#because she is the Ivory Lady

[askblueandviolet]

Opens portal , looks at Ling " i wish you good luck for the future because you will need it!" Chucks a box of matches at him "these might help! Byeee!" Closes portal.

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[anghraine]

It's always been intriguing to me that, even when Elizabeth hates Darcy and thinks he's genuinely a monstrous, predatory human being, she does not ever perceive him as sexually predatory. In fact, literally no one in the novel suggests or believes he is sexually dangerous at any point. There's not the slightest hint of that as a factor in the rumors surrounding him, even though eighteenth-century fiction writers very often linked masculine villainy to a possibility of sexual predation in the subtext or just text*. Austen herself does this over and over when it comes to the true villains of her novels.

Even as a supposed villain, though, Darcy is broadly understood to be predatory and callous towards men who are weaker than him in status, power, and personality—with no real hint of sexual threat about it at all (certainly none towards women). Darcy's "villainy" is overwhelmingly about abusing his socioeconomic power over other men, like Wickham and Bingley. This can have secondhand effects on women's lives, but as collateral damage. Nobody thinks he's targeting women.

In addition, Elizabeth's interpretations of Darcy in the first half of the book tend to involve associating him with relatively prestigious women by contrast to the men in his life (he's seen as extremely dissimilar from his male friends and, as a villain, from his father). So Elizabeth understands Darcy-as-villain not in terms of the popular, often very sexualized images of masculine villainy at the time, but in terms of rich women she personally despises like Caroline Bingley and Lady Catherine de Bourgh (and even Georgiana Darcy; Elizabeth assumes a lot about Georgiana in service of her hatred of Darcy before ever meeting her).

The only people in Elizabeth's own community who side with Darcy at this time are, interestingly, both women, and likely the highest-status unmarried women in her community: Charlotte Lucas and Jane Bennet. Both have some temperamental affinities with Darcy, and while it's not clear if he recognizes this, he quietly approves of them without even knowing they've been sticking up for him behind the scenes.

This concept of Darcy-as-villain is not just Elizabeth's, either. Darcy is never seen by anyone as a sexual threat no matter how "bad" he's supposed to be. No one is concerned about any danger he might pose to their daughters or sisters. Kitty is afraid of him, but because she's easily intimidated rather than any sense of actual peril. Even another man, Mr Bennet, seems genuinely surprised to discover late in the novel that Darcy experiences attraction to anything other than his own ego.

I was thinking about this because of how often the concept of Darcy as an anti-hero before Elizabeth "fixes him" seems caught up in a hypermasculine, sexually dangerous, bad boy image of him that even people who actively hate him in the novel never subscribe to or remotely imply. Wickham doesn't suggest anything of the kind, Elizabeth doesn't, the various gossips of Meryton don't, Mr Bennet and the Gardiners don't, nobody does. If anything, he's perceived as cold and sexless.

Wickham in particular defines Darcy's villainy in opposition to the patriarchal ideal his father represented. Wickham's version of their history works to link Darcy to Lady Anne, Lady Catherine (primarily), and Georgiana rather than any kind of masculine sexuality. This version of Darcy is a villain who colludes with unsympathetic high-status women to harm men of less power than themselves, but villain!Darcy poses no direct threat to women of any kind.

It's always seemed to me that there's a very strong tendency among fans and academics to frame Darcy as this ultra-gendered figure with some kind of sexual menace going on, textually or subtextually. He's so often understood entirely in terms of masculinity and sexual desire, with his flaws closely tied to both (whether those flaws are his real ones, exaggerated, or entirely manufactured). Yet that doesn't seem to be his vibe to other characters in the story. There's a level at which he does not register to other characters as highly masculine in his affiliations, highly sexual, or in general as at all unsafe** to be around, even when they think he's a monster. And I kind of feel like this makes the revelations of his actual decency all along and his full-on heroism later easier to accept in the end.

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*The incompetently awful villain(?) in Sanditon, for instance, imagines himself another Lovelace (a reference to the famous rapist-villain of Samuel Richardson's Clarissa). Evelina's sheltered education and lack of protectors makes her vulnerable to sexual exploitation in Frances Burney's Evelina, though she ultimately manages to avoid it. There's frequently an element of sexual predation in Gothic novels even of very different kinds (e.g. Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho and Matthew Lewis's The Monk both lean into this, in their wildly dissimilar styles). William Godwin's novel Caleb Williams, a book mostly about the destructive evils of class hierarchies and landowning classes specifically, depicts the mutual obsession of the genteel villain Falkland and working class hero Caleb in notoriously homoerotic terms (Godwin himself added a preface in 1832 saying, "Falkland was my Bluebeard, who had perpetrated atrocious crimes ... Caleb Williams was the wife"). This list could go on for a very long time.

