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sansaorgana · 10 months ago

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— STILL WATERS RUN DEEP

PAIRING — Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — He's a psychotic killing machine and you're a shy and innocent lady. You have nothing in common except for the fact your bloodlines have been manipulated for centuries to create a match. And you seem to be destined to be together.

REQUEST — (1) // (2) // (3)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — I don't write children!Readers unless it's for the retrospections and memories. That's why I combined all these requests into one fic. Some parts of the requests didn't make it but I felt like it was already getting long 🙈 I included the trope of Feyd and Reader being destined to be together – some sort of Soulmates AU, I guess? ✨

WARNINGS — arranged marriage, blood, spiders, mentions of Baron Harkonnen abusing Feyd, SMUT, fingering, oral, hints of innocence kink, The Harpies being a bit non-consensual

WORD COUNT — 7,500

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

STILL WATERS RUN DEEP

Giedi Prime was surely a scary and intimidating place for a twelve years old girl. The lack of colour and friendly faces made you shiver and anxiously cling to your father’s hand. You couldn’t understand why he had insisted on you accompanying him on this official state visit for the meeting with Baron Harkonnen. He would never want to take you with him to much more pleasant places. You were too young to understand the hidden agenda, the Bene Gesserit scheming – whose plans had been destroyed by Lady Jessica giving birth to a son instead of a daughter. They needed a new match for the young na-baron Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, The Baron’s nephew. After years of searching and studying many possibilities, they had decided to create a union between your House and The Harkonnens. Your father was more than happy – it was an honour to bond with such a powerful family. You were from one of the planets of a lesser importance. That was the reason for The Baron’s distrust towards the plan. He would rather see his nephew marrying a great lady, perhaps even an Imperial Princess.

While he talked to your father, you were left alone with no one but one guard in an empty room. You were sitting on a black couch and looking with awe at the portraits on the walls. All men looked the same on them – big, bald, hairless and scary. They fascinated you as much as they intimidated you.

After a while, the doors leading to the corridor opened and you startled at the sight of a boy more-less your age entering confidently with a contemptuous look upon his face. He looked like all The Harkonnens – sickly and scary. He was wearing clothes you had only seen on gladiators and warriors before but it looked disturbing on a body so skinny and small, even though he was tall for his age. There was a splash of blood upon his face and it made you gasp and take a step back. He smirked at you.

“So, that’s you? Disappointing,” he commented harshly as you swallowed thickly.

“What are you talking about? Who are you?” You looked nervously at the guard but he remained stoic.

“I’m Feyd,” he introduced himself. “My training has been interrupted and I’ve been told to meet you for whatever reason. Haven’t expected such a scared, little bunny,” he sneered and you spotted his teeth were black. They didn’t look rotten, though.

“What happened to your teeth?” You asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“My Uncle made the medics paint them black to intimidate my enemies,” he answered, proudly.

“What kind of enemies might a twelve year old have?” You asked, surprised.

You had no enemies. Your life was of a typical spoiled young lady – full of mother’s kisses, father’s embraces, candies, ponies and maids braiding your hair in the evening while telling you tales of handsome and brave prince charmings. You couldn't imagine that it was different for other people.

“You’re stupid,” Feyd pointed out and you shut your mouth, feeling hurt at his words as tears pricked your eyes. He approached you and you took a step back, scared of him. “Don’t cry,” he tilted his head at the sight of your wet eyes. “Has no one ever told you that you were stupid?” Now it was his time to be surprised and you shook your head. “Do you want to see something?” He proposed as his eyes sparkled.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, genuinely.

“I will protect you,” he offered his pale hand and you looked at it with fear in your eyes.

“I am scared of you,” you raised your eyes to lay them on his face again while you explained.

“Good,” he nodded with a chuckle. “But I’d get in trouble if something happened to you. You are the daughter of my uncle’s guest. Come,” he encouraged.

Your status gave you courage as your curiosity only fueled your desire to actually follow him. Just like the portraits on these walls – he was as intimidating as fascinating to you. Perhaps because you had never before met such a boy.

You took his cold hand and a shiver went down your spine. For a short while, you thought you would faint as an odd feeling filled your small body. A familiar warmth that you only felt when you were back home, in your bed, feeling safe and sound with the nanny or your mother caressing your head to help you sleep. Like he was home. But he couldn’t be. You had never met him and he was scary.

“Have you felt that, too?” You gasped.

“No,” Feyd lied. “Come,” he dragged you behind him and the guard opened the doors in front of you.

Feyd took you down the corridor and led you downstairs to some sort of dungeons beneath the fortress. You were starting to have a bad feeling about it but something deep inside you made you trust that odd boy. Without understanding it yet, you were starting to realise he was the one who had been meant for you from the day you were born. There was some connection between your bloodlines that was drawing you towards each other.

You found yourself in an old, dark and damp room. It smelt of something rotten and it was full of spiderwebs.

“What is this place? It’s disgusting,” you pointed out as you winced. Feyd let go of your hand and sneered at you.

“Life is unpleasant. The sooner you learn that, the better,” he pointed out and suddenly, he reached for a short knife by his waist you had not noticed before. You yelped at the sight, convinced he had only dragged you there to kill you.

“Don’t be silly, I won’t hurt you,” he rolled his eyes and you nodded, unsurely. “Do you want to see me kill something?” He smirked playfully at you.

It felt wrong and you felt the anxiety rising in your abdomen when you realised you’d get in trouble for that. On the other hand, you did want to see him kill something. It was curiosity mixed with excitement to witness something forbidden and something you had been sheltered from.

“Yes,” you nodded, eagerly. He was a little surprised at your reaction but he only smiled.

Feyd beckoned you over by waving his hand and you followed him, quietly. Then you gasped and covered your mouth as you gagged out of disgust at the sight of a big, fat spider in the corner of the room. It was huge – nearly as big as you were. But it was also fat and slow. The legs were long and thin, furry black sticks.

“I found it a few days ago,” Feyd told you as he looked at your disgusted face. “Gross, isn’t she?”

You nodded.

“She reminds me of my uncle,” Feyd explained with hatred in his voice. “Do you see those small spiders on the ground?” He asked and you looked down. It was full of smaller spiders but they were all laying there dead. “She feeds off of her own children.”

You took a step back, utterly disgusted and sick. Feyd snorted at you and turned his back on you to gut the big, black spider. You watched with terror how much satisfaction it was giving him. He struck the monstrosity so many times that you lost count. He kept striking when it was already laying there dead.

“That’s enough,” you whispered and Feyd froze before turning around to face you. There was pure murder in his eyes and when he walked towards you with a knife in his hand, you were sure he would kill you now, too.

You took a deep breath in and closed your eyes, expecting the worst. But when you felt his breath on your face, you heard him hiding the knife away.

“Stupid little bunny,” he told you and you opened your eyes, hesitantly. He was staring at you as if he was studying your face.

The door opened suddenly and a few guards entered, sighing out of relief. Your father was standing behind them, scared. Baron Harkonnen was there as well, floating ominously.

“There you are!” He raised his voice and you spotted that all Feyd’s confidence was gone in a second. The boy looked down and blushed. “I’ve told you to behave. Why are you scaring Lady (Y/N)?!”

You turned around to face The Baron, hiding his nephew’s from his sight with your small body.

“He did not scare me, my Lord,” you assured with a slight bow of your head. “I wanted Feyd-Rautha to show me around,” you lied to protect him.

You had a feeling his uncle would punish him and he looked like a man you would never want a punishment from.

“She’s naive,” your father tried to save the situation. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he reminded you and grabbed you by your wrist to pull you closer to him. “Forgive my daughter, my Lord Baron.”

“She is forgiven,” the big man smirked viciously before lying his eyes on his nephew. “The boy, however, is not.”

You wanted to protest but your father gave you a stern look and announced it was time for you to leave now. So, you obeyed and walked away, following the guard leading you out of the corridor. But you kept looking behind, trying to see Feyd-Rautha for the last time.

“Will I see him again?” You asked your father, looking up.

“Who?”

“Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha,” you explained and your father sighed as he looked down at you.

“You will in eight years,” he announced. “You will become his wife.”

Those eight years you had not wasted a day, practising for your new role every day. Learning all about The Harkonnens; their culture, their history, their customs and war strategies. You knew that their nobility would not give you an easy time for being a Lady of the lesser house. You wanted to prove your worth with knowledge.

Your wisdom was your only weapon because you lacked confidence nor experience in nearly anything. Sheltered your whole life, surrounded by books and teachers, you were shy and innocent. The spider incident on Giedi Prime still remained your only sin – that no one except your husband-to-be possessed the knowledge of.

You had not been in touch with him at all but the stories had reached you about his nature and his victories in the gladiator arena. You believed them all because your short encounter had been enough to give you an idea about what kind of man he would become. You had never protested whenever your marriage was mentioned but you felt anxious. You didn’t belong on Giedi Prime, you didn’t fit in the world of death and violence.

Tested by Gom Jabbar, you nearly failed the test. The scary Reverend Mother gave your mother a look of disapproval. On the very next day you were shipped to Giedi Prime for your wedding, though. You had survived the trial and only that mattered – the long-planned scheming couldn’t be sabotaged.

On the day of your arrival, you were led with your parents to a room you had remembered from your last visit. There was the same black couch and the same portraits on the wall – only now there was one more than before. The last one in line, of a young man with handsome facial features, signed with your betrothed’s name. You opened your mouth slightly as you kept staring at it. He was a young and handsome na-baron; a strong warrior surrounded by men and women who admired him. You could only imagine how inconvenient a marriage had to be for him. Especially to an uninteresting and unimportant woman like you.

The doors opened and you turned around to see him in real life as he entered the room in black gladiator gear. He looked better than in the portrait – raw and magnetic, dangerous. Your parents stiffened at the sight of him and they both bowed their heads.

“Lord Na-Baron,” your father greeted him. “We have delivered our daughter to you, according to the agreement,” he explained. “We have hoped to be greeted by your uncle The Baron.”

“He’s busy,” Feyd interrupted your father in a low and raspy voice that sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were only fixated on you – curious and mocking. You bowed down slightly as well, not wanting to disrespect him.

“Y-yes, of course, my Lord…” your father took a step back.

“You’re grown now,” Feyd-Rautha stood in front of you with a smirk and you took a deep, shaky breath in.

“So are you, my Lord Na-Baron,” you nodded.

“She hasn’t changed a bit,” Feyd turned around to give your father a contemptuous look. “A timid little bunny. But it’s no surprise since she’s been raised by a coward and bootlicker like you.”

“My daughter is of many qualities, my Lord, I can assure you…” your father panicked.

“A wife only needs one quality,” Feyd sneered at him as your blood ran cold at his words. “Show them to their rooms,” he told the guards and left the room.

“I can’t believe you’ve made deals with these people,” your mother snapped angrily at your father who was standing there with his head kept low, ashamed.

But it was not like he had any saying in this. It was the plan of the Bene Gesserit. You were nothing but pawns in it. You tried to remember that Feyd-Rautha was a pawn, too.

After the scary and bloody wedding party, you were taken to your husband’s bedroom where you were supposed to be prepared for the wedding night. However, it was not the maids waiting for you there. Three bald Harkonnen women were sitting on your husband’s bed and smirking at you, showing off their sharp teeth. They were dressed in black leather and clinging to each other as if they were one body instead of three.

“We will prepare her for the Master,” one of them told the servants who had taken you there. You looked at them with panic and they only looked back with guilt and compassion before walking out as quickly as possible, leaving you alone with the scary snake-like creatures.

They were circling around you, sniffing you and chuckling contemptuously. You didn’t understand anything but you tried to bravely keep still and endure. Then, one of them approached you and licked a fat stripe across your cheek. Your eyes widened in terror.

“Oh-so-innocent,” she commented. “Have you ever pleased a man?” She asked.

You were terrified and embarrassed, you didn’t know what to do.

“N-no, my Lady,” you stuttered and nodded your head, unsure how to address her.

They all found it amusing as they laughed.

“My Lady, she calls me. I might like this one,” the woman caressed your hair with some sort of perverted delicacy that made you feel even more scared. Your heart was pounding in your chest and your hands turned cold and sweaty. “I’m not a lady, na-baroness. I am your husband’s whore,” she informed you and you nodded again, hesitantly. “We are his favourite pets. You see… Our Master likes perversion,” her hands landed on your hips as she pulled you closer to her body. “We will teach you how to please him and how to take him.”

“He’s a lot to take,” another woman stood behind you and grabbed your breasts from behind.

“W-won’t he mind, my husband?” You swallowed thickly.

“Not at all,” the third one giggled. “He always shares his toys.”

“Not this one,” the doors opened as Feyd-Rautha entered the room. He glanced at the women angrily and they immediately let go of you and moved away. “She is not a toy, she is your na-baroness. What are you doing here?” He snapped. “Have I not forbidden you from entering this room from now on?”

“Oh, Master…” one of them approached him to put her arms around his neck but he pushed her away.

“Get out,” he hissed and they ran away.

When the doors closed behind them, Feyd looked at you and sighed before approaching you and caressing your cheek.

“You alright, wife?” He asked.

“Y-yes, thank you,” you nodded and flinched at the feeling of his cold fingers brushing your cheek. An odd and out-of-place warmth started to fill you like all those years ago. It made him startled, too, and eventually he took a step back.

“You must be exhausted,” he only said as he looked away, awkwardly. “We can perform our duties in the morning.”

“Th-thank you,” you nodded. “I’ll go take a shower now…”

Feyd pointed at the doors leading to the bathroom and that was all for that night. When you came back to his bedroom, he was already gone. You went to sleep without him, confused by his behaviour.

Baron Harkonnen watched carefully with his own eyes and through the eyes of his servants. He observed and he listened – nothing could ever escape him. But the new na-baroness was as easy to read as a book. When she joined him and Count Rabban by the breakfast table, she didn’t wince while sitting, which was an obvious sign she had not been claimed by Feyd the previous night. The Baron smirked when the new na-baroness began to eat the meal, keeping her timid gaze down, terrified of her surroundings.

If Feyd-Rautha refused to be her friend, The Baron would surely find her a purpose. She would be an easy tool to keep Feyd in place. A silent, obedient shadow following her husband everywhere. A perfect spy.

“Na-Baroness,” he addressed her and she flinched before looking up, scared. “I would like you to join the council after the meal. Your husband rarely takes part in them since he is too busy training but now you are an extension of him,” The Baron forced a smile and she nodded. “I’ve been told by your father you are well-trained in Harkonnen history and customs.”

“Y-yes, my Lord,” she bowed her head.

“I know that Feyd-Rautha is not an easy man to be around,” The Baron continued as Rabban raised his head, curious about his uncle’s scheming plan. “He’s been like this ever since he was a child. I’ve been trying to temper him.”

“I remember,” the young woman whispered.

“You can tell me about anything that is worrying you,” The Baron assured her and she smiled genuinely. “Has he hurt you?” He squinted his eyes, knowing the answer already but wanting to test her honesty.

“No, my Lord. Feyd-Rautha did not spend the night with me at all,” she answered and he nodded as Rabban sneered.

“You have to forgive him, my Lady. He prefers other… forms of entertainment,” The Baron explained softly.

“I believe I have met them, my Baron,” the woman looked down.

“Most likely, yes. They don’t like to share him,” The Baron chuckled.

“But the heir…”

“Do not worry about the heir. You are both still young, you have time. There is no need to hurry anything. Take your time to adjust on Giedi Prime first,” The Baron tried to calm her down and she looked up with so much gratitude in her eyes that he was sure he had succeeded. She was his agent now.

To your own surprise, you found new friends in your husband’s family – his uncle and brother – but not him. Feyd-Rautha was mostly avoiding you and a few attempts to claim you were ending in a fiasco. You couldn’t understand why he would pull away suddenly and leave you without a word or fail to get hard enough no matter how long his touch lingered upon your body. It made you feel as if you were lacking, because you knew for sure he had no problems of this sort with his concubines. They often bragged to you about it. They had offered to help you to excite him and you nearly agreed to that but Feyd hated to see you around them. He snapped whenever he caught you talking to them or them approaching you.

He hated to see you around his uncle and brother, too. He had been warning you about them but it felt cruel to do so. Did he want you to not have any companionship at all? To be sad and lonely and miserable all your days?

You weren’t appreciated in marriage but you were appreciated as a part of this family – representing the na-baronship during the council meetings with your decisions and advice. The Baron seemed to be pleased with you and Count Rabban had stopped to make fun of you over time. Still waters run deep, The Baron would often say about you as your cheeks heated up and eyes sparkled. Perhaps all the years of studying the customs and tradition of this House would not be useful in your marriage but they seemed to be useful when it came to your political presence.

It still bothered you that Feyd-Rautha was acting so weirdly towards you. You remembered the boy he had been eight years earlier. You had never feared this union because you had been sure there was some sort of bond now between you two, some sort of connection. Perhaps you had been wrong.

It was right after one of Feyd’s failed attempts to claim you, when he left you half-naked in bed with tears pricking your eyes. He walked away and most likely went to his concubines as you fixed yourself and left the room, too, not wanting to remain in the chambers filled with the smell of embarrassment and humiliation anymore. You nearly crashed with your brother-in-law walking down the corridor.

“My Lady,” Rabban nodded at you. “Is everything alright?”

“Y-yes,” you answered, trying not to show your nervousness. There was no need for him to know the details about the problems your marriage was facing.

“I was just looking for you,” he confessed and you raised an eyebrow at him. “Tomorrow, my uncle wants me to lead the council meeting only for the most important members of the court. It’s about a matter of a very high importance and it’s confidential,” he whispered. “I hoped you would join me. Without my uncle there, I will be the only one representing our family.”

“But tomorrow Feyd has his fight. I am expected to be in the stands,” you looked up at him.

“Uncle will be there. You are more needed here, (Y/N),” Rabban tried to convince you. You could see his hands were a little shaky – he was stressed about the responsibility placed upon his shoulders by his uncle. “It’s not like Feyd will even notice your absence,” he added.

You bit on your lower lip. He was right.

“Alright, I’ll join you in the council,” you nodded your head. “Our state affairs are much more important than some fixed gladiator fight anyway.”

The servants’ slim fingers were applying the black paint upon Feyd-Rautha’s body as he observed his three harpies from the corner of his eye. They were giggling between each other and some of the words reached his sensitive ears.

“...naive…”

“Silly little thing.”

“...taste her heart…”

“What are you talking about, pets?” Feyd turned around to face them as he asked and they went silent.

“Nothing important, Master,” the bravest of them all answered eventually.

“I have a feeling you’re whispering about my wife,” Feyd pointed out.

“As I said, nothing important,” she chuckled and the rest giggled. Feyd squinted his eyes and approached them with a clenched jaw and an angry expression on his face. When he grabbed her by the chin, they stopped laughing.

“You are forbidden to even think of her,” he hissed out. “You’re not worthy of that.”

“M-Master…” She trembled as she pleaded for his softness. Her companions hid behind her and observed him carefully. “She doesn’t even know how to please you, Master.”

Feyd’s hand dropped down and the squeeze tightened around the woman’s neck. He watched her struggle to catch a breath for some time as he observed with a smirk. Eventually, he let go of her.

“My wife belongs to a different realm than you,” he stated. “She is not to be discussed, looked at, thought of… Am I understood?”

“Y-yes, Master,” they all nodded, obediently.

“Good,” he smiled and went back to the servant girls.

“You might be interested in the gossip, though, na-baron,” one of the concubines whispered. “We are your eyes and ears…”

Feyd pretended not to be intrigued although he was. He didn’t react, hoping she would say more. And so she did.

“Your uncle keeps the young na-baroness close. The rumour has it he wants to make her one of his agents. And she is slowly taking your place during the councils. Count Rabban is his Plan B if you fail. Then she will be given to him.”

“I’m sure Rabban won’t have a problem with fucking her,” the bravest concubine added as if his punishment had not worked at all. Because it didn’t. She loved his punishments. “Her innocence will only make him more eager. He will tear her apart.”

“Shut up!” Feyd growled, making the servant girls take a few steps back as he turned around to face the girl with a big mouth. “Let me remind you that I don’t need your tongue to fuck you,” he sneered. “Your sisters are better at using their tongues than you anyway.”

The woman looked down and he was informed that he was about to enter the arena in five minutes so he went back to putting the gear on, furiously clutching to his blades. He was grateful to his concubine for fueling his anger so much – he wanted to make good use of it in the arena.

But when he approached the tower with his uncle’s balcony to bow down, he spotted that his wife was not there. Suddenly, the fight made no sense to him at all. What was the point of putting on a show, what was the point of killing with grace when she could not watch?

He had been waiting eight years for her to come back. The timid little bunny girl that made him feel so warm inside. That made him feel like home. Nothing had ever made him feel this way. They were destined for each other. Now, when she was by his side, he had no idea what to do. He had been training his body for years to impress her and be able to protect her but nothing was working out the way he had planned. She was slipping away.

She was slipping away because of his uncle’s scheming and because Feyd-Rautha himself had no idea how to approach a creature so pure and innocent as this woman. If anything in this world was still able to save his rotten soul, it was her. But maybe he had been naive to think so. He was beyond saving.

He didn’t give the audience a show on that day. The fights were quick and swift. No playing with his victims, no tormenting. Just a kill after kill to finish it as fast as possible. And no bowing down at the end. He just walked out of the arena, still clutching his fists on the blood-dripping blades. He walked past the guards and servants, not wanting to change or bathe – he wanted one thing only. To find his wife.

The sounds of the cheering audience were becoming more and more quiet. They waited for him to walk back and bow down, raising his knife in the sign of victory. He had no plans in doing so. He would not kneel in front of his uncle. Not when his wife was not beside him, because it was her he had been kneeling for. Not Baron Harkonnen.

The council was over now but you stayed inside the conference room with Count Rabban to discuss what had been decided and what to tell his uncle. You were staring at the maps of Arrakis and wondering whether the Emperor’s assurances of help were trustworthy.

“What I’m saying is… If he is so willing to get rid of The Atreides just because he considers them to be dangerous… He might do the same to us one day. We are a real danger to him way more than any Atreides is,” you pointed out.

“Especially now when we have knowledge that can turn other leaders against him and…” Rabban’s words were interrupted by the heavy black doors opening rapidly. You flinched and instinctively hid behind your brother-in-law’s broad shoulders.

It was Feyd-Rautha himself walking inside with an angry look on his face. Wearing his gladiator gear stained with fresh blood and still wielding two bloody swords. He looked ferocious as his cold eyes searched for you. When he spotted you behind his brother, his jaw clenched and so did his fists on the handles of the blades.

“What is going on here?” He barked as you and Rabban looked at each other, questioningly.

“Husband,” you tried to be brave as you took a step ahead to approach him very carefully. “I see you’re finished now. I assume you’ve won.”

“(Y/N), wait,” Rabban grabbed your sleeve to keep you in place. He didn’t want you near Feyd in such a state. But Feyd didn’t like his brother’s gesture.

“Let her go, brother,” he snapped. “She is my wife and she will approach me if she wishes. I would never lay my hand on her,” he drawled through gritted teeth.

You felt Rabban’s fingers letting go of the fabric of your dress and you walked up to Feyd. Something inside you was telling you that he needed you at that moment. Perhaps that was the intuition of a wife.

“Oh, we all know that you don’t lay your hand on her at all, brother,” Rabban snorted at him.

You watched in terror how your husband’s face became even more angry than before. He yelled and attacked his brother with all the burning wrath he had before been trying to stop from outbursting with.

“No! Stop! Please,” you pleaded as they fought and struggled one against another. Rabban took out his own blade now, too, and they ended up wrestling on the floor like two children. “That is enough, please!” You cried out.

Your tears brought attention to only one of them – your husband. He was distracted by them and ended up with his brother’s blade pointed at his face. You froze and Rabban laughed with contempt.

“Such a great warrior you are, my brother. Trained day and night for years, got your little arena shows… And now you got distracted by a woman,” he pointed out.

“That woman is my wife,” Feyd drawled.

