt like death or something similar. Mouth feeling like plastic throat burnt to rubber you drank until both bottles were empty. You pressed yourself as flat as you could on the floor, soaking in the last moments of feeling as your insides contorted before stillness.

All of the cells you killed were fixing themselves up and after a minute, you felt numb like you tended to. You hiccup, body jerking upwards just the slightest, a spat of vomit now dribbling at you chin.

Deep inside of you, you knew Ellie would be back to fix your wreckage and leave you oblivious to the destruction you not only caused but craved. She would just keep going back until you help something on the spectrum of happy.

Define happy.

Smiling?

Joking?

Laughing?

Not digging through the dictionary to find new ways to try to kill yourself?

That last one sounds right.

"Ellie, I can't do this anymore!" You screeched hoarsely to the empty room, despite the freckled girl being nowhere in sight. "Can you please let me die now!"

You call for her until your throat is as dry as sandpaper, hollow words scraping themselves dry before they can leave your mouth. Your voice is reduced to a pathetic rasp and you pray that she regrets stealing blood from your veins.

"Please!" You scream, fingers gripping onto the marble counter to haul yourself up. You stumble for a moment as you adjust to the jagged shards you stand on. "I know we've done this before but you'll just lie and make me sound like I'm fucking crazy," A sob falls from your mouth like a howl.

You pull a long kitchen knife from the knife block, and watch the silver blade glimmer, a warped reflection of yourself staring back at you. With little hesitation, you plummet it into your stomach, again and again until your midriff is a mangled fleshy mess. Blood pooling out of you like cherry wine. Nothing new.

"Asshole!" You cry out "I know you're hiding around here somewhere!" Your mind immediately went to how many times this situation had played out, on this same day. Maybe you had done something worse.

Lungs burning from screaming, cries throbbing inside of your throat, you have one last idea that had to have happened before. "Can you please stop?"

You turn to face the voice, hair matted, clothes torn and bloody, vomit from makeshift mustard gas sliding down your chin to your neck. You drop the knife, it clatters against the tiles "No," You approach her, each step more certain than the last. "You need to stop, this isn't right."

"I know," She says, face stone-cold a hint of irritation in her tone. She's back in her grey hoodie and jeans, finally, she fits into the time period.

"If you know then why have I been pleading with you to go back to the start and stop me from dying in the first place and making that deal?" You're inches away from her, voice carrying challenge if not bitterness. "Like I've asked you over and over again." Your voice is unsteady like it's being crushed beneath the weight of the world.

"Because I love you," She says, raising one hand to cup your face.

If it were for the chemicals flattering through the air making you nauseous, this act alone almost brought you to your knees with sickness. You don't bother to move her hand though, just shuddering under the touch. "Do you really?"

She nods, gaze softening "Yes."

"Then you'll go back and you'll fix all of this right?"

Her hand falls from its resting spot on your face. "You want to forget?"

"No, I want to die." Silence falls between you. Each rise and fall of your chest shaky and ragged "You keep forgetting that I'm a person, I'm not a concept you've curated in your head." It was hard to find yourself being gentle to her. It was hard to feel bad for her in general with how she treated your entire being as something for her to tune in and out of as she pleased.

Ellie takes a breath in, eyes unwavering from yours "Okay."

"Okay?" You don't believe her "You'll fix this and you'll leave me alone and let me live a regular life without knowing you?" You breathe the moment in, the hopes that this will be over soon. The taste of heartache and war could be washed away from your mouth, you wouldn't meet Joel and watch his daughter die in front of him or meet Jesse and fall in love. The humiliation to be made of rotting flesh then it hits you- how many times have you had this conversation? "I want you to promise-

Athens, Greece- October- 412 BC

I prayed for your breath right here in the shallows.

Rain splashes against the skin of your face in lands of ancient Greece, where the winds themselves whispered stories of gods and heroes, neither of which you were. You were nothing more than a frightened woman running away from an unforgiving husband in the dead of night where your quickened heartbeat falls in rhythm to the ocean which is almost as angry as the storm that roars above.

Carefully you dodge the jagged rocks sticking out from the sand, you had memorized each and every one after days of burning your skin on the shores. Water surged against the rocks near your feet, white froth sizzling in the waves retreating like it was trying to drag you in and take you for its own.

Your heavy breathing was devoured by the heavy rain and cracks of lighting, the sounds of thunder so deep it was like Zeus himself was stomping in the clouds. Despite the night being dark you trusted the moonlight that glimmered off of the ocean to guide you. You have nothing more than the soaking wet clothes on your back, jewelry to sell, and the drachmas you had stolen from your husband tucked away safely in a wool tagari purse.

This time around, Ellie doesn't intervene. She watched you, panic-stricken, fumble over wet sand and glide past slick rocks. Trying to outrun your fears of wasting your life.

As you reached the edge of a rocky outcrop, your leather sandal caught on a slick stone, sending you tumbling to the ground. With a sickening thud, your head struck against the unforgiving rock, and the world around you spun into darkness.

You were dead. Body limp on the plethora of rocks, the tide slowly lulling over your body until Ellie kneeled down next to your body and gingerly guided it into the ocean for it to take. The blood from the wound in the back of your head is sucked away into the sand. She watched your corpse drift out and get pulled down, all she needed was another lifetime with you. You didn't know how miserable you were with her anyway. 

This is not a story about love.

A/N: guys I’m breaking hiatus to post this bc I realised it’s been hanging in my drafts for a century (century haha) Anyways I actually hate this but it felt too long to scrap so thanks for reading.

Perm tag list: @ellslvr @gold-dustwomxn @bready101 @whenlostinthedarkness @veeveeisgay @vqxen

[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

[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!! 💕💕

[rubycruzin4abruzin]

Forbidden Crown - I

Summary: As a princess, your parents choose your spouse, and they decide it’s time to start looking shortly after your fifth birthday. However, when your parents decide to unite kingdoms with Tir Asleen and introduce you to Prince Airk, you’re seemingly more drawn to his twin sister, Kit.

Pairing: kit tanthalos x princess!reader

Contains: fluff, matchmaking, childlike play, kisses to mimic adult behavior, pure innocence

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: Welcome to the first chapter of Forbidden Crown! It’s a coming of age story, so in this chapter, our main characters are five years old, but in the next, they’ll be ten, and so on. Not too much happens in this chapter, but I promise it’ll get a lot juicier later. Enjoy! :)

As a princess, you always knew you wouldn’t get to choose a spouse. Instead, you grew up knowing exactly who you would one day marry.

Your parents, the king and queen of Azarenth, decided it was time to start looking for suitors shortly after you turned five. Their idea was for the two of you to meet frequently, essentially growing up together before tying the knot and officially uniting kingdoms. After some extensive research, your parents discovered a nearby kingdom with a prince around your age. So, they packed your belongings and loaded up the carriage for the journey to the kingdom of Tir Asleen.

Since you were so young, your parents didn’t tell you the exact reason you were visiting this new kingdom; all you knew was that you were going to play with a new friend and that your parents seemed very anxious upon arrival. They had dressed you in your best clothes: a puffy white dress with pink lace ribbons, and were constantly readjusting the bows or smoothing out the fabric. You scowled at all the fuss; you had been on plenty of playdates before and didn't understand why this one was such a big deal.

Stepping out of the carriage, a woman who appeared to be the queen of Tir Asleen greeted you and shook hands with your parents. She introduced herself as ‘Sorsha,’ and wore a wide smile as she spoke in a gentle tone.

“Hello little one,” she bent down to meet you at eye level. “The children are out back in the garden. Why don’t you go play?”

You agreed, happily leaving the adults to chat freely. As you made your way to the garden, you wondered what Sorsha had meant by ‘children.’ Your parents had said that you were here to make one friend, but the possibility of making multiple friends was even more exciting.

Upon reaching the palace garden, you opened the gate and walked in to see only one child, a boy who looked to be around your age. You felt a twinge of disappointment, but quickly hid it after he noticed your presence and flashed you a warm smile.

“Hi,” he greeted. “I’m Airk. Airk Tanthalos. What’s your name?”

You introduced yourself, prompting him to nod in response before speaking again.

“My mom says we’re gonna be friends now. I was just playing hide-n-seek with my sister.”

You perked up at this new information, excitedly anticipating the arrival of more friends.

Airk spun around, calling out to the entirety of the garden. “Kit! Our guest is here!”

No response. Airk sighed. “Kit! Olly olly oxen free!”

Suddenly, a little girl emerged from behind a tree, capturing your attention. She was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You were taught that princesses should always be proper and ladylike, which Kit certainly was not. Instead, stray hairs clung to her flushed cheeks and hung just above her mouth, dyed purple from grape-juice. Grass and mud stained her tunic, and she wore breeches. You didn’t know girls were even allowed to wear breeches.

As she walked towards you and Airk, you quickly became infatuated with her. She was just so… cool.

Airk turned back towards you, rolling his eyes. “That’s Kit. Don’t mind her. She’s stubborn.”

“Gotta be stubborn when you’re the best hide-n-seeker in all of Tir Asleen.” Kit retorted, sticking out her tongue.

Airk stuck out his tongue back in response before gesturing towards you. “This is our guest. Mom says we’re going to be friends with her now.”

Kit turned towards you, face brightening as if this was the first time she noticed your presence. “Oh you’re the guest. How old are you?”

You shyly held up five fingers, causing Airk to erupt into mocking laughter. “You’re five? I hadn’t realized I was in the presence of a baby!”

Anger bubbled up inside you at his words. You had just met this boy, and he was already not very nice.

“Shut up, Airk!” Kit exclaimed, pushing her brother's head. “If anyone here is a baby it’s you!”

“Nuh-uh! You’re the baby! You’re only six!”

“So are you, idiot!”

“I’m still older!”

“By like, one minute!”

Airk huffed in response, crossing his arms and pouting. Kit flashed you a reassuring smile, and you felt warmth bubbling from inside you. This girl, this cool, older girl, had just stood up for you.

“Do you want to play tag?” Kit asked you. “Airk is awful at tag.”

“Nuh-uh! I’m super fast…”

“I can’t,” you cut Airk off and looked towards Kit regrettably. “I can’t run in this stupid dress.”

You pulled at your outfit, exaggerating your frustration. Kit scrunched up her face, seemingly deep in thought before she jumped up as if a lightbulb went off in her head.

“I’ll be right back,” she exclaimed, before running inside.

Now that you and Airk were alone together, it was almost awkward. You tugged at your dress, while he sat and pulled at the grass.

“I like your dress,” he muttered. “I think it makes you look pretty.”

A blush crept onto your cheeks at the compliment; maybe this boy wasn’t so bad after all. “Thanks.”

Seconds later, Kit came running back out of the castle carrying a garment of some sorts. She slowed to catch her breath as she approached you, proudly holding up the item.

“Breeches,” she explained breathlessly. “Put them on under your dress, then just tuck the skirt in.”

You stared at the garment, turning it over in wonder. “I’ve never had breeches before.”

“Keep them,” Kit replied. “Now you do.”

Your heart swelled at her kind gesture. First the cool girl had stood up for you, and now she was giving you a gift.

After thanking her, you slid the breeches on from underneath your dress, and tucked your skirt into the waistband. The thick fabric of your dress spilled out and bulged against the hem of the pants, sort of making you look like a spinning top, but you didn’t care. You were mobile now, and free to play whatever.

Feeling giddy, and slightly mischievous, you walked up to Kit, giggling behind your hand before slapping her on the shoulder.

“Tag! You’re it!”

You ran away, chuckling loudly as Kit gasped. She narrowed her eyes with an impish grin, feigning displeasure at being “it.”

“I’ll get you for that!”

The game continued with the three of you, but it was mostly you and Kit chasing each other around the garden, giggling until your ribs ached. At one point, you were running away from Kit, almost escaping before she took a shortcut through a flower bed and tackled you. You landed flat on your back, looking up at a giddy Kit in shock.

“Tag! You’re it! I win again!” She exclaimed, giggling as she reached up and pulled out a pink ribbon from your hair.

You groaned, grabbing for the ribbon as she dangled it over your head. “Kit! No fair, give it back!”

“I don’t think I will. I won, so I’ll take this as my trophy.” She twisted the ribbon in her fingers, examining the lace detail. “Besides, I gave you my breeches, it’s only fair you give me something of yours.”

She crawled off of you and lazily tied the ribbon in her tousled hair. The untidy knot hung loosely over her tangles and stood out like a sore thumb, but the sight of her in something you owned was so enthralling that you couldn’t care less.

Batting her eyelashes, she pouted her lips dramatically. “How do I look?”

You giggled. “Beautiful. Like a princess.”

The two of you tittered about while Airk groaned, feeling left out. “Can we play something else?”

Kit shrugged. “Fine. Let’s play house.”

Airk perked up, nodding in enthusiastic agreement before running over and grabbing your arm. “Great! We can play mommy and daddy, and you’re our child and you have to do whatever we say, Kit.”

“Nuh-uh!” Kit argued, grabbing onto your other arm. “How about I play the daddy, and you be our child and do whatever we say!”

“No fair!” Airk exclaimed. “It was my idea first!”

“It was my idea to play house!” Kit retorted smugly before slinging an arm around your shoulder. “How about we let our guest decide?”

“Fine!” Airk turned to you. “Who do you want to be married to? Me, or Kit?”

You looked between the siblings, weighing your options. Kit was so cool, but Airk was a boy, and you’d never heard of two girls getting married. But if it’s just pretend, and she’s playing the daddy anyway, then it should be alright… right?

Turning to Airk, you shot him a smug smirk. “Who’s the baby now?”

Kit erupted into mocking laughter while Airk grumbled, crossing his arms. “I’d rather be the horse.”