**Darcy is also not usually perceived by other characters as a particularly sexual, highly masculine person in a safe way, either, even once his true character is known. Elizabeth emphasizes the resilience of Darcy's love for her more than the passionate intensity they both evidently feel; in the later book, she does sometimes makes assumptions about his true feelings or intentions based on his gender, but these assumptions are pretty much invariably shown to be wrong. In general the cast is completely oblivious to the attraction he does feel; even Charlotte, who wonders about something in that quarter, ends up doubting her own suspicions and wonders if he's just very absent-minded.

The novel emphasizes that he is physically attractive, but it goes to pains to distinguish this from Wickham's sex appeal or the charisma of a Bingley or Fitzwilliam. Mr Bennet (as mentioned above) seems to have assumed Darcy is functionally asexual, insofar as he has a concept of that. Most of the fandom-beloved moments in which Darcy is framed as highly sexual, or where he himself is sexualized for the audience, are very significantly changed in adaptation or just invented altogether for the adaptations they appear in. Darcy watching Elizabeth after his bath in the 1995 is invented for that version, him snapping at Elizabeth in their debates out of UST is a persistent change from his smiling banter with her in the book, the fencing to purge his feelings is invented, the pond swim/wet shirt is invented. In the 2005 P&P, the instant reaction to Elizabeth is invented, the hand flex of repressed passion is invented, the Netherfield Ball dance as anything but an exercise in mutual frustration is invented, the near-kiss after the proposal in invented, etc. And in those as well, he's never presented as sexually predatory, not even as a "villain."

[jinouchibhue]

Am I going insane? I feel like i made up a person. Wasn't there a black woman WWF wrestler named Ivory???? Like she was JACKED.

[chrollogy]

EPISODE 2: CHOCOLATE GONE WRONG

neuvillette x f!reader

NNN ‘24 masterlist | Next Episode

DETAILS: Neuvillette finds himself itching to break the sacred rule of No Nut November after naïvely indulging in aphrodisiac-laced chocolates gifted by Sigewinne—a popular craze among young Fontanian adults.

DURATION: 5.3k

CONTENT ADVISORY: explicit smut, mdni, porn without plot, p in v, creampie, neuvi has two cocks + emphasis on his draconic features, use of aphrodisiacs (neuvillette), neuvi uses his cane as a makeshift leg spreader bar, pet names (ma/mon chérie, ma belle, (my) love), not beta read

DIRECTOR’S NOTES: divider: cafekitsune. round 2! also i’m not quite sure i will get the next two fics out in time (or if i’m getting them out at all) but i will try my best T_T. your lil moon is having a rough patch rn so yeah but nonetheless enjoy!

For Neuvillette, the month of November was nothing significant to say the least—his job continued, overseeing trials, sorting out documents, meeting with important people, and more workload now that Lady Furina had stepped down from archon hood; so, when you had come into his office one day, talking about how a certain trend spread like fire across Teyvat, Neuvillette was rather intrigued.

It had a weird name—No Nut November—and couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the idea based on the name alone. He remembered how you explained to him Fontanians, and people of other nations were to engage in No Nut November which was to participate in sexual abstinence.

Naturally, the idea was all bizarre to him—not because he thought he couldn’t do it but more so the fact that it was natural for humans to engage in intercourse, same goes for his kind as well. Neuvillette couldn’t see the significance of such a trend, and why humans were participating but who was he to deny your proposal of a challenge? After all, there was no harm involved, he figured it would help him understand human customs a little better despite the it’s strangeness in nature.

Situated behind his desk, Neuvillette let out a deep sigh, letting the papers in his hand fall onto the wooden desk beneath before rubbing his temples. 

“Stressed, Monsieur?” A familiar, teasing voice sliced through the suffocating silence of the Iudex’s office. Neuvillette looked up from his desk, greeted by a friendly figure. The former was too focused on the case materials before him that he hadn’t realised the presence of another, “Wriothesley. I’m rather surprised to see you.”

The raven-haired male was clad in his usual attire, heavy obsidian boots sounding with each step taken against the carpeted floors.

“Ah, you’re not the only one.” Wriothesley chuckled, recalling his encounter with Sedene just mere seconds ago, who looked like she had just seen a ghost. Before Neuvillette could inquire about the sudden visit, the former beat him to it,

“Don’t worry, I won’t take up much of your time. I’m here because Sigewinne had given me an errand to run. She got these for you.” Taking a couple steps closer to Neuvillette’s desk, Wriothesley placed a small box atop the case papers. Carefully wrapped in an ivory satin ribbon, the azure container was adorned with intricate designs in gold that shone beneath the afternoon sun, neatly decorated chocolates peeked from the plastic window of the lid.