You looked around in panic but the guards stood there petrified. They were afraid to attack any of the brothers. Usually shy and timid, you felt an odd outburst of courage as you took a blade from the guard standing nearby. He did not protest but only watched in terror as you approached the brothers and pointed the blade at Count Rabban himself.

“Don’t be stupid,” he laughed at you.

“Let my husband go,” your voice shivered but you managed to stand your ground.

“Or what?” Rabban sneered. “We both know you won’t strike me.”

In that very moment Feyd kicked him and got out of the direction of his brother’s blade. He ended up on top with his own knife pointed at Rabban. A smirk on his face revealed that he had never been defeated even for a second, he was only toying with his brother… and with you, too.

“She might not but I will,” Feyd hissed at his brother. “My marriage is none of your business, brother. And you stay away from my wife.”

“I am only representing you during the councils,” you tried to explain and Feyd looked up at you with his brow furrowed. “Your uncle told me I should because you rarely take place in them.”

“He’s scheming, can’t you see? Trying to turn us against each other. Thought you were smarter than this,” his anger was directed at you now.

He let go of Rabban and stood up to walk out of the room. You swallowed thickly and lowered your blade, scared of your brother-in-law’s reaction now when you were left alone with him after threatening him.

“Why did you take his side?” He only asked as you gave the blade back to the guard. “He doesn’t treat you any good. He never will.”

“He is my husband,” you explained quietly, avoiding his curious gaze.

“By name only. Your marriage is not even consummated.”

“Feyd was right,” you looked up. “Our marriage is none of your business, brother,” you emphasised who he was to you now before walking out to follow Feyd. It was easy because he left a trail of sand and blood from the arena behind him.

He went to your chambers so you took a deep breath in and pushed the doors open to face him in all his wrath and anger. He was struggling to get out of his gear with shaky hands as he shot you a furious glance over his shoulder.

“Should I call for the servants?” You asked.

“No,” he snapped and you sighed before approaching him and helping him yourself. At first he tried to shake you off but you were stubborn so he gave up and allowed your gentle fingertips to work on the pieces of clothing. “How do you even know how to do that?” He asked. “Did Rabban show you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear husband. I’ve read dozens of books about The Harkonnen art of warfare. I know your gears by heart. And Rabban is no gladiator,” you explained.

“Dozens of books about the art of warfare and The Harkonnens and yet it slipped your mind what masters of manipulation we can be?” Feyd barked at you and you chuckled. He didn’t find it amusing as he looked you up and down with contempt so you leaned in and placed a kiss upon his soft lips while your hands cupped his face. He was visibly taken aback by that, he didn’t even close his eyes for the kiss and he continued to observe you as if you would attack him any second.

“I have studied everything like a good pupil I was,” you whispered after breaking the kiss. Your hands kept caressing his cheeks in a soothing manner. “And now I’m one of The Baron’s closest people. I’m your inside man, Feyd-Rautha,” you smiled gently and his eyes sparkled at the realisation.

“But… why?” He only asked, confused.

“What do you mean why?” You bit on your lower lip.

“I’ve been treating you… coldly,” he admitted.

“Well, that is another matter. But that is between you and me. The marriage is between a husband and a wife. Not between them and his uncle or brother,” you explained. “I still remember that big fat spider. I’ve known ever since I was twelve years old that the thing you crave the most is to gut your uncle like you did to that monstrosity in the dungeons. And as your wife… I will do everything I can to help you,” you assured him.

But Feyd was not convinced. He pushed you away although he did it way gentler than you’d expect. He walked away from you as he stepped out of the pile of clothes by his feet. He was wearing nothing but underwear now and you watched how his muscular body glistened with sweat after the fight.

“You can be a double agent, wife. I don’t trust you,” he confessed.

“You have no reasons to,” you nodded. “Except for the fact we have fate and destiny bonding us. Am I the only one feeling this when we touch?” Your voice lowered as uncertainty began to grow inside of you. Perhaps you were. Perhaps you were the only one feeling that warmth indeed.

“No,” Feyd admitted, nearly inaudibly. “Why do you think I can’t fuck you?” He approached you again and you gasped at how close he chose to stand.

“Because you find me unattractive? Or boring perhaps,” you shrugged your arms. “I don’t care about that. Our bond is stronger than physical attraction.”

“I can’t fuck you because that feeling is overwhelming me and I don’t know what to do. I’ve never felt like that. You’re too pure for me,” he confessed, visibly uncomfortable with his own words as he looked away.

You were stunned for a moment.

“You’re an idiot, Feyd-Rautha,” you laughed eventually and he blushed. “I am not pure. I am flesh and blood just like you,” you told him. “For example now… When you’re standing in front of me… like this,” you allowed your hand to wander all over his hard muscles. “You’re starting a fire that will be difficult to put out later,” you looked up to meet his gaze. “Every time you start and don’t finish, you leave me in torment,” you confessed. “And nothing helps,” you pouted. “I writhe and I roll around and grow more and more bitter knowing that you’re giving your whores what you’re supposed to give me.”

He was nearly paralyzed in a way he was staring at you. You grabbed his hand and pulled your dress up to press his hand to your womanhood. You were soaking through your underwear now and he blinked a few times as his gaze intensified.

“I will never forgive myself if I break you,” Feyd took his hand away despite your protests.

“You’re breaking me by refusing to touch me,” you whined.

“Touch yourself,” he said suddenly as his eyes sparkled and you were left speechless. “Touch yourself for me. I will help you. I’ll make it feel good,” he proposed.

Out of desperation, you decided this was better than nothing – at least for now – so you agreed. As fast as possible, you got rid of your dress and remained in nothing but your sheer underdress. You laid on the bed and watched him approach you. Feyd laid next to you, observing you carefully. His eyes were admiring every curve of your body and every inch of your skin. Without waiting for his command, you pulled the underdress up and took off your underwear to toss the panties aside and start playing with your wet folds. It was embarrassing to see him watch but it also excited you in some twisted way. You toyed with your clit, moaning softly, showing him what kind of pleasure you could bring to yourself – what kind of pleasure you had to bring to yourself since he refused to do so.

“Easy, slow down,” Feyd breathed out and placed his rough hand on your waist. He was caressing you and joined your lips together in a sloppy kiss. His free hand undid the ribbon on the top of your underdress to free your breasts. They shivered under the touch of his big hand as he played with your nipples and buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your sweet scent and sucking on the sensitive skin below your ear.

You shut your eyes close, trying to focus on the pleasure as your fingers rubbed on your sensitive swollen clit but it was not enough. It never was.

“I can’t…” You admitted your defeat as you tried to catch a breath.

“Yes, you can,” Feyd whispered into your ear in that low, raspy voice of his that sent shivers down your body and straight to your core. “What’s stopping you?”

“It’s just… I don’t know…” You didn’t know how to find the right words. “It’s not enough,” you admitted. “It’s not you.”

“Let me, then,” he raised himself to look into your eyes as his hand moved your hand away and his fingers replaced yours on your exposed clit. You gasped at the feeling of his fingertips drawing circles and teasing your entrance.

You pressed your hands to his chest and then you moved them lower to explore the hard muscles of his abs. To feel them underneath your fingers was enough to make your back arch needily, exposing even more of your hungry pussy. Feyd smirked at that and buried his fingers deep inside as you gasped out of pain but it was quickly replaced with pleasure.

His free hand grabbed your chin gently and when you looked up, batting your eyelashes and opening your lips slightly, he put his fingers inside of your mouth and you grabbed his wrist to hold on to it as you sucked and moaned. His other hand was bringing you close to your release as his movements were fast and rough and his thumb circled your clit.

You cried out but his fingers muffled it so you ended up choking on the sound escaping your lips as you came writhing under him with sweaty forehead and single hair strands sticking to your face, your whole body set on fire, trying to catch a breath. Feyd swallowed thickly as his eyes sparkled.

You yelped as he smacked your sensitive pussy right after pulling his fingers out of it and licking them clean, looking deep into your eyes. You were speechless as your mind was left thoughtless.

You could only watch him lower himself and open your thighs even further with his strong arms as he buried his face between your legs to lap on your juices. You were sensitive so it burned in the beginning but the uncomfortable feeling submerged into pleasure once again. Feyd’s tongue was cleaning your folds thoroughly and penetrating you while you threw your head back as you laid your hands on the back of his neck, keeping him close. But this time he didn’t let you cum so easily.

When you were about to reach the peak again, he moved his head away and the next thing you saw was his face right in front of yours, his chin dripping with your wetness and his cold eyes filled with so much fire that you felt like a prey trapped by a big predator.

But you loved that feeling. You loved to feel small and tiny under him, trapped, vulnerable. You dug your nails into his biceps and looked down. He had already tossed his underwear aside and his cock was hard now, swollen and aching for you, you could see it twitching and leaking black precum. He looked heavy and big and you wanted him badly to claim you and violate you to the point no other man would ever even think of touching you after him.

You had never made him that hard. You had never gone so far before. You were sure you’d succeed now.

“Take me, claim me, make me yours,” you pleaded. “Please, I want more of you.”

Feyd shut you up with a kiss and a strong, stinging pain of his hard cock finally penetrating you. Your eyes widened as you whined. He intertwined your fingers together and held you through the process of adjustment to his size. You were the first one to impatiently rock your hips to show him you wanted him to move. So he did, slowly and carefully. He winced from his attempts to keep himself in control and you let go of his hands to pull him closer by his shoulders and deepen the kiss.

You moaned softly and helped him to fuck you by you rocking your hips against him as your legs wrapped around his waist. You both had been waiting so long for this moment of unity that it didn’t take long for you two to reach your highs and the familiar feeling of warmth filled you whole. You didn’t remember your own name, the only thing you knew was that you were home and the man above you was destined for you; you were born to be his wife and he was born to be your husband. The thousands of years of manipulation of the bloodlines had led you to this moment and nothing could tear you apart now. No amount of rumours, scheming or the disability to show emotions.

You were catching your breath as Feyd was slowly coming back from his high above you, panting heavily and looking at your face with hazy eyes.

“You belong to me,” he leaned in to kiss your lips again. “You always have.”

“No matter what happens, we are one,” you agreed with a nod and intertwined your fingers with him as you held his hand. “Now, when that is settled, we shall focus on our most important task.”

“And that is?”

“Killing the fat spider in his nest,” you answered.

“Thankfully, we have experience,” Feyd teased before placing yet another soft kiss upon your parted lips.

MASTERLIST

#feyd rautha x reader #feyd rautha harkonnen x reader #austin butler x reader #lilysfiction

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glamourscat · 1 month ago

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୨ৎ Beautiful as...? BLLK edition

BACHIRA, CHIGIRI, BAROU, KAISER, RIN, ISAGI, REO, NAGI, SHIDOU

Bachira: beautiful as a fair carnival

His light and contagious smile can brighten a whole room. His presence, in a way, makes you feel like a child again. Running around and seeing the world through “naive” eyes. Staring off in space taken aback by the bright, colourful lights. High on way too much sugar. Seeing the beauty in life, aware that there are dangers and challenges out there, but for now, not knowing them is better than anything.

Chigiri: beautiful as spring

When the leaves come back, filled with life and green. Bright, vibrant flowers dot the grass. He is a splash of color that persists even on the darkest days, a lingering reminder that “everything will be okay.” The sun will shine again tomorrow.

Reo: beautiful as the ocean

The calm waves, the sea breeze and that distinctive seaside smell. The sand between your toes, the warm embrace of the sun and the cool water wrapping you in a blanket of shivers and warmth at the same time.

Shidou: beautiful as a museum

Different artists, different paintings, different forms of art. A carefully threaded puzzle filled with emotions, explosions of thoughts, liberty, and need. The need to scream, to ensure someone hears it. The need for a revolution. The hope that someone will remember you.

Kaiser: beautiful as a thunderstorm at night

Not everyone likes it, but many still enjoy it. The clouds fill the dark sky, illuminated by occasional flashes of lightning. It can give you chills just as it can give you comfort.

Isagi: beautiful as the moment after it stops raining

The smell lingers in the air, following you wherever you go. The sky starts to open up, grey clouds mixing with white and the sky is turning a lighter shade of blue. The faint sun rays start to poke through, a welcome touch against your cold skin. The few drops of water still present on the leaves of the trees might, or might not, fall on your head as you walk under them.

Nagi: beautiful as heavy snow

That serene feeling of no school, no work, no worries. The streets filled with mountains of snow, cold yet inviting to jump into. At first glance, soft yet hard and firm. Playful and forgiving when it wants to.

Rin: beautiful as a summer night

Nothing is forever. Summer, just as it came, will end too. It’s the feeling of looking out of your window, smelling the scent that’s unique to summer. Hearing the night insects’ serenade in the distance as you look at the stars with nothing particular on your mind. There’s a nostalgia hitting you, you’re not sure why. Your chest feels a bit heavier and emptier at the same time. You find yourself closing your eyes to soak in this feeling.

Barou: beautiful as fire

Destructive in some cases, yet warm and comforting in others. Wild and untamable. You think you have the upper hand but one piece of wood too much and everything is ablaze. Only the most skilled know how to control it. Not tame it, but understand it. Being able to turn the wild, bursting flame into something softer, something that feels like home.

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odoraful · 8 months ago

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𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐄𝐘𝐄

it was one of the few days zayne had returned home earlier than sunset. he opened the door to the apartment to find you painting your nails. after a shower and some short pleading on your part, he was seated in front of you, hands laid out on the table for you to do his nails.

content: zayne x fem!reader; established relationship; small banter! ; greyson apperance; ~1k words a/n: i've been dipping in and out of writing, so i thought i'd make something short to get me back into practice :)

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“Hand tremors aren’t good for dexterity, you know,” Zayne quipped, gazing at your expression as you applied the polish.

You looked up at him through your lashes and he smirked at the flat stare you gave him. With a slight tilt of his head, he enjoyed how animated your reactions were to his remarks. Towel-dried hair brushed past his brows, framing his discerning hazel eyes. Did he always need to be this handsome while poking fun at you? Your hands weren’t shaky before, but they certainly felt so now.

“Oh hush.”

Putting the brush back in the bottle to collect more polish, you reset your focus.

“Just ‘cause you’re a surgeon, doesn’t mean you’d make a good nail artist,” you retorted, bringing your eyes back to your work.

You were currently on the last nail, painting it a navy blue to match the others you already finished. Zayne’s nails were well kept and trimmed short, making for a perfect canvas for you. Whilst it was rare for surgeons to wear polish, he assured that it wouldn’t be an issue so long as it did not chip. He wanted you to do it for him, anyway. Having your undivided attention on him was a perfect way to unwind after a long day at the hospital.

“And what other qualifiers need to be met besides a still hand?” he asked, teasing giving way to curiousity.

You finished up the last nail with a few glides of the brush. “An eye for aesthetics,” you declared, moving the blue nail polish aside and selecting two more colours among your collection.

“Now, pick the colour for the design.”

You presented two colours to him. A cool silver embedded with fine glitter, and a rustic gold. His eyes flicked between the two. Mind having been made up almost the second you asked.

“Silver.”

You hummed. “An excellent choice.” Shaking the polish, the glitter dispersed throughout. “Perhaps you might consider nail tech as a side job, Dr Zayne.”

Waiting for his nails to dry before you could begin the next layer, you lightly fanned them with both your hands. He chuckled—both at your comment and your cute attempt to try and speed the drying process.

“My primary job keeps me busy enough,” he replied. “Besides, I don’t have much of an eye for aesthetics.”

You were reminded of the palette of his closet. Blacks, greys, browns, and the only splash of colour being a deep green shirt. Though somewhat monotone, it did suit him well.

He continued, “I think I’ll leave that expertise up to my girlfriend.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Mouth opened ever so slightly, not wanting to reveal the way every use of that nickname slipped under your skin and made your heart skip.

You began to draw tiny snowflakes on each of them with the silver polish. Zayne admired the furrowed concentration on your face as you were locked into this task. When the design had dried, you finished by squeezing some cream onto his hands. He let out a soft sigh as you massaged it in, feeling the tension of the day release under your gentle touch.

Once you were done, you stretched your arms out and twisting around to crack your back. You held his fingers in your hands, inspecting them.

“Look how pretty they are!” You bubbled.

Zayne was honestly floored. The level of coordination it took to paint something so small was incredible.

“They’re very pretty indeed.”

You were too enthralled by your own work to see the warm smile on his face at how satisfied you were.

“Now, that’ll be sixty dollars,” you said, looking up at him smugly, placing your hands on your hips in waiting.

Zayne lifted a brow. “Do you accept payment in desserts?”

“Hm… an interesting offer,” you placed a hand on your chin in mock thought. “What kind?”

“Will each flavour of macaron at the shop that just opened suffice?” he replied. The sparkle in your eyes signalled that it was more than enough to cover the cost of your service. Promptly, the two of you went outside to resolve his payment. You walked hand in hand, matching one another with freshly painted nails.

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EPILOGUE

At Akso Hospital the next day, peoples’ gazes lingered a little too long on Zayne. As he handed out folders to nurses and gestured to screens when presenting, eyes trailed on his hands. Now, it wasn’t unusual for doctors to wear polish, but it was unusual for Zayne to have it. Another layer of mystery to unravel about the cardiac surgeon.

Greyson entered Zayne’s office to drop off some documents, sliding them towards him on his desk. “Going to some fancy event later?”

Zayne adjusted his glasses, not looking away from his computer screen. “Unless you consider a seminar at the university as fancy, I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

He gestured towards the keyboard Zayne was typing on. “I’m talking about your nails! Don’t tell me you really just got them done for fun?” Greyson asked, incredulous.

“I did.” Zayne splayed his hand out. “Is that so strange?”

“No! Not at all!” Greyon reassured, shaking his head fervently. “They do look nice though,” he admitted. “Maybe I should get their number so I can get mine done too.”

“She doesn’t take up new clientele, unfortunately,” Zayne said, resuming his typing.

At such a quick defence, Greyson immediately clocked who this person was. He was one of the few that were privy to the relationship between you and Zayne, and he knew only you could make Dr Zayne change up his style.

Exaggerating a sigh, he turned to leave. “A true shame! She sure seems talented.”

“I’ll make sure to pass that on to her,” he heard Zayne reply. Though his back was to Zayne, the smile in his voice as he answered was undeniable.

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#odorawrites #love and deepspace zayne #zayne love and deepspace #l&ds zayne #lads zayne #zayne x reader #l&ds zayne x reader #lads zayne x reader #zayne fluff #love and deepspace #l&ds #lads #love and deepspace fluff #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #l&ds x reader

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madschiavelique · 16 days ago

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A Crown Of Ink : Chapter 13 - Five of Swords

summary : your first day spent in Demacia doesn't bring out the best of you.

content warnings : angst. like pull out the tissues angst. no comfort. also some flirting shit? oh and tension. a good meal overall i hope

word count : 8,2k

author's note : okay so i'm trying to survive classes and i tried writing this baby during the week while on the metro. it's quite a pain in the heart but hey dw it'll get better i promise.

proofread the pretty boy @oneoftheextras

masterlist．．discord ．．playlist．．my ko-fi

The short journey to your place of residence prepared for the students had been deeply unbearable.

Demacians seemed to have a majority of water-related transport. You weren't really surprised, given that Demacia was known for its beaches and its inextricable links with the water that surrounded it for trade and tourism.

However, after that rather short night in a bed that wasn't very pleasant, you would have liked to have had a moment to settle down and enjoy a brief trip in a transport to observe the landscapes.

But walking was unavoidable. A horde of suitcase rollers were catching up on the white flagstones of the streets of the great city of Demacia.

It was almost impossible to imagine the city as anything other than sunny. Its great white walls seemed incorruptibly pure, the sun bathing the sides of the citadel in resplendent light, while its blue slate domes gleamed in the sunlight like fish scales.

You expected the city to have a cold atmosphere, an overly wise and tense staticity brought about by the strictness for which it was famous. But the markets were full of colour, crates full of exotic goods with colour combinations you only thought possible on paintings, rich fabrics and tourist attractions of all kinds bundling up in certain streets.

It was a city that combined the marine fluidity of its airs and waters with the formidable stability of its rocks and swords. It was almost impossible not to find a guard at every turn, to the point where it was almost more oppressive than reassuring. The sight of so many passers-by crossing the streets and their safety, however, softened the sensation.

And although you couldn't wait to take a shower and relax, the desire to wander the streets of this new place grew with every step you took. What a thrill it is to explore.

All this could have been superb, of course, if it hadn't been for a single factor that splashed mud all over this first immersion: Fiora.

Clinging to Viktor like a mussel to its rock, she had never stopped monopolising him and imposing her continuity. She pulled Viktor's suitcase like she was pulling a bin bag, pressing herself against him and laughing much more than necessary at every little interjection he made, often punctuating it with "What an interesting thing to say" or "Vikkie you're so funny!"

Vikkie, the nickname made your skin crawl with embarrassment. But what probably bothered you most was the fact that Viktor didn't do anything in particular to stop it. Was he just being polite? Or did he genuinely enjoy her company?

"Yes, she's always like that," Garen finally added with a sigh, his eyes visibly attentive to where yours were resting.

You sighed. "How long have you been handling her?"

He chuckled. "I think we're about to hit the second year in a row of a dreadfully thorny situation."

"Two years," you huffed, imagining what it would have been like if you and Viktor had carried on with that litter of stupid nemeses for so long.

"Yes ma'am," Garen nodded, himself seeming slightly surprised by this realisation.

"And has it always been like this?"

"It gets worse when new things arrive and she wants said new things," he informed. "She needs to have her hands on the new, shiny toy."

"Is she a princess?" you questioned.

"Akin," Garen's gaze rested tiredly on Fiora's figure, raising his eyebrows, "she is the heir to one of the biggest families of Demacia."

"Damn," you whispered. "And she bites, I take it?"

"She is a fierce duellist, best one around here," grimaced Garen. "I wouldn't advise making any waves or tormenting her, she has a tendency to start useless gossip behind your back."

You nodded, taking in the information Garen had so graciously given you. "Crowns have strange effects on the heads they adorn."

He nodded, obviously finding your words accurate.

It didn't take you long to arrive at a building of at least six storeys, seemingly the same length as the point separating Zaun from Piltover and as wide as the length of The Young Prince.

What had struck you so far was the geometry of the city. All the architecture of its streets was millimetre-perfect, everything mirroring each other almost impossibly perfectly like a surface on clear water. Arches of white stone criss-crossed in the air, no pillar was odd, and even the clothes of the residents were surgically symmetrical. It was almost disconcerting.

"The Hôtel Félixérie has graciously approved your accommodation as part of your stay," informed Madame Diane, turning to the group of students. "We'll leave you to drop off your belongings and take a moment to relax and get to know your room-mates a little better."

You'd imagined that the dormitories would be paired up again, and you'd probably expected the Piltover students to be with each other once more. However, Diane interrupted this train of thought.

"For fairly obvious reasons, the rooms will not be mixed. If your duos involve sex and gender differences, we will assign you to different rooms."

Their restrictions were totally acceptable, however, if the little gears in your brain weren't wrong, a terrible revelation took over.

You would have to share your room with Fiora.

You turned towards her, the latter already looking at you like a vermin to be eradicated, or the most useless thing this earth could have borne.

"Come forward, so we can allocate your rooms and take it into consideration."

So the group of students moved towards the teachers, your quartet staying back, Garen following to collect your room numbers. You reached Fiora, who was about your height, if perhaps a little shorter - which didn't stop her looking down on you for anything in the world.

So you watched her stature, her arm still firmly wrapped around Viktor.

You chuckled, observing the situation. "Are you going to sleep with him like he's your teddy bear? Or are you big enough to sleep without one."

Viktor turned to you, half surprised and half grateful. She arched an eyebrow at you, blowing out a laugh from her nose. "Scared of a child?"

"I'm not as spoiled of a kid as you," you replied.

"What is the ugly little thing saying?" she questioned.

"She's saying that you've got looks, and money," you remarked, "one of them is bound to run out."

She gave you a petty little smile. "Guess I'm rich in all cases. I still have twice more than you own."

"And twice more to lose," you pointed out, frowning, "and I don't lose."