With that complaint, the game began, Airk finally giving in and agreeing to be yours and Kit’s son. You were pretending to prepare Airk as the next heir to the throne before Kit entered the scene, carrying a branch as a makeshift sword.

“Hello, wife,” Kit announced, lowering her voice to impersonate a man. “I’m back from the fight with General Kael.”

“Welcome home, dear,” you replied. “How was the fight?”

“Well I won, of course.” Kit boasted.

You clapped your hands in excitement. “That's wonderful, my love! Airk, did you hear your father?”

“Sure, sure.” Airk grumbled, completely disinterested.

Kit turned to her brother, waving her finger and pretending to be stern. “Listen to your mother, son. Someday it will be your responsibility to defeat leaders of evil armies.”

Airk rolled his eyes while you giggled, smiling at your pretend husband. “Darling, I’m so happy I married you. You’re such a great husband and father, and I’m so proud of you for defeating General Kael.”

“Bo-ring!” Airk complained, being completely ignored by you and Kit.

“Thank you sweetheart,” Kit replied in her mannish voice. “But the battle isn’t over yet. I must go back out and defeat Queen Bavmorda. Give me a kiss for good luck?”

“Kiss?” You asked, breaking character.

Kit dropped the act, returning to her normal voice. “Yeah. Mommies and daddies kiss, so we have to kiss.”

“You can’t kiss!” Airk shouted. “Kissing is for grown-ups!”

“We’re grown-ups in the game,” Kit argued.

“I’ve seen my mommy and daddy kiss, but I’ve never kissed,” you admitted, silently hoping that Kit wouldn’t think less of you.

“That’s alright,” Kit reassured with a gentle smile. “It’s easy. Just stand still, and close your eyes.”

You did as you were told, and suddenly, just for a brief second, you felt Kit’s lips on yours. It was only an innocent peck, but lingered with the taste of grape juice, and left an unfamiliar buzzing sound in your ears. Every inch of your small body tingled with warmth, and in that moment, you were convinced that Kit could do no wrong; everything about her was perfect.

“Gross!” Airk sneered, earning a sharp thwack from Kit using the tree branch she was holding.

And so the game continued, you pretending to tend to your ‘kingdom’ and prepare Airk as an heir, while Kit ran around the garden, using her trusty tree branch to reenact tales her father, Madmartigan, had told her. In between scenes, you would boss Airk around, sending him on side quests, or hide behind shrubs and share sweet grape-juice flavored kisses.

Eventually, the sun began to set, signaling the end of your play day. You and Kit had teamed up to wrestle Airk to the ground when Sorsha and your parents entered the garden gate, laughing like longtime friends. Upon seeing you, however, your parents froze at the shocking sight. Their beloved daughter, raised to be a prim and proper princess, was caked in mud, and wrestling a boy with her dress tucked into a pair of breeches that didn’t belong to her.

You heard your mother call your name, and immediately paused the roughhousing to shift your attention towards her. She forced a plastic smile, clearly displeased with your current appearance, but unwilling to make a scene in front of Sorsha.

“What are those?” She asked through gritted teeth, gesturing towards your lower half.

“Breeches!” You replied proudly. “Kit gave them to me.”

“Well wasn’t that nice of her,” she hummed, exchanging looks with your father.

Sorsha looked over to her own children and let out a sigh, noticing they hadn’t stopped wrestling. “Kit! Get off your brother!”

“Airk is in training, mom!” Kit whined, climbing off her brother. “He has to learn how to defeat Queen Bavmorda if he wants to be the next heir to the throne!”

“Her father…” Sorsha muttered an apologetic explanation to your parents before turning back to the twins. “Kit, why don’t you and Airk go inside and ask the cook to make our guests a snack?”

“Fine…” the twins murmured before trudging back into the castle.

Now that you were alone with the three adults, it seemed as if all their attention fixated on you. They crouched down to your level, peering at you with toothy grins plastered on their faces. A feeling of unease settled like a pit in your stomach, compelling you to take a small step back before they started speaking.

“Sweetheart,” your mother started, her voice dripping with sickening sweetness. “Did you have fun today?”

“I did,” you replied, letting your guard down slightly. “Kit is fantastic. She’s like a brave warrior princess!”

Your mother pursed her lips in disapproval, prompting Sorsha to quickly chime in. “What about Airk? Did you enjoy playing with Airk?”

Even though you had formed a stronger bond with Kit, you did still enjoy playing with Airk. “Yea, he was fun to play with too.”

All three adults beamed at you once again, teeth shining so bright you were almost sure you were going blind. That previous feeling of unease settled in your stomach again; you weren’t sure what your parents were planning, or why they kept interrogating you about your new friends.

It was your father, your gentle and typically soft-spoken father, who decided to ask the question they were all waiting for. “Princess, when you grow up, would you like to marry Airk?”

The adults looked at you expectantly, waiting with bated breath. To you, this was nothing more than an innocent question, a completely hypothetical situation. To them, however, your answer would determine the rest of your life.

You furrowed your brow, pondering their question. “If I marry Airk, does that mean I can play with Kit forever and ever?”

Your parents glanced at each other, and then at Sorsha. All three were slightly taken aback by your response, and none of them knew how to answer your question.

Finally, it was your mother who decided to speak up, nodding slowly as she did. “Well… if you were to marry Airk… technically you and Kit would be sisters. So… yes, I suppose you would get to spend a lot of time together.”

A warm feeling exploded in your chest. Sisters? You’d never even had a sibling before, let alone a sister, and the thought of having one as cool as Kit made you bounce with excitement.

“Then yes,” you exclaimed. “When I grow up, I want to marry Airk!”

The adults cheered in approval, your father hoisting you up onto his shoulders while the women chatted about plans for something you couldn’t make out. At this point, the twins came back out carrying snacks, and ended up joining the impromptu celebration. Not you, nor Kit, nor Airk knew what exactly was being celebrated, but everyone was happy, and that was all any of you cared about.

That night was spent in the Tir Asleen castle, you and your parents meant to be resting for the journey back to Azarenth the next morning. You were supposed to use one of the many guest rooms available, but you and Kit had begged your parents to let you share Kit’s room, and after promising to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, they finally agreed.

You and Kit spent the entire night hidden under her covers, telling stories and sharing sweet secrets. Once the night sky turned pitch black, you had to resort to soft whispers and stifled giggles, for fear of your parents hearing you awake so late and making you sleep separately. Eventually, just before daybreak, you two fell asleep, passed out only after neither of you could keep your eyes open any longer.

The next morning, Sorsha found you both collapsed, buried under Kit’s sheets, lying in a heap and practically tangled into each other. As she gently shook you awake and sent you to the room your parents were staying in, she couldn’t help but smile to herself; Kit didn’t have many girl friends, instead opting to spend most of her free time with her brother and other boys from the neighboring village. It was refreshing, watching her daughter form a close bond with a girl, especially one she was planning on having as a future daughter-in-law.

After getting dressed and sharing a quick breakfast, it was time for you and your parents to begin making your way back to Azarenth. You and Kit shared a tearful goodbye, promising to remain close companions as you embraced each other for the last time.

“Do you still have my breeches?” Kit whispered.

You nodded. “I’m wearing them under my skirt.”

As you let go of each other, you glanced down and noticed your pink ribbon from the previous day was now tied around Kit’s wrist, neatly held together with a bow. You smiled, gingerly picking up her hand and running your fingers over the lacy fabric.

“My ribbon…” you whispered.

“Mommy helped me put it on,” Kit grinned proudly, holding it up by her face in an exaggerated pose. “How do I look?”

You giggled. “Like a princess.”

After leaving Kit and bidding a quick farewell to Airk, you and your parents piled into the carriage for the journey back to your own kingdom. Soon, all you could hear was the dull clip-clop of the driving horse stepping along the cobblestone road.

“Hmm,” your mother pursed her lips as soon as Tir Asleen was out of sight. “I’m not sure how I feel about that Kit girl. She doesn’t seem like the most positive influence. I mean, breeches? On a princess? What was her mother thinking?”

You gulped, crossing your legs and pulling your skirt farther down, fearing that your mother could tell you were secretly wearing Kit’s breeches underneath.

“Something tells me Sorsha isn’t too happy about the breeches herself,” your father murmured, making your mother nod in agreement.

The tips of your ears burned with resentment. In that moment, you hated your parents for looking down on Kit, and didn’t understand how they couldn’t see her the same way you did: wonderful.

Despite your indignation, you chose to bite your tongue, deciding that arguing would prove fruitless. Instead, you threw yourself into your imagination, looking out the window of the carriage and daydreaming about you and Kit growing up and running away together, free from the confines of your parents.

Little did you know, it would be five years before you saw Kit again.

[kakushino]

Hullo fabulous writer! If you're still taking requests, could I beg kindly for a Genya x female reader? While I would love an NSFW with him, I understand if you would prefer not to. I love the boi so much and he needs love!

Fuck me

Shinazugawa Genya x Fem! Reader

He thought you were a boy. He was wrong.

Horny thoughts took over, sincerely sorry this doesn't have more plot

orz

Tags: sex pollen trope, first time, exhibitionism (kinda? they're alone in the forest tho) Word count: 1,3k

Masterlist

You had met during training under Himejima. 

Him, a kid hurt and hurting, and you, a runaway trying to find a place to go on in.

Genya was confused why you had a separate room from him in the sanctuary but he reasoned it had something to do with your past, and given his own, he wasn't about to pry.

You bonded over the brutal training Himejima put you through.

Sitting under a waterfall for hours brought you closer, shared misery from the cold and the aching muscles forging a friendship based on silence, on gritted teeth and on wet hair. Both of you had to shave most of it off as it took too long to dry, and the risk of catching something was too high. More than once, you'd stripped off your tunics and huddled close to share your warmth.

That was before either of you hit puberty though.

You had learned Total Concentration Breathing from Himejima, where Genya was unable to do so. That sent you to the Final Selection a year earlier than him - and while you came back victorious, you also came back with a bandaged chest. You never took them off in Genya's presence. It was alright; if he could, he'd also hide the facial scarring he had.

A year went by and he joined you in your journey as a demon slayer, the pair of you traveling together, training together, eating together. You would sometimes get irritable, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. Everyone has a grumpy week here and there. 

Despite your closeness, there was still a wall between you - you never went to the onsen together, you never slept in the same futon, even if sharing one would be easier, and you each did your own laundry.

Years passed. 

The demon you faced today was elusive. That was all there was to it. It ran to the forest and hid in the mist, the air smelling like overripe fruit as you trudged through the flowers growing from moss.

Genya had his gun out and loaded, you held your katana ready, both of you covering each other's blind spot. The darkness of the forest made your hunt crawl at snail's pace.

In the end you didn't find the demon, it found you.

With a screeching laughter, it launched itself at you, you barely blocked its claws with your blade. The force of it knocked you off balance, and you fell to the soft mossy flower bed, clouds of white mist spewing up from the ground, the tumble making the demon roll off of you.

A gunshot rang through the forest. A few soft steps. 

"Are you alright, pipsqueak?"

You groaned, a strange heat spreading from your lungs outward, the strange sweet scent overpowering. “Just fine. I-” Then, it hit you like a landslide.

You cried out, oversensitive and overheated. You rolled onto your side, sheathing your katana. Your binder chafed against your nipples, sending electric shocks to your pussy, and you knew you were soaked in seconds. “Fuck-!”

“What’s going on? Hey-”

Eyes unfocused, your hand brushed against the flowers you were laying on when you tried to get up. It was the damn flowers. A fog as heavy as the flowers created settled over your mind in that moment.

"Fuck me, Genya," you rasped out in desperation. You had tears in your eyes as you clumsily tried to unbuckle your belt, kneeling now. 

He was staring at you wide-eyed, arms raised in a placating gesture. "But, we're both men." A flush took over his face, and his breathing deepened. He’d also inhaled some of the pollen.

You froze momentarily. "Genya, I swear to god-" You finally undid the belt, and ripped open your jacket, being a little gentler with your shirt. "I'm a woman."

His flushed face became even redder, this time it was him who went as still as a statue. But despite that, there was an incessant need crawling under both of your skins. The aphrodisiac made you stop undressing to paw at his clothes instead. You needed him.

"Fuck, get naked. I can't go on much longer-!" You tugged his purple tunic off, undoing the buttons of his jacket as he hesitantly reached for his belt. 

“Are you-?”

“Yes! Now, strip!” you gave up on his shirt and just undid his belt, pulling both his pants and underwear off. Tsk, as if you wouldn’t be sure. Not sure when molten rock flowed through your veins and urged you to be faster, to find something to fill the emptiness, to stop the heat, to-

Genya’s world was spinning. Not only because of you manhandling him in ways that made his dick throb, nor because of the fog you’d both inhaled, but because he just found out his best friend of years and years was in fact a woman. 

How had he been so blind? You pushed him onto his back into the damned flowerbed that rocked his world. How had he not noticed? He grabbed your hips and pulled you against his aching cock, dry humping against your covered cunt, the feeling so good but not enough.

“Genya~”

“Fuck-” 

You moaned his name so prettily, he needed to hear more, to feel more of you, he needed-

You rolled to the side to tug your pants and panties off. As fast as you disappeared off his lap, you re-appeared and now it was your wet cunt against his cock and it felt so good he never wanted it to stop. 

If you continued for much longer, he’d cum before he even got to be inside of you. “[Name], I-” he was about to tell you so, but you only raised your hips a little and lined him up to your entrance. His hands gripped your thighs in a bruising hold when you started to sink on his cock, both of you moaning in sync as you felt a small amount of relief.

You didn’t hesitate and started a pace of rising and dropping down, quick and messy. Each time your ass met his thighs, you felt like screaming; it sent shocks of pleasure from your tummy outwards, your pussy kept fluttering and tightening as you chased the ecstasy you needed.