The Chief Justice subtly raised his brows in amusement, he wasn’t one to indulge in chocolate nor was he a sweet tooth but nonetheless, he appreciated Sigewinne’s thoughtful gesture.

“That is very kind, please thank her for me.”

Watching the way Neuvillette’s expression morphed into a naïve smile, Wriothesley crossed his arms over his chest, “Say, Monsieur, have you heard of the craze among young Fontanian adults right now?” He most likely already knew the Iudex’s answer to the question but what was life without a little teasing?

With how the popular sweet has been making rounds across Fontaine, it would be near impossible for anyone to be clueless about it but at the end of the day, Neuvillette was Neuvillette, probably the busiest man in all of Fontaine which is why Sigewinne had to intervene with the chocolates. The head nurse didn’t have to physically see the Iudex to tell how much he’s been overworking himself nor was a simple order from her was going to stop him.

So, what better way to disguise a remedy with something simple? Basically akin to administering medication to a pet concealed as a tasty treat

Sexual intercourse was the fastest—and best—way to relieve him of his stress. Sigewinne hoped for the Iudex to pardon her complete brazenness but he was as stubborn as a rock, and took her orders about resting rather lightly.

Naturally, Neuvillette shook his head with a light chuckle, a tinge of interest seeping its way into his skin, “I believe I’ve heard her talk about it but the details must have slipped my mind.” A subtle blush blanketed the Chief Justice’s pale cheeks at the mention of his lover, you. Wriothesley’s lips stretched into a teasing smile—one which the former paid no attention to.

 “Well, would you ever try an aphrodisiac?” At Neuvillette’s baffled expression, the younger male bit the inside of his cheeks, biting back a hearty laugh. 

“An aphrodisiac, you say? Substances that—” “That increases one’s libido, yes.” Wriothesley cut him off, tease practically dripping from his tone. Neuvillette was a man capable of many things, an esteemed individual once he’s in court but when it came to much simpler matters, the Chief Justice was nothing but clueless, especially regarding human customs that are a bit harder to wrap one’s head around.

“I’m afraid I have no such time for trivial things.”

The Iudex shook his head once more, this time dismissively waving a gloved hand at his friend. He cleared his throat, the blush on his cheeks deepening into a crimson hue—Neuvillette wasn’t going to say it out loud, especially not in front of Wriothesley but he deemed himself more than capable of maintaining his sexual desires and performances, you were enough proof.

Wriothesley left it at that, his friend may just end up as red as a tomato if he prodded around the topic any further. Needless to say, amusement filled him to the brim, “Alright. It was nice chatting with you Monsieur. I believe Sigewinne also left a small note there—”

The latter looked down at the box. Indeed, there was a small piece of paper neatly folded and tucked beneath the ivory ribbon.

“—do heed her letter.” With that, Wriothesley dipped his chin, sauntering over to the double doors.

Reaching for the handle, the Duke stopped in his tracks, he looked over his shoulder, icy cerulean gaze full of mischief, “Oh, and I hope you two enjoy—the chocolates, I mean.” With that, he left the office, leaving Neuvillette to his thoughts.

The day went by rather quickly, the azure skies turning into golden hues of oranges and yellows as the sun bid farewell to its people, disappearing below the horizon. The chocolates from Sigewinne remained untouched on the corner of Neuvillette’s desk, it watched as stars decorated the night sky; though, as the Chief Justice retired for the evening, he grabbed the box of sweets before heading out.

Neuvillette figured he’d share them with you at home.

Greeted with silent darkness, he was suddenly reminded of your words this morning at breakfast: ‘Oh, I have work dinner later, my love; so, I won’t be eating here. We’re celebrating a company milestone.’ Conveniently enough, Neuvillette had already eaten at his office before leaving so he won’t have the pleasure of sitting across an empty seat at the dining table.

Getting ready for the chilly night ahead, Neuvillette changed into his evening attire after taking a warm bath, he donned silken azure pyjamas paired with a fluffy ivory robe. His silver strands cascaded down the length of his spine, the cerulean bow, and golden hair clips he usually wore were neatly tucked away inside his jewellery box.

Situated on the love seat, Neuvillette casually flipped through case documents inside a brown paper folder. The fireplace across him was ablazed with hues of oranges and reds, casting a citrine glow upon the dimly lit living room. As flames danced atop dry wood, the dulcet sound of classical music poured from the record player, filling the space with its tunes.

After minutes of skimming and scanning the documents, he reached for the box of sweets next to his lap, taking time to read Sigewinne’s carefully written note:

Monsieur Neuvillette, I’ve acquired these sweets for you, and her! I figured these would help you loosen up a little so please do not shy away from consuming as much as you want. Make sure to share them with her as well. Enjoy!