She giggled, her upper lip rising in frustration. "So confident."

Your eyes looked her up and down, two thin slits under your eyebrows. "So ignorant."

"Viktor?" inquired Garen to cut short this obviously mindless discussion once he'd come back. "We're sharing the same room, do you need help with your belongings?"

The Zaunite's suitcase was still in Fiora's hand. She said nothing, ignoring you as she straightened her chin and let go of Viktor's arm as well as his luggage, exchanging a glance with Garen who seemed impassive to her attitude.

Viktor exchanged glances with you and then Garen. "No need," he confirmed politely.

"Alright," smiled Garen, turning to your little group, "we're all on the ground floor. Room 020 for Viktor and me, room 021 for you two,’ he explained as he handed you your keys, Fiora not even unlocking her arms from her chest to take the ones Garen was handing her.

"As if I was to share my room with someone like you," Fiora almost choked out.

"At least something we agree on," you breathed before pulling your suitcase towards the building.

You had only one thing on your mind: taking a shower and putting on clean clothes. Demacia had a warmer climate than Piltover, and although the sun wasn't high in the sky, the air was already hot, and your walk to the hotel didn't help the feeling.

The interior of the hotel was charming, managing to bring warmth to its ambience despite its cold bluish tones. It didn't take you long to find your room, shoving the key into the lock more hastily than you would have liked.

You pulled your suitcase onto a tiled floor with hexagonal stones alternating royal blue and creamy white, two thick beds next to each other already making you regret coming here just from the perspective of who would take the second one. You placed your suitcase on the side of the bed you'd settled on taking, removing your coat, which was already far too warm for your back and shoulders.

There was a knock at the door, and you turned to see Garen, his stature taking up almost all the light in the corridor in the silhouette of the door.

"Got the word from Madame Lolanthe," he began, "the Piltover students get a one hour break in their rooms before we come back to get you ready for the Academy visit."

"Okay," you nodded, getting rid of your scarf, "thank you for telling me."

"No problem," he smiled, leaning against the doorway, "You hold up to her well."

"Hold up to her?" you repeated, almost confused.

"That talk about the looks, and the money," he noted, "I know who's words I'll repeat whenever she gets on my nerves again."

You smiled. "One will buy you sympathy, the other will buy you the rest. Unfortunate that with her great wealth she can't buy me," you sighed, folding your scarf to lay it on the corner of your bed. "She doesn't seem to like it very much."

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. "That's because she's never had someone come on her territory and impose themselves so easily."

You arched an eyebrow, a small sneer tugging at the corner of your lips. "I'm imposing?"

He chuckled. "To her? She won't ever admit it, but you're terrifying."

"And to you?" you questioned, "Am I any threat to the sublime of a Demacian student like you?"

He considered you for a moment. "That remains to be seen."

You smiled at him one more time, placing your suitcase on your bed to open it.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to engage in verbal fencing with you. So far at least you've given me no reason to do so," you explained as you took out your toiletries.

"I shall do everything in my power for it to remain as such," he confirmed, placing his hand on his chest solemnly and bowing his head slightly. "I'll leave you to your rest, see you in an hour."

"See you in an hour," you repeated simply as he disappeared from the doorway.

He reminded you of Jayce, but wiser, more chivalrous than naive, more observant than questioning.

So you finally grabbed some new clothes and headed for the second room in your bedroom, which was undoubtedly the bathroom. Were you all so stinky that the Demacians urged you to shower at all costs? It would have been funny, an unnecessary rivalry in a programme that encouraged the exact opposite.

The bathroom was an elegant composition of blue, white and pearly grey mosaics. Two wash basins carved from rough white stone stood next to each other in front of a large oval horizontal mirror. In the corner to your left was the toilet, and in the corner to your right was the ivory-white bathtub.

You were almost tempted to pick up your suitcase and put it in the bathroom with you while you showered, just to make sure that the bratty Fiora didn't come poking around in it or doing anything stupid.

After all, in your belongings was an object that could potentially get you into a lot of trouble here if it were found: your tarot deck.

Demacia's little worry in this instance was a deep-seated aversion to magic and all that surrounds it. Who wouldn't be when the history of its people was rooted in magical wars and the terror that ensued? Petricite, the material from which their protection came from the trees of their forests, was undoubtedly in abundance in the walls surrounding you. It was almost oppressive, as if the air were less breathable, more contained than ever in a box.

You stripped off your clothes and slipped under the water, which must also have been filtered specifically for petricite. It seemed almost dry, leaving an unpleasantly light sensation on your skin as you soaped yourself up almost furiously.

Your thoughts returned to your Tarot deck. You just hoped that the energies wouldn't affect it, and that you wouldn't be caught red-handed. You would have to be discreet about this activity, however naive, to avoid any lightning strikes.

You took your time to prepare yourself. You put on some simple clothes for the rest of the day, something comfortable enough to move around in and not suffer from the heat, and rearranged your suitcase, making sure you looked perfectly presentable.

You left your room after slipping your suitcase under your bed, knocking on the door of your comrade to whom you hadn't been able to speak since you set foot on Demacian soil.

"Come in," answered the familiar accent behind the door.

You turned the handle, opening the door to find Viktor sitting on one of the two beds. He seemed to be busy placing a particular mechanism on his bad leg, a strap running from his lower thigh to the sole of his shoe. He was bent over, arranging a sort of screw-on part on the side of his knee.

The system seemed to be complex, an orthopaedic support made of metal and leather for better stability, no doubt, in the same way that corsets were worn for scoliosis.

You'd never seen him wear it before.

"Is it in preparation for the walk we're about to go on?" you questioned.

He sighed heavily, rearranging a belt against his thigh and trying to smooth the creases in his trousers under the pressure. "Mademoiselle Laurent's brisk walk doesn't seem to have been very kind," he raised his amber gaze to yours, "I fear the upcoming days might be more difficult than what I expected."

You sighed, taking a step forward into the bedroom. "Yeah," you nodded, "not sure how I will handle the whole Fiora thing... At least Garen's nice so far."

His eyes moved from yours to his thigh again, tightening another bolt. "Mhm."

"You guys got cool rooms!" Jayce's voice made you turn towards him, coming from the other end of the corridor, poking his head through the doorways. "Ours is all..." he grimaced, his eyes crinkling as his upper lip lifted to the side, "green."

"Got something against the green of nature, Talis?" you remarked, arching an eyebrow.

"Absolutely not!" he snapped, raising his hands in the air to clear his throat. "It's just that ours is... ugly."

"Do you miss the gold of Piltover already?"

"A bit."

"Have the Kirammans changed you so much? Unless... has Mel got you used to luxury?"

"I-" he almost choked, but before he could pull himself together and resume his sentence, he frowned, mouth open. His eyes flicked to a point in the void before turning to Viktor, with whom he exchanged a glance. "Do you think what she thinks?"

Viktor breathed in, holding his breath for a moment before shrugging his shoulders and sighing in agreement. Jayce looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Am I... a high-class hooker?"

You grinned, putting your hand on his shoulder and patting it. "I think there are worse realisations in life than this."

"True, but... how do you know for sure."

"It's not a wildly complex diagnosis," Viktor remarked as he grabbed his cane and straightened up. "First the bottles of champagne with more than one zero."

"Then the petits fours," you pointed out.

"And the new shirts piling up in the dressing room..." Viktor continued.

"Fine!" stopped Jayce. ‘Fine, I see your point,’ he straightened up, trying to puff out his chest as he pretended to deconstruct the image you'd given him, sighing in vain as he watched you with plaintive eyes, "this is so bad isn't it?"

"It's the end of the world," you grinned.

Viktor shook his head, playing disappointment. "What happened to my work partner?"

"Hey!" squeaked Jayce.

Viktor turned to you. "Did you know he leaves the apartments three nights out of four to go see Mel?"

"What?" Your mouth opened in a terrible mock shock as you put your hand to your chest comically, "that's heartbreaking."

"I know," sighed Viktor dramatically, "I end up starring at the pile of his new shirts in the corner while I kill myself on work."

"Jayce," you huffed, "how could you?"

"Stop this! You two!" begged Jayce.

You finally smiled and gave up the act. "Relax, gold suits you anyway."

"You guys are the worst," grumbled Jayce as you and Viktor exchanged playful glances.

You headed out of the hotel, meeting up with Sky who instantly came over to you.

"That Fiora's already got you in her sights," she muttered.

You sighed, looking around as if to see if she was spying on you, but if she was, she wasn't within earshot. "I know, it's like I'm attracting them all like a magnet. Let's hope it doesn't last any longer than that, otherwise this trip may quickly be robbed of its holiday quality."

When the rest hour came to an end, Madame Diane finally showed up again an exact hour as the time she had left you. Their organisation was finely measured, timed and unforgivable.

Fiora couldn't help but regain her position as the cling-on next to Viktor.

"Pulled out your fanciest shoes for me?" she giggled as her eyes roamed Viktor's aid.

He sighed, "If I have to keep up with you, this is more than needed."

She gave you a dark look, though it was different from the one she'd previously thrown at you so far. There was a sort of flash of malice, an unpleasant aspect of that of a chess player with a sick and evil strategy.

You took no further notice as the walk to the Demacian Academy began.

You passed various buildings, Diane telling you a few little facts about the history of the streets and specific places. Jayce made comments here and there.

"How do they build such edifices?" he asked, amazed by the city's architecture and its intricacies.

"By piling stones on top of each other," you replied, Garen smiling beside you, your eyes witnessing Viktor's cheekbones rising at your remark from your view of his back.

You finally reached the Demacia Academy. Its campus formed a pile of wings of buildings of varying sizes and architecture.

"Each study environment," as Madame Diane pointed out as you walked through the Academy's gardens, "is separated into its own buildings. We are privileged and proud to be able to welcome all kinds of cultures and knowledge within our walls. Humanities, Engineering, Art, all forms of wisdom are welcomed without any hierarchy."

Your eyes roamed over the bluish domed roofs, wondering if from the inside these same tiles covered all the light or if their material was transparent like sunglasses.

"A single point joins the students who wish it," she raised her long index finger in the air, pointing to the sky as if the almighty sky bequeathed to her every truth about the globe.

Garen pressed his palm against your shoulder, your eyes resting on it as he whispered into your ear.

"See over there?" the index finger of his hand on your shoulder, seemingly engulfing you by its size, pointed in a direction you followed.

"Mhm?" you hummed, observing a flat area that wasn't concreted over and seemed to be covered in a long, black, loose carpet.

"That's the training area," his warm breath brushed against your ear, "me and Fiora meet there every morning."

"We want our students to stay healthy and to help each other," Diane recited aloud.

Garen huffed, continuing to murmur. "If you'd like to see her lose eventually, this is where the show's at."

"Lose?" you repeated in a whisper, your eyes drifting to Fiora next to Viktor, who just seemed to have turned his head away.

"Mhm," said Garen before straightening up and letting go of your shoulder, "I've heard that it's something you don't do."

You smiled, a little laughy breath escaping from your lungs.

"Thus, we have a training area dedicated to this," Diane continued, "our students can go there whenever they like, it's a free field. Now, if you don't mind, we're going to continue..."

But you could barely register another sentence at the moment, your eyebrows furrowing as you began to move forward with the rest of the group.

One thought remained in your mind, however. Something that had struck you suddenly, something that surprised you more than you would have thought: not a shiver had been born under Garen's breath on your skin.

It was strange, not a single hair standing on end, no heat rising to your cheeks. Nothing.

It was only when the memory of Viktor's breath hit the back of your neck that it began to heat up.

You tried to pull yourself together, to ignore this information, and to ignore the warm sensation in your stomach as your eyes found Viktor's combed brown locks.

It's probably nothing,’ you tried to convince yourself.

The rest of the day passed pleasantly, exploring the library and some of the historic sites on campus. You had eaten in a charming restaurant near the hotel, while the Demacian students returned to their cafeterias and afternoon classes and Heimerdinger gave you a lesson on Demacia. He had preferred to postpone his lessons on Demacia to save them for the trip, for a better immersion and to truly submerge you in his lessons.

Fiora was glued to Viktor like a leech, as if when he let go of her arm he was going to fall face first onto the pavement. She kept sending you these petty little smiles, and you kept giving her a deeply neutral expression.

The night came earlier than expected, and you dreaded the idea of having to share this room, which was supposed to be so pure and perfect, with an oddball like her.

You were already strangely regretting the night you'd spent with Viktor. Admittedly, you hadn't always had the best of times when you were forced into close proximity, but that didn't detract from the fact that you had common ground and mutual respect.

Up until now, Fiora hadn't earned your respect.

And to your surprise, as the hours passed and you read in bed, she never came.

Many thoughts raced through your mind, tirelessly changing subjects and possibilities.

Was she with Viktor? you wondered.

No, Garen and Viktor went to bed together.

So where is the viper? Perhaps it's in its burrow, at home in who knows which grand Demacian mansion, in a bed with silk sheets and canopied curtains. Madame's sleep must not be damaged or altered in any way.

And that breath on your skin, that hadn't done anything to you? Why did it?

Sleep overtook you quickly though, overpowering your fiery spirit, Demacia's jet lag catching up with you faster than you thought possible.

When you awoke, it was early enough in the morning that the horizon was still a gradation of night leading towards the bright pearl of the sun. Your eyes found Fiora's bed empty and perfectly tucked in just as you had found it.

You took advantage of the fact that the city was still a little asleep to get out your tarot deck. You knocked on both sides, hoping to release whatever energy the petricite could have brought.

You performed your usual little ritual, and the card of the day turned out to be the five of swords. The little booklet provided you with the following information:

Cruelty. Think about your actions and words. False accusations. Cowardice. Inflated ego at the expense of others. Taking advantage of others.

This is a warning card that reminds you of the power of your words and actions. An argument has ended and there is a winner, a loser, and a mediator. Who do you identify with on this card? Which character represents you at this precise moment? If you don't recognise yourself in this card, who or what does it remind you of? What lessons can you learn from this image?

You were sighing, an argument? It was probably because of yesterday with Fiora, because of what you had to learn from it.

So you got ready for the day, looking forward to meeting Garen on that famous training area. You had discussed the time at which him and the pretentious one would meet, deciding to join them a little later to let them do their training but above all to go there with a small group of students who intended to visit more of the university with their Demacian duos.

The days were to be split in two. In the morning, the Demacian students would be in class, while the Piltovian students would have their history lessons with Heimerdinger. The afternoons would be devoted to visiting Demacia, its monuments, museums and so on.

So you went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. There you met Viktor and Jayce, sharing their table. You helped yourself to the buffet in this luxury self-service restaurant before coming over to them.

"Good morning," greeted Viktor, sipping his coffee as his eyes were riveted on what appeared to be the local newspaper.

"Morning," you replied as you sat down at their table.

"You know," Jayce began with his mouth full, "I'm not usually a fan of switching foods but," he twitched his nose as he chewed energetically, "I gotta hand it to them, it's really good."

"You would eat flowers if they were edible," you remarked before bringing your own breakfast to your lips, nodding at the taste, though.

"Ah ha! See?" Jayce remarked at your expression.

You shrugged. "Not bad."

Actually, what you were chewing was delicious, but it wasn't hard to reach that level given your diet of mostly simple pasta and stir-fry in your flat.

"Come on," Jayce tried, turning to Viktor, "their coffee's good too."

The questioned man abandoned his reading of the newspaper, taking in hand a pastry covered in icing sugar. "I'll admit that it's not bad."

"Not bad?" you remarked, arching an eyebrow. "Better than mine?"

He chuckled. "Not possible."

You nodded. "Huh, I guess I'll just have to check for myself," you remarked, pressing your palm against the table as you prepared to get up and help yourself to the drink area.

"You can just drink from mine," suggested Viktor.

The pressure of your weight on your palm eased, turning your head towards him. "From yours?"

He watched you for a moment, then picked up his cup and placed it in front of you. "I don't know if I'll be able to finish it in one go," his back found the back of the seat, "so, we can share."

You considered the mug for a moment, observing the ring of foam that had dried and marked the inside of the cup, waiting to be drunk. It seemed sweet, like what Viktor used to drink.

You curled your fingers around its handle, the round, slightly flattened cup feeling pleasantly heavy in your hand. You brought it to your lips, blowing gently on its contents and noticing the previous mark of the sip Viktor had taken.

Your glance met his, moving from your mouth to your eyes, your lips resting where his had been moments before, before you took a sip without your gaze ever leaving each other's.

His jaw seemed to tense for a moment as your tongue passed over your lower lip to catch the last few drops of coffee before placing the cup back on the table.

You nodded, raising your eyebrows. "Not bad."

Viktor's amber eyes had a strange blackness in them, pierced by a dark glint you couldn't make out that brought more warmth to your cheeks and neck than the coffee.

"I told you!" Jayce exclaimed, bringing you back to reality almost brutally.

What was going on? Why was the air suddenly so thick and tense?

Your eyes lowered to your breakfast, taking a small bite as you returned to Viktor gently through your eyelashes. His gaze was still on you, his long, slender fingers wrapping around the waist of the cup and bringing it to his mouth.

His eyes lit up with a strange satisfaction as your lips parted and his came to rest where yours had been only seconds ago.

Your heart leapt in your chest as you engulfed your entire meal in one mouthful, preferring to find an excuse like this to the suffocation you were beginning to feel from the pounding of your heart against your ribs, which were suddenly too narrow to contain it.

Viktor looked at you, as surprised as he was amused by the suddenness of this behaviour.

"You look nervous," Jayce pointed out, "are you alright?"

You met his gaze, your eyes drifting over Viktor's for a moment as you swallowed your mouthful with difficulty. Quick, an excuse, or something.

"I'm going to try and train with the Demacian students," you explained.

Jayce's eyebrows rose, Viktor's frowned.

"You're about to try and train with them?" the taller one repeated, wiping the crumbs from his sweet tooth with the back of his hand, "the same students that have a training area and some of the best fighters in all Runeterra?"

You stuffed your mouth with another part of your breakfast, trying to take some strength for what would await. "Yes."

Breakfast continued simply until you finally decided to go to the Academy campus. The sun was higher in the sky, already warm as you made your way to the training ground.

A group of students were occupying various parts of the large area, a variety of wooden weapons clashing against each other in a waltz of energetic movements and grunts.

The small group of Piltovian students approached this area, some coming to meet up with their duet mates, others standing back to observe the scene.

You finally caught sight of Garen, busy at the moment against a mannequin, his stature seeming even more imposing that way. Dressed in a navy blue t-shirt with sweat stains on the collar and back, baggy black trousers and combat boots, he looked perfectly military.

When he met your eyes, he smiled at you, indicating with his fingers that you should come closer. You pointed your index finger at yourself, exchanging glances with Jayce and then Viktor.

"Don't look at me," the latter pointed out, "if I've got any place on this field it's as a training dummy."

You shrugged. "I'm sure you'd make an amazing fencer with your cane," you said before stepping forward when Garen came your way.

You reached him on the pitch, the feel of the ground softer and smoother than you would have thought. No doubt to reduce the damage of falls, which were bound to be numerous around here.

"Good morning," Garen greeted you when you reached him.

"Good morning," you pressed your lips into a thin line. "I think by coming here I've voluntarily signed my death warrant."

"I'm sure you'll do just fine," he confirmed in a soft laugh, starting to move forward.

"Fiora isn't here?" you questioned, anxiously.

"She went ahead to get herself some water, she'll be back soon," he explained.

"Hope she takes her time," you sighed, "I'd like to... try training."

He turned to you in surprise. "Try training?"

"Mhm," you confirmed, "gotta get the full experience of this trip, I guess?"

He chuckled, nodding finally. "Alright, what would you like to try?"

"What's on the menu for bruises and sore muscles today?"

"Hmm," he glanced at the few remaining wooden weapons, "let us try with a staff."

Your eyes followed his gaze, settling on one of the weapon bearers. A row of quarterstaffs was there, waiting to be retrieved.

Fighting with wands, the joke was almost ridiculously simple if you thought back to the five of wands.

He picked one up, throwing it at you as you caught it in the air.

"Good reflexes," he remarked as he took one in turn, "it's going to be needed." He twirled the staff in his hand with ease, positioning himself in front of you. "Show me what you know."

You had distant memories of using a staff, of parrying, of attacking, even if you weren't an expert and wasn’t sure about your capacity on bringing them back to life.

You had to get it into your head that you weren't there to win, but to learn, to take in new information and rediscover what it meant to learn through interest rather than obligation.

You described a swing in the air, the wood hissing as Garen easily parried the blow, coming into your game. All he had to do was push a little harder against you so that the pressure made you tilt your balance and he took advantage of it to try a blow that you still managed to parry before stepping back and almost losing your balance.

"You're smaller than me, and probably faster," commented Garen, "use it to your advantage."

"How am I supposed to do that?" you questioned, tightening your grip around your staff in the hope that your muscle memory would do the job.

Garen repositioned himself, smiling slightly. "Surprise me."

You chuckled, tapping the tip of your stick on the ground twice before repositioning yourself, bending your knees and tensing your shoulders.

You trotted towards him a little, raising your staff in the air before deviating and giving a kick with your foot on his at the last moment to shift the balance. His grip was firmer on it than you thought, but the blow was enough to divert his attention to the gesture and you drove your stick into his foot, causing him to grunt as you tried to go around him to hit the back of his knees.

Realising your trick though, he changed his stance, pivoting towards you and swinging an arc through the air that you stepped back from in time, dodging his next blow by placing your palm on his staff to squeeze it and pull it towards you to bring him down.

But his weight of muscle won out over yours, so he used your initial idea to his advantage by pulling you towards him until your back was against his chest and he was holding his staff under your chin.

You felt his warm chest under the fabric of his T-shirt, his chest expanding and sinking against you as you felt the wood of his staff push your chin up until your eyes met his. He huffed, cracking a smile.

"You did good," he breathed, cracking a smile before the grip on your chin eased and he released you.

You took a step forward, turning to face him. "Just good?"

"Not satisfied with good?" he pointed out.

"No," you chuckled as you grabbed your staff with both hands, ready to attack again.

He smiled, changing position again. "Then do better, Piltie girl."

"Would you look at that?"

Your eyes rolled heavenward as you recognised this insufferable voice and turned to Fiora.

She was wearing a uniform similar to that of Garen. A dark plum turtleneck t-shirt with short sleeves, trousers less wide than Garen's, and perfectly polished boots.

She was equipped with her most mocking smile. "How did you end up here?"

You shrugged, letting one hand fall away from the staff before your arm dropped to your side. "I thought I'd come here for a holiday camp, but too bad the activities and organisers aren't great."

She giggled, her eyebrows arching as she turned to the remaining staff to pick one up. Some students stopped practising, observing the scene. Fiora undoubtedly had her own little reputation which she maintained proudly, and to see someone standing up to her must have been a novelty for many.

"Let's see what you're made of," she said, putting herself on guard against you.

You sighed. "I don't want to fight you," you remarked as you moved towards the receptacle to lay down your weapon.

But she prevented you from doing so by sending it flying further away from a single hit. You glared at her.

Her smile was evil, her eyebrows low over vicious eyes. "You're gonna have to pick it up if you want to put it back there."

"Fiora," Garen warned, "stop."

"It's fine," you assured him, watching Fiora's face change between satisfaction and impatience.

You knew she was trying to push you, to build up your frustration to get a reaction out of you. You didn't want to give her the pleasure.

You breathed a sigh, walking over to the staff on the ground before picking it up. But as you turned, you barely had time to reflexively place the staff in front of your face as a parry.

Fiora had just tried to attack you, and violently at that.

"Fight," she insisted as you took a step backwards. "Don't they teach you how to fight in Piltover?"

You huffed, trying to get round her as she circled after you like a predator around its prey. "Guess we swapped war for intellect," you pointed out, feeling more in the mood for a verbal joust than a physical one, "I can see how the lack of it is visibly affecting you."

Fiora frowned, pointing the end of her staff at you. "What did you just say?"

You smiled, getting caught up in the game. "Do I have to repeat it for you? Or break it down into digestible pieces for your little brain?"