Genya was struggling to hold out. Your snug cunt was too divine - the first time you sank down, he was about to lose his mind. He could do nothing but take it, hips bucking up to meet you erratically, as desperate for his pleasure as you were for your own.

Who knew sex felt this good?

This was better than his own hand by far.

Before he knew it, he cried out, grabbing your waist and slamming you down onto him, spilling deep inside of you, making you groan in turn. Genya cursed like a sailor, gritting his teeth.

He may be finished but you weren’t. 

You dug your nails into his arms so he would let go of you. When he did, you continued your desperate movements. 

Genya keened like a wounded animal, overstimulated. “Wa-wait-! I can’t-!”

“You have to-!” You stared at him as you rode him through the pain and pleasure; his face was red, eyes glazed over, lips open and a little bit of drool gathering at the corner of them, tears streamed down his cheeks. You could not stop, would not stop. It felt too good to stop.

“Ngh-” He clenched his eyes shut, clawing at the moss underneath him. This wasn’t how he imagined losing his virginity.

One hand braced on his shirt-covered chest, you slipped the other to your clit, trying to get off quicker. 

You were riled up enough that one, two, three tight circles on it made you shatter. 

You threw your head back, muscles taut, pussy milking Genya’s cock for all it had left. Your ears rang, someone was whimpering, someone was whining, you didn’t know who did what, you just collapsed onto a warm chest, arms wrapped around you as you trembled in post-orgasmic bliss.

“That was… something,” Genya panted out, hands rubbing your back as you tried to catch your own breath.

“Thank gods- hah- that you killed the demon, ugh, before this hit, huh?”

Taglist: @sunandflame @flametrashira @misty-angerose @irene9900 @i-literally-cant-with-this @gingerspicelattemix

dividers made by the amazing @/benkeibear

[pear-spective]

ANSELM FEUERBACH

Lucrezia Borgia; Portrait of a Roman woman in white tunic and red robe (detail) (c. 1862 – 1866)

[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!

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[absurdthirst]

The Mercenary and the Whore {Pero Tovar x F!Reader}

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 9.3k

Warnings: Sex work, prostitution, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, rough sex, bathing Tovar, bath sex, riding, parting company, angst, confessions of love, oral sex (female receiving), mentions of child planning

Comments: When Pero Tovar comes to your brothel, he makes sure to monopolize your time. Wanting to spend every second he can between your thighs. Unable to tell you how he feels before he leaves for the East and you are sick with worry for your favorite client who is much more than that to you.

Co-written with @storiesofthefandomlovers

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|| MasterList || Pero Tovar MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

It’s getting closer to when he will arrive. The mornings are getting shorter, the chill of the air starting to make your breath a white cloud in front of you when you do what chores you need to before you have to work. He always comes when the weather turns. Once then, then again three months later. Sometimes he would visit often during the summer if he had taken work nearby. But he always came during the colder months. You anticipated his arrival, knowing he would monopolize your time and keep you from taking other clients. Pero Tovar was greedy for his time between your thighs and it left little time or energy for anyone else. 

Pero grunts at the matron of the brothel, giving her your name, and she nods, realizing who he is. He strides up the stairs, two at a time, his armor and weapons clanging, and finally he’s knocking on your door. When you answer, his stomach twists and he feels like he’s home. Something he would never admit to anyone else. He offers you a rare smile, saying your name. “Hola, hermosa.” He murmurs, his eyes trailing down your body, covered by the thin tunic but he knows what’s underneath, has dreamed about it since he last left your bed.

“I know you are eager to strip off your armor.” You purr, giving him a winsome smile and stepping back so he can push into the room that you live and work out of. It’s not ideal, being a whore, but it keeps the roof over your head and your belly full. All things that you had been in sore need of before you had arrived at this brothel. He won’t bathe yet, too desperate for you, and you will let him touch you despite the grime from the road. “It has been too long, Tovar.” 

“Too long, hermosa.” He murmurs, working on the ties to his armor as his cock starts to harden . Even just the smell of you has him aching for you. “I thought of you. Many nights.” He promises, not wanting to tell you about the days. Riding on his horse with his thoughts for company once William had run out of things to ramble on about, he thought about you and what you are up to. He sets his armor down and reaches for his tunic, pulling it over his head.

“You thought of me while you were between another woman’s thighs?” You have no delusions about this thing with Tovar. He pays for your cunt, even as well as he treats it and despite your own traitorous heart, he does not want a life with you. “That is not well done of you.” You chide playfully, pulling your thin tunic over your head so you are bare when he throws his own to the floor and glares at you. 

Tovar shakes his head, “no one else. There was men only and I am not that way inclined. Some are. I only dreamed of your wet cunt.” He promises, shoving his trousers down after kicking off his boots. When he’s bare before you, he steps closer to grab your ass, dragging you against him and he presses his nose into your neck. “Always smell delicious.”

Closing your eyes, your fingers find and tangle into his dirty hair. Not caring that it is slightly oily. You have him here, even if it is just for a week or so before he disappears again. “Just for you.” You hum, knowing that he enjoys the clean scent of your skin and the flowers that you press into the soap you use. Letting you scrub him with the same soap when he finally gets into the tub that will be brought to your room. “My wet cunt is ready for you.” 

Tovar slaps your ass and growls, ready for you and he will be rough this first time. Your pleasure won’t be his priority but he always makes it up to you in the sex following this frantic coupling. He guides you over to your cot, laying you down and he spreads your legs so he can see your dripping cunt. Humming in contentment, he slides his fingers through your slickness, “who made you this wet, chiquita?”

“You, Tovar.” You aren’t lying, although you can see that he doesn’t believe you. His shoulders are broad and his body is fit. The body of a mercenary, littered with scars and you know that one of the days he will occupy your bed, you will trace them making note of any new ones and fussing slightly over them. You whimper when he presses his fingers to the little nub beneath the curls of your sex. His cock is jutting out and the thick head is purple when he pulls the skin back. “How do you want to fuck me, Tovar? Like this? Or do you wish to watch my ass while you fill my cunt?”

“Yes.” He hisses, “from behind. Want to - fuck. Want to see your ass.” He murmurs and pulls his hand away, jerking himself slowly while you shift onto your hands and knees. He groans when he shuffles closer so he can notch his cock at your entrance and he pushes into you with a low whine, eyes closing as your hot walls envelop him.

You keen, always loving the pinch of pain when it comes to taking Pero for the first time after so long apart. You won’t claim that you are as tight as you were when you were innocent, but the Spaniard has a big cock. “Yes.” You moan, eyes rolling back when his hips hit your ass and he's buried to the hilt. “Missed this cock, Tovar.” You admit breathlessly. “Now,” you look over your shoulder. “Ride me hard and work out the need you have for me.”

Tovar groans, low and loud as he twitches inside of you. “It’s been too long without this exquisite cunt, hermosa.” He murmurs as he caresses your spine until he’s gripping your hips, grinding impossibly deeper before he pulls out. Pushing back inside in a quick motion, he sets a harsh pace, grunts escaping his lips as he watches your ass jiggle and your asshole flutter as he pushes deep into your cunt.

Tovar’s pace takes your breath away, all you can do is moan and hold on. Making sure he does not push you too far forward onto the cot. You love how frantic he always is this first time, the ache he leaves you with always growing with each time he takes you after. Long after his last time, you will feel him between your thighs even after you have bathed away the sweat and cum, washed your sheets and taken another man. If you could, you would daydream about the dark, dangerous mercenary with a long scar on his left eye while you are under another man as he grunts away. “So good, b-Tovar.” He doesn’t like you using pet names with him, so you don’t flatter him like you might another customer.

“Always good.” Tovar groans, his fingers digging into your flesh until they slide up to cup your tits. He bends over your body, enjoying how you clench around him, and he’s close. He goes months without a hot cunt around him so he struggles to last during his first encounter with you. “Hermosa. I- I won’t last. Where?” He asks, always wanting to make sure you decide.

“Inside.” You rarely go a day without drinking the tea that will prevent a child and you know how much he hates to pull out of your body to spill his seed. Unless he is in your mouth or wants to paint your skin with it when he is feeling particular. “Fill my cunt up and show me how much you have missed it.” 

“Shit.” Pero curses, his eyes clenched shut as he buries himself deep and spills his hot seed onto your walls, a low groan escaping his lips. “Fuck.” He pants, slowly rocking his hips as he rides his pleasure and he leans in to kiss your shoulder. “Gracias, hermosa.”

You smile and hum, looking over your shoulder at his panting frame. “Always my pleasure.” You tell him, knowing that even if you did not experience pleasure this time, you will several times before he leaves again. The first time with him is always quicker than the rest. He says it’s because your cunt is so good and it’s been so long since he’s had it that he cannot pace himself. 

He caresses your back and presses kisses to your skin. Beyond your doors, he is a hardened killer, a survivor, but with you, he is soft and gentle. He allows himself to be tender with you. Unbeknownst to you, he leaves his heart with you when he leaves but he would never confess that.

Your eyes flutter with pleasure. He always touches you in small ways that makes your heart quake and you fall deeper for a man you could never have. When he finally pulls his softening cock out of your cunt, you shift to your side and look at him. “Do you want me to have the bath and a meal sent up?” You ask, knowing his preferred method of relaxing.

Tovar nods, shifting to lay down on the bed and he stares at you, admiring your features. You’ve always been so gorgeous and he loves how you make him feel. He wants to feel like this all the time but he can’t. He has to sell his sword. “Have you been busy?” He asks, running his knuckles along your spine.

“Busy enough.” You shrug one shoulder and roll your eyes. “A group of Lord Crowley’s men came in a month ago.” You tell him. “Luckily it was my monthly, they put Adrina and Gwen out of work for nearly two weeks.” The men had been brutal and it had taken time for their injuries to heal.

Pero frowns, his touch freezing on your skin. He worries about you when he’s away, scared that the next time he returns he won’t find you because someone strangled you during a passionate encounter. “Men are animals. They do not realize how lucky they are to have a beautiful woman in their company. They should pleasure, not harm.” He shakes his head and worries that you will get hurt by someone one day.

“Most men do not think like you.” You remind him. “They only think of their own pleasure and Crowley’s lot have no control because their lord is just as bad.” You know that you were lucky to have been indisposed and because of that, you had shared your pay with the two girls while they were recovering.

“Bastards.” Pero hisses, shaking his head again. “They should be killed.” He murmurs, knowing he’d love the pleasure to kill them but he doesn’t have a reason to hunt them down and he doesn’t want to leave your side until he has to. “Are you hungry?” He asks, wanting you to eat if you’re hungry.

You smile, knowing he must be hungry if he is making hints. You lean in and kiss his cheek because you don’t allow kissing, not even Tovar. “I will go order your bath and meals.” You tell him before you climb off your cot and stand, reaching for your tunic to shrug on. You can clean up his seed when you come back. “Do you want ale too?” 

“Is that even a question?” He scoffs playfully and you giggle, making him smile. He winks at you and watches you disappear out of the room to tell the matron to bring the tub and the meals. He will happily pay for your meals while he is in your company.

Coming back up the stairs, you meet a giggling pair of your friends. “So we will not see you for at least a week?” Gwen asks. “We saw Tovar bolt up the stairs to your bed.” 

Adrina nods, smirking at you. “It is funny that he stays so long since I have already pleasured William and he is now drinking. I think your Spaniard is in love with you.” 

You scoff and shake your head, your cheeks burning and wishing that it were true. “He just enjoys my touch.” You tell the girls, adopting a saucy wink. “He is a creature of habit, if he had found your bed first you would be the one having your time taken up.”

The girls shake their heads at your naïveté but they don’t push their thoughts on you anymore. Pero looks up when you come back into the room and his stomach twists with the way you look at him. He doesn’t want to leave for even a second. “You’ve ordered food for yourself too?” He checks, wanting to make sure you are fed before he has you again.

“I did.” He is too generous to you sometimes, making sure you eat a proper meal while he is with you. Some men who spend hours with you don’t care if you even drink at all while they are with you, but Pero makes sure your needs are met. You move over to the wash basin and smile over your shoulder. “The bath and the meals will be up shortly. Are you already ready for the next round or should I clean up?”

Pero shakes his head, “you can clean up, hermosa. We have plenty of time. I want to talk. Tell me about how you’ve been - business aside.” He demands, wanting to listen to you talk.

“Agnes had her baby, he is so adorable.” You clean up while you talk. “I got to see him the next day, and since the baby is a boy, Eldon has decided that he would claim the babe as his own.” You don’t think much of that, but Agnes was happy. “They married when the boy, Caspian, was two months old. She moved into the house with him and his mother. We haven’t seen much of her, except when we run into her at the shops. Eldon doesn’t want her visiting with us now that she’s married.”

Pero is surprised to hear that the man took the babe on but he is glad to hear it. “He should allow her to see her friends.” Pero says, “but at least he did the decent thing and married the girl.” Pero says, knowing that it’s always a risk to get a whore pregnant but most men would abandon their bastards and leave the village.

“Yes, she’s allowed to attend church.” You roll your eyes and huff. The priest loudly damned you all to hell every time he saw you on the streets but he would sneak in the back several times a month. Thankfully, he had never come to your bed. “But at least Caspian has been baptized.”

Pero snorts, “I am not a religious man, hermosa. We sin and we die.” He says, knowing his devoutly Catholic mother would be turning in her grave but he doesn’t believe God would be so cruel as to allow some of the sins he has seen committed, some of his own doing. “You…you are my angel.” He says softly, averting his eyes.

“Then I will be your angel.” Your heart softens and you wish that you had met Pero under other circumstances. Despite his claims he would be a horrible husband, you know he would not. He’s gruff, yes, but he’s also tender. You often daydream of a little cottage, making a soft, warm home for him to rest in when he comes home. The knock on your door makes you smile, “and now your angel brings you food.” You tell him as you walk to the door to open it.