She grunted before drawing rapid attacks in the air that you managed to parry and avoid until you crossed the wood and found yourselves close.

"You are so lacking in intelligence that neither education nor experience has helped you to fill this gap in your nature," you taught her.

She punched you in the stomach before hitting you in the thigh with her staff, forcing you to your knees. You felt the tip of her staff under your chin, firm and raw as she looked down at you.

"Look at who's kneeling before me," she sneered as she exchanged smiles with the surrounding students.

You didn't let her get to you though. "Simply tying my shoes, your majesty."

The nickname seemed to irritate her in a less visible way than the others, but you could still make out the little muscle near her eye tense up.

She offered a simple blow of her nose in laughter, leaving you on the ground as her stick dislodged itself from your chin.

She then turned to her audience, rounding on you. ‘What a fierce little thing she is, isn't she?’ she quizzed.

You turned towards her, straightening up as you frowned.

"By your words I believe you called me ignorant, so I did a bit of digging." She wore a smile that was about to cause some serious errors. "You will be surprised to learn that," she turned to you with a wicked smile, "she's an orphan."

Your lips parted as your chest began to tighten in anger, the other students around you all glaring at you like a freak show.

"No one ever wanted her," Fiora went on as if she were presenting a tragic two-bit story, "until she got taken in by pity."

You wanted to rip her tongue out. How could she know? How dare she put it out there for everyone to see?

She hovered around you, addressing her audience to paint a pitiful picture.

"Got a failure? Get another for half the price!" She sneered as she described dramatic gestures of demonstration, calming down on the theatrical though as she turned back to you, eyes half-closed with pretense and pointing at you with her staff. "So now," she resumed, tone condescending, "she tries to remove that tag off herself by being first everywhere!" She turned to the other pupils as if they were little children learning a lesson.

Your knuckles had turned white from squeezing your fists so tight, your breathing quickening as your anger built.

She turned to face you. "As if that was going to change her nature."

"That's enough!" Garen growled as he approached her.

"What's wrong? I am simply stating facts," Fiora pointed out falsely, innocently.

Their conversation faded from your mind, however, as your frustration rose inside you.

Who was it? Who was it that could have given her this information?

There were only three people who knew about this matter. Only three. Jayce, Sky...

And Viktor.

Viktor, who had spent his time in Fiora's company, who was always glued to his arm, who had had to give in to the fatigue and frustration of her questions by answering her about you while she was scheming against you.

There was only him.

Your body seemed to you like a suit of armour in a garden of white statues of purity, where the ruby-red roses of anger were allowed to overtake the metal covering your rage.

Clad in armour.

Ready.

"You said you wanted to fight?"

Your voice echoed through the air louder than you could have imagined, but loud enough that all heads turned towards you. Fiora smiled, having finally achieved her goal.

"You've changed your mind?"

"Yes." Your tone was firm, rigid.

"That is most delightful to hear," Fiora smiled, turning to her audience and raising her arms before regaining your gaze, "I'll even do you the honour of choosing your weapon."

"No weapons."

Your whole body tensed, your fingers twitching as your muscles seemed to prepare themselves for what was about to happen.

Fiora raised her eyebrows. "Fists? How barbaric.’

"Scared your fancy manicure can't handle it?"

It was asking everything in your power not to let your voice explode in the air, to remain calm and articulate.

All the same, Fiora seemed fascinated by your determination to continue to stand up to her, to refuse to give up, to abandon in the face of her.

"Careful Fiora," shouted one of the students, "I've heard she's a witch."

Had she finally infiltrated your room? Looked through your things while you were asleep? Or had she managed to hear about Selene and had already started to do her viper's work of spreading rumours? Either way, she was already on to you.

"Glad to know we're on the right territory to get rid of this kind of waste," smiled Fiora.

"You can't beat me," you put the staff back in its receptacle, moving away again to get ready, "only one person gets to have that honour."

Your eyes landed on Viktor, who was watching the scene with furrowed brows.

You readied your breath, stopping your heart from getting too big in your chest as your legs prepared to hold your balance.

"So eager," Fiora sighed with a stupid grin, stepping forward to place her staff, "I didn't know you would-"

But as soon as the staff was placed, your knuckles made hard contact with her cheek, sending her to the ground.

A wave of shocked murmurs took over the crowd as you stood, eyes lowered on Fiora as she leaned back to straighten herself on the floor, her perfectly smooth fringes slightly dishevelled revealing her wide eyes as she brought her palm to her cheek still warm from the blow.

"Get up," your voice was cold, trying to remain unwavering while your fist trembled. "You said you wanted a fight, so," your lips were full of rage, "fight."

Fiora snarled, springing to her feet and running at you with the breath of a bull seeing red. She tried to land a blow on your face to return the favour, but you dodged it and punched her in the stomach, her curling up as you grabbed her hair and she started screaming.

"You fucking bitch!" she cried.

She slapped you on the shoulder and you let go, throat rocky with wrath. "Yell at me again and I'll give you a proper reason to scream."

There was a dangerous growl in your voice, a grinding of a gear powering an old machine that was starting up again.

She came back at you, landing a blow on your leg in the hope of making you kneel again, but she was only marginally successful. She hit you in the jaw, causing you to back away slightly, before delivering a second blow to the cheekbone.

You didn't give her the honour of adding a third strike, offering her a violent punch in the throat that took her backwards as you took a slight leap and slammed your hand hard into her face, her grabbing your clothes and dragging you backwards as she fell.

Sitting on her abdomen, your two knees blocked her arms as you gained free reign over her guard.

You hit her once, twice, thrice, her cheek beginning to swell. Your blows increased in intensity, the tension in your fist not stopping you even if the bones in your hand broke.

"Stop this!"

Two thick arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you out with difficulty as you struggled in vain.

Garen pulled you away from the body of Fiora, who had turned to spit a cloud of bloody spray onto the floor. Your eyes never let go of her, as if you were obsessed with your real aim of seeing her admit defeat.

"You," you snapped at her, regaining some calmness though, "you're the one that started spreading gossip about me behind my back aren't you?"

Fiora turned to you, breathless. "What?" Her voice was hoarse from your blow.

"Don't make me repeat myself," you threatened, fully aware that you hadn't hit any of her eardrums and that she could understand you perfectly well.

She breathed heavily. "Why does it matter?"

You approached slightly, fists still clenched as you watched her on the floor, pathetic.

"Just wanted to make sure you knew your place."

Fiora shook off the hands of the students who had just tried to help her off ofto the floor, her furious eyes finding you as she struggled to get to her feet.

You realised the extent of the damage your fury, your uncontrollable anger, had done. Fiora's face was red, one of her eyelids bulging as blood poured from her nose, joining the red on her lips and gums.

You could have gone on, made things worse. Who knows how far you could have gone? What irreversible damage you could have caused? What life you could have taken in your own anger?

The realisation hit you like an anvil.

Your eyes roamed the crowd, the faces of the frightened students.

I... I did this? you thought.

I made them look at me with... fear?

Your eyes found Fiora still on the ground, grunting in pain and coughing.

Monster.

That's all you were. A being incapable of overcoming the violence that had nourished her, of abandoning the bosom of this bitter mother who had cuddled her so much and made her grow.

Your gaze wandered over the rest of the pupils, until it met his.

Viktor's face was shocked.

No, please...

His lips were parted and his eyes wide as you felt your hands impossibly sticky with the hot blood they had spilled.

Please, don't look at me like that... Your heart was trembling.

Not you.

You had to get out of here.

Hands clasped to your sides, you strode across the pitch, the few students even two metres away from you moving away as you passed.

I made them like this. Although this thought might have given some people a feeling of pride and power, you couldn't help but feel covered in a terrible shame.

You couldn't meet anyone's eyes as you made your way to the nearest water source, away from any eyes.

You turned the crank on a fountain to turn it on, your breath quickening with anxiety.

I have to get this off me.

You ran your hands frantically under the water, rubbing the reddened skin of your knuckles and trying to get rid of the blood that was already starting to dry.

You returned to the handle as the water subsided, your hand coming into contact with the blood you'd left behind when you turned it the first time.

You make everything dirty. Everywhere you go there will be blood if you go on.

You swallowed a sob as you tried to clean the crank and your hands again.

But nothing would wash the feeling away. Nothing could extinguish the fire still burning in your fingertips. Nothing could make you forget the warm, slimy sensation of the pain you'd committed, of the violence at the edge of your skin.

It's what you're made of.

You sat against the wall, banging both wet fists against your skull as if that would stop those thoughts from ruling your mind.

And he'd seen you. He saw you like this. Your violence coming to life before his eyes, reflected in an indecipherable Iris.

You put your head between your knees, tried to take a deep breath before you got up, your legs weak and trembling as you made your way back to the hotel.

Stupid, stupid crown.

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taglist : @doctorho @6selkie @yunloyal @kryscent @hypocritic-trash-baby @kapitankarate @a-lovers-card @ababanerb @lolixsstuff @forget-me-not-my-dear @smolanchovy @shugar0cone0alt @harrys--ferret-blog @suuummerrr @stillinracooncity @noxturnalmoth @dlbitch @cloufire @csolya @kathyholdsagrudge @furblrwurblr @potatointhedirt @atrocioushaircut @ren-ni @schrodingersraven @urmommt @enoojnij @stilinskisensation @emlovesya @soupsaurus @luvreadingfics @the-valars-sapphire @solbringer @adorabluesposts @pxszels @nerolovesseongjiyuk @cyberwears @cryptidcut @seohaepeachyun @danielsbackupglasses @2hiigh2cry @16novvs @cicadastoner @patchs-curiosity-corneriosity-corner @w41k3r-94290 @minniiv @roku907 @lumilarity @peachy-writings @disturbyn @ddandelionfluff @holymotherfxrkingshirtballs @notyuralycat @glenn-slayer @k07ume @hexb0nes @ravngers @fushirika @glenn-slayer @watergirl13girl @graveyardtrain @theuclid

#a crown of ink #acoi #viktor x reader #arcane #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor #arcane x reader #viktor arcane x reader #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor fic #viktor league of legends #arcane viktor x you #viktor arcane x you

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spvcekittie · 12 days ago

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Get Jinxed!

warnings. maybe ooc, slight angst (mainly fluff), modern au, reader is shorter than jinx (yuurp), mention of blood

pairing. neighbour!jinx / reader

wc. 736

gif boarder from @/cafekitsune

( see to end for notes! )

jinx, who opts to sitting on the dirty stairs of the apartment complex amongst the musk just to catch you whenever you arrive home around 8pm. you never question it, not when you secretly revel in it.

you, who bakes pastries with the sole intent of passing them on to jinx. you claim as you hand them to her, grin wavering on the brink of cracking, that they were leftovers for your family.

jinx knows they’re not, yet she nods along to your fabrication with full attentiveness. you melt under her gaze, lidded knowingly from where she looks down at you.

jinx, who admires your baking skills and wants to try making something herself. she invites you to her apartment, presenting the pasta bake with a proud gest, fists situated on her hips.

it’s not bad, not by a long stretch. you try to ignore the set up; sat across from one another over a pot of pasta bake, candle directly in the middle of the table. it’s not a date, it’snotadate.

jinx, who despite lacking the ability to be anything but playful, is suddenly the thorn in your side when you’re sick. or lack-thereof. she’s actually a really good help; making varying soups that you’d shown her the recipes to, running you a nice warm bath with the added touch of candles placed neatly across the edges of the tub, etc etc.

you, who wakes up groggy with fatigue to the sounds of jinx in the other room, yelling profanities and hissing between her teeth. reluctantly you get up, finding her hunched over her desk with controller in hand playing some first person shooter (lets be real, she’d play Call of Duty).

the grin that sparkles under the dim pink of her monitor, thrown over her shoulder tells you she’s at least happy to see you awake at this ungodly hour. that was the first night you spent at her house.

jinx, who tells you she can’t paint her nails herself due to her being right handed. truthfully, she can as she’s ambidextrous — only uses that as an excuse to come over and see you. not that she’d tell you that, though.

jinx, who sends you varying photos throughout the day; her face bunched under multi-coloured scarves with her bottom lip stuck out in a pout from her walk, or her middle finger pointed at the red flash of the game over screen, or her failed baking attempts.

small things like that.

jinx, who struggles with letting you see her cry. the first time she did in front of you, she’d sat with her bottom lip wobbling with the weight of containing her tears. her whole body trembled, tears brimming her waterline as she picked at her fingers. you’d taken her hands in your own, the red liquids pooling over splashes of pink and blue.

you, who thinks you’ve finally gotten some time to yourself since she’d moved in, but that thought is instantly lost. your body, heavy with sleep carries you to the open window, hand dragging down the pane right as your eyes catch on the blue blob in the distance to your left.

jinx waves, head poking from out the window with her mouth gaping in a cheery smile. you sigh, offering a lifeless wave back.

jinx, who reluctantly after months and months of cringing away when you’d touched her hair finally gives in, tilting her head back into your touch as you situate yourself behind her.

“you’re never doing this again after today, you hear?” she quips. you nod, humming contentedly as your fingers thread her loose blue strands, rendered wavy from wearing them in braids.

she secretly enjoys it.

jinx, who shows up to your door with the same pastries you’d baked her the first time you met. that was the day she’d confessed her feelings for you, expressed how much you mean to her, how she’d do anything to live alongside you for the rest of her life.

the sentiment shocked you, and you stood gaping, eyes flitting between the sweet treats and her bashful smile. you’d never seen her this nervous before.

you and jinx, who then spend the night snacking on the pastries, lounging on the couch while some show played incoherently in the background.

all you could focus on was her.

A/N. yaaayy! jinx headcanons! honestly this is a mix of a bunch of different aus and headcanons ive seen over the past however long. im super tired this was written on and off for about a day, sorry its nothing too special >_<

#jinx x reader #jinx league of legends #arcane #league of legends #fanfic

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vesearlee · 1 month ago

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──── 𝑺𝒆𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒐

Each stroke of his brush painted the ocean with such precision it took your breath away, only the tides had more than one surprise in store for you.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── Rafayel x F!Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ── 2.1k 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── T 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ── Tooth Rotting Fluff, angst (anxiety attack), little dash of crack, slight reference to Rafayel's lore 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐒 ── Can’t Help Falling In Love by Haley Reinheart ── Constellations (Slowed) by Jade LeMac 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ── HERE 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ── Written because @smutconnoisseur loves to torture me with heavenly prompts.

─── 𝑳𝑨𝑫𝑺 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ───

The sound of water falling and splashing against the marble floor of the master bathroom was the only sound heard through the hallway to Rafayel’s silent studio. Amber-toned light bathed the room in the glow of the waning sunshine, and streaks of paint were splattered all over the floor — an unfortunate casualty of collateral damage by the artist who worked tirelessly over the taut canvas in the easel’s clutches.

You closed your eyes and sighed. The image of Rafayel perched on his ladder, hand steadily moving a laden brush back and forth with the grace of a dancer burned into your consciousness. The sight was beautiful, and you struck you silent every time you witnessed it.

The only reason such an ethereal vision had come to an end on this occasion, was the artist’s sense of mischief. While in his creative daze, Rafayel streaked a deep indigo through his hair with little care or notice.

“Raf,” you said hesitantly, loath to disturb his streak of concentration.

“Mm,” he hummed in reply, not stopping to glance at you. The brush swept once over a streak of navy, then his hand returned to his chin. “Yeah, cutie?”

“You– You’ve got paint in your hair and–” Rafayel’s movement towards you was sudden. “No!” you gasped, startled.

The sound of his laughter would normally make your heart swell, but with the sudden, cool sensation of paint covering your skin and clothes in little droplets took the fondness out of such a noise. You stumbled backwards into your chair. “Rafayel!”

The creak of wood made him freeze, and you both stood entirely still as you took in the sight of your clothes — dishevelled and covered in colours. “Oh, hang on,” you sneered while the corner of your lip turned up in a devilish smirk. “I think you’ve got something on your…”

As fast as you could manage, you reached towards a shelf that was full of discarded palettes.

SPLAT

“Oof!” Rafayel fell from his stool and landed unsteady on his bare feet, his jaw and neck covered in the remnants of the blue he last used and discarded with a disdained, “it’s not bright enough.”

“You started this,” you called, stepping back with as much grace as you could manage in the cluttered studio. “I only wanted to help, but you–” His sudden lurch towards you made you yelp in shock, and you sidestepped his advance to hide behind a shelf that housed rolls of brushes. “Nope, nope, you won’t catch me!”

“Wanna bet, cutie?” Rafayel teased, a vicious grin turning his normally soft gaze sharp. “Damn it, stand still–”

You bolted out from behind the shelf and towards the floor to ceiling windows, only, you paused for too long. Strong arms enveloped you from behind and you felt the deep chuckle from your captor through your back. “I told you, there’s no runnin’ from me, sweetheart.”

“No–! Aw, don’t–!” The cool sensation of paint spread from your ear to your jaw, painting you a sea of indigos and blues. “Raf, c’mon,” you whined, squirming in his hold. “I was joking.”

“You were jokin’, huh? Got a real prankster on my hands.” The arms around your middle loosened slightly, though you felt no need to pull away. “What d’ya say we clean up, yeah?”

The temptation stirred a heat low in your hips, but then you glanced at the paint strewn all over the studio from your combined antics. “...No.”

“No?” The rush of breath was warm against the shell of your ear, and the mock offense in his tone only made you huff with petulance.

“No. You go, I’ll get this cleaned up, and then maybe you can make it up to me.” The whine that came from him as you pried his arms away from your middle was almost enough for you to reconsider your answer. “Don’t pout at me, go.”

“So mean,” he hissed, jutting out his bottom lip as he sulked off down the hallway.

“So impossible,” you retorted, shaking your head.

A long, deep sigh of annoyance was the only reply you received before you heard the cascade of water begin.

With Rafayel now occupied and out of your hair, you stared around the studio at the mess you both created. Blues and purples were the main choice of ammunition, and as a result, splatters and spills danced in a trail of laughter that you followed, only this time with a cloth in hand.

You hummed a tune to match with the song coming from the bathroom, when you finally came up to the painting he had been working on before he had taken your kindness for granted.

The luminescent curves of scales and the shimmer of pearled fins glowed in the faux moonlight. It reminded you of something, though what it could have been reminiscent of made a sharp pain throb in your temples.

The song Rafayel hummed from the bathroom continued its soft melody, and you valiantly tried to follow the tune to distract yourself, when you took a step forward and heard an almighty clatter. “Whoa– Oh, no!” The easel holding the canvas wobbled slightly — without thinking, you reached out and grabbed the bottom bar of the front panel, and you let out a breath of relief for not having touched the wet paint of the canvas.

“You okay?” Raf called, his voice was muffled by the sound of water on tiles. “That was loud. D’you need help?”

“No,” you yelled back, and you gently released your iron grip on the now steadied frame of the easel. “It’s okay, I’m just clumsy.”

“Alright,” he replied. “I’ll be out soon.”

Not a moment later, the song began again. Even though he would not see, you nodded in reply out of habit before you glanced downwards at the floor to see what had made the clattering noise.

The sight made your heart leap into your throat.

More smears and shades of indigo were splattered all over the plastic spread beneath the easel. Every single shade that Rafayel spent days, weeks on perfecting lay at your feet, utterly destroyed by the pigmentation of the other.

“No, nonono.” The plastic crinkled as you fell to your knees, hands uselessly stretching out to the mess of what could be considered a sea of colours — it was devastating, and all of what Rafayel would say rushed to the forefront of your mind, bombarding your fears and dredging the worst of them from the depths of your well buried thoughts.

It was only then something seemed to snap into place, a panicked clarity that set your heart racing at an uncomfortable rate.

“I can replace…? Maybe?” You blinked the burn of tears in your eyes away, and you carefully grabbed the wooden palette off of the floor to hold it up to eye level. A few brushes above you held the answer, you were sure, and with the mission in mind, you stood up from the floor with a quiet grunt of discomfort.

Time blurred as you worked, a fevered haze of panic and desperation fuelled your every move until the palette was covered in all hues of blues and purples. Each stroke of the brush in your hand grew sloppy and sloppier, nowhere near as refined as the artist himself — the pit of your stomach swirled with guilt the harder you worked to replicate what he had mastered.

“Sweetheart? What’re you doin’?”

“Oh!�� you gasped, the sound choked and shrill with your shock. “You–” The rustle of plastic sounded as you spun on your heel to face Rafayel, who stood shirtless, a wet towel in one hand and the other propped on his hip. The hammering of your heart only thundered harder in your aching ribs, and you swore if you were to stand there any longer, the whole of your heart would miraculously beat from your chest and fall to the floor at your feet. “You s-scared me!”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned downwards in a frown. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, it’s not been that long–” He took a few steps forward, the sway of his hips and the loose fitting pants not enough to capture your attention from the building panic in your chest. You backpedalled rapidly out of reach — a well-honed instinct that had saved you numerous times before. “What– I just showered after you covered me in paint. Rude.”

His jokes fell flat, and the lack of laughter made the frown on his lips deepen.

“I– Uh, um, Raf–” The plastic under your feet shifted again, and the sound drew his attention downwards. You watched with horror swelling in your stomach as his shoulders stiffened. “I’m so, so, sorry– Please, oh my–”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there, cutie,” Rafayel rushed, his cool hands finally breaking the barrier you precariously built, and he grasped your wrists gently. “You’re trembling, what happened? Talk to me.”

A broken sobbed forced its way through the blockade of fear in your chest, and he pulled you into his chest. The palms of your hands planted firmly against his chest. “Breathe for me—in, out, that’s it, honey, c’mon.”

The silence filled with suppressed sobs carried on for what felt like hours — being held in his arms always had that effect, though this time, you gripped to his body like an anchor against the bobbing waves of panic that ebbed and flowed like the waves outside his window.

“I’m sorry,” you eventually whispered against his skin, the words sharp against your throat as they manifested. The pain of your mistake made your heart clench with guilt, and the splattered colours at your feet did nothing to ease the agony. “I– I didn’t mean to, I was trying to clean and I just bumped into–”

Rafayel pulled back suddenly, the palms of his hands cupping either side of your face so he could stare into your blurry eyes. The pad of his thumb brushed softly against your cheeks while he collected the stray tears that had escaped without your notice.

“So that was the noise, huh? Just some spilled paint?” he asked softly, furrowing his brows as he glanced downwards quickly, the multitude of colours in his eyes reflecting the sheer volume of the mess. “Is this why you’re so worked up?”

Words failed to form on your tongue, no matter how hard you tried. A small nod was all you managed, and he clicked his tongue before pulling you into his chest again. Soft lips brushed over your forehead and trialled down towards your temple.

The sudden movement of Rafayel’s body made you gasp quietly, and you realised he was rocking you side to side, the sway of your bodies matching the now moonlit waves outside. “Y’know, cutie, for someone so smart, you really can be silly.”

You sniffled and pulled back. “What?”

Rafayel smiled cheekily, tilting his head to the side so strands of purple hair fell to the side of his forehead. “You, I’m talkin’ about you.” His hands moved up to your shoulders and gently coaxed you to turn around until you came face to face with the painting he worked on — the deep hues seemed to sparkle under the now dimmed light. “See?”

Long, slender fingers gestured towards the waves in the painting, then towards the scales and fins of the tail in view. “I’ve worked endlessly, tirelessly—to the bone—to make these colours.”

The sentence was enough for your heart to seize, and he sensed the way your body tensed under his hands. “No, no, listen to me, cutie.” You watched his fore and middle finger brush against the palette you had created in your panic-induced haze. “I worked so hard to get this shade, and here you are, gettin’ it outta nowhere.”

You blinked as confusion flooded you. “Huh?”

“It’s true,” Rafayel stated simply, and he shifted closer to you so his chest was flush to your back. With a gentle grip, he held the back of your hand and slowly moved it towards the palette where one of the brushes you used in your attempt to replicate all the shades rested innocently. “Pick it up, go on.”

“But I–” you stuttered, still bewildered at his gentle order. “I ruined it?”