“Finally.” Pero grunts playfully and you look back at him before you open the door. The trays are carried in and Pero covers himself with the sheet while the tub is brought in with the steaming buckets of water. “We will fill it ourselves.” You tell Gwen, knowing she came in to see how Pero was lingering in your room. 

“Of course.” She says, offering you a smirk that makes Pero frown, wondering what the look was for. 

“I am starving.” Tovar groans as you set the tray down in front of him.

“Eat then.” You tell him with a small smile as his eyes roam greedily over the overloaded tray. You make sure that Pero’s portions are generous because you have seen how the man loves his food. “I will fill the tub and it can be cooling slightly while you eat.”

He nods, knowing his mama raised him with better manners but it’s been too long since he had a hot meal and he eagerly digs in. Shoveling the food into his mouth as you pour the buckets into the tub.

You hum as you set out your soap and get some of your drying cloths. You know he will want to soak in the bath, and you don’t blame him. Moving over to claim your own tray, although you hand him the bread, since he has already devoured his. You normally don’t eat it anyway, and rarely take any.

Pero knows what you are doing and he doesn’t like it. Knowing you’ll protest, he splits the bread in half and hands you back the larger piece. “You’ll need your energy.” He reasons with you and you nod, taking the bread from him. He hums in satisfaction and digs back into the stew.

He eats fast, as if it might be stolen from him. Your own meal is eaten at a more sedate pace. “How was your travels?” You ask him, as if you were his wife inquiring about his trip while he is home. “William kept out of trouble?”

Tovar snorts, “you know he can never keep himself out of trouble. Always has to show off and it gets us in trouble.” Pero shakes his head, “and then I have to save his ass. We made it back though. With plenty of coins. Always the main thing.” He says and proceeds to suck and lick his fingers clean. His mama raised him with manners, doesn’t mean he always used them.

“That is good.” You never pry about the money he spends while he is here, but it is a lot. Monopolizing your entire days while he is in your bed, he even sleeps in your room. Not that you mind. His arms wrapped around you and his face tucked into your neck while he snores softly is the safest you ever feel. “How long are you here?”

“It depends. The winter is coming and we need to earn enough coin before we seek shelter for the snow. I am thinking at least a week. More, if William can keep himself out of trouble.” Pero chuckles, “are you going to take other men?” He asks softly, wanting to know where you stand beforehand.

“While you are here?” You scoff and shake your head. “I would not have the time or the energy.” You tease him playfully. In truth, you would happily never let another man between your thighs if you could have Pero, but that was not something that was possible. He was a mercenary and you are a whore.

Pero is reassured, worried that you’d go off while he is sleeping or bathing. It’s selfish but he wishes to keep you all to himself, prepared to pay whatever it takes. “I want to bathe.” He says and stands up from the bed, the sheet falling from his body and he moves fast to step into the hot water, a low groan escaping his lips. “Do you wish to join me, hermosa?”

“What if I wash you?” You ask, finishing up your own meal and moving the trays to the door to place outside. You remove your tunic and walk naked to the tub. “When you are clean, I will join you and mount your cock while you soak in your bath.”

Tovar nods, grabbing the bar of soap so he can begin cleaning himself up. “Can you cut my hair, hermosa?” He asks, wanting to smarten up to be in your company for a week.

You had expected his request. He always wants to have his hair cut and shaved. Humming as you get out your scissors, you kneel down by the bathtub. Running your fingers through his hair and start to cut.

He tilts his head and lets you snip away at the matted locks, enjoying your fingers massaging his head and you grab the soap once you’re done to wash his hair. He groans, closing his eyes as your fingers work his scalp and his cock starts to harden at the ministrations.

“You need someone to take care of you.” You chide softly, massaging his scalp and enjoying the way that he groans. “I can see you enjoying being treated well by a wife, or mistress.”

Pero snorts, his fingers gripping the edge of the tub. “Who would wish to be mine? I am the son of a farmer from Seville. I have been selling my sword since I was fourteen when my parents died and I had nothing. I am a nobody. I own nothing. I do not have a home for a wife or a mistress.”

Your fingers still in his hair and you want to tell him that you would want to be his. Although he would not want a whore. “You will have a home one day.” You predict. “You will stop coming to see me because you have a wife with a babe under her apron and a warm bed to sleep in.”

Pero frowns, not liking to think of a life without you in it. He doesn't answer and he allows you to rinse his hair and he already feels so much better. You grab the scissors again and work on chopping off the excess beard that had become matted during his travels. "You are too good to me, hermosa." He murmurs as you grab the sharp knife to begin styling his mustache.

“You are good to me as well.” You remind him, arching a brow at him playfully before you look back down at his face as you cut the tiny hairs over his lip. Your fingers brushes his lips gently and you hum in satisfaction and lean back. “Now, so handsome.” You tell him, completely honest. He’s one of the most handsome men to you, even more appealing than William.

He blushes slightly under your intense stare and he averts his eyes as you set down the knife. “Are you joining me?” Pero asks and you nod, stepping into the tub and you straddle him, his cock now hard and aching for you. “Hermosa.” He sighs in bliss, his hands caressing your back and he leans in to nudge his nose against yours.

“You don’t have to flatter me.” You promise, whispering the words between you, and your fingers toy with the curly ends of his now shorter hair. “I want to ride you slowly.” You admit, knowing he might prefer a faster pace. “Let you relax while I do all the work, milking your cock for you.”

He can't argue with you, nodding slowly as you reach beneath you to grip his cock. You sink down onto him after notching him at your entrance and you take his breath away. "Fuck." He sighs, tilting his head back at the feel of your warm, soft cunt enveloping him.

Moaning yourself, you take advantage of the vulnerable skin of his throat, leaning in and pressing your lips to his pulse as you grind down on his length. Feeling him pulse inside you as your walls flutter. “Your cock is so good.” You praise, kissing along his jaw and neck while he relaxes into the bath. Making sure that you don’t slosh water too badly, you start at a slow pace that seems to let you feel every vein in his cock.

"Your cunt - it's incredible." Pero murmurs, caressing your spine and he imagines a lifetime with you, relaxing in a warm home...you as his wife. You with his child. It's a beautiful dream but one he can never have. He's a dangerous man who has sinned. His blood soaked hands could never have you as their prize.

Soft groans and ripple of the water is what fills the room. The moment is so tender you wish you could break your rule and press your lips to his. It’s almost love making, although you have never experienced that, you think it would be like this. His hands running over your skin and the soft grunts of pleasure making you moan.

He wants to call you 'amor' but he doesn't know if you'll understand him and he can't take that risk. His cock twitches inside of you and he ducks his head to take your nipple into his mouth after cupping your tit and lifting it towards his face.

You whimper when his teeth scrap over the sensitive skin, your fingers tangling into his shorter hair and tugging gently. “So good, Pero.” You moan, not even realizing you called him by his first name. You normally just call him Tovar because that is what he told you the first time he had visited your bed. You use his Christian name when you are touching yourself thinking about him.

He groans into your flesh, wrapping his lips around the nipple and biting down before he soothes it with his tongue. His other hand squeezes your other breast and he leans back, pushing them together with his palms. "So fucking beautiful." He rasps, cock twitching inside of you.

You moan again. “Pero, fuck.” You love how attentive he is, one of the few men you’ve ever had to care about your pleasure. You circle your hips and clench him right. “Love how you feel.”

His hand slides down your body to your clit. He was taught during his first sexual encounter with a whore to pleasure a woman and he’s never forgotten, wanting to feel that delicious tight grip on his cock. He wants you to cum so he finds that bundle of nerves and rubs circles around it.

“Ohhh, ohhh fuck.” Your own head tilts back, enjoying the pressure against the bundle of nerves and your hips jerk in response. “Pero, I- oh baby, I’m gonna soak you.” You warn breathlessly.

"That's it, hermosa. Come on, soak my cock." He grunts, thrusting his hips up so he can push even deeper and he groans your name when your walls start to flutter around his cock.

You fall forward into his chest, pressing your face into his neck and moaning as you hang on. “Oh, oh Perooooooo!” You cry out, your cunt clenching down around him.

He groans when you clamp down on his cock, making him hiss your name, and he swears he nearly cums right then but he holds strong. He strokes your back as you shake above him and he kisses along your neck.

Your hips rock as you force yourself to keep moving, loving how each roll of your hips shoots another little fissure of pleasure down your spine. “Cum for me, Pero.” You beg, “fill me up again.”

He can’t deny you, his hand leaving your clit and his hand squeeze your ass, slapping it as he rocks up into you. Water sloshes and he groans your name, so close to his orgasm. “Fuck, hermosa. I’m gonna - I’m gonna -” He pants and squeezes his eyes shut as he cums, painting your walls for the second time.

You whimper, enjoying the rush of heat as he fills you. Always loving how thick and how much Pero cums. You run your hands through his hair and sigh softly as he rocks himself through his pleasure as you flutter around him.

He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in with a deep inhale, and he swears he could die right now and be a happy man. You’re his sanctuary and he never wants to leave this moment. “Gracias, hermosa.” He murmurs into your skin, feeling more relaxed than he has in many moons.

“Anytime.” You promise, closing your eyes and laying your head on his shoulder while he holds you close. “I am happy you are here. You are safe.”

Pero doesn’t respond, knowing that any day could be his last. He caresses your spine and enjoys the feeling of holding you close. “Come on, hermosa. The water will get cold and I don’t want you becoming ill.” He says and pulls away from you.

You lift off his cock and quickly clean yourself up and swipe the cloth over his groin as well before you stand up, wrapping another cloth around your body before holding his. “Do you want me to dry you?” You ask, wanting to make sure he is relaxed and enjoying himself with you.

Pero shakes his head, “No gracias, hermosa. I can dry myself.” He offers you a wry smile and stands up once you’re out of the tub. He takes the cloth you hand him and he dries off, suddenly exhausted. “I want to sleep. Can you lay with me?” He asks, wanting to wrap himself around you.

It is times like these that you feel you cheat Pero. He pays good coin for your company and he wishes to sleep? “Of course.” You nod, moving to set the trays outside the door and hang your cloth up to dry. You will sleep nude and you are thankful you had fresh sheets on your cot. He deserves a good rest in a clean bed. “Anything you wish.”

He hums in delight when he lays down and you lay down beside him, pulling the sheets over you both. His arm wraps around you and he nuzzles his nose into your neck, breathing you in until he’s softly snoring into your ear.

You stay awake for a long time after Pero starts to snort. Holding him close in the dark as the sounds of the brothel filter dully through the walls. Closing your eyes and imagining the sounds of the woods, animals outside of a small cottage. Cozy and secluded, just the two of you, together every night. You fall asleep and dream of Pero.

**** 

“Fuck, hermosa.” Pero groans when you clench around him. His eyes watch you as you gyrate above him and he slides his hands up to cup your tits. “So fucking beautiful.” He murmurs, his dark eyes nearly black with lust. He has spent every moment in the past week with you aside from the hour he left to speak to William. He isn’t sure if he wants to leave when the time comes but he has to. He needs to earn more coins.

Riding Pero has always been something that you enjoy but this week you have been frantic for it. “So fucking good.” You moan, leaning back and letting him play with your tits. “God, Tovar, you are so perfect inside me.” You’re greedy, knowing he will be leaving today or tomorrow so you want him to remember this.

"Fuck, hermosa. Amor." He pants, lost in the pleasure and unable to think about anything but you. He moans your name again and wraps his arms around you, dragging you into his chest. He thrusts up into you, wanting you to cum for him, and he buries his face in your neck.

Your moan is loud, gasped out when he calls you amor, although you try to reason that he is caught up in the sex. Your arms tighten around him and you whimper his name. “Perooooo.” His cock hits perfectly inside you and you shatter, clenching down around him like a vice as you soak him with your juices.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He growls, his fingers digging into your flesh as he thrusts up into you, moaning your name and it doesn’t take him long to cum. Painting your walls for the umpteenth time, he bites down on your shoulder to stop himself saying the words that linger on the tip of his tongue.

“Pero. Pero, oh god.” You cling to him, making your eyes and panting breathlessly at how good it feels. Your eyes water behind your lids and you bite your lip to keep from weeping. You know he is leaving and you don’t think you can bear it.

He caresses your back, kissing the spot he just sunk his teeth into, and he relaxes beneath you. Pulling you down to rest on his chest, he doesn’t say a word, wanting to enjoy this last time before he has to leave.

You sense the fact that he doesn’t want to talk so you snuggle into his embrace and sigh softly. Listening to his head beat in his chest and his breathing whoosh in and out slowly after he catches his breath. Wondering when he is going to leave and how you are going to handle not seeing him again anytime soon.

Pero isn’t sure how long he lays there, now soft but still inside of you, and he breathes you in until there’s a knock at the door. He groans, not liking his peace being disturbed, but you pull off of him and grab your tunic, pulling it over your head so you can open the door. William stands there and nods at you, peeking his head in at his Spanish companion. “It’s time, brother.” Pero nods, stomach twisting as he shifts from under your crumpled sheets to begin getting ready to leave.

Your heart plummets to the floor and you want to slam the door closed and pretend William isn’t there, but there would be no point. Pero isn’t yours. He wasn’t going to stay with you. You bite your lip and look towards Pero. “I will have them pack a bag of food for the road.” You announce before you rush down the stairs, leaving the two men to talk.

Pero speaks to William about the plan to venture East to find the black powder and he isn’t sure if he likes the idea but the coins sound too good to turn down. He would be set for life. He could return to you, marry you, start a life with you. He nods when William tells him to get ready and he takes his time dressing, looking up at you when you step into your room.

“Your food will be ready when you go down to saddle your horse.” You hate the sight of him strapping his armor to his body. The thick leathers changed him from lover to ruthless mercenary. Instead of crying, you move to the water bowl to clean yourself. You will have to go back to work after he leaves, taking other men into your bed.

After finishing tying his boots, Pero stands up to face you. “Gracias, amor. Por todo.” He says and reaches for you to drag you into his chest, his hand cupping the back of your head to keep you as close as possible.

You hate how cold the leathers are, wishing to feel his body again. “Safe travels.” You murmur against his chest. You can’t ask when you will see him again, it is not your place.

Pero slides his hands down your body, committing it to memory, and he leans in to nudge his nose against yours, desperately wishing to kiss you but he knows you have your rules.

You almost do it. You lean in to kiss him but he knows you have to keep that off the table. Instead, you nudge his nose back and inhale steadily. “Be safe, Pero.” You murmur quietly. “I will see you then next time you decide to see me.”

He nods as he pulls back and he stares at you for a moment. “Hasta luego, hermosa.” He murmurs and grabs his satchel, walking away before he falls to his knees and begs you to let him stay.

“Goodbye, Pero.” You murmur softly, watching him walk out the door and listening for his boots thumping on the stairs before your tears start to fall.

It takes everything in him to leave on his stead alongside the Irishman who knows the feelings Pero has for you. He knows you are the woman he loves and he understands why Pero cannot take you as his own. The Spaniard is a complicated man and his emotions are even more chaotic. "She will be there when you come back." William says and Pero just grunts his response.

**** 

He must be dead. Your heart aches every time someone comes to your bed and it’s not him. Every time the door opens and it’s not the Spaniard, your sighs get a little heavier. Your friends have worried about you as you silently grieve. Pero has either fallen on a battlefield or he has found a wife like he deserved. Either way, the time for him to visit had come and gone four times. A year has passed and you finally admit to yourself that you will never see him again.

Pero looks up at the sky before he steps into the brothel. He’s been gone a year. It’s been a long time and he has gone through so much in the past twelve months. He gives your name at the desk and the matron looks weary but escorts him to your room, knocking on your door and Pero inhales sharply at his first glance at you after so long. “Hola amor.” He murmurs, his heart pounding in his chest.

You freeze, shocked at the sight of Pero in your doorway, looking tired but whole. “You are alive.” You choke out, sure that you would never see him again. You had cried so many nights when your last client had left your bed and the seasons had changed with no word from him. Swallowing harshly, you wonder why he is here now.

“Lo siento, amor.” Pero feels guilty that he didn’t send a rider to give you warning of his arrival but he’d been a little busy trying to not die in the far east. The matron glances between you and decides to leave you to it. Pero shuffles from one foot to the other, waiting for you to make a move.

You bite your lip, trying not to cry because all you want to do is hold him close and kiss him. Then slap his face because he worried you so badly. Clearing your throat, you send him a bland smile. “I am sure you are wanting a meal and a bath?” You ask, trying to keep things as they were before. “You must have been very busy.”

He can tell you’re not happy with him and he frowns, “that would be nice.” He nods and you step aside to let him into your room. “How have you been, hermosa?” He asks softly once he’s sitting down:

“I have not been the best.” You admit with a careless shrug. “I was feeling poorly early this year.” You move towards the door so you can order his bath and meal, none for yourself. “But I have survived.”

Pero frowns even more at that news, worried that he could’ve lost you before he returned. “Good. Always good to survive.” He offers you a small smile that you don’t return and you leave to go order his meal and bath. He sighs, rubbing his neck, and when you come back, he takes out the coins he had in his purse. “I want to pay for your company for a week.” He says, holding the pouch out towards you.

Your hand reaches out while you stare at him. Taking the payment for your body without even really reacting to it, beyond your heart breaking. The confirmation that it had never been more than a physical release for him. You look down at the decidedly heavy pouch for a moment before you reach back and heave it towards him as hard as you can. “I do not want your coins!” You yell, tears immediately flooding your eyes and you are blinded by them.

Pero’s eyes widen and he catches the pouch from his quick reflexes, watching you start to sob. “I- I’m sorry, hermosa. I’ll go. I won’t - I will leave you alone. I thought you wanted me here but apparently you wish for me to leave. I’m sorry. I’ll go.” He promises with a choke, heart breaking as you reject him.

“I- I thought you were dead!” You sob, rushing forward and slamming your fists against his leather covered chest. “M-my heart was broken and you-you walk back in as if a year hasn’t passed and pay for my cunt.” You know you aren’t making sense, you are just a whore to him, but he was your love. You loved him, love him still.

He reaches for your wrists, trying to stop you from hitting him. He pulls back to look at you, “amor. Amor. What - I was in China. I nearly died and I couldn’t get word to you. I- I wanted to return to you. Every night. Wanted to come home to you. I needed the coins so I could lay down my sword and return to you, to give you all of me.”

“Liar.” You sob, shaking your head and trying to pull away from his grip. He won’t let you go and you hate how much you are crying. “If-if you wanted to be with me, you would not offer coin.” You stop struggling and collapse against his chest. “I do not want your coin, I want your heart.” You whimper.

Pero’s chest clenches with frustration and he pulls you into his chest, “you have always had my heart. Since the first week I spent in your company. I gave you my coin, I give you my coin, because I wish to take care of you even in my absence, even when I cannot be here. I wish to provide for you because I - because I love you.”

You close your eyes and sob even harder. In relief, in distress for time that you have missed out on. “I love you, Pero.” You whisper. “Mi amor.” You know that you had been foolishly telling yourself that he had not meant it when he called you his love, you hadn’t dreamed to hope. “I have been saving every coin I could, wishing to leave this life behind.” You confess. “I did not think you could love a whore.”

“I don’t love a whore. I love you. Whatever you do, who you are…means nothing to me. I love you.” He murmurs, caressing your cheeks and he leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Can I kiss you?” He asks, wanting to feel your lips against his for the first time.

You lick your lips, finding them dry as you press closer. “Yes.” You moan softly. “Kiss me, Pero. I need you to kiss me.” You know that you haven’t kissed much, but he is the only man you want to kiss, to touch you, from now on.

Pero leans in, pressing his lips to yours, and it’s a little awkward. He’s never been an affectionate lover until he met you and now he’s aching for your kiss, for your touch. “Te amo.” He murmurs against your lips before he cups your cheek, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss.

You moan into the kiss, your cunt clenching when his tongue slides into your mouth. Sliding your hands up to tangle into his long hair, you pull him close and kiss him back just as fiercely.

His hands let go of your wrists so he can slide his hands down to grab your waist. It’s sloppy and clumsy as he slides his tongue against yours but he feels like he’s home. He feels like the battles he’s endured have been worth it to just have this moment with you in his arms.

When the kiss breaks, both of you are panting softly. “I love you.” You murmur again. “I- I want you to leave with me.” You sigh. “I want to leave the brothel and find a village where I can just be another woman.”

“I have coins, hermosa. That’s why I left. I wanted to return to you with enough coins for us to build a home together in a village. Get married.” He reveals and he lets go of you, fumbling as he reaches beneath his tunic to pull his gold chain out. He takes it off and reveals the ring he has worn there since he left. “It was my mother’s. I want - I want you to have it. For you to be my wife. Will you?” He asks, eyes widen and lower lip pouting as he waits for your answer.

“Pero….” You gasp, looking down at the simple, yet beautiful ring and then back up into his eyes. “I, yes, of course I will marry you.” You promise, beaming before you lunge forward and press your lips to his again.

He feels relieved and happy, for the first time in a long time, he’s happy. His lips press against yours and he pulls back for a moment so he can slide the ring onto your finger. “I need you, amor.” He murmurs, the fire growing in his belly as his desire for you comes to the forefront.

“You always need to fuck me when you come back from the road.” This time, you are giggling as you pull back and take his hand, dragging him towards your cot. “Come, amor, I have missed you between my thighs.” You admit. “And you will be the last man between them so you should service me well.”

“Not yet.” He murmurs, gently pushing you away. “I want to be clean for my wife. Have them to bring the tub and let me clean up before we lay together. I don’t want to risk you.” He says, knowing he had to care more for your well-being now - the woman that he would lay down and die for.

Your brow raises but you do not argue. Instead, you kiss him once more and rush to the door, eager to have the bath brought in. He loves you. He wants to take you away from here and have a life together. You bring up a pail of water yourself, rushing the boys who brought the tub and other buckets inside out the door and latch it behind them.

Pero works fast to strip off, sinking down into the tub after helping you pour the water in and he groans when the steam curls up around him. “Amor, can you cut my hair again?” He asks timidly, almost shy now you have his ring on your finger.

“Of course I can.” You nod as you move towards the scissors, getting them out and smiling as he relaxes and leans back against the rim. “I like your hair shorter and your beard trimmed.” You admit. “But I will take you however I can get you.” Kneeling down behind him, you pull off your tunic and run your fingers through his hair to start cutting it.

Pero smiles softly, "even with my scars?" He asks and you nod, "especially with your scars." Pero's heart thumps and he reaches for your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the back of it. "I love you." He murmurs and you caress his cheek before you continue working on chopping off his hair.

Once you are done, you wet his hair down and lather soap into it. Smiling when he groans and leans back. Enjoying your fingernails scrubbing his scalp. “Does it feel good, amor?”

“Sí, hermosa.” Pero murmurs, closing his eyes as you wash his hair. “I want to do this for you.” He says, cock twitching when your nails scrap his scalp. He loves it. You finish washing his hair and work on trimming off the excess beard. Pero drinks you in, admiring your features, the way you bite your lip as you concentrate.

When the soap is wiped clean from his face, you smile, running a finger down his cheek. “So handsome.” You coo, “do you want me to wash you as well?” You ask, even as you reach for the clothe and the soap again. The quicker he is clean, the quicker he can touch you.

Pero nods, wanting your touch even though it’s selfish to make you wash him. He groans your name as you start to drag the cloth over his skin and his cock starts to harden. “Te amo.” He murmurs, watching you and his hand comes up to cup your breast.

You moan softly when he squeezes your breast. “Te amo.” You murmur in response, your heart bursting with happiness. You will let Pero rest as long as he needs, but then you will venture to find a place to settle, to build a life together. Your hand wraps around his now clean cock and you pump him gently.

“Mierda.” Pero groans when you squeeze him and he shakes his head, “amor. I want - I want to be inside of you. Please. Let me get out.” He says, pulling your hand off of his cock.

You’re surprised that he doesn’t want you to ride him in his bath, but perhaps he wants this time to be in the cot. Something more meaningful than the times before. You still pout as you stand and reach for the drying cloth as he steps out of the tub.

Pero quickly dries himself off and tosses the cloth aside, reaching for you. He pulls you into his chest, his hard cock trapped between you, and he cups your cheek with one hand as he leans in to press his lips to yours.

It’s softer and sweet, yet the kiss makes you moan. Knowing that this is real. That Pero is here and wants to make you his wife. Your arms wrap around his neck and it’s you that starts to guide him back towards your cot. “I need you.” You beg breathlessly.

Pero needs you too. Desperately. You’re all he has thought about for months. He murmurs your name as he shifts to lay you down on the cot. “Let me make love to you, amor.” He pleads softly, leaning down to wrap his lips around your nipples after positioning himself between your thighs. “I want to taste you.”

“Pero…” you start to protest, knowing that it has been only a day since the last man had been between your thighs but he silences you with a look. You’ve bathed since then, so you lean back and let him do what he wishes with you.

He spreads your thighs as he kisses down your stomach, cock twitching with the thought that it will someday be full of his child, and he inhales deeply when he settles between your thighs. “Fuck, such a pretty cunt.” He mumbles, his hands caressing your soft skin and he leans in to slide his tongue through your folds, not wanting to waste another second.

You keen, back arching your hips would rock up if it weren’t for his body and strong arms pinning you down. “Pero!” You’ve never felt a man’s tongue on your cunt and it’s a delicious sensation.

He knows this is something he will be doing again and again now that you are his. His tongue pushes deep into your walls and he groans as his nose presses against your clit, curling his tongue until he’s pulling back to flick it over your bundle of nerves.

Your eyes close and your fingers twist into the sheets as you start to chant his name. Already close to cumming and finding it to be so much better than his fingers rubbing your clit. “So good.”

He sucks on your clit, desperately wanting you to cum for him. He groans your name into your flesh and pushes two fingers into your cunt as he sucks on your clit a little harder.

“Pero!” Your scream is loud, letting everyone in the brothel hear as you come apart for him. Thighs shaking around his head and your cunt locking down around his fingers while pleasure rushes through your body.

He nearly cums when you gush around his digits but he keeps working his fingers inside of you to keep you pleasured until you’re pushing his head away. He kisses along your thighs as you pant, your chest heaving, and he kisses your stomach up to your breasts, pressing kisses on every inch of skin.

“I love you.” You whimper softly, running your fingers through his hair and smiling softly. You press your lips to his just as soon as he is close enough. Tasting yourself on his lips and humming at the sensation. “I love you so much.”

He smiles against your jaw, “I love you too, mi esposa.” He murmurs and shuffles between your thighs. Reaching down to grip his cock, he pulls back his foreskin and swipes the head against your clit. You whine and he chuckles, positioning himself at your entrance and slowly pushing into you with a low groan.

He feels even bigger, better than he ever had. It might just be your imagination, but it feels that way. Moaning softly, you pull your legs back to take him even deeper until he is buried inside you. “After we marry, I can stop drinking my tea if you would want.” You offer breathlessly, imagining being filled with his baby.

“Yes. Fuck, yes. I want - I want that.” He confesses, imagining you full of his baby has him stopping to control himself. He leans in to nudge his nose against yours, his breathing heavier. “Mi amor. Mi esposa. Mi vida. La madre de nuestros niños.” He murmurs, lost in thoughts of the future until he starts to slowly rock his hips.