A huff of amusement filled your ears. “Ruined it? Oh, sweetheart.” His hand guided your own to the canvas. “You couldn’t ruin anything. Here, I think you should be the one to add the finishing touches.”

The two of you stood in a comfortable silence, the sound of the fibres of the brush the only thing to disturb the soft, even breathing you shared as he held you close, encouraging you to work.

It was only when Rafayel softly gasped and his hands moved to grip your sides that you were pulled from a kind of trance. You looked over your shoulder at him, and found the indigos you painted reflected in his eyes. The smile on his lips was priceless, and you only wished you could capture it forever, just as you captured the beauty of the waves.

𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 ── Gingerbread Edition Bingo (@fandom-free-bingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ Crafting Together • I4 ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ Deep Breathing • N4 ── MASTERLIST ── Eclipsing Bingo (@eclipsingbingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ "Wanna bet?" • G5 ── MASTERLIST ── Hurt/Comfort Bingo (@sweetspicybingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ thought spiral • N5 ── MASTERLIST ── Under the Sea Bingo (@seasonaldelightsbingo) ⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄ soft love ── MASTERLIST

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himbodruid · 4 days ago

Text

Painting Lessons

Rafayel x Reader

I don’t even know what keywords to use for this one lmao

INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS. MINORS DNI

-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

“I don’t think I understand, Rafayel,” you say, tilting your head at the canvas in front of you. You sat in the cushioned nook beneath the giant bay windows that made up his studio, an easel in front of you and various supplies scattered around you. Rafayel sat next to you with his own canvas, guiding you along his creative process. While the painting in front of him flowed whimsically, yours looked…strained and forced. The subject matter was the same, and technically speaking it wasn’t the worst thing you’d painted under his tutelage. But something about it was still off.

“Your brain is thinking too logically,” he said over your shoulder, having leaned in to inspect the canvas.

“I’m a hunter, of course my brain is logical,” you say, scrunching your nose. Rafayel chuckled.

“Yes, yes, Miss Bodyguard, we’re all aware of your mental prowess. But when you’re painting, you have to feel the picture, not think it.”

“I feel it!” Your pout was met with another chuckle. Rafayel then moved behind you, sitting so that his legs rested on either side of yours. It was a far more intimate position than you were used to with him, and you felt yourself flush. As much of a terrible flirt as he was, you knew you shouldn’t read into how he wrapped a steadying arm around your waist, or how he took your hand in his and guided your paintbrush with deft strokes. His hand engulfed yours, his cool touch a stark contrast to the blushing heat radiating off you.

“You need to let the paint guide you, not the other way around. Stop thinking and worrying too much about getting to the end result, instead let yourself revel in the journey. Because that’s what painting is- a journey.”

You fought back the shudder that threatened to overtake you at the warmth of his voice directly in your ear. The light and airy quality of it as he talked about his passion. The breathy undertones as the warmth of your body sunk into his. He released your hand and pulled his back, resting it on your knee. You sat deathly still in front of him, and you had to resist the urge to lean back into him when he pulled away.

“There, see?” He reached over to his abandoned spot and grabbed his paint pallet. “Now take a little bit of this tangerine colour.”

“Wait, what?” You question, looking back at the colours of the Koi fish circling in a dusk-darkened pond. The hues ranged from deep reds, to purples, to varying shades of blue. You were convinced that a bright splash of colour would end up ruining it.

“Just trust me,” he chuckled. “Having a bright contrasting colour will help to draw the eye and guide the viewer around the painting. Don’t add a lot, just the barest outline on the fish.”

You skeptically did what he suggested, and were pleasantly surprised when the tiniest bit helped to pop the fish right off the canvas. Once done, you did lean back to look at it. It still wasn’t anywhere near his level, but it wasn’t awful either. You turned and flashed a grin at him. In doing so, you found him watching you with a painful tenderness in his eyes. A soft smile danced on his face and…wait, was he leaning into you?

A ringing phone was definitely a stereotypical mood-breaker. You huffed an awkward laugh, slumping in disappointment. But when you tried to turn your head away, Rafayel crooked a finger under your chin and pulled your face back to his. The kiss was unhurried, testing whatever feeling, whatever tension, that had been growing for the last hour that he’d caged you against him. Any and all thoughts on the painting lesson vanished from your head, and only he remained. He slanted his lips over yours, taking the kiss further when you didn’t pull away from him. His hand trailed your jaw, curling around to cradle the back of your head, with the pad of his thumb brushing along your cheek. You could feel his heart thundering in his chest through your back, and your heart raced alongside his.

Distracted by him, by his touch, your hand fumbled the paintbrush and it slipped from your grasp. That fiery tangerine colour streaked across his black trousers, thoroughly ruining them. You jerked with a gasp, covering your mouth in horror as the pair of you watched the offending brush roll to the floor.

“Shit, Raf, I am so sorry. I’ll pay for dry cleaning!”

He didn’t reply, just continued to hold you back against him. Hot breath moved the waterfall of hair that barely separated him from you, and it tickled your neck. You were very aware of his lips just a hair's breadth away from meeting your flesh. You subconsciously tilted your head away from his, granting him access to your neck. Those elegant fingers of his rose to brush your hair aside so that he could kiss below your ear, the slope of your neck, your shoulder. Wherever his mouth roamed, your skin heated until you were almost sure you had a full body blush.

“What if,” he murmured between kisses, “I wanted you to pay another way?”

You inhaled sharply when he scraped his teeth against your flesh. With a hand gripping his thigh, you leaned back into his soft bite. It was just enough to sting, but not enough to be painful, and the sensation shot straight to your core. It must have had the same effect on him, as you were certain you could feel him growing hard against your lower back.

And fuck, the sounds he made. The tiniest of whimpered moans that you could barely hear as his hands roamed your body. Those hands that pulled your off-the-shoulder shirt from the waistband of your jeans, that slid up your sides under your shirt. Hands that rested against your ribs, just below your chest in a pseudo innocent touch that seared through you.

You reached your hand up to brush a strand of hair back into place on his forehead and his eyes opened. Those beautiful, deep cerulean depths with flecks of fuschia locked onto you as you turned your head back to him. His lips crashed against yours again, tongue darting against your lower lip to coax you open. The moan he let loose when you did was like a jolt to your core. His right hand engulfed your left breast, his arm wrapped around you and pulled you against him. His unoccupied hand drifted down your abdomen, easily flicking open the button on your jeans and sinking beneath the hem. Your gasp was swallowed by him when those deft fingers of his touched you, testing the slickness of your folds. He groaned into you, finding you wet and wanting.

And then he ripped himself from you, and suddenly you were flat on your back with him on hands and knees over you. His face was flushed and his breathing was ragged, eyes searching yours. Your head tilted and you touched his lower lip softly with a finger. Then trailed that finger down his chin, across his jaw. His breath turned to short gasps as your fingers continued to drift featherlight touches down his neck, his collarbone, and finally the little bit of his chest that peeked between the open edges of his shirt.

He snatched your wrist and brought it to his face. He nuzzled your skin with his nose, an act reminisce of a time he went insane over a silly little perfume. You couldn’t miss how his eyes were darkened with desire, his gaze flicking to yours.

“Cutie,” he groaned, kissing your wrist. “I don’t think i can hold back any longer.”

Grasping the back of his neck, you pulled him down atop you and crashed your lips against his. He moaned into your mouth, setting his weight on you. He pressed you into the cushions beneath you, his knee wedging between yours. You could feel him through the fabric that separated you, hard and heavy. Slipping your hand between your bodies, you cupped his length through his trousers. With a whimpering gasp of a moan, his hips jerked forward. He buried his face against your neck, his breathy moans interrupted by his lips caressing your skin.

“Rafayel,” you breathed, rubbing your legs against his as you hitched them up to wrap around his waist. “I need you.”

It took great effort for him to tear himself away from you. But his blush grew deeper when you sat up, removed your shirt and lay beneath him in just the lacy bra you’d concealed with that plain white tee. It wasn’t intentional, wearing that kind of titillating bra, but you were glad you did when his eyes raked down your body. His shaky hands fumbled with the waistband of your jeans, and you helped him slide the denim down your legs.

And then you lay bare beneath him, running your hands up and down his body after unbuttoning his shirt. Breathy sighs escaped him, turning into those whimpering moans when you unzipped his trousers and freed his cock from its constraint. Your hand wrapped around him, pumping him while you watched his reactions. He clenched his eyes closed, biting his lip to try and halt the noises that threatened to escape. Try as he might, though, the guttural sounds still fell from him with every forward press of his hips. Until finally he wrenched your hand away, pinning it by your head and positioned himself so his cock lay heavy against your pelvis.

“Keep doing that, cutie, and I can’t be held responsible for the mess,” he groaned into your ear. Despite the sun pouring down from the windows, and the heat building between your bodies, Rafayel’s touch was still cool and made you shiver when his hand made its way to your breasts. His lips laid a blazing trail of kisses down your neck, nipping your collarbone, against each breast as his face slipped between them.

His mouth latched onto those mounds, eyes watching you as his tongue lathed first one nipple, then the other. All the while, he trailed that hand down your body until you could feel those elegant fingers dipping into your slick folds. He curled them into you and you couldn’t help the gasped moan that escaped you. He continued until you gripped his arm forcefully to keep him from drawing you over the edge- much like he did when he removed your touch from him. His groan turned into a breathy chuckle and he removed his fingers.

“So wet for me already?” His eyes locked onto your face when he brought those fingers to his face and- fuck the moan he let loose when he tasted you.

He rolled his hips back, aligning himself against your entrance. Your heart thundered in anticipation, you squirmed beneath him and still he wouldn’t push himself into you. Though his eyes were half-lidded by desire, the smirk on his face told you he delighted in teasing you. But the blush spread across his cheeks, from ear to ear, showed that he wasn’t entirely unaffected.

You shifted your hips, pulling him forward with your legs at the same time. The barest of penetration sent a shudder through him and his hips jerked forward. Sheathed on you in one full motion, he dropped his head to your chest with the deepest, most guttural sound you’d ever heard from him.

He trembled with the effort to remain still, mistaking your gasp for that of one of pain. You hadn’t expected him to fill you so wonderfully, the length and girth of him was…fuck, it was like he was made for you. He crashed his lips against yours, pressing forward so impossibly deep. Your moan was devoured by him as he pistoned in and out, grinding against you on every full thrust. Pleasured sounds erupted from him, his voice rising to join yours in a duet of ecstasy. Your arms folded around his shoulders, fingers gripping hard into the loose fabric of his shirt and no doubt leaving wrinkles in their wake.

“How do you feel so good?” He whimpered against your neck before pulling away. He lifted himself onto an elbow, just enough so he could watch your body’s reaction to him. The way your tits bounced with each thrust, the gasping moan when he struck that sweet spot deep inside, the way your hands clenched into his shoulders. Every detail was absorbed by those oceanic depths that made up his eyes, half-lidded by desire.

“Mmmh, every time I slam my cock into you,” he said, punctuating his words with a particularly hard thrust, “I love seeing your body ripple like freshly disturbed water on a calm lake.”

“Rafayel,” you whimpered to him, his words driving straight to your core until you felt something building there. His body dipped and curved, making each of his thrusts seem like a twisting dance, with his voice ringing out into the wide open space around you. He leaned into you, each stroke of his cock accentuated by a moan that you swallowed alongside his tongue.

Soft words murmured into your ear when he buried his face into your neck, and it took a moment for you to dig yourself up from the haze and realize they weren’t english. You recognized the cadence as Lemurian from the few times he spoke his mother tongue around you, and the sound of those words sent a thrill shuddering through you, despite not knowing their meaning.

“R-Rafa..yel,” you breathed, his name broken by a gasp as he tilted your hips by wrapping an arm around your lower back.

“Yes,” he purred into your ear, the pace of his thrusts increasing.

“I’m- I,” you stammered out, not able to form a coherent thought through the building pleasure.

“Yes,” he moaned, his breathing growing erratic as he carried you both to that brink. His hand cradled your head against his chest while all you could do was cling to him with trembling limbs.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-“ he breathed, his sentence cut off by a loud, guttural moan that was ripped from him. You dipped over the edge immediately behind him, the pulsing throb of his cock a mirror to the flutter of your walls wrapped around him. His body, his hips, his breath all trembling, jerking as the climax steamrolled through him. You slumped back into the cushions beneath you, firmly clenching your legs around his trim waist so he wouldn’t dare leave you.

But he didn’t. Instead he let his full weight rest on you, and you reveled in the warmth you shared while basked in bright afternoon sunlight. He pulled back just enough so his eyes could roam your face. He brushed a stray strand of hair away, smiling at you so tenderly that it bordered on painful. He huffed a light, airy chuckle before resting his forehead against yours. With eyes closed, he took a moment to stabilize his breathing before kissing you softly.

“Beautiful,” he murmured to you. He laid in your embrace, absorbing warmth from you and the sun, and you welcomed his weight atop you.

The moment came to an end far too quickly. With one last peck of a kiss, he untangled himself from you and stretched. Your eyes drank him in, gliding over the lithe muscle of his physique before finding him…somehow still hard. You cleared your throat, having caught yourself staring, and sought to cover yourself.

“Not a chance,” he chuckled, yanking your shirt from your hand and tossing it aside. Before you could complain, he scooped you into his arms bridal style and carried you through the villa. His stride didn’t miss a single step until he deposited you in front of the large clawfoot bathtub that sat below windows that overlooked the sea.

While the tub filled, he went to work stripping out of the clothes he still wore. And he kept his eyes locked on you as he did. First the wrinkled shirt struck the tile floor, and then the trousers that were now stained with more than just paint. You almost hated how alluring you found his little tease of a show.

When the bath was done, he helped you into the steaming water and climbed in behind you. Now caged against him in a similar position that started this whole tryst, you relaxed fully into him

“Rafayel?”

“Hmm?”

“Earlier when we…earlier you said something that sounded like Lemurian. What was it?” His arms wrapped around you and you felt him kiss the top of your head.

“Something along the lines of ‘drown in the ocean with me’,” he said, his voice taking on a dreamy quality.

“How poetic,” you sigh contentedly.

Comfortable silence spread between you as he washed you, first your body and then your hair. Your heart stuttered at the care and attention he showered you with while in that bath. And that pulse soon made its way downward as those skilled fingers of his sunk into you and stroked you through another release.

And still he didn’t stop there. After drying your hair for you and carrying you to his bed, he made sure that his name was the only thing on your mind- the only thing you shouted to the vaulted ceilings of his bedroom. He also made his pleasure known by raising his voice with yours.

You were certain anyone standing on the street outside the villa would know exactly what was happening.

****

Later That Night

“What?” Rafayel’s groggy voice was impatient as he held his phone to his ear.

“Don’t hang up!” Thomas’s voice was the last thing he wanted to hear at that moment, and Rafayel grumbled.

“I’m hanging up,” Rafayel threatened, pulling the phone away from his ear to do just that. He glanced at your sleeping form, glad the phone hadn’t woken you like it had him. Granted, he’d worn you out so thoroughly that he would be surprised if you even woke before noon.

“I know you’re…preoccupied, but all I’m asking is that you don’t forget about the event the night after tomorrow.”

“Yeah, fine, fiiine- wait, what do you mean preoccupied? How would you know?”

Rafayel swore he could hear Thomas blush over the phone in the loaded silence that filled his question.

Thomas cleared his throat. “When you refused to answer the phone earlier, I stopped by the villa and…realized that you were…rather busy.”

“Definitely busy,” Rafayel chuckled, ending the call without so much as a goodbye to Thomas.

After all, he had somewhere he needed to be. Rafayel crawled back in bed beside you, giving the back of your neck a lingering kiss and gathering you up against him.

Sleep overtook him more quickly than he’d ever experienced during the night.

#lads fic #lads smut #lads rafayel #l&ds x you #l&ds rafayel #l&ds x reader #l&ds smut #love and deep space rafayel #rafayel smut #rafayel x you #rafayel fic #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x reader #lads x reader #lads

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ivypos-writes · 8 months ago

Text

with my touch (i have cursed you)

— aemond targaryen

summary: His first touch plants a seed of desire, and it is only a matter of time before it blooms.

Or, all the times Aemond touches her, and the one when he lets himself be touched.

warnings: 18+, au—no dance of dragons, targcest, aemond being a tease and a little shit, mutual pining, unhealthy amounts of tension, first times, oral (f receiving), fingering, piv, multiple orgasms, aemond being pathetic (he whimpers), smut with plot (and the plot is just prolonged foreplay)

word count: 8.7k

notes: so. i wrote this thing. english is not my first language. all reblogs and comments are very appreciated! aemond girlies, we are so back.

(also available on ao3.)

The street is bustling with life.

She is little more than a dull spot against a variety of colours, and something about the thought of blending with the surroundings is more comforting than anything she has ever known. She tightens her hold on the large hood of the cloak and pushes past a gathering of haggling customers, giggling as they shout in indignation.

It is still early, though the skies above head are spotted with warm oranges and pinks. The air is different here. Sultry. She traverses the cobblestone paths and passes through alleys filled with shops and boisterous merchants, and her eyes grow brighter with each step.

She has known life in its subdued form—in gold and jewels, and soft-spoken words, and lullabies sung at nighttime. She has been sheltered, and dressed in gowns, and taught to wield practiced smiles and pretty countenance. It is the first time that she experiences havoc. There is dirt and dust, and curses falling left and right, and women dressed scarcely in anything, scraps of fabric falling down their shoulders without care for decency.

In these streets, life is fervent. Chaotic, unashamedly passionate, and lewd in ways that render her breathing shallow.

At once, she is filled with greed.

Led by impulse alone, she blurs into the masses of depravity. She forgets about her name and titles. Here, she is just a woman—not a silver-haired maiden, or a dragonrider, or her mother’s daughter. It is easy to forget duty when it is nowhere to be seen; when it is replaced with pure, unadulterated perversity.

Something flutters in her heart, and it must be freedom.

She passes by multiple stands, and because here she is not a princess, she catches the string of a flower pendant and snitches it from its spot. The trader doesn’t notice, too engrossed in his attempts to sell his goods for a too-high price. She is quick to hide it deep inside her pocket, and the smile that lightens her face is radiant.

Her feet ache, but she stubbornly speeds towards the nearest corner. It is right there, and she almost reaches its edge—

“Are you up to no good, niece?”

A gasp tears out of her mouth. She turns, wide-eyed and flushed, and finds a splash of silver-white strands shining against worn-out fabric. She scans the porcelain skin and the puckered scar that paints it in pinks; traces the leather of the eyepatch. He looks different in this particular light. Warm hues of the sky bathe him in a gleam that softens the curves of his features; there is an odd gentleness in him that she doesn’t recognise.

“Aemond,” she murmurs.

He seems pleased with himself. She catches a glint in his eye that whispers of carefully restrained mischief; his lips are curved into the beginning of a smile. She’s seen this particular expression only a handful of times, and always in the face of chaos.

It suits him. More often than not, and only ever quietly, she thinks he was carved for it.

“I didn’t take you for a little thief.”

Her cheeks burn. They must be scarlet red, and she inwardly curses both the humidity and the weight of his gaze that only fuels the onslaught of the tint. Aemond’s smirk grows. The blatant exhibition of her shame appears to have entertained him.

“A thief?” she repeats, eyes rounded with what she hopes is a convincing display of innocence. “Have you any proof?”

He breathes out a little laugh. It’s sharp and fleeting, and she drinks up the sound of it, oddly enthralled. She is not familiar with his laughter. Her skin prickles as its remnants linger between them.

Aemond moves closer, and soon the distance between them is so small that their cloaks brush against one another.

She is so caught off-guard that she barely notices the pendant dangling from his finger. Aemond swings it in front of her face, and when she reaches for it with a surprised gasp, he moves his hand away in the blink of an eye.

Her mouth twists in displeasure. His grin grows.

“Give it back,” she demands.

“It wasn’t yours in the first place.”

“I claimed it as mine.”

“Did you?” Aemond’s eye lights up in flames. From this close, she can almost sense the heat. “Is it as simple as that?”

“It is.”

She doesn’t expect him to truly return the pendant into her waiting hand, and her eyebrows furrow in surprise when he does. Aemond says nothing more. His expression is meticulously crafted—it is layers upon layers of riddles that she does not know how to solve. She imagines peeling them off one by one and finding him as he is—bare before her eyes. She wonders what she’d find written over his face when it is unspoiled by composure.

His fingers briefly tickle the skin of her palm before they’re gone. They leave a searing trail in their wake.

“It’s a poor disguise.” Aemond eyes the hood that falls onto her forehead, and the few curls that cascade down her face in silver streaks. “If you want to sneak out into the city, you ought to be more clever.”

She scowls. “And you, of course, know everything about it.”

There is contemplation in his eye. He rids himself of the smiles that she doesn’t recognise, and puts on a calculating face that she’s seen many times before. It makes him look more familiar. Most of the times that their paths cross, she finds him lost deep in thought.

“Come.”

She eyes his outstretched hand with scepticism.

He will likely drag her back to the Red Keep—to the judging stares and stinging reprimands and her mother’s burning disappointment. There is nothing she loathes more than being forced to endure interrogations regarding her behaviour. She will be scolded, as if it is a crime that she, a girl, has decided to experience something more than feigned propriety.

She thinks she would rather stay within the dirt and stench of the city.

Aemond hums in response to her silence, and the sound is so low that she needs to chase it through the clamour of the street. There is something akin to understanding that appears on his face.

His hand remains still.

“Do you wish to see the city or not?”

She blinks, perplexed, and it takes a mere moment for her fingers to lace with his. His are warmer than hers; heat engulfs her, and she unconsciously presses against him with doubled force.

When her eyes return to his face, Aemond is already watching her. He leans towards her. His breath tickles her cheek.

“Stay close,” Aemond orders. He stands in such proximity that they breathe the same air. “And don’t be a brat.”

She lets him tighten his hold on her hand, and soon they are walking the path side by side.

Aemond shows her the city in all its glory, and not once does his grip waver.

She spends the night tracing the remnants of his fingertips on her skin.

He smells of smoke.

It is a cloudless day, and she has decided to forsake the red walls of the castle in favour of the sun-soaked yard. There is only the scent of grass and parchment. It is why she senses him before he speaks. He permeates the air like he owns it.

“Shouldn’t you be with your septa?”

The skin of her palm tingles with the memory of his touch; she clutches at the silken fabric of her dress, if only to smother the sudden urge to hold something between her fingers. There is a large tome in her lap, and she flicks the pages absentmindedly, determined not to look at him.

She hasn’t seen him since their escapade through the streets of King’s Landing. It is not that she avoids him—only she does, because it feels as if the line between them that she’s known all her life became blurred. She searches for its remains and finds them long shattered. There is void space in its stead that she knows not what to make of

“Shouldn’t you mind your own business, uncle?”

She hears him snort quietly. There is a rustling sound that follows, and soon Aemond’s arm is brushing against hers. It is a feather-like touch, but she freezes all the same.

He smells of smoke. Fire. Scorching flames. Her skin burns beneath the sleeve of her dress in all places he has touched.

“The Seven-Pointed Star,” Aemond reads, blissfully unaware of her turmoil. “I didn’t take you for a woman of faith.”

Slowly, a little hesitantly, she turns her face towards him. His own is perfectly neutral, but she finds a glimpse of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. She squints at him, feigning offence.

“Did you take me for a woman of sin, then?”

He doesn’t answer. She supposes it is an answer in its own right. Before she can think it through, her arm shoots forward; she elbows him in the side and smiles at the startled gasp that leaves his mouth.

It is a nice sound. Her cheeks warm.

When her eyes return to the book, she finds herself eager to continue the conversation, though whatever it is that urges her to do so remains unclear.

“Septa Marlow is under the impression that I lack virtue,” she says, voice dripping with venom. She glances at him, suddenly needing to add a rushed, “It’s a vile accusation.”

Septa Marlow is a cunt. Her mother will not say it aloud, but she knows that they both hate the woman with equal passion. The septa is stuck in her old ways, and no longer remembers youth well enough to comprehend it. Her teachings persist only for the sake of upholding etiquette, and only for as long as it’s necessary.