“Yes.” You moan quietly. Wrapping your legs around him and sighing softly as he treats you as if you are made of glass. You can feel everything, and it’s exquisite.

He moves slowly inside of you, not wanting to rush this. He murmurs your name again and again, like a prayer, as he makes love to you. His ring on your finger as it glistens in the candlelight and his heart pounds in his chest.

This moment is one that you want to remember forever. Every kiss, ever whispered word of love between. You caress his face and look up at him, finding him even more handsome than ever.

He has fought long and hard to return to you, his lover, his reason for fighting so hard. He rocks into you, his hand gripping yours and he wants to hear the sweet cries of your orgasm. He shifts his weight to one forearm and slides his hand between you so he can rub your clit.

“Pero.” You gasp out when you feel the pressure of his fingers against your clit. “Please, amor.” You beg softly, your body getting closer to cumming with every thrust. You never want to be away from him again. Wanting to spend the rest of your life with your Spaniard.

He works your clit a little faster, wanting you to fall over the edge and it doesn’t take long for you to clamp down on his cock. He doesn’t hold back, he can’t after going so long without you. He paints your walls at the same time you soak his cock and he groans your name as he pushes deep, pressing his lips to yours as he rocks you both through your highs.

You whimper as he rocks himself through the pleasure and sigh when he collapses on top of you. “I love you, Pero.” You whisper softly, heart bursting because your feelings are returned. The mercenary and the whore, a love story that shouldn’t be, but is.

[wandanatsgf]

Pray and I Shall Answer Thee Part 2

Pairing: Aphrodite!Wanda x Follower!Reader

Word Count: 1182

Summary: You wait for months for Wanda to return, and yet she never shows. Now you're determined to get over her, but a certain goddess won't allow that.

Warning: This contains smut and oral (r receiving)

Author's note: On my old blog this was called Call and I Will Come or something like that, but I decided to rename it (hope you all don't mind),

Part 2

It has been a few months since your encounter with Wanda and she hasn't visited you since that night. Maybe it was just a one time thing to her, but to you it meant everything. Still, you were determined to get over her and you knew the perfect way to do so.

The walk to your local tavern was a long. You can already feel the cool autumn air seeping into your bones and you still have another 15 minutes to go. You pull your coat tighter around your body as you continue to walk.

The sound of a carriage makes you steer yourself off the road, letting the carriage hopefully pass you by without getting you wet. Unfortunately you weren't so lucky. You hear a loud splash and before you know it, you're soaking wet.

"Oh my gods I am so sorry darling," you hear an angelic voice say as the carriage comes to a stop.

A woman steps out of the carriage and she is one of the most beautiful women you have ever seen. Her red hair curls around her face. and her green eyes sparkle like emeralds in the moonlight. Her white dress wraps around her like wings. She looks angelic, almost godly.

"It's quite alright," you say quickly.

"No it's not. Let me take you back to my place and give you some warm, dry clothes," the woman says. Normally you wouldn't accept such an invitation from a stranger, but there is just something about her that makes you say yes.

"What's your name?" the woman asks you.

"Y/n," you say.

"Y/n," she repeats. "That's a beautiful name for a beautiful girl." You can feel yourself blush as you thank her.

"I'm Natasha."

"Well it's nice to meet you Natasha."

You climb into Natasha's carriage and the two of you converse about all sorts of topics until you make it to Natasha's home. As the carriage comes to a stop, you take in your surroundings. You're amazed at this woman's mansion that she calls a home. She was clearly much more wealthy than you.

Natasha helps you out of the carriage and inside her house. She leads you to her bedroom, which contains a closet full of the most gorgeous clothes you have ever seen.

"Here you go darling. Call for me if you need anything," Natasha says as she hands you the clothes.

"Thank you so much," you say with sincerity.

"It's really no problem," Natasha says, leaving you to change.

You strip out of your tunic and start to pull the new, soft, dry garment on when you hear a voice behind you.

"What do you think you're doing?"

You spin around and come face to face with the goddess who has been on your mind every single day since that night.

"Wanda," you breathe out.

"What are you doing?" she growls out. She looks like a predator stalking its prey.

"I'm changing," you say like it's obvious.

"No you're not," Wanda says. She pulls the garment off of you, leaving you naked. "You're not putting on her things."

"I'm sorry what?!?"

"You heard me. This would be the goddess you call Athena's clothing you are putting on and I won't allow that."

"You won't allow it?!? You're not the boss of me," you say snappily. You snatch the clothing out of Wanda's hand and put it on. You can tell you're angering Wanda, but you don't care. Not after she left you with no contact for months.

"We're leaving," Wanda says. She grabs you by the arm and pulls you towards the front door where Natasha stands.

"What do you think you're doing Wanda," Natasha yells out.

"I'm taking what's mine," she says like it's obvious. The two of them continue to argue over you as if you are some sort of property. You take this opportunity to slip out, unnoticed by the two bickering goddesses.

You had been walking for about five minutes when Wanda appears by your side.

"What do you want goddess," you ask, saying goddess snarkily.

"I have come to apologize."

"Ok. Get on with it."

"I'm sorry for not treating you properly. I haven't been with a human before and I don't quite know how to act. I know I haven't quite courted you properly and I'm sorry," she says.

"I forgive you," you mumble out. "But I want you to do better. I need to see you more. I need stability and I need to see you more, and not just when you're jealous or want something."

"I'll give you that and whatever else you wish darling. Say the word and it is yours." You smile at this.

"Right now all I want is you." This was true. You hadn't been able to get yourself off ever since that night and now that she is here you can't help yourself.

"That can be arranged," she says. You're enveloped in a cloud of red magic. When the cloud disappears you're back at your home.

"Come here," Wanda says. She grabs your hips and pulls you into her. You feel her capture your lips with her own. You moan into the kiss as her hands slip down your sides.

"Jump," you hear her say once your lips break apart. You jump up and wrap your legs around the taller woman's waist. She places her hands on your ass and walks the two of you over to your bed. She gently places you down and crawls on top of you.

"I have a lot to make up for don't I?"

"Yes you do my goddess," you say. Wanda smiles down at you. She takes your dress off, leaving you in a set of bra and panties. She lets out a low moan at the sight of you, and it makes your core tingle with excitement. Wanda places soft kisses against your collar bone while her right hand slips down to your bra covered tits. She gently gropes your left boob before taking your bra off. She throws your bra to the other side of the room and quickly attaches her lips to your nipple.

"Fuck," you moan out.

"Am I making you feel good baby?" Wanda asks.

"Yes goddess. You're making me feel so good," you say. You grab Wanda's hair and lightly pull. Wanda detaches herself from your nipple and moves straight to your core. She slips your panties off and immediately attaches her lips to your clit.

“Gods,” you moan out.

“It’s not gods honey. There’s only one god making you feel this good,” Wanda says as she sucks on your bundle of nerves. Wanda continues to suck and lick your core and you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to your release.

“Please goddess,” you beg.

“Cum for me baby. Cum for your goddess,” she says. That’s all it takes before your release spills out onto Wanda’s tongue as she licks it all up.

"Thank you Wanda," you say.

"Anything for you darling and I'm truly sorry for my behavior. I promise I'll be better." Wanda places a gentle kiss on your lips. which you reciprocate.

"It's alright, all is forgiven," you say.

[disasterofastory]

Christened (Ubbe x Reader)

Christened Ubbe x Reader Warnings: smut in a church

Summary: Ubbe and you have some fun.

The place is quiet and cold. Everything is so still and unmoving. The freezing air sinks into your skin through the wet clothes you wear. A small puddle pools around your legs. Droplets of water fall from your hair and dress. The thin, white fabric sticks to your body, faithfully following every curve you have. Your hands curl into fists as you try to warm up your fingertips. Your joints barely move to your will.

Your gaze from the altar rising in front of you turns to the entrance when the sound of the heavy doors opening and closing hits your ears. You watch the man over your shoulder as he gets closer and closer. He is still wet too. A small smile pulls on your lips at the view. The tunic doesn't waste time showing off the hard cords of his muscles as he moves. Everything he is calls out for you. It lights the fire inside you until the invisible flames reach between your legs. Your thighs press together for some friction. A smirk tugs on his lips, but Ubbe doesn't open his mouth to share his thoughts. He doesn't have to. His eyes tell you everything you need to know. Excitement and anticipation bubble up in your chest. "I never thought I would find you here," he says after a few seconds. His chest presses against your back, and his arms curl around your middle. A relieved sigh leaves your lips at the feeling of his warmth. "I was curious." "About what?" He asks, resting his head on your shoulder. His eyes sweep over the altar. "Do you feel different?" You ask him instead of answering. "I mean, I thought after being christened I would feel... farther away from our gods or closer to theirs, but..." you shrug, nibbling on your bottom lip. "It's all still meaningless," you nod to the cross and relics. You feel nothing when you look at them. "Yeah," he agrees with a hum. "Maybe we did it wrong." "What do you mean?" You ask, already laughing at the mischievous glint in his bright eyes when your turn your head enough to look at him better. "Maybe their god wants a better show than bathing in a damn river." Desire strikes through your spine at the lustful expression on his face. His large hands slide down to your hips, gripping the soft flesh to make you turn around. The air gets stuck somewhere in your lungs at the sudden movement. Your own hands reach out to his broad shoulders to keep your balance. "Ubbe?" You ask already breathlessly. "Let him see, Y/N," he says against your lips. "Let all the gods see how I christen my woman." Your laugh turns into a moan when Ubbe presses his lips against yours. His beard grazes your skin, and his tongue coaxes your mouth open within a few seconds to invite you into a bruising kiss. The tall Viking doesn't spend much time warming you up for his embrace. It's all tongue and teeth while he grabs the collar of your dress to tear it apart on your chest. The sound is loud and sharp among the stone walls. Your mewl echoes off of them. Your breasts feel heavy, and you groan when Ubbe move his hands to play with them. Your flesh is soft under his touch while your nipples are hard, aching points, grazing the middle of his palms. "Ubbe," you groan out his name. Eyes closed. Mouth open. "Kneel, Y/N," he commands. His warm breath fans over your face. Your lips are red and swollen from his searing kiss. "In front of the altar. Ass up."

You do as he says, and before you know it, Ubbe is kneeling behind you, pushing your dress up to your waist. The cold air almost slaps your heated center and makes your hips move without your control. Your upper body is pressed against the ground. "So pretty," Ubbe says behind you. He can't tear his eyes away from your cunt. "You are so wet already." His thumb ghosts over your wetness, barely touching your clit. Your thighs tremble as you push yourself back against him with an impatient cry. "Ubbe!" "Who made you this wet?" He asks. You can hear his wicked smile. "The old fuckers, huh? Or their god?" "No," you reply immediately. "It was you." "Me?" He hums. It seems like he likes your answer because his finger pauses at your clit to draw slow, maddening circles on the sensitive bud. "You like it, hm? You like me fucking you in front of their god, yes? You want me to fuck this pussy and show him how is it done, yeah?" "Please," your voice trembles as you beg. "Please! Ubbe!" The need for the man behind you burns your insides. It's hot and impatient as it clenches in your lower stomach and pulses between your legs. "Arch your back and stay still," Ubbe commands you, opening his pants to free his erection. His cock is hard and glints with pre-cum that mixes with your juices when the head slides over your pussy. You open up without him needing to push. The man's hands fit perfectly on the curve of your bottom. His fingers dig into your flesh, and satisfaction surges through his body at the feeling. "Ubbe!" You cry out his name when his cock brushes over your entrance again and again but doesn't goes deeper. A chuckle echoes in the building, and a moan follows when his hips push against yours. His cock sinks into your hole, stretching your walls and reaching every spongy spot that makes your whole body tremble. You can barely keep yourself on your knees. "Still so tight for me," he grunts with small, short pushes to let you adjust around his size. The words come out in low grunts between his clenched teeth. Your muscles keep his cock tight and snug in your hot channel. Your juices sweep down onto his balls. The wet sound fills the building when he starts moving in and out of you with more force. You are sure his grip on you will bruise. "Ubbe," you groan, pressing your cheek down on the ground. The cold does nothing to help with the heat that burns your insides. "Please! I need you..." He grunts in answer, adjusting his legs behind you to make your wish come true. His muscles flex on his arms and thighs. The pain and pleasure blind you for a second as his hands on you tighten. Your walls already pulse and flutter around his throbbing shaft. None of you need much to reach the edge.

Ubbe pounds into you with so much force, you have to brace yourself on your hands. The rough ground grazes your cheek and nipples. The slightly painful teasing just fuels your desire and makes you moan and groan into the silence. Your whole body shakes and jerks at the burning feeling that licks up your trembling limbs. Your hole keeps his cock inside and sucks him in deeper, and the Viking grunts as his eyes fall shut. He can feel every vibration and flutter on his shaft. His balls jerk up at the hot coil snapping in his stomach. His muscles are taut and almost painful. Soon, his seed drops down between your joined bodies, and the wet sound is loud and almost makes you laugh when Ubbe pulls out of you. "Keep it in," he grins, pushing his cum back inside you. A cry leaves your lips at the sensitive feeling. "Maybe our child will be... holy." "Do you think?" You laugh, pushing yourself up from the cold ground. Your nipples are still hard, and your breasts rock in sync with your breathing. "Or maybe we could try again," he groans against your ear, reaching out from behind you to grab your tits. He pulls on the hard buds and your back arches. "Let's try again," you agree, already feeling yourself getting excited for another round. "Just to make sure."

None of you need much time to make your laughs into groans and moans on the cold ground with the altar in front of you.

[deantfwinchester]

A New Chapter

Pairing: No-Outbreak!AUJoel x Teacher!Reader (pregnant)

Moving forward in the narrative a bit y'all. Our girl is pregnant now, so we're a couple years into their marriage. The premise of this one's a little goofy, but he looks so pretty in the Gladiator trailer I couldn't help myself.