Not much longer. She is almost a woman grown.

Aemond chuckles. “Certainly.”

She shoots him a withering look. The corners of his lips tremble; he seems to be holding back another fit of laughter, and she narrows her eyes at the sight.

“Do you disagree?”

He faces her fully, and she can now see the scar marring his skin. It looks softer in sunlight; its edges blend with his flesh. She traces its shape and length; wanders through every inch. If she tried to touch it—to caress it with gentle fingers—would he move away? Would he give her his scorn, and his anger, and would the fire that they share turn deadly? Aemond keeps the scar out of sight for a reason. He must hate her for looking at it.

But Aemond doesn’t shy away from her gaze. He doesn’t seem to mind the way she is watching him; his body tilts towards hers, and now both their elbows and their knees touch.

He’s beautiful. It is a thought that never once crossed her mind, and yet it’s true. Sunny spells hit his face in all the right places, and the purples of his eye glow, and the sight of him steals her breath away.

When he speaks, it is closer to a whisper, as though meant for her ears alone.

“I wouldn’t dare question your virtue, sweet niece.”

Fire returns, stronger than she remembered it to be. It’s all she knows.

“Good.”

Silence befalls them again, and her eyes revert back to the tome in her hands.

They widen when nimble fingers grab the book. It is gone from her grasp before she can blink. She opens her mouth to scold him; to demand that he give it back, even though she doesn’t truly want it.

Words die on her tongue when the heavy weight of the old tome is replaced by softness in the hues of silver-whites.

Aemond’s head is in her lap.

Her heartbeat jumps.

She stares at him, and then around the yard, and then once again at him. They are sitting in a fairly private area of the yard, but she knows that they’re never truly spared from eyes that are hungry for controversy. Someone will see. Someone will see, and then talk, and soon they will become yet another spectacle for vicious tongues. Protests rise to her lips—numerous, and each of them quite rational. Surely, he will see reason.

But then he turns, and his eye reflects the sun, and she forgets what she wanted to say, or why she wanted to say it, or why it matters if they were discovered at all.

He looks so peaceful. She’s never seen an expression quite this soft on his face. There is a trace of pink on his cheek, and his lips are curved, and he eyes her with emotion she cannot fathom.

She couldn’t possibly disturb him when his face is smoothed with serenity. Just a little longer, she thinks. She wants to see him like this for a few more stolen moments.

“Go on, then,” Aemond says without a care. “Read to me.”

Her mouth is dry. She clears her throat and hopes that her face doesn’t betray her.

“My lap isn’t your spot to rest on.”

Except it is. She will not say it—she’ll never say it—but having him this close feels right. Like this, his softness is for her eyes only.

“I have just claimed it as mine.” His eye speaks in a language of pure intensity, and in response she burns. “Is it not as simple as that?”

She bites her tongue and says nothing else, and the stray strands of his hair tickle her arms. Her skin is on fire. She’s sure that her cheeks are, too.

When she reads to him, she prays that her voice does not waver.

The feast thrown on her name day is a boastful one. She weaves her way through crowds of faces she doesn’t recognise, and pleasantries fall from her lips as befitting the daughter of a royal household.

A woman grown. It seems half the realm had been eagerly waiting for her to come of age. She is mostly surrounded by men, and they all appear to be looking for excuses to touch her.

She is in search for any of her brothers, hoping for a moment of respite from the dancing. It isn’t that she dislikes it, but she has long since grown tired of foreign hands palming her body as though they owned it. She would rather dance with Jace, or even Luke whose clumsiness precedes him—or all by herself, uncaring for the crowds that wish to sink their claws into her.

Respite evades her. Just when she spots familiar heads made of brown curls, another stranger forces his way into her personal space. The man is twice her age, and she immediately finds herself repulsed by the leering expression that he cares not to veil for something more respectful.

His palms are clammy. They will surely leave stains on her skin.

The man leads her towards the centre of the hall, and his spine is straightened in a pathetic display of pride. His hands find her hips before she can protest; his grip is harsh, verging on bruising.

The dance couldn’t last longer. Her head spins from the force with which the man whirls her around, and she must steady herself by gripping his shoulders, even if the prospect disgusts her. She prays that Daemon sees them; that he comes with his sword in hand, ready to spill blood.

But it isn’t Daemon that grabs the man by the arm and sends him backwards. It isn’t Daemon that takes her hand into his own, shielding her from the eyes of the stranger.

She is at peace. Safe. Fire licks at her skin and sinks deep into her bones.

Aemond remains silent. He leads her away from the man, not sparing him a glance. As always, his hand is warm.

“Uncle.” She cannot help but grin. “It would have been more polite to wait your turn.”

He hums, quick to find the right steps. He is a good dancer. His body was made for it.

“Would you rather have him paw at you like an animal?”

She twirls, and the colours of her dress blur into a rainbow.

Aemond is a pitch-black spot against the canvas of vibrant hues. She is drawn to him; drawn to his darkness, and the violet of his eye that disrupts it. Her palm finds his, and she bites back a smile when he boldly presses his skin to hers.

It is not a dance meant for touching.

“What if I liked it?”

Once more, she spins.

They stand back to back, and her spine tingles from the proximity. He is close; too close. His scent is all she can feel.

He has corrupted her with his disregard for propriety. She knows it, because not once does she consider what their family would say if they saw them.

“Did you like it?”

Heat spreads from her back towards her chest. There are many things she has come to like, and none of them are quite related to some unnamed lords.

She could say it. Whisper every perversity her mind has conjured.

But more often than not, their short exchanges seem to be a game that none of them truly understands. She must keep playing. It is what keeps him returning for more.

She turns around to face him and shrugs. “I’m not made of glass. There is no need to handle me gently.”

There is a beat, and silence, and hands itching to touch. Suddenly, without any warning, she is pulled into Aemond’s embrace; a gasp escapes her throat when she feels his hand tighten around her waist.

His fingers dig into the flesh of her hip. He holds her firmly against his chest, and she imagines their bodies blending together into one.

There is nothing appropriate about this kind of proximity. She stands before him as a woman, and he holds her like a man would, and surely no one sees through the flames that have flared around them. This—whatever it is—belongs to them alone.

But her skin tingles.

“Uncle,” she pants, face scarlet red with something unspoken. It is not shame, but something of a darker nature. She is not yet ready to name it. “People are looking at us.”

“Let them look,” he says, and each word has his lips brushing against her ear.

They are so close that she feels his heartbeat. It is as quick as hers.

Not alone. They’re not alone.

“Aemond.”

“Do you want me to let go?”

She doesn’t. He must know that she doesn’t. There is something perverse about his hands on her body—right there, in a hall full of strangers and curious gazes. In the centre of everything. She would gladly let him hold her like this forever—until everyone in the hall understands that she is his, and it is his arms that she belongs in.

“I do,” she says instead.

In a rush of boldness, with utter disregard for her own words, she presses her chest closer to his.

She hardly knows where her body ends and his begins, and if she wanted to—oh, how she wants to—she could step onto her toes and reach towards his lips—

“You're not very convincing,” Aemond whispers into her hair, and then his hands are gone.

He leaves her amidst crowds, surrounded by dozens of onlookers, and yet she sees nothing but the lines of his shrinking silhouette.

It is hours later that she lays amidst silken bedcovers, a sheen of sweat clinging to her bared body, and furiously rubs the spot right between her legs. Her teeth are clenched, and her eyes are burning with vexation, and her hand is not enough. It’s not enough.

She is half-sprawled atop the wooden table.

Her braids have long since come undone, and her hair now cascades down her back like a shield. She plays with one of the strands, curling it around her finger. Her other hand flips the pages of whatever book she is pretending to read.

The library is quiet. It is located deep enough into Maegor’s Holdfast that she knows none of her siblings will find her. It offers the kind of solitude no other place in the Red Keep ensures. Dozens of shelves thrice her height have been installed within the walls, all filled with the oldest and rarest of volumes in the realm.

She cares not for the scent of parchment. It is not books that she came for.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A small smile creeps onto her lips.

She knew he would come. His presence no longer takes her by surprise. Everywhere she goes, Aemond dutifully follows; no longer does she need to search for him in dark corners.

He is her shadow.

Every day, she breathlessly waits for night to come.

“Aemond.”

“Niece.” His footsteps echo through the walls. “It nears the hour of the owl.”

She rubs the tiredness from her eyes and swallows the yawn that has crawled up her throat. The book is now forgotten; she pushes it away, no longer interested in keeping up the pretence of studying its contents. When she turns, she does it slowly, if only to conceal her traitorous eagerness.

It is too dark. All she sees is a mark of silver painted on pitch-black canvas. His face is shielded from her view, and she bites back the bitter disappointment. She has gone the entire day without a single glimpse of him.

“Why do you care?”

Her eyes trace the outline of his silhouette. He strides towards the chair in front of her, and though she wishes he would sit beside her instead, she appreciates the closeness all the same.

The table is too large. She should have chosen a different one.

The air grows heavier, like it always does when she is with him.

“A princess shouldn’t be spending her time alone in the darkness.”

She wishes he could see her coy smile; wonders if he would offer her one of the private smirks she now knows by heart, or if he’d playfully scold her, or throw a comment that would induce a blush in response.

“It is a good thing, then, that you’ve found me.”

“Yes,” Aemond murmurs, and his voice is so guttural that she nearly melts at the sound. “It is.”

Then it is them, and silence, and darkness. It seems to have become a usual setting for their meetings, as though they required the shroud of night’s secrecy to conceal something illicit.

It isn’t wrong. Whatever it is—whatever looms above their heads—it is not wrong.

Absentmindedly, she reaches for the book; as always, he is quicker.

Their hands meet. There is nothing innocent about the touch, and she no longer desires to pretend that she is not burning. Aemond’s fingers trace the skin of her palm; tickle it, and she bites her lip at the sensation. It lasts only for a short moment—too short, never enough—and then his touch is gone, and so is the book.

She wishes he would forgo this restraint. She has long since grown tired of it.

“I was reading this,” she lies.

“Were you?”

She wants to tear the tome away from his grasp, if only for their hands to touch once more.

“No.”

“No,” Aemond repeats lowly.

If there was any light, she imagines that she’d find his eye intense and hungry; or maybe playful, betraying his endless desire to leave her breathless. He would look at her without a trace of shame, just like he always does. He would set her alight with one glance alone.

There is a thudding sound that cuts through silence. It breaks her out of reverie, and she flinches, squinting into the darkness.

Silver wisps cut through the air. Then they’re gone.

She straightens her spine, brows furrowed in confusion. It looks like he dropped the book and bent to pick it up, only she cannot see his hair. She opens her mouth, not quite understanding this particular game of his, until she feels it.

Something slithers up the skirts of her dress. Fingers wrap around her ankle, and then the other one, and suddenly her legs are forcefully parted. She gasps, and the sound echoes against the empty walls.

“Be quiet, niece,” comes Aemond’s muffled voice. “You’re in a library.”

This is madness. She cannot let it happen—cannot let him touch her like this, right there—

Aemond’s hands slide higher up her legs.

Her muscles tremble. He holds her with enough strength that she cannot escape his grip, forced to yield. Her vision swims, and there are only his hands—his hands—

He uses them skilfully. She has seen him hold a sword, and he now holds her skin with equal passion. His fingertips draw patterns down the length of her shins, and if she could—if she wasn’t possessed by a blinding desire—she would try to discern their meaning.

She feels his breath on her knee.

A small moan falls from her lips, and she clasps her hand over her mouth to cover it. It’s too late. He’s heard it.

Aemond’s grip turns vice-like.

He sears circles into her thigh. One of his hands is replaced by something softer, plushier, and she knows that it must be his lips atop her skin. He leaves fiery kisses on both her knees, and her heart gets stuck in her throat, threatening to jump out.

Higher, she thinks, and immediately bites her lip to prevent herself from begging aloud. If he moved his mouth higher—just a bit, only a bit—he would find out how much she needs him. Her desire has long since become choking. It takes a single brush of his skin against hers to get her slick and wet and ready.

Her skin is engulfed by flames. She must be touched, she must be touched—

Aemond’s lips are gone. She holds back a whimper when she feels fingertips brushing against her thigh in a parting gesture—little more than a caress, gone sooner than it came.

She closes her legs when Aemond’s head resurfaces from underneath the table.

Empty. She remains painfully empty.

“You should return to your chambers.” Aemond stands from the ground. He sounds cocky. “Who knows what lurks in the darkness.”

In the privacy of her bedchamber, she finds the mark that he left on her thigh. It is there for her eyes only. The mark haunts her, and she finds no sleep.

“I know you’re there.”

It seems that they only ever exchange words in darkness. Just today, she was seated opposite him during dinner, and he didn’t look at her once. She wonders if it is fear that holds him back in daylight. Her own fingers forever burn with the desire to hold him, and more often than not, she forgets about the reality of their relationship. Perhaps avoiding each other in the presence of others is safer. They were never meant to burn together.

Her steps halt.

“I’m beginning to think you’re looking for trouble.”

She bites back a grin. “What if I am?”

Finally, he emerges from the shadows. She looks at him without a hint of shame; traces the line of his jaw, and his nose, and the purples of his eye. His hair looks soft. She finds herself overtaken by the desire to grasp it with her fingers and tug.

“You’ve found it.”

“Have I?” she says, and her throat is oddly dry. She watches him, and he watches her, and flames arise. “You don’t look much like trouble to me.”

Aemond’s steps are slow. She has learned their pattern by heart. He has a habit of moving at a leisurely pace, and more often than not, she imagines that it’s yet another way of tormenting her. He knows of her impatience and aims to use it to his advantage.

When he stops, he is still outside of her reach. He raises an eyebrow challengingly.

“What about now?”

It is another game, and she shakes her head because she must.

Aemond hums. His eye wanders down her neck, and her skin prickles underneath his gaze. She holds her breath when he takes another step forward.

Still, he is not close enough.

“And now, niece?” Aemond asks. “Do I look like trouble?”

“No,” she breathes.

His scent wafts through the air, and she ravenously inhales it. Aemond’s eye darkens. He moves closer, and she laces her fingers together in order not to reach out for him.

Maybe she should stifle the last of self-control. Maybe she should grab him by the collar of his riding leathers; pull him as close as she needs him to be. Sometimes, it feels as though he is waiting for her to do it. To make the first move.

Before her contemplation turns into action, his fingers catch the skirts of her gown. She takes a gulp of air when he easily tugs her closer.

“No?” Aemond mutters.

He studies her mouth in silent deliberation, and it prompts her to take her bottom lip between teeth. His nostrils flare.

“No,” she repeats firmly.

His smile is pure sin.

“Good.”

Aemond’s lips claim hers before she can say anything else. Words die on her tongue, and she scarcely remembers what it was that she wanted to say at all. His skin is scorching hot, and his mouth is demanding, and when she gasps into his mouth, he swallows the sound like a man starved.

She throws her hands around his neck before he disappears; before once more he flees from her touch. He is both soft and solid, and her fingertips go alight from the fire flowing through his veins. Aemond pushes into her, and soon her spine connects with the stone wall. His hands wander over her body, tugging impatiently at the endless pieces of material that separate them.

His kisses are flames. None of her dreams have done them justice. Her tongue dances as led by his own, and her teeth graze his bottom lip, and she can no longer think straight when he whimpers into her mouth.

“Sweet girl,” he breathes, and she drinks up the words straight from his tongue.

She pulls him closer, closer, and he hitches her leg over his hip, and she thinks that there is no going back from it. She will forever be cursed with the memory of his taste.

Her lips are full of him even when he’s gone.

She is a woman possessed by madness.

An entire moon has passed, and he hasn’t touched her once. It is as though he forgot that she exists; as though her existence meant nothing at all. Distance stretches between them, sharp and thorned, and it cuts through her skin with vicious force. She burns with want. She burns until there is nothing left but ashes.

When she dreams, it is of his lips. Their taste has long faded, and though she chases the memory every night, she is left with emptiness. Sometimes, it feels as though she’s dying of hunger. She must taste him again. If she won’t, she thinks she’ll wither away.

She once thought that his teasing touch was torture. It’s only now—only when it’s gone—that knows it is the lack of it that elicits true torment.

It’s been three days since she saw him last. Even their last meeting was only in brief; he was gone as soon as her eyes found him amidst crowds of the Red Keep, his steps too quick for her to catch up with.

He has left her to burn alone. Now the flames have grown wild and lethal, and she succumbs to this insanity because she must.

She stays close to the stone wall.

It is nighttime, and most of the residents have retired to their bedchambers. The corridors are empty, guarded only in a few spots; her footsteps echo through the walls, accompanied by complete silence. She appreciates the semblance of privacy that has come with sunset. It is easier to slip by unnoticed when the lights are subdued.

Less than an hour ago, she caught a glimpse of Aemond in the courtyard, sword in his hand. He looked composed as ever, and by the end of the training session his forehead was sheen with sweat. It is what brought about this madness—the sight of him panting for breath.

It’s why she follows him now. He is quick on his feet, and so quiet that she cannot even hear him. All she sees is the broadness of his shoulders and silver-white wisps resting on his back.

She moves faster, determined not to lose him. Her pace turns unrelenting; she watches Aemond reach for the gilded knob. Just before the doors close behind him, she slips inside.

His bedchamber is swallowed by darkness. It is the first thing she sees; her eyes strain, eager to scan the entirety of the room. It looks pristine. His inclination for tidiness doesn’t astound her. She now knows that he keeps all his chaos leashed, preferring to build walls of purity around himself.

She sees through it all. Knows his vices by heart.

Aemond watches her without a trace of surprise. He must have known, then, that she was hunting him down.

It is different this time. The air is thicker. They are alone, and no one can enter his bedchamber without explicit permission. He must realise it. The purple of his eye is darker, and all she finds in it is desire.

Because it is him who has this time become prey, she is the first to make a move.

“I’m here, uncle. I came to you.”

It takes only one step for their chests to come closer, now on the verge of pressing together. Aemond’s face is a perfect image of indifference, but she knows better. There is something dangerous in his eye. She must push further than this to draw it out.

Her eyes go round with feigned innocence, and his own become hooded.

She wonders if his lips still taste the same.

“Won’t you touch me?” she whispers, never letting her gaze falter.

Aemond’s face remains carved in stone. “Perhaps you should ask nicely.”

It is as though he had struck her.

A beat passes, and she knows not what to say. Her mouth is dry. Her hands itch from the constant urge to sink into his flesh.

“Ask?”

He repeats without hesitation, “Ask.”

She bites her tongue hard enough to wince.

It was foolish of her to come. He must think her desperate; corrupt, with her displayed flesh pulsating from the desire to be touched. She is wanton and wicked, and shame burns her cheeks upon the realisation.

A woman of sin.

If he wanted to, he would have touched her already. He would take her into his arms, and breathe in her scent, and bury his fingers deep in her soul. If he wanted to, all hesitation would shatter into pieces, and there would be no need to collect them anymore.

And yet his hands remain still.

She must have been wrong. So, so wrong.

With her eyes stinging, stubbornly downcast, she moves towards the door. If she leaves quickly enough, perhaps he’ll forget she was there at all. Perhaps she’ll awaken the next day and it will all turn out to have been a nightmare. Perhaps she—

Aemond’s hand clutches her forearm. His touch is gentle but firm; she can feel his fingers slither around her skin, closing his grip to prevent her from moving.

She holds her breath. All air is gone.

“Ask,” he says again, “and you shall have it.”

He pushes into her from behind, and his heat engulfs her in wild flames. Aemond’s chest presses against the length of her spine; his hair tickles her skin. She bites her lip when his nose brushes her cheek.

Her heart beats in a wild tune. Does his own match it?

It must. Surely, it must.

“Ask.”

There is something desperate about him; something in his tone that whispers in a language she knows by heart. He is half-begging. She recognises it, because he has done the same in her dreams.

She yields. Utterly. Completely.

“Touch me,” she whispers.

He does.

Aemond grabs her hips and turns her around, and all softness she has come to know him for is gone. His eye is blown wide; it burns, it burns, it burns.

The kiss is bruising. His tongue enters her mouth before she can reciprocate; her spine connects with the surface of the door, and she welcomes the chill it provides with relief. Aemond’s lips are demanding and forceful, and he gasps into her mouth when her hands finally touch his bare skin. She digs her fingers into his neck, and tugs at his hair, and pulls him closer. It is not enough. She needs their mouths to mould into one—to never separate again.

He kisses her without his past control. She gasps for air, and Aemond breathes out into her skin, refusing to let go. His teeth nibble at her bottom lip, and she swallows down a whimper.

His fingers find her neck. The rings that adorn them are cold.

“Here?” he pants, breathless. “Do you want me to touch you here?”

She wraps his hair around her fingers, searching for an anchor. Her head swims, and all air is gone, and if it weren’t for his grip on her hip, she would crumble to the floor. Aemond groans when she pulls at the strands in her hand; she wants to bottle the sound and keep it as hers forever.

“Yes,” she whispers into his lips.

Aemond’s hand wraps around her throat; she sees stars.

Their tongues are at war, and she matches his tempo with determination. He tastes like smoke. Like the sun. Like oxygen. His thumb comes up to stroke her cheek, and the gentleness of this touch is a stark contrast to the way he devours her. She throbs with want. Now that she has touched him, she doesn’t think she could ever stop.

She didn’t know it could feel like this.

Because she’s possessed by greed, she breathes out a quiet, needy, “More.”

Aemond’s lips part with hers, and she immediately wishes to cry out in protest.

She burns under the weight of his gaze. Without once taking his eye off hers, Aemond’s hand leaves her throat, trailing down to her collarbone. His touch is feather-like; fingers tickle her skin. She sucks in air when his hand moves lower, playing with the lace neckline. One of his fingertips sneaks beneath the fabric.

“Should I touch you here?”

His hand boldly grabs her breast. She has never been touched like this. Her mouth dries, and she pushes her chest into Aemond’s grasp, flushing at the low hum he lets out in response. His lips find a spot on her neck that has her panting, and he sucks at the sensitive skin with such ardour that she’s certain he’ll leave a mark.

She moans when his fingers find her pebbled nipple and flick against it, and the wanton sound induces hot shame. He touches her through the fabric of her dress, and it is not enough. She needs more. She needs everything.

Embarrassed, she covers her mouth with her hand.

Aemond’s eye flashes with a wicked glint.

“Here?” he asks, pinching the nipple.

The sound that escapes her throat is smothered by her palm. Desperate, suspended on the verge of madness, she nods. Aemond’s lips curve into a smile, but his fingers refuse to give in.

Their lips touch when he whispers, “Say it.”

And because she’d do anything, anything, her hand obediently falls down.

“Please.”

“How prettily you beg.”

There is a tearing sound; she watches Aemond rip the corset of her dress apart, tugging it down so that her chest is exposed. She has no time to cover herself in scarlet shame, nor to complain about him ruining her favourite gown. His mouth finds her nipple, and she cries out when he sucks at it.

She knows nothing but his tongue that swirls around the nipple in torturous circles; nothing but his teeth when he bites down. Aemond presses her body further into the door, and there is not an inch left that separates them. They are one. Her arms hold him tightly. If she lets go, she will collapse.

His lips are gone. Before she can object, Aemond slides his palms lower—between her breasts, down her waist, over the curve of her hip bone. He sinks to his knees before her, and she watches, wide-eyed and unable to move. Aemond’s hand catches the skirt of her dress and hitches it upwards, bunching the fabric so that her skin is on display. His fingers find her bare thigh, and they are quick to wrap around its width. She whimpers when he pushes her legs apart, forcing himself in between. When he puts her knee over his shoulder, holding her upright with the sheer strength of his arms, she is gone.

“You have cursed me,” he murmurs into her skin, lips nibbling at her inner thigh. “I spend my days thinking of you.”

Her mouth parts; she gasps for air, chest rising and falling with increasing speed. Aemond’s hold on her thigh tightens when she squirms in his arms.

“I spend my nights dreaming of you.”

His sinful lips traverse the expanse of her exposed skin. They move higher, higher, and her muscles twitch with anticipation. He’s too slow, and her hips involuntarily push forward, seeking his touch. Aemond cruelly holds her still. She’s convinced that he’ll leave her skin bruised; convinced that before he reaches the spot where she aches most, she will have died from this torture.

When his tongue first touches her cunt, her vision blurs.

It feels nothing like her fingers. He is skilful and hungry, and the wet muscle laps at her clit in furious motions. Moans spill from her lips, and she has long since forgotten all about propriety. It means little when Aemond’s head is buried between her thighs; when the sinful act feels this holy. All thoughts dissolve into nothing, wiped away with his expert tongue. Aemond’s grip turns vice-like. There is nothing she can do but take whatever he wants to give.

Her clit pulsates from the onslaught. He spits, and then licks up the saliva, rubbing it in between her folds, and she nearly squeals at the sensation. It’s wet and filthy, and when he moans into her cunt, sending chills down her spine, she knows she won’t last much longer.

“Aemond,” she gasps, because his name is the only thing she knows anymore. “Aemond.”

Whines fall from her lips, and she no longer cares to smother them. Her hips rock, and his mouth keeps moving against her cunt, and she can’t, she can’t—

Right there, with his wicked tongue inside her, she erupts.

It’s like a storm. A wildfire. She shatters into thousands of pieces, and Aemond dutifully collects them all, drinking up everything that she offers. Her body rocks, and he soothes her with his touch and keeps her still. Their hands are joined, though she doesn’t recall the moment when they first touched. Aemond doesn’t stop until her gasps turn into cries. Before he moves away, his lips plant one more kiss right on her oversensitive clit.

Her body trembles. Aemond pulls her down, and she allows herself to be led by his hands. His touch is strong and gentle, and she cannot quite believe that he’s real. He puts her thighs around his waist; right there, on the cold ground, she straddles his lap. Aemond’s fingers weave through her hair, and he brushes them away from her face with such gentleness that she thinks she might weep.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, thumbs stroking her wet cheeks. “Such a pretty girl.”

For a moment, they just breathe. Their chests heave with equal fervour, and there is only silence and tender caresses. Her fingers trace the curve of his cheek; she follows its shape, searing it deep into her memory. She wants to remember this. Every detail.

Aemond’s mouth glistens in the spells of moonlight. He is wet with her. Her trembling fingers collect the moisture, and when she brings them to her lips and wraps her tongue around them, he groans.

Involuntarily, her hips rock. She sees him swallow down another sound.

Not once did he demand that she touch him. Aemond is hard beneath her, and yet he stubbornly clings to the restraint she thought to be long erased.

As though he didn’t think himself deserving of her touch.

“Take it off.” Her fingers reach for the eyepatch that separates them, tugging lightly. “I will see all of you.”

He eyes her with emotion she cannot name.

There is something achingly vulnerable about him. She watches as Aemond’s trembling hand reaches for the leather strap, brushing against hers in a feather-like manner. His good eye drops to the ground beside them, and she is quick to put her palms on his face.

She wants him to see himself as she sees him. To rid himself of whatever shame clings to his soul. She wants him to know that all she finds in him is heart-wrenching beauty.

“Aemond,” she whispers. Her fingers find the clasp, and she awaits his permission.

He hesitates. His gaze is dark. She counts the seconds, prepared to let go, but his voice stops her.

“Whatever you want,” he says at last. “It is yours. It is yours.”

Just like that, the eyepatch is gone. The scar stretches from above his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek, and although her hands are shaking, she reaches to stroke the mangled flesh.

Aemond wheezes. She catches the slightest trembling of his lips. His head drops, and for a moment she fears that he’ll move away from her, but he doesn’t. He pushes closer, as though seeking warmth. She will give it to him. She’ll give him whatever he wants.

He seems at war with himself, both touch-starved and unable to give in. But then he faces her once more. Her eyes trace the scar, and she bites back a gasp when she sees the sapphire in the place of his eye.

“You’re beautiful,” she tells him, because he is.

When he says nothing, she replaces her fingers with lips. She kisses every inch of the slash, and his sharp inhale is the only answer she receives. It is enough. She just needs him to know that she wants him as he is.

Aemond’s arms wrap around her waist, and it is enough. It’s everything she wants.

“I dream of you,” he tells her. “Of this.”

She opens her mouth, prepared to pour her heart out—to confess the lengths of her own desire, and the way it has rendered her mad. But Aemond grabs her hips, breaking them out of tranquility, and pulls the dress up so that it no longer sets them apart. She sees questions in his eye, though she doesn’t understand why he feels the need to ask them. Surely, he knows how deep the roots of her want go.

Wordlessly, she reaches for the laces of his leathers. It is enough of an answer; Aemond’s face softens, and then their lips collide again.

There are so many layers between them. Too many. She claws at his shirt, and he tears the last shreds of her bodice, and then they are skin to skin. She touches every single part of him, learning his shapes and curves. His body is toned, and his skin bears multiple small scars that must have come from a sword, and he is soft. Warm. Hers.

Aemond’s fingers find her entrance. She is slick for him—aching, pulsating, dripping. He circles her clit and swallows her moan, and then he is knuckle-deep inside her.

“Please,” she whines, though she knows not what she’s begging for.

His finger thrusts, and then it curls, touching a spot she never knew existed. She throws her head back, mouth open in a silent gasp. Aemond attaches his lips to her throat.

Release comes in waves, quicker than the previous one. It crashes into her body with full force, and she is helpless against the currents. Before she comes down, Aemond lifts her up and buries his cock in her cunt.

It hurts. It hurts, and he holds her close, and she whimpers into his mouth. Aemond is patient with her. He peppers her face with kisses, sighing into her skin, and stills his movements. The stretch burns, and she cannot help but clench around him. Her hips move on their own accord; her body chases what it inherently wants.

There is tenderness in his eye. It’s enough for her body to melt.

Aemond grunts and pushes deeper into her. The pace is slow, agonising, and she cannot take it. Her muscles spasm beneath his hands; she is completely at his mercy, waiting for each thrust. She tugs at his hair and whispers into his ear, demanding that he fuck her properly.

Time stills. Her clit throbs, and she aims to seek relief with her own fingers, but then Aemond pulls her hand away. The hunger in his eye has turned dangerous. It’s more black than purple.

“As you wish.”

She whimpers when he grabs her by the thighs and moves her body away from the door. He pushes her into the ground, spreading her dress beneath her back to soften the surface, and climbs atop her. His moves are frantic, and there is a glow on his features that must reflect her own. His hair tickles her face. She gives him a beaming smile, and his breath hitches.

His cock drives into her, and at the same moment his sinful fingers find her clit. She cries out. Her eyes roll back, and she tries to close her legs, trembling from the onslaught of pleasure. Aemond grabs her knees and holds them apart. Her dripping cunt is on full display; she sees him watch the place where they’re connected, his lips swollen and eyes glazed over. Aemond rubs her clit and thrust into her like a madman, and the bedchamber is bathed in sounds of clapping skin and wanton moans.

She makes no sound when she peaks. Her mouth falls open as she convulses beneath him, and Aemond pushes his fingers down her throat.

“One more,” he grunts. “Give me one more.”

Her body trembles. She can’t. No more, no more—

But Aemond’s torturous fingers keep flicking against her nub, and his rock-hard length twitches deep inside her, and she can’t stop. She can’t stop.

She is boneless. Her spine arches, and Aemond topples over her chest, and their orgasms come at once. They’re amidst clouds, suspended in the air; above turbulent waters; high enough to be scorched by the sun.

They burn. Together, they burn.

Their hearts beat in the same tune. Aemond puts his hand on her chest, in the hollow between her breasts, and she weaves her fingers into his hair. When he looks at her, all she sees is scorching affection.

He stays buried inside her, as though equally reluctant to let their bodies part. Purple and sapphire glow in the dark, and she watches him, breathless and enthralled, unable to look away.

“I have claimed you,” he whispers into the night.

Her eyes are soft. With her fingertips, she writes letters down the length of his spine. She knows the words, though for now they remain invisible to the eye. Aemond looks at her with awe, hands still warm against her cheeks as he holds her. She wishes she could hear his thoughts. Wonders if she’d find remorse and guilt, and the desire to turn back time.

There is no regret in her heart. This—their bodies woven into one—was fated. His first touch planted a seed inside her, and its destiny was to bloom.

“Then I’m yours.”

His hands find hers, and there is only fire.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #aemond smut #hotd #aemond x reader #asoiaf #aemond fanfiction #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon

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lcverwrites · 1 month ago

Text

the lovers ― aegon targaryen ... part two

THE LOVERS ― AEGON TARGARYEN ... (part two) (1.9k)

summary ...it has been said that aegon and his wife, the lady tyrell, were a match of political view, but it was suddenly apparent to anyone with eyes, that the two wandering souls were made of the same cloth, two lovers bound with fluttering butterflies and dazzling stars. pairing ... aegon ii targaryen x tyrell!reader (wife reader) warnings ... smut, this is pure smut, very little plot in this story, 18+ content ahead please be warned, afab reader, unprotected sex (p in v), soft smut, semi sub Aegon (as if he could be anything else), not totally dom reader but like soft dom reader note ... I'm obsessed with this pairing so much, you don't even wanna know. I have so much I wanna write for them, but I'm lacking in the words to actually get it written out. I also have been thinking about making this an actual series, like I've planned out a pinterest board for this couple, I'M OBSESSED.

<< previous part

⠀⠀⠀The red Keep had been engulfed in a warm silence, the waning moon rising just beyond the horizon, painting the castle in a cool milky glow. Few people milled around the castle at this time. A maid carrying a pile of fresh linens for the Princess, guards standing at the ready at the entrance of the hall, poised with silent strength and sharpened weapons, white cloaks glowing beneath the moon’s glittering presence. A coolness creeped into the barren corridors, the breeze carried on the back of the chimes of midnight, brushing upon warm cheeks, a lick of winter in the air.

But beyond the corridors, Aegon and wife painted a rather different picture.

The King’s Bedchamber was illuminated by the hearths flickering embers, bathing the room in Autumnal colours, splashes of warm orange and buttery yellow, breathing warmth into every corner of the room, edging out the cool night. The windows were left uncovered, allowing slips of moonlight into the room, wisps of frigid wind snaked their way into the room, but were pushed through the layers of linen and furs, whipping around the the gossamer like curtains that framed the windows, fabric dancing with the serenity that settled in the room.

Golden goblets sat strewn on the table, drips of crimson wine staining the rich wood, dripping below, painting the stone with the richly scented liquid. The spilled wine was followed by the finest of slips, weaved with rich silks, a pearlescent sheen to the fabric, underclothes belonging to someone of riches. It was intertwined with a piece of cotton, a fine material on its own, belonging to someone entirely different. It was mangled around a pair of leather breeches, ties haphazardly undone, holding on for dear life.

The trail of wine and clothing led to the spacious bed in the middle of the room. The bed is lofted by an ornate frame, wooden carvings swirled around the rich oak wood. Covered in freshly washed, soft looking linens, blankets of rich green and stark white were strewn across the bed, hanging off the edge, tittering with every movement.

Aegon and his wife, Lady Tyrell, were tangled in the thin linens.

She pressed her hands against Aegon’s chest, nails pressing into the smooth skin, leaving crescent indents in their wake.

Aegon panted beneath her, hands running over the expanse of her thighs, dipping into the curved skin of her hips, holding her body against his. Her back curved as her hips followed a fluid motion, back and forth, slow circles that drove Aegon to the point of insanity.

Aegon thrusted his hips up, meeting her halfway. The sudden movement called a whine from between her lips, airy and sultry.

“Aegon” She whined, the air taken right from her lungs, and the only word she could spill from her lips was her lover's name.

Aegon felt spurred on by her wanton sound, using her hips as leverage, pulling himself up. His chest pressed against her own, each breath she took, pressed her skin further against his own, as if wishing to become one.

Aegon craved her pleasure like no one else, coaxed it out with the subtle shove of his hips, hands moving from their rightful place on her hips, grasping her backside, hauling her body against his, as if there were any space between them for her to take. They were skin to skin, sweat clinging to their bodies, slickly sliding between them.

“That’s it, my love” Aegon pitfully groaned, pressing his reddened lips against her neck, lapping at the sweat slicked skin, mouthing at the already pinkish skin.

One of Aegon’s hands released her backside, travelling the length of her spine, feeling her warmed flesh beneath his fingers. He interlaced his fingers in the loose strands of her hair, pulling on the soft locks, tugging her head back, allowing Aegon more of her neck to lather in kisses, soft bites of flesh beneath his teeth.

Her skin was smooth beneath his lips, warmed by the thumping of her heart, blood rushing through her veins. Aegon’s teeth skimmed over the taunt skin, wishing he could bite through her flesh, tearing through muscle and bone alike, devouring her very being, to devour the devotion she bled for him.

He imagined it would be sweet, just as she always was, but tinged with a bitterness that bled from his own heart into her.

He wanted to devour her, mind, body and soul.

And he knew she would allow him.

Her devolution was a double edged sword, and Aegon loved running his fingers over the sharp edges, cutting himself open for her pleasure, bleeding his heart dry for insatiable hunger.

Aegon used his strength to flip them over, laying her against the soft linens, hair fanning out around her, plush lips parted in a silent gasp, enjoying the change of position.

Aegon thrusted his hips against her own, his cock pushing further into her cunt, her legs locking around Aegon’s narrow hips, locking him against her writhing body.

“Yes…Aegon my love, please” She pleaded with Aegon, though Aegon was sure she wasn’t sure what she was pleading for.

But Aegon would give her whatever she desired.

He would give her his heart if she asked for it, served to her on a silver platter for her delight, it was her already anyway, he wouldn’t miss it.

Aegon placed a hand on the pillow beneath her head, holding his body above hers, while the other was gripping the supple skin of her hips, kneading the flesh of her thigh wrapped around his hips, nails digging into the flesh, claiming her body as his own.

“I love hearing you” Aegon whispered into the space between their bodies, their shared air was wet and hot, coated in their arousal and passion.

“I…I love-” Her statement was cute off by a rather loud moan, her hands coming up to grasp at the base of his skill, threading through the silvery locks of Aegon’s hair.

Aegon whimpered at the tugging of his hair, feeling a flush bleed across his already reddened cheeks, ducking his head back into the skin of his neck, teeth latching onto the skin of her shoulder this time, biting down harshly. She responded in kind with another keening noise, nails digging into the nape of his neck, seeking purchase to keep herself grounded.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in Aegon’s ears, the soft squelching sound of her wet cunt welcoming his cock was like music to his ears.

“Please come for me” Aegon whimpered, pleading with his wife, wanting the sweet satisfaction of bringing her pleasure that no one could. “Please, my love”

Her back arched, pressing her chest against his own once more, her hardened nipples scraping against his hot flesh.

Her lips parted a string of half words and pleasured sounds fell past the soft pillows. Aegon continued to thrust his hips, picking up speed, feeling her cunt gripping his cock like a velvet vice, holding his pulsing member inside her as waves of pleasure ebbed and flowed through her body.

“Aegon” She whispered, using her grip on the back of his neck to haul his face from the depth of her neck, pressing her forehead against his own. “I’m gonna--”

“Please, please, please” Aegon whispered, his words overlapping, lips pouted and slick with his own spit. “I want it, give it to me”

She tried to utter another string of words, but the only sound that fell past her lips was a strangled moan, perhaps it had been Aegon’s name, he wasn’t sure, but the sound produced goosebumps to raise across his skin.

The squelching sounds in the room doubled as she came around Aegon’s cock, clenching around him, pulling him into her gushing cunt. Aegon followed her body’s demand, continuing to thrust his pulsing cock into her cunt.

“There you are” Aegon’s voice caressed her cheek, hot breath fanning out against her skin, the low treble of his voice had a shiver of delight running down her spine, quivering in Aegon’s hold.

Her legs were like jelly now, struggling against the force of her pleasure, muscles shivering around Aegon’s hips, but keeping their vice-like grip around his body, holding him close, unwilling to let him free.

Not that Aegon wanted to leave.

“How beautiful you look” Aegon continued to talk to her through her orgasm. “Coming around my cock, coming for your husband-- for your king”

Aegon placed a rather harsh thrust against her quivering sex, resounding in a loud moan from her lips.

“How beautiful you look” Aegon continued to talk to her through her orgasm. “Coming around my cock, coming for your husband-- for your king”

Aegon placed a rather harsh thrust against her quivering sex, resounding in a loud moan from her lips.

“I love you” She breathlessly said, finally gulping enough air, to find the words she wished to say.

Aegon’s hips continued their movement, thrusting in and out of her hot, wet cunt. Hips snapping against her own, an ache forming in his thighs from the strenuous action, but he craved more of her, he always craved more from her.

“My husband” She graced Aegon with a wet kiss against her cheek, his skin like molten beneath her lips. “My King” She followed a path from his cheek, down the long expanse of his neck, teeth gently grazing his skin as she spoke, hot air pulsing around his neck, setting his heartbeat a race.

She used the little strength she had to maneuver them once more, pressing Aegon down into the sweat soaked linens, silvery hair fanning around his head like a slice of moonlight caressed his skin, setting him aglow.

She moved her hips up and down, swivelling atop Aegon’s still throbbing cock, enticing him to his orgasmic bliss.

She bent down, arching her back, lips pursed right beneath his ear, hot breaths spilling over his skin, a jerky moan ruptured from his lips as her tongue licked at the tender skin beneath his ear.

“My lover” She finally finished her loving words, voice reaching the innermost part of his worn out heart, creaking open as if she had pried it apart with her delicate fingers weaving her love into his very blood, burning deep holes into his heart, making a home for her tender embrace.

Aegon’s teeth buried into his bottom lip, letting out a deep and gravelly groan, feeling himself become putty beneath her hands. Aegon’s hands, now firmly pressing into the crease of her hips, held her body to his, giving a half attempted thrust, before he felt himself exploding.

Hot jerks of come erupted from his cock, burying themselves into her welcoming cunt. A shallow groan fell from Aegon’s lips, hips slowly trying to bury himself further inside her.

“Thank you” Aegon found himself muttering, the words falling from his lips before he could think about them.

She pushed her head from his neck, cheeks inflamed with a dark hue, hair a tousled mess around her shoulders, spilling over her chest, tickling Aegon’s rapidly rising and falling chest. Her lips were parted with deep breaths and she ground her hips into Aegon’s keeping his cock within her.

He could see that glimmer in her eyes, the one she had solely for Aegon, the one that spoke the thousands of words Aegon could never find. The unspoken love between them, the devotion that spilled from their very pours, bleeding into each other. The love exchanged between passionate kisses and sweat tangled embraces.

“Whatever for, my love” She replied, in a way that made Aegon think she would never truly know what she did to him.

What she provided him with.

A love like the gods. To be protected beneath her caresses, to feel his skin beneath her palm, without knowing that his entire being belonged to her. To be graced with the heavenly touch of her lips, eliciting sounds only ever made for her ears to hear.

“For loving me” Aegon supplied the simplest of answers.

#aegon targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #king aegon #aegon imagine #aegon smut #aegon x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen smut #aegon targaryen x tyrell!reader #aegon ii targaryen x tyrell!reader #aegon targaryen imagine #hotd imagine #house of the dragton imagine #house of the dragon #hotd aegon #hotd smut #tyrell!reader #the lovers

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usedtobecooler · 2 years ago

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something about edging eddie until he's crying <3

tw: dom/sub undertones, orgasm denial, cumming without permission, handjobs, dacryphilia, scratching, one singular slap to the leg.

"please, please, baby — need it, baby. fuckin' hurts— aah, aah, nngh,"

eddie's gasps of pleasure send ripples of goosepimples up your spine, your hazy eyes glancing up from where they were glued to the almost purple tip of his cock. it kicks up slightly, a blurt of precum spilling from the slit as you squeeze just ever so slightly harder around his balls and the base of his length, clamping your thumb and middle finger like a makeshift cock ring, squeezing the soft flesh until he's wailing.

"one more?" you coo, using your other hand to stroke up the fuzz of his inner thigh until the muscles spasm under your tender grip, his leg kicking out, "one more, i promise. then you can cum, okay?"

you watch with morbid fascination as eddie's neck strains, his wild hair fanning out over the pillows and matting to his forehead with sweat, clinging to his temples as the tears begin to roll. the tendons in his neck pop as he grits his teeth, struggling to hold it — panting and gasping when you release the tight hold, once you know he's coming down from the impending orgasm you just cruelly denied him.

"colour?" you ask, just to make sure as your pre and lube slick hand wraps around the thick, neglected head of his cock again, startling a growl from deep in eddie's chest as you do. he hisses, arches into the touch, spine curving up from the mattress.

"green," eddie grits out, bitchy and annoyed as he bucks his hips up, tries to get you to just move your fucking hand, "so fucking green, i promise."

you hum contentedly, your hand that was once soothing his thigh coming down to crack lightly across the sensitive skin, shocking a yelp from him, "hips down, stop being a brat. let that be a warning."

your dominant hand slowly starts to pump up and down eddie's shaft, eliciting soft little whines and cries from him as your pace quickens, squeezing the hardened flesh the way you know he likes.

"so fuckin' desperate, please, please," he's a squirming, begging mess, clinging onto the bedsheets with bitten, polish chipped nails. he buries his face into the pillow, biting down on it and moaning into the fluffy lining when your palm swipes over the head.

you're working eddie over in a way that you know will send him spiraling, a small smirk gracing your features, knowing you'll be snatching it away from him soon, just as he reaches his high.

his hips jerk uncontrollably into the slickness of your hand, the squeaking bedsprings adding to the loud slap of flesh on flesh that bounces around the walls of your bedroom — rhythmic, dirty, filthy, even.

you watch under hooded eyelids as eddie's arms strain, veins protruding from the backs of his hands up to his elbows. a red flush of colour spattering all over his chest, back arched like a bitch in heat. he's ethereal, a fucking siren beckoning you and luring you in, making you lose all inhibition without even realising it.

you know it's going to happen before even he does, he's too slow to tell you he's close, and you're so dazed and hazy from watching his pretty face contort in pleasure that your reaction time isn't quick enough. you're not able to snatch your hand away before his cock is pulsing in your grip and the first shot of cum lands in his curly bush of pubes.

"sorry, sorry—nggh," eddie's whining, whimpering and crying as his load coats your hand, spurting up his stomach and making a fucking mess. his back arches and straightens up just as quickly, like a bow once the arrows been shot, as he tries to wriggle away from your tight grip.

you can't look away from his soft tummy as it twitches and quivers from the sheer force of his orgasm, ropes of cum splashing his pale skin and marking him up, painting the pretty purple bruises you'd left behind with a harsh mouth earlier.

it's stunning, almost painful to watch and listen to as your insides burn with arousal. your hand works him over as if on autopilot, your ears only just catching his wet gasps, his pleading for you to stop or keep going, you're not sure.

"baby, baby," he babbles, arching away from your touch and crying wetly when you thumb up over his sensitive tip, rubbing over the glans until he's thrashing his legs, "m'so sorry, baby. didn't- didn't mean to—"

"you didn't warn me," you cut him off, words coming out a bit more choked and soft than they usually would've when he disobeyed you, "so now, i'm going to work you over until you're hard again, okay? and we'll start from the top. colour?"

eddie sobs wetly, wincing as he stares at you with big, glassy orbs. your own eyes soften as your gazes lock, and he whimpers, breathy and desperate when your other hand ghosts down his thigh, nails bluntly scraping the skin in a scratching motion;

"green."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fic #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson drabble #my fanfic #mine #blurb #drabble #idk i saw a tweet about this and i had a visceral reaction #no character description so this one is gender neutral! <3

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codiinsight · 1 month ago

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Champions Of Her Heart | L.Bronze x O.Batlle

Summary: Lucy leaves Barcelona before Ona can admit she's in love with the English girl. What happens when both girls meet again in the Champions League final.

A/N: Requests open, 4.8K words

The pitch stretched endlessly before Ona Batlle, a sea of green bordered by roaring fans draped in Barcelona and Chelsea colours. Every warm-up sprint felt heavier than usual; every practised pass was a little slower. She was in the biggest match of her life, and yet her mind wasn’t on the game. It was on her.