Summary: You and Sarah go Halloween costume hunting and find the perfect family costume, much to Joel's chagrin. He'll do just about anything for his little girl, though. :)

Warnings: fluff as per usual. a teeny bit of angst and emotional h/c, but so so fluffy. a couple of suggestive little innuendos for fun, but very much PG as usual.

A/N: I'll make a little timeline at some point explaining how these all fit into the same universe, but they're definitely the same couple so far! I've got plenty more planned for these two, and I'm excited to keep going, but I've also got a kind of multi-chap AU situation I may try to write? Idk, guess we'll see which bulleted fic I'm inspired to expand next, lol.

Word Count: 3.3k

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“You can’t be serious,” Joel looks at you, exasperated. 

“Serious as a heart attack,” you respond, smiling wide. 

“Hell no!” he says, amused at the very idea. 

“What, Sarah’s got that precious little goddess dress from the costume store, and they were right next to it!” you exclaim. 

___________________________

You’ve just presented Joel with a gold and white roman general costume you found while you and Sarah were shopping for Halloween costumes. You took her to the costume shop after picking her up from school and the two of you were over the moon. Halloween is your favorite holiday hands down - you and Sarah have always had that in common. It was one of the first things you bonded over, and Joel was thrilled that the two of you wanted to do that together. You hadn’t been looking forward to finding a maternity costume though - it was still early September, but you knew one that fit well right now would be pretty uncomfy by the end of October.

You and Sarah walk a few aisles in before stopping in your tracks at a beautiful mythology display - long dresses and beautiful accessories with the names of different Greco-Roman goddesses in a row, with a family-costume display showing mannequins of an adult man, adult woman, and a teen girl and young boy. The young boy’s costume had a shield and chest plate of worn-looking plastic, and the teen girl’s costume was a long ombré-colored dress with little gold appliqués printed on the hem.

Sarah was enchanted. And you were enamored with the childlike wonder she felt touching the low-quality polyester and spandex blend. The adult women’s costume mirrored the toga-like shape of the girl’s, but was one-shouldered and of a different shade. Sarah saw them and immediately knew what she wanted to be for Halloween this year - a princess in this goddess dress and you an empress to match. The names on these costumes were inaccurate as hell, but you weren’t here to hold Spirit Halloween to historical accuracy or academic integrity. The look on her face made it clear you couldn’t say no - especially when you saw the Maternity option hanging in a thick plastic bag next to it closed with a plastic snap. At least this costume would hang loosely no matter how much you’re showing by Halloween. Might even drive Joel a little crazy. 

Once you agreed to it, you decided just the two of you couldn’t do it alone - not when there was only one member of your family to be left out. You grab the Adult Men’s costume hanging next to the mannequin - it was different from the boy’s, not some sort of battle armor, but labeled Emperor to match the adult women’s. It’s white and lined in gold leaf appliqués just like the goddess costumes. It's a beautiful costume, with a cape and a little caged skirt thing hanging over the tunic. You’re especially fond of the myriad golden accessories accompanying this costume - wide bangles and a little headband of golden leaves. You’re torn between cackling at how much Joel would undoubtedly protest such an elaborate costume and practically salivating at the image of him wearing it. He’d look ridiculously hot in this costume — you’d just need to convince him. 

Joel isn’t totally averse to costume-wearing, especially for his girls’ favorite holiday. He would put on a little something here and there to appease you or Sarah - maybe a cape or a few accessories. You’d seen pictures from one Halloween a few years before you met them with Sarah in a pretty little pink fairy costume and Joel in a much too small pair of wings and a feathery tiara, holding a matching wand. Seeing it never fails to make you smile.

Joel is a wonderful father to Sarah - he can always tell her No when necessary, whether it has to do with her health and safety, development, or due to financial constraints, but always explains to her why. As much as he’d love to spoil her to pieces, he wants to make sure she grows up with a realistic understanding of the world around her, and understands both her privilege and the difference between Want and Need. The way he communicates with her and makes parenting choices with a focus on the kind of person she is and will become is in large part what drew you to him - to a place where you not only felt comfortable being with him, but having a child with him. You are more than confident he’ll be a wonderful father to your next child as well — he’d made that clear when you’d first found out.

When it wasn’t necessary to tell Sarah No, however - he couldn’t ever look his little girl in the eye and resist. Letting her polish his nails, play with glittery make-up, and wearing little wings to match her own were just a few of the things he’d done to make her smile. If the only reason to say “No” was that he didn’t want to, well it simply wasn’t reason enough.

With this knowledge in mind, you were fairly certain Joel could be convinced to put on this elaborate costume - maybe with some work boots instead of the mannequin’s little sandals, though. And a pair of shorts under the skirty pieces, probably. Once you and Sarah have picked out the shades you want and spent way too much time staring at the wall of accessories for your own costumes, you leaf through the men’s costume bags for Joel’s size and snag one off the rack. Sarah’s eyes go wide when you turn around and raise your eyebrows at her, and a huge grin spreads across her face - she’s laughing excitedly at just the prospect of her dad in this elaborate costume, and shaking her head vigorously while agreeing - it has to come home. 

____________________________________________

“C’mon baby. Y’all’s are beautiful but this?,” says Joel, gesturing to the elaborate white costume you’ve removed from the bag and hung up to present to him in all its gilded glory. “This is insane. Looks more like a damn wedding dress than a Halloween costume.”

“Oh but Joel, it’s so beautiful! I know it’s a little elaborate, but Sarah and I are already gonna be matching. We want you to do it with us! Dress as a family for the party,” you plead, and you can see his resolve beginning to crack. He shakes his head, both hands on his hips, and glowers at you, though it lacks any real contempt.

“Darlin’ I think it’s precious that you and Sarah got these little matching costumes. Hell, nothing could make my heart happier than seeing you two looking so gorgeous together in these pretty dresses she chose. But y’all are my beautiful little stars of the show, let’s be honest,” he finishes, placing his hand heavily on your hip and drawing you closer. “You, Sarah, and her perfect little sister on the way,” he grins, resting his other hand on your belly and locking eyes with you. 

“That’s kinda the thing though, Joel. This is the last Halloween we can do this, just the three of us. Every Halloween after this will be a different kind of special, but it’ll never just be us and Sarah again after this year. You know she’d love it, no matter what the reason,” you say with a slight smirk, knowing you and Sarah both want this, at least in part, to mess with Joel. 

He locks eyes with you,and his are gentle and wistful at the idea. You’re both elated at the mere thought of the future ahead with your growing family, but the change is a big shift for all of you. You worry about Sarah more than anything. You’ve had this conversation a couple of times already — the age gap between Sarah and the baby is so big, you just worry she’ll feel left out when you two get busy, or get hyper focused on the baby those first few months. 

You aren’t afraid to admit that you’re scared — scared you won’t be able to give the baby everything she needs or scared you won’t bond like you should. It’s a big relief to you, a new mom, that this won’t be Joel’s first rodeo. He’s already assuaged your worries on multiple occasions during this pregnancy and preparation period with his existing knowledge in child rearing. There’s not a man in the world better suited to fatherhood, and his quiet confidence and reassurance when your anxieties arise comfort you more than he’d ever understand.

But the fear is still there — fear of not being enough, leaving Joel to feel like he’s alone in this all over again, even with you standing beside him. You’re especially scared you won’t ensure Sarah continues to get all the attention and love she needs. You know fully well that your love can only multiply — it does so a little each year a new set of students arrives at your classroom door — but your attention can unfortunately divide, and sometimes will, despite your best efforts. 

Yes you both want to mess with Joel a little with your request that he wear this elaborate costume that’ll make him a bit bashful; but more than anything, you want him to do it with the two of you for Sarah. To make that choice to remind her that the two of you would do anything for her — as goofy as the request may be — no matter how much your lives change in the coming years. You want to do as many special things for her as possible beforehand — and you need his help for this one. 

“I just — I know it’s silly, but I want her to enjoy this chapter as much as possible before things change. And I know you do too, I’m just…,” you look down at your feet as you say this, unable to find the words to continue. Your eyes mist over as you think about it, and before you know it, you’re in his arms, face pressed tightly against his chest. His hand holds the back of your head, pulling you close, thumb moving gently back and forth over your crown, soothing the concerns he could see encroaching as you spoke. 

“Sweetheart.‘S not silly at all,” he pauses, searching for the words to help you find solace in your unease. “I know you’re worried about that, I do. And do you know how much it means to me that this is on your mind? That you’re busy growing a little person in there, having to think about mothering a baby for the first time, and she’s at the top of your list?” Joel stares at you with a sincerity that aches in your chest before he continues, “And that’s why I want you to remember that she knows. You’re an incredible mother already, baby, and none of that’s gonna change. The fact that you’re concerned about it in the first place is enough. I really believe that, baby. Sarah’ll always know that we’re here.”

You’re crying for real now, burying your face in his chest again as he squeezes you tight, resting his head on yours as it lies in the crook of his neck. He closes his eyes and holds you for a bit longer, slightly swaying back and forth to soothe you. He knows the hormones are playing a part in your worry and reaction, but also knows better than to identify them as such. No matter the cause, you’re experiencing these feelings — and no matter how fleeting they are, he’ll make sure you get what you need. 

After a minute or two of holding you in silence, Joel pulls his head back and looks down at you, rubbing your back to rouse you from your trance. You look up at him to see a small smile on his face and enough warmth in his eyes to have you weeping all over again.

“Alright darlin’, let’s go give this ridiculous getup a shot,” he says, gesturing toward the bedroom with his head.

“Really Joel?,” you ask, voice filled with hope and gratitude. 

“Course baby. If I’m gonna wear it, gonna damn well make sure it fits right.”

“Wait’ll you see the accessories!” you say excitedly, wiping your eyes and sniffing back the last of your tears.

“Oh good lord,” he huffs out, rolling his eyes playfully before grabbing your hand and leading you to the bedroom, costume in hand.

______________________________________________________

~ Halloween Night ~

“Have I told you yet how gorgeous you look in this costume?” you ask in Joel’s ear as Sarah runs ahead of the two of you toward the door to Tommy’s. 

“Only about seven times since I first put it on, sweet girl,” he says to you through a smile, chuckling at your insistence. “Better give it a rest, or my head’s gonna be too big to fit through the door by the time we get home.” He smirks at you, squeezing your hand in his as you cross the yard. 

“Ah, I think it’ll fit just fine,” you reply, rubbing a gentle hand against his chest. “Did I tell you how sexy you are tonight yet?,” you whisper closer to his ear now, smiling while you do it, grinning wider as a light blush touches his cheeks before he smiles at you as well.

“Hmm, I’m not sure. Mighta mentioned it once or twice.” His brows furrow as he feigns consideration. “I’d much rather talk about how incredible you look tonight, darlin’,” he whispers into your neck before pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, all too softly for the hormones rushing through your system. He knows it too, when your eyes go wide and your own cheeks flush, and is far too satisfied with himself for your liking. Years into your relationship and he can still drive you wild with so little — you have plenty of tricks up your sleeve as well, but the second trimester has been giving him an unfair advantage lately. 

Before you can gather your thoughts, you’re behind Sarah at Tommy’s door as he opens it to greet you, cowboy hat on and beer in hand. Otherwise, still dressed in his work flannel and jeans. Damn, Joel’s gotta be jealous right now. 

Tommy hugs Sarah and ushers her inside before looking at the two of you, eyes widening as he takes in Joel’s appearance, pretending to hide the elation growing on his face at seeing his brother in such an elaborate outfit. 

“Well ain’t that a lotta gold? Not sure what I expected when Sarah told me, but this wasn’t it,” he says, biting back a laugh. “Gotta say brother, didn’t think you had it in ya,” he says, clapping Joel on the shoulder, unable to conceal his entertained grin any longer. Joel rolls his eyes in response, and along with Tommy, looks to you.

“Now you look beautiful honey. Though I gotta say, if you’re goin for one of the Vestal Virgins, I think you may be in trouble,” he jokes, looking down at your growing bump and pulling you in for a hug.

“Aren’t you a riot,” you say flatly, rolling your eyes and smiling at his comment before hugging him back, “Hi Tommy. Y’all having fun in here?”

He moves aside so you and Joel can enter the house and Joel follows after Sarah to grab you both a drink. He’ll grab a beer like his brother, while you’re relegated to a soda without caffeine for the time being. 

“Course we are!” He waits until Joel moves further away and leans toward you with a mischievous glint in his eye. “I have to say — Thank you. Thank you so much. For that,” he gestures toward Joel at the little drink bar with Sarah. 

You chuckle a little with him, “You’re welcome. Go easy on him tonight though, alright? I know he’d much rather be wearing what you are right now,” you ask.

“Alright, alright, I promise. But please take pictures. Take so many pictures,” he laughs, and you laugh with him. “Seldom I get to see my brother like this, I’m gonna need a record of it.”

“Oh yeah, that’s kinda the idea. Speaking of which, you really put some effort in on the costume for tonight, huh?,” you ask, unimpressed, but good-natured.  

“Hey, I’m hosting! A little busy gettin’ everything together. Besides, a cowboy hat always suits me,” he gives a winning smile before changing the subject. “Now how are you and my little niece doing tonight?,” he asks, moving a hand down to your belly and bending a bit to greet the little one from outside. You place your hand on top of his and move it over to the side where you’ve been feeling the baby moving around lately.

“Say something to her again,” you instruct, “she’s been wiggling up a storm today.”

Tommy speaks to the baby above your belly again and you feel a little foot move ever so slightly against his hand. The way he lights up warms your heart, and you’re nearly overcome with emotion. He’s so excited to feel her that he hugs you to him once again. 