Lucy Bronze.

Ona’s gaze darted across the field, her heart betraying her as it sought out the unmistakable figure in Chelsea’s neon away kit. Lucy moved with grace, her every movement sharp, deliberate, and powerful. She hadn’t changed—not in her stride or quiet confidence. It was infuriating.

“Focus,” Ona muttered to herself, forcing her eyes back to her own team. The pressure of the Champions League final was enough without her letting old, unresolved feelings cloud her judgment. But even as she tried to shake the thoughts away, Lucy’s laugh—low and effortless—floated across the field, teasing her resolve.

22 months had passed since Lucy left Barcelona, 22 months since Ona had watched her walk away, taking a piece of Ona’s heart with her. She’d wanted to say something then, to stop her, to admit the truth she had been too scared to face. But she hadn’t. And now, here they were—not friends or teammates, but enemies in a match that demanded nothing less than perfection.

“Ona,” Alexia’s voice broke her thoughts, the captain’s steady presence grounding her. “Are you with us?”

“Yes,” Ona replied quickly, adjusting her shin pads as if the superstitious ritual would somehow refocus her mind. Alexia remained silent, but her eyes spoke volumes.

Ona was distracted. And distraction in a game like this could be deadly.

————-

June 17th. 2024, One day after Barcelona’s final match day of the season.

The Joan Gamper training ground hummed with a quiet energy. A mix of routine and recovery drills echoed in the background as the weight of Lucy Bronze’s departure hung in the air.

Moving from teammate to teammate, Lucy shared hugs, laughs, and casual promises to stay in touch. Each is filled with the weight of unspoken emotion. The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the field in warm golds and long shadows. From afar, Ona Batlle stood with her arms crossed firmly over her chest.

Lucy’s departure wasn’t a surprise—well, not anymore. The headlines had splashed across every sports site in the last week, announcing her move to Chelsea. When Ona first read the news she stared at her phone in disbelief, hoping and praying it was a mistake.

But the unexpected confirmation came swiftly.

Lucia Roberta Tough Bronze was leaving sunny Barcelona for Chelsea.

The last Ona had heard, Lucy was extending her contract with Barca. So the fact that Lucy hadn't told her before it was announced to the public gnawed at Ona, leaving a dull ache in her stomach.

As Lucy embraced their Captain, Alexia Putellas, the sound of her carefree laugh only sharpened the ache in Ona’s chest. She wasn’t truly angry, not entirely—but the sting of disappointment was undeniable, raw, and lingering. Lucy had been her rock, her mentor, the steady hand guiding her through the chaos of football and fame. Yet, in this pivotal moment, Ona had been sidelined, finding out about Lucy’s decision as though she were nothing more than a bystander.

When Lucy’s gaze finally turned to Ona, she froze, suddenly unsure what to say. Lucy’s expression softened, and a small, almost apologetic smile graced her lips as she closed the distance between them. For a moment, Ona considered walking away, but her feet stayed rooted.

“Ona,” Lucy said gently, her voice warm, familiar, and far too casual for the moment. “I was waiting for you to come over.”

Ona blinked, her throat tightening. She opened her mouth to reply, but the words tangled and twisted before they could form. Instead, something quiet, almost instinctive, slipped out: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Lucy frowned slightly, leaning closer as if she hadn’t heard. “What was that?”

Ona dropped her gaze, feeling her cheeks flush. Her voice sank to a near whisper, barely audible even to herself. “You didn’t tell me. I wanted you to tell me. Before everyone else.”

Lucy’s brow furrowed, the initial confusion contorting to realisation. “I…” she began, but whatever explanation she had planned dissolved into the space between them. Instead, she reached out, pulling Ona into a tight embrace.

The warmth of Lucy’s arms around her was both comforting and unbearable. Ona’s hands hovered awkwardly at first, but instinct took over, and she clung to Lucy as if she could stop her from leaving.

“You’ll be fine,” Lucy said softly, her words meant to reassure. “Take care of this place for me, okay? Make sure Capi doesn’t make Mapi run too many laps” Her hand lingered on Ona’s shoulder, a gesture that felt far too final.

Ona wanted to say something, anything to stop her, make her stay, and admit what she had been too scared to voice before. But the words lodged in her throat as Lucy stepped back, her gaze filled with a mix of fondness and regret.

Lucy turned, walking toward the locker room for the last time, her figure fading into the golden light. Ona stood there, rooted to the ground, watching her leave. And for the first time in years, she felt utterly alone.

She stayed there long after Lucy disappeared. The muted sounds of her teammates continued around her, but it felt distant, like background noise in a dream. The weight of the moment pressed on her chest, a heavy reminder of all the things she hadn’t said.

She ran a hand through her hair, trying to shake off the overwhelming urge to cry. This wasn’t how she had imagined things. When the rumours about Lucy’s transfer started circulating, Ona had brushed them off as mild gossip. Lucy belonged here, at Barcelona, with her. The thought of Lucy leaving had always seemed impossible—until it wasn’t.

“Ona, ¿estás bien?” a voice called out from nearby. It was Alexia, jogging over with a concerned look. “You’ve been standing there for a while.”

Ona forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she lied, brushing invisible dirt off her training shorts. “Just thinking.”

Alexia studied her for a moment, her eyes clearly seeing through the facade, but she didn’t press. Instead, she slung an arm around Ona’s shoulder. “Vamos, let’s go home”.

Ona let herself be guided back to the rest of the team, her movements automatic. But her mind stayed elsewhere, replaying Lucy’s goodbye repeatedly and with it, the ache of words left unsaid.

————-

Thursday 21st May 2026 (matchday -1)

The hotel lobby was dimly lit, the hum of soft jazz music playing over the speakers. Ona had just come from a final team meeting, her mind buzzing with strategies and set pieces for tomorrow’s Champions League final. The stakes were high, the tension even higher, but none of it compared to the jolt that shot through her when she saw Lucy standing by the reception desk.

Lucy’s back was to her, her familiar silhouette unmistakable even after all these months. She was dressed casually, in a hoodie and track pants, her posture relaxed as she chatted with the receptionist. Ona’s heart skipped, her pulse quickening.

She hesitated, silently debating whether or not she should leave before Lucy noticed her. Unfortunately, the decision was taken out of her hands as Lucy turned, her eyes meeting Ona's almost instantly.

A brief flicker of surprise on Lucy’s face was quickly replaced by a soft smile. “Ona,” she said, her voice carrying across the room.

Ona swallowed hard, her feet moving toward Lucy before her brain had a chance to protest. “Hola,” she managed, her voice quieter than she intended. “I mean. Uh.. hi” she coughed softly.

For a moment, they just stood there, awkwardly searching for the right words. The last time they had seen each other, Lucy had been walking away, and Ona had been too afraid to stop her. Now, here they were, brought together by chance—or maybe by fate.

“You look good,” Lucy said finally, breaking the silence.

“Gracias,” Ona replied, shifting to her feet. “You too.”

The conversation felt awkward and unnatural as if the months of distance had built a wall between them that neither knew how to climb. Ona wanted to ask so many things—how Lucy had been, if she was happy at Chelsea, and if she had ever thought about what she left behind—but all she could manage was, “How’s Chelsea treating you?”

Lucy gave a small shrug. “Good. Different, but good.” She paused, her eyes flicking over Ona’s face. “And you? How’s Barça?”

“Same,” Ona said, her tone clipped. She wasn’t sure why the conversation felt so forced.

Another beat of silence passed, heavy and loaded. Lucy cleared her throat. “Well, I guess I’ll see you out there tomorrow,”

“Yeah,” Ona said, her voice almost a whisper. “See you out there.”

As Lucy turned and walked away, Ona’s chest tightened. It felt like their goodbye all over again—unfinished, unresolved. And yet, deep down, Ona knew tomorrow wasn’t just about the game. It was about Lucy. About the chance to finally say everything she couldn’t before.

————-

The stadium hummed with anticipation as fans flooded the stands, their chants echoing across the pitch. The Champions League final between Barcelona and Chelsea was set to be a clash of titans, but for Ona Batlle, a storm was brewing inside her chest. She stood on the pitch during the pre-match inspection, the watered grass dampening her trainers, her gaze scanning the familiar faces of her teammates.

And then she saw her.

Lucy Bronze. Lucy stood on the opposite side of the pitch, laughing at something one of her Chelsea teammates had said. Even in the midst of a team huddle, Lucy’s presence seemed larger than life, magnetic in a way that Ona couldn’t ignore. Her carefree movements, the way she threw her head back in laughter—it all made Ona’s heartache with an intensity she wasn’t prepared for.

As the two teams drifted closer, mingling briefly in the spirit of sportsmanship, Lucy’s gaze found Ona’s. It was only a second, but the look was loaded, carrying the weight of their history.

“Lucia!” Alexia called, pulling Lucy into a quick hug. One by one, other Barcelona players greeted their former teammate with smiles and light-hearted jabs about her “traitorous” move to Chelsea. Ona stayed at the edges of the group, torn between approaching and staying invisible.

But Lucy noticed her anyway.

“Ona,” Lucy said, her tone soft as she broke away from the others. “Hey.”

“Hi.” The word came out too quick, too stiff.

Lucy’s brow furrowed slightly as if sensing the awkwardness. “You ready for this?”

Ona shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Always.”

There was a pause, the noise of the other players fading into the background. For a brief moment, it was just the two of them standing in the middle of the field, the enormity of the game overshadowed by the unspoken tension between them.

“You’ve been playing well this season,” Lucy said, her voice laced with genuine happiness.

“Thanks.” Ona hesitated, then added, “So have you.”

Lucy smiled; it was the kind of smile that made Ona’s stomach flutter and her confidence shatter. “I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

Ona bit her lip, debating whether to say what was on her mind. But before she could muster the courage, the moment was interrupted by a call from Lucy’s coach, Sonia Bompastor.

“Guess we’ll finish this on the pitch,” Lucy winked, her tone lighter now.

Ona nodded, her throat tight as she watched Lucy jog away. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It hadn’t been the moment she saw Lucy in the hotel lobby.

————-

The match was everything the fans had hoped for—intense, aggressive, and impossibly tight. Both teams were evenly matched, and every touch of the ball felt like a battle.

Ona had spent most of the game locked in focus, shutting out everything except the play unfolding around her. But when Lucy came barrelling down the right flank, the ball at her feet, Ona felt her stomach tighten. She had watched this play countless of times in training and studied Lucy’s every move. But knowing what made Lucy tick didn’t make her any less dangerous.

As Lucy advanced, Ona made her move, stepping in to block her path. But Lucy was quicker, her body driving forward with an unrelenting force. The tackle came harder than necessary, sending Ona sprawling to the ground.

Pain flared up her side, spreading like wildfire as the impact angered the small Spaniard. For a moment, she remained motionless, her mind struggling to catch up with the shock.

When she pushed herself up, Lucy was standing over her, her breathing heavy, a flicker of concern in her eyes. But Ona’s frustration boiled over and before Lucy could say anything.

“¡Eres una idiota! ¿Qué te pasa?” Ona snapped, the words sharp and cutting.

Lucy blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Ona, I—”

“No, me hables,” Ona interrupted, her voice low but seething as she climbed to her feet. She brushed off the dirt on her kit, glaring at Lucy as if daring her to respond.

Lucy hesitated, her jaw tightening. “It’s a game, Ona,” she said finally, her tone defensive but laced with something else: guilt, maybe.

Ona’s glare didn’t change. “Sí, pero necesitas calmarte,” she spat before turning on her heel and jogging back into position.

Lucy stayed rooted for a moment, watching her go. The frustration between them crackled like a live wire, but there was no time to resolve it—not now. The game was still on, and the stakes were too high to let personal feelings take over.

———-

The scoreboard read 2-2, the match teetering on a knife’s edge as the final minutes ticked away. Both teams pushed with everything they had left, bodies flying, boots colliding, the intensity electrified the stadium.

Ona sprinted down the left flank, chasing a long ball that skidded across the grass. Her legs burned, and her lungs begged for air, but she didn’t let up. She couldn’t. This was her moment—a chance to tip the game in Barcelona’s favour.

But as always, Lucy Bronze was there. Ona had barely taken two touches when Lucy closed the gap, her presence looming like a shadow.

Ona tried to cut inside, but Lucy anticipated it, stepping in with precision. The two collided again, this time with even more force. Lucy’s tackle was clean but aggressive, and Ona hit the turf hard.

This time, the frustration that had been simmering since the last tackle boiled over. Ona scrambled to her feet, shoving Lucy back with both hands.

“¡No vuelvas a tocarme así!” Ona shouted, her spanish cutting through the noise of the crowd. Her chest heaved, eyes blazing with anger.

Lucy stood her ground, her jaw clenched, a flicker of defiance in her eyes. “It’s football, Ona,” she shot back, her tone sharp. “What do you want me to do? Let you score?”

“¡No necesito tu permiso para ganar!” Ona snapped, her words fiery and unrestrained. Her accent thickened with her rage, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people on the pitch.

The referee was quick to intervene, stepping between them with a sharp whistle and a warning glance. The crowd roared in anticipation of a yellow card, but the referee kept the cards in her pocket, urging them to keep playing.

As they moved back into position, Lucy leaned closer, her voice low so only Ona could hear. “I’m not your enemy, Ona.”

Ona shot her a withering glare, her voice just as quiet but seething. “You left, Lucy. What does that make you?”

Before Lucy could respond, the game resumed, forcing them both back into the fray. But the tension between them was far from over.

The match pressed on with relentless energy, both teams desperate to break the deadlock. Lucy and Ona seemed drawn to each other like magnets, with every play pulling them into another clash and every collision sparking unspoken tension.

Midfield chaos erupted as Aitana Bonmatí darted through Chelsea’s lines, her footwork impeccable. Just as she prepared to deliver a decisive pass, she was caught from behind by a mistimed tackle. The crowd gasped collectively as Aitana crumpled to the ground, clutching her ankle.

The referee’s whistle blared, and players from both teams rushed to her side. Medical staff hurried onto the field, creating a circle around Aitana as murmurs of worry spread through the stands.

Ona hovered nearby, her heart in her throat. Aitana was one of their strongest players, a leader on and off the pitch. If she couldn’t continue, Barcelona’s chances would take a severe hit.

Lucy stood on the edge of the group, her face tight with concern. Despite the rivalry between their teams, her respect for Aitana was clear. But as the medics worked, her eyes found Ona.

It was a quiet moment in the chaos. The shouts of coaches and the buzz of the crowd felt distant as Lucy stepped closer.

“Ona,” she said softly, her voice carrying despite the noise.

Ona didn’t turn, her gaze fixed on Aitana. “What?” she muttered, her tone clipped.

Lucy hesitated, then took another step, her voice lowering. “I never meant to hurt you. You know that, right?”

Ona stiffened, her hands balling into fists. “Why now, Lucy? Why say this now?”

“Because I didn’t have the courage before,” Lucy admitted, her voice unsteady. “Leaving Barcelona was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And I didn’t tell you because… I was scared.”

Ona finally looked at her, her expression a mix of disbelief and anger. “Scared of what?”

Lucy’s gaze dropped for a moment, the vulnerability in her eyes unmistakable. “Of staying. Of what that would mean—for me, for us. It was easier to run.”

Ona’s breath caught, her mind racing. The confession felt like a crack in the armour Lucy always wore, but it wasn’t enough to erase the hurt. “You didn’t even give me a chance,” Ona whispered, her voice trembling. “I—”

But before she could finish, the referee signalled for the game to resume. Aitana was being helped off the field, her injury serious enough to force a substitution.

Ona and Lucy stood frozen for a moment longer, the world moving around them. Finally, Ona shook her head, stepping back. “We’re not finished,” she said quietly, her voice resolute.

Lucy nodded, her jaw tightening. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

And with that, they returned to their positions, the weight of their unfinished conversation hanging in the air as the game surged forward.

Extra time loomed on the horizon. Every touch on the ball, every run, every tackle carried the weight of a Champions League final.

Ona Batlle’s legs burned as she tracked Lucy Bronze down the right flank, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Chelsea had just gained possession, and Lucy was charging forward with relentless determination, the ball glued to her feet.

Ona didn’t hesitate. She surged forward, her timing impeccable as she slid in for a clean tackle, sending the ball spinning out of bounds. The crowd erupted, but neither player celebrated. Lucy rose first, offering Ona a quick glance, something between respect and acknowledgement flickering in her eyes. Ona ignored it, her focus unyielding.

With 10 minutes left in regular time, Chelsea launched a desperate attack. Lucy pushed higher up the field, her eyes scanning for an opening. When the ball came to her, her touch was perfect, setting her up for a long-range strike. But Ona was there again, darting in to close the space.

This time, the collision was harder. Lucy’s momentum carried her forward, tangling her legs with Ona’s. Both went down with a thud, the impact drawing gasps from the crowd and groans from the players on the pitch.

Ona winced as she hit the turf, her arms bracing her fall. Lucy was beside her, her chest heaving, her face etched with frustration and something deeper—something only Ona could see.

The referee blew her whistle, signalling a free kick for Barcelona. Lucy sat up, running a hand through her damp hair, clearly annoyed but not arguing the decision.

As Ona pushed herself up, she couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at her lips. “That the best you’ve got?” she said, her voice low, her Spanish accent thick.

Lucy let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “You’ve always been impossible,” she muttered, though there was no malice in her tone.

“Someone has to keep you in check,” Ona shot back, her expression softening despite herself.

Before Lucy could respond, the referee’s sharp whistle urged them back into position. The brief exchange hung between them like a truce, unspoken but undeniable.

———-

With less than a minute on the clock, it was Barcelona’s turn to make a desperate push. Ona sprinted down the left flank, her eyes on the ball as Alexia threaded a perfect pass into her path. The Chelsea defence scrambled to close the gap, but Ona was too quick, cutting inside the box.

Lucy was there.

The moment felt inevitable, their paths colliding one final time. Ona made a last-ditch effort to cross the ball, but Lucy’s challenge came fast and hard. The two went down together, the ball ricocheting off Lucy’s foot and into the net.

The stadium erupted around her, a deafening wave of sound crashed around her, but all Ona could hear was the sharp beating of her heart.

Colours of blue and red filled her eyes as her teammates came rushing towards her, but her eyes weren’t on them.

Her eyes reached Lucy’s, devastation of the own goal clear on her face. Her hands rested on her head as she tried to regulate her breathing. Their stare lasted for a second, a small underlining tone of acknowledgment.

Ona felt a swirl of emotion reach her chest as the small Spaniard jumps to her feet, her teammates crashing into her with their arms wide. Smiles stretched across their faces, their cheers drowning out the small twinge of sadness for Lucy in her heart. This was more than a game- it always had been.

———-

The whistle blew, signalling full time.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as the Barcelona players erupted into celebration, their elation palpable as they embraced, collapsed onto the pitch and raised their arms to the heavens.

Ona Batlle stood amidst the chaos, her heart pounding for reasons unrelated to the game. The weight of the match began to lift, replaced by the lingering tension from her encounters with Lucy.

Lucy stood at the edge of the pitch, watching the estatic Barcelona players with a disappointed expression. Her teammates consoled each other, pats on the back and murmured words of encouragement passing between them. Lucy accepted them with a nod but quickly slipped away from the crowd.

Ona saw her retreat, the familiar figure moving toward the quiet of the tunnel. Her body moved before her mind caught up, her boots crunching against the turf as she followed.

She found Lucy leaning against the cool concrete wall, her head tilted back, her eyes closed as she took deep breaths. Ona hesitated, the noise from the stadium fading behind her, leaving only the thundering rhythm of her own heartbeat.

“You always disappear when it gets hard,” Ona said, her voice steady despite the swirl of emotions inside her.

Lucy’s eyes snapped open, her expression guarded. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Ona admitted, stepping closer. “Because I can’t let it end like this.”

Lucy straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. “End like what?”

“Like we’re strangers,” Ona said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Like there’s nothing between us when there’s… everything.”

Lucy’s shoulders sagged slightly, her defences cracking. “Ona…”

“Let me finish,” Ona interrupted, her voice firm but soft. “I’ve spent the last twenty two months wondering why you didn’t tell me you were leaving. Why you didn’t give me the chance to say anything.”

Lucy sighed, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I told you—I was scared.”

“You’ve said that,” Ona said, stepping even closer now, her tone gentler. “But what were you scared of? Because I’m standing here now, Lucy. I’m not running.”

The vulnerability in her words cut through Lucy’s armour, her jaw tightening as she fought to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to break free. “I was scared of how much I felt for you,” she finally said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Scared that if I stayed, I’d mess it all up. That I’d lose you completely.”

Ona’s breath caught, the truth settling between them like a fragile glass waiting to shatter. “You almost lost me anyway,” she admitted, her voice trembling.

Lucy looked up, her eyes locking onto Ona’s. “I know. And it’s my fault. But I’m here now, Ona. If you’ll let me be.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw. Ona hesitated for only a moment before stepping closer, her fingers brushing against Lucy’s. “Don’t run again,” she whispered.

Lucy shook her head, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Not from you. Never again.”

And then, in the quiet of the empty tunnel, away from the noise and chaos of the world, Ona reached for Lucy, pulling her into an embrace that spoke of forgiveness, longing, and a promise for what was to come.

_____

A few months had passed since the Champions League final, and with the season over, the weight of the world seemed lighter. Barcelona had won the trophy, and Lucy and Ona spent that summer reflecting on everything—their careers, their emotions, and the unspoken connection that had finally been brought into the light.

Now, they found themselves on a quiet beach, far from the flashing cameras and the pressure of the pitch. The gentle sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air as they sat side by side, their toes buried in the warm sand. The sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and for the first time in a long while, neither of the girls felt the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Lucy glanced over at Ona, her lips curving into a small smile. It had been a long time since she’d felt this at peace.

Ona, her sunglasses perched atop her head, looked back at Lucy, her expression soft. “Can you believe this is our reality now?” she asked quietly, her voice carrying just enough to be heard over the waves.

Lucy shook her head, letting out a slow breath. “No. It’s been… a whirlwind.”

They sat in comfortable silence, fingers intertwined as the air between them was thick with unspoken understanding. The tension of their previous encounters, the questions and fears that had loomed over them, now felt like distant memories, fading with each passing day they spent together.

“I never thought I’d be here with you.”

Ona turned her head, raising an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Because I didn’t know if I’d ever have the courage to actually be with you,” Lucy admitted, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were afraid to disturb the moment. “I was so caught up in the fear of losing everything... I almost let it slip away.”

Ona reached out, her hand gently brushing against Lucy’s. “You didn’t. We didn’t.”

Lucy’s heart skipped a beat at the touch, and she met Ona’s gaze. “You really meant it, didn’t you? When you said, we’re not finished.”

Ona smiled softly, her eyes shining with affection. “Yeah. I did.”

The connection between them was undeniable. In the peacefulness of this vacation, surrounded only by the vast ocean and the sky above, their bond had become something real, something worth fighting for.

Lucy reached out, her fingers threading through Ona’s hair. “You know,” she said with a smirk, “I think I’m starting to get the hang of this.”

Ona chuckled, her heart lighter than it had been in ages. “Starting to, huh?”

Lucy shrugged playfully. “Hey, one step at a time.”

“Just don’t run off again,” Ona teased, her voice full of affection.

Lucy’s smile softened. “Never again.”

They sat there for a moment longer, the sun sinking lower in the sky, the world slowing down around them. For the first time in months, there were no games to play, no expectations to meet—only the feeling of each other’s presence, grounding them both.

Then, as the sun finally dipped beneath the horizon, Lucy leaned in, her lips brushing softly against Ona’s.

The kiss was slow and tender—a promise in the quiet night. When they pulled away, Ona spoke first, her voice barely above a whisper.

“This is it, isn’t it?”

Lucy smiled, her eyes full of warmth. “This is it.”

They leaned back against each other, the cool breeze from the ocean wrapping around them like a blanket. There was no more uncertainty, no more fear. They had each other, and that was enough.

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