The two of you talk a bit longer about the newfound quickening, and you’re elated at his enthusiasm. It’s an incredible feeling, knowing just how much this baby will be loved — how surrounded she’ll be with family, and how happy everyone will be to have her there. Before you can think yourself into happy tears, Joel returns, smiling wide overhearing his brother’s excitement. He has a beer in one hand and an odd-looking green drink in the other, adorned with a black bendy draw covered in skulls. Your eyes widen as he hands you the cloudy slime-colored monstrosity. Tommy looks warily at the drink, and excuses himself to go talk to Sarah instead. 

“Oh Joel, what is that?!” you ask amused.

“Go on, try it darlin’” he says, gesturing for you to take a sip.The morning sickness had been rough in the beginning, and though it had tapered a few weeks back, you weren’t exactly looking to reawaken the nausea anytime soon. 

You sip with hesitation. It’s surprisingly tasty, a little fruity and fizzy. When you look down in it to find two gummy eyeballs staring back at you, bobbing around in the green. You laugh aloud at the sight, and Joel smiles so wide his eyes nearly close - he has two favorite sounds, and that’s one of them. Soon enough, he’ll have three. 

“It’s delicious, but what the hell is it?,” you ask through the laughter. 

“Sarah and I thought you might like a little Halloween mocktail to shake things up. I think it’s lemonade, sprite, and some of that blue stuff? Might be some pineapple or orange juice in there too, I think Sarah just started adding stuff. Gummy eyeballs were apparently a necessary garnish - she said they’re ‘on theme’ and that you’d agree.”

“She’s very right. Thank you sweetie, I appreciate it,” you say, taking another sip before kissing his cheek. You got him this time, and he grows a slight bashful blush at the public affection, but it’s never unwelcome. 

“Course. Happy to experiment for you anytime, sweetheart,” he grins back and you lose the battle, jaw dropping open a bit in response, eyes wide at him. 

He laughs again and puts his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side, before kissing you gently, just enough to keep the rise going. The two of you look over to see Tommy and Sarah talking excitedly, mixing some sort of other “punch,” this time in a shade of red. You raise your cup to Joel’s lips, and he takes a sip, looking surprised at the quality of their amateur mixology. You lean your head against his shoulder as you both look on at the party, wistfully watching your daughter enjoy herself. You stay there for a while, doing everything to remember the final Halloween of this beautiful chapter, just before a new one begins.

[rpking99]

The New Gerudo Legacy

Chapter 1

Closed with @the-blackbird-roleplays

Continued from here

Human? Not entirely... But the man who slowly opened his eyes was certainly the last of his kind and burdened with a dreadful and glorious purpose. The man stumbled from the pod, soft glow of Sheikha-blue Ancient Technology glowing from inside the stasis chamber behind him made his blue tunic shimmer slightly. His sandy blond hair seemed to shine in the light of the station, his sun-kissed skin lightly scarred from battles long past. His eyes were a dull crimson and slightly unfocused, confusion clouding him.

"Milady... Zelda. Where is..." Realization suddenly struck him as he looked around, scrambling for something on his back that... Wasn't there. "Where am I!?" He growled, looking around as if expecting some collosal beast to attack him.

The blonde in white took a series of steps forwards, reaching out to calmly press her hand against his chest

"Please, Dune, be calm." The woman urged gently "I am Commander White, and this is the statlie known as the Bunker. Home to the YORhA organisation of androids." She urged gently and softly, talking to him with a calm and quiet voice

[hyperactively-me]

okay okay okay, i know you get sooo many asks for king!ghost/princess!reader au, and we love them all and eat them all up--so i understand if you never answer this one... But i've always wondered, esp after he gifted reader his knife, what the heck was simon doing in the hall, cleaning his knife *that* night. Like I think about it often, was he going to talk to her (lil scandalous in the middle of the night)? Did he happen to be walking around and see her? Was he making sure she was okay? Was he feeling bad because he knows what it's like to have your family ripped away and although it is for the better, he feels remorseful for the reader? I mean, obviously reader felt someone watching her, how close was he??? Watching her be free and open in her lil sanctuary (thinking about how she'd have to find that in his kingdom/castle)? I NEED ANSWERS LOL

king!ghost x reader -- knife explained (flashback to the first couple of chapters, specifically "knife"; written in Ghost's POV) hopefully this answers your question 😉

It’s been a sleepless night. He couldn’t sleep. The woman betrothed to him was a complete and utter mystery. He had never seen anything like you, the way you so openly displayed your disdain and disgust to him. 

Yes, he knew that he was not very well-liked outside of his own kingdom. But, this is a woman who is supposed to be his wife. He recalls the fire in your eyes, the unwavering determination that matched the contempt in your voice. It was a stark contrast to the delicate and obedient bride he had envisioned you would be. What a spoiled little princess you turned out to be. 

And, he didn’t mean to be intimidating on purpose, that’s just how he carries himself outwardly. He was accustomed to commanding respect and obedience, even if it was born out of fear, no matter who the person. But, you were different. You had risen up against him because of your fear, and unashamedly at that. 

It kept him wide awake, the way your face twisted into a frown every time he stepped into a room, or the way you turned up your nose when he tried to speak to you. He thinks back to the dinner earlier that night, the way your knuckles were white as you gripped your dinner knife, fork stabbing into the innocent food being served. He had to bite back the urge to laugh; laugh at the thought of you being difficult on purpose. Until, it had finally hit him, that you were acting like this on purpose. It wasn’t just a ruse, your defiance, and fear, was quite real. You were not the stereotypical demure bride.

He shifts in his bed once again, staring at the ceiling, and he finds himself drawn to the challenge you presented. It was as if you held the key to a mystery he couldn’t resist unlocking. A woman who dared to challenge him was a rarity, and the prospect both unsettled and fascinated him. He couldn’t dismiss the fact that you had piqued his curiosity in a way that no one else ever had.

Ghost finds himself torn between frustration and intrigue. He never saw himself fit to be a husband, yet here he was. The usual tactics that had subdued others seemed to have no effect on you. Instead, it fueled your defiance, making you even more resistant to his authority. He should’ve known that you were going to put up a fight in the first place. Yes, he knew that noble women were trained to be blushing brides, but the mere thought that you had to give up your life in your home kingdom as you know it for a man you’ve never met, and a man known for wars and bloodshed at that? Who was he kidding?

Of course you would despise him from ripping you away from your family, from the comfort of your home. Hell, he went through a similar situation with his own family. The mere notion that he was inflicting the same things he went through on you made his stomach churn. He needed to get up. 

With that, Ghost shudders, rising from his bed, needing to clear his mind. He pulls on a pair of black pants and a black tunic alongside his balaclava, grabs his knife, and slips out of the guest room. The castle is shrouded in silence as Ghost moves through its dimly lit corridors. His mind races with thoughts of you, the enigmatic woman who now shared his fate. The air is deathly still and the moon hangs high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the castle grounds.

Ghost happens upon the hallway that leads to the garden. He notices the wooden doors are slightly ajar, pricking his instinctive protective senses. Immediately, he makes his way over to the door, reaching out to grab the handle. Before he can step outside, he hears a rustling of fabric and looks straight through the crack.

There you were, in all your glory, standing outside in the garden, a robe wrapped tightly around your frame. Ghost hesitates for a moment, torn between retreating unnoticed and going outside and confronting you. The moonlight accentuates the curves of your silhouette, and he can’t help but be captivated by the vulnerability you’re displaying outside, a stark contrast with the defiance he had grown accustomed to. 

He leans against the doorframe, his presence still concealed in the shadows. It’s like you were a different person, the way your hand gently caresses flower petals as you stroll, the gentle breeze playing with your hair. There’s a rawness in your gaze, a depth of emotion that intrigues him more than he’d like to admit. 

For a bit, Ghost remains hidden, an unseen observer of the woman who challenges every preconceived notion he had about his future wife. As if suddenly snapped out of his trance, he takes a few steps back, feeling as though he’s intruding on something personal. Ghost feels guilty for watching you so… calm in your garden. 

He retreats, his footsteps carrying him away and down another hallway, the faint moonlight filtering through narrow windows his only guide. With a deep breath, he comes across a rather comfortable looking chair sitting in the hallway; one that’s surely only used as a mere decoration. Regardless, he sits down and pulls his knife out. 

He twists it in his grip a few times, admiring the way it looks in his hands. He brings it closer to his face, inspecting the blade with scrutiny, until he notices a few smudges on it. 

Can’t have that, can we? He thinks to himself. 

The blade, a symbol of his title and the harsh realities of the life he leads, demands his attention. He meticulously cleans the smudges from the weapon, treating the knife as though it’s a holy item. Ghost’s hands move with a practiced precision, the rhythmic sound of the cleaning echoing in the silent corridor. The blade, once tarnished, now reflects the faint moonlight streaming through the windows, a gleaming testament to Ghost’s meticulous care. He wonders if you’ve ever had to wield a weapon before. Most likely, no. He would change that, once he trusted you more. Couldn’t give a combative person a knife now, can we? I’ll give you more time. But, I don’t doubt for a moment that you wouldn’t be able to carry such a thing in your pretty little hands. 

Suddenly, a rustling of fabric pricks his ears. He immediately stands from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping across the floor. He knows it's you. 

No use in you running now, he thinks. 

“What’re you doin’?” he calls out, knowing damn well that you’re most likely going to lash out again. 

He watches you as you slowly turn around, fear etched into your face. A change from your usual frown and furrowed brows. Ghost can see the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes, the robe clutched tightly around you as if it were a shield. You take multiple steps back as your eyes flit down to the knife in his hand. He knows he must look intimidating right now, dressed in all black and a skull balaclava concealing his features, wielding a hefty looking knife. Yet, how soft you looked mere moments ago, your lips parting so prettily as your eyes rest on his figure. 

“What are you doing?” you motion to the knife in his hand. 

He swivels his head down at the knife in his hand, a faint smirk playing on his lips. You can’t see it, thanks to the balaclava. How predictable, of course you were going to point that out. Without hesitation, he takes the knife and flips in his hand before sheathing it in his pants pocket. 

He watches you wince at the sudden movement, a flash of guilt courses through his veins for a moment. But he remembers that he can’t have you thinking that walking over him like you do now is acceptable. 

“Thinkin’,” he responds, voice gruff. You flash him a look of confusion, still wary of your position. Ghost takes a step forward, his silhouette partially illuminated by the moonlight spilling through a window. He watches you take a quick step back, suddenly hating the way you look so small. 

“What are you doin’?” he asks again, crossing his arms in front of his chest to act as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. He can see the wariness in your eyes, the way you stare at his muscles, the guarded stance, and it amuses him, even though he tries not to show it. 

“I don’t see how it's any of your business as to what I’m doing in my own home,” you retort, squeezing your robe tighter around your body. 

He takes a breath, a low chuckle escaping. But you’re right. He has no right to question what you’re doing in your own home. After all, he’s the one who’s a guest here, not the other way around. You have the right idea being wary of him, a monster of a man, being awake and roaming the palace halls at this hour of the night. But, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of protection for you. A woman alone at this hour of the night? 

He brushes off those thoughts, not wanting to let you win. Yet, he also wants to answer a small question he has. Would you back down? Now, at first, when he thought he would be receiving a blushing bride, he was going to treat her as kind as he possibly could. But now that his “blushing bride” is a noncompliant, fiery woman, he wants to make sure of another thing. That you would have the ability to stand up for yourself even in moments of pressure, especially in moments of pressure from him. 

“Listen here, sweetheart,” he says with another hidden smirk.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry, but you've been actin’ a certain way ever since I’ve arrived. I don’t appreciate it,” he states plainly, shifting slightly. 

He doesn’t miss the glare you throw at him, fingernails clutching into your robe tightly. How he wishes those fingernails would be buried in his back. 

“Well, you can mind your own business. I don't need your so-called ‘concern.’ Why do you think I’m acting this way?”

A really good fuckin’ question with an equally obvious answer, is what he wants to say. 

But he refuses to answer, pride welling up inside of him. Ghost takes a cursory glance at you again, noting the way you’re almost curled into yourself. You’re afraid of him. He couldn’t shake the image of you standing beneath the willow tree, how carefree and soft you looked then. 

Without thought, Ghost takes a step towards you again, but this time, you don’t move. How intriguing. He takes another step, waiting for you to give in, back down from whatever you’re thinking about right now. He takes another step, giving you another chance to move, a chance to show him that you're not willing to back down. How perfect. Put me in my place, this is what I deserve, he thinks. 

Ghost is now mere inches away, and you still haven’t moved. Good princess. 

Your neck is craned up to look at him, disdain written on your face.

He reaches his fingers up to your cheek, the pads of his fingers just barely ghosting over your skin as he makes his way to push stray strands of hair behind your ear. And the most surprising part of it all is that you let him. Now, he thinks he’s misjudged you. A spoiled princess? No. A woman who knows how to stand her ground. 

He can see you go as stiff as a board under his touch, your chest heaving as your heart rate picks up. He can see the pulse in your neck clearly. His eyes flit towards your bosom for a split moment, then he pulls his hand away. 

“Hmm,” he hums, a glint in his eyes. Interesting. 

And, without a word, he makes his way down the hallway silently, heading in no particular direction. He can feel your eyes boring into his back, and he feels a flash of pride, secretly hoping his stature impresses you. I know it does. 

At the end of the day, he doesn’t aim to break you; he just wants to figure you out. You’ll both be officially bound together in the next few days when he finally proposes to you, whether you like it or not. He can’t deny the conflict within himself — the desire to unravel you clashes with the knowledge that he’s pushing the boundaries. All these contradictions, and you’re driving him crazy. Why does he want to kiss you and fight you at the same time? 

He pulls the knife back out from his pocket, studying the reflection of his eyes in the blade. He wants to get to know the woman he had seen out in the garden. 

Time will tell.

- - - - -

(masterlist)