Love, Sigewinne

A warm smile spread across Neuvillette’s face, and despite his better judgement of waiting for you to come home and indulge in the taste of chocolate together, he figured one piece wouldn’t hurt to try alone, right?

With the moon high up in the obsidian night sky, you walked down the cobblestone footpath that led closer to yours and Neuvillette’s shared space, the evening breeze gently caressing the apple of your cheeks. Work dinner had just concluded at Hotel Debord which housed a lovely singer who put on a dazzling performance.

By now, the streets of the Court of Fontaine were more deserted as people retired to their homes for the night, shop owners here and there packed away their respective signage, their stores devoid of any customers.

With each step leading closer to home, you soon found yourself in front of your home, keys jingling between your fingers as you unlocked the front door. From the entrance hallway, warm hues greeted you like an embrace, hinting at the ablazed fireplace in the living room.

“My love? I’m home.” You called out to Neuvillette while skilfully removing your shoes, and neatly placed them beside his own.

Met with silence, you figured he either must be occupied with something or must have fallen asleep while waiting for your return. You sauntered over to the end of the entrance hallway, making your way to the living room, and as you got closer, melodic sounds engulfed your senses—you recognized it, Neuvillette’s favourite classical music.

Turning the corner, you were greeted with a rather interesting sight, a wave of concern washing over you,  “Neuvi—Are you okay?”

Seated on the love seat was Neuvillette, his left elbow propped on its arm rest, face hiding behind his hand. A deep crimson blush painted his handsome face, intensified by the reds and oranges that the fireplace emitted. He sat there looking flustered, chest heaving up and down as he took heavy breaths. Drinking in the view, you noticed documents sprawled across the empty space next to him but what really caught your eye was the intricately designed box resting on his right thigh.

The box had its lid intact yet the loose ivory ribbon draped over his thigh hinted he had previously opened it. Upon closer inspection, you realised it's familiar packaging, a co-worker had shown it to you the other day, telling you how her and her boyfriend have been dying to try the popular chocolates—chocolates laced with a potent aphrodisiac. 

Your gaze made its way back to Neuvillette—who was still breathing heavily on the love seat—now noticing the prominent tent beneath his silken pants, the azure fabric was flimsy and delicate which left little to your imagination. Pushing away the impure thoughts that snaked its way into your mind, you kneeled before your lover with a concerned expression,

“My love, who gave these to you?”

Knowing Neuvillette, he most likely consumed the chocolates without knowing its true contents simply because he wasn’t aware of the trivial things that humans indulged themselves in.

He let out a pained groan, shaky and vulnerable as he shifted in his seat, “Forgive me, ma chérie. This is improper of me.” With trembling hands, Neuvillette covered his throbbing groin, completely embarrassed that you had to see him in such a state. Truth be told, he didn’t know what came over him—a chocolate or two was all he had, and the next thing he knew, his skin burned like a thousand suns as blood rushed down, down, down to his cock.

The very core of Neuvillette’s body churned with desire��carnal desire—and as each second passed, each tick of the ivory wall clock, the uncomfortable yearn between his legs grew. A light sheen of sweat coated his feverish forehead, as though he was experiencing a fever, and whatever this was, it heightened all five of his senses.

From your voice sounding like it dripped with pure honey, all the way to the saccharine scent of your body, Neuvillette was driven mad with lust. It didn’t help how you kneeled before him, and gently caressed his thigh, a poor attempt of comfort because it brought nothing but waves of icy shudders down the length of his spine. Sensitive. His body was completely sensitive to any external stimuli, and if you rubbed his leg any further, he might just come undone.

An embarrassing thought.

Neuvillette was pathetically needy. How preposterous, the high esteemed Iudex of Fontaine reduced to nothing but a lust-driven man eager to shove his aching cock deep in your velvety walls. The subtle buck of his hips against the thick air; the way he swallowed breathless whimpers at your touch; the violent throbbing between his legs, he was beyond irredeemable.

With another grunt, Neuvillette panted out, “Sigewinne gifted them. Wriothesley had delivered it to my office this afternoon.”

Truth be told, you weren’t surprised. At all.

Standing up from your spot, you walked over to the wall phone. You tried your best to ignore the dainty whimper that fell from Neuvillette’s lips as your warm touch left his thigh, you also tried to ignore how his body involuntarily sought you out—trembling hands reaching to chase your gentle hold.

With glassy eyes, Neuvillette watched as you deftly dialled on the phone, he couldn’t help but trace your breathtaking figure, from the square of your shoulders all the way to the curves and dips of your legs. Oh, the things he’d do to spread them open, and inhale your sweet essence like a mad man. Neuvillette could practically taste your honey on his tongue, its velvety texture sliding down his throat.

Another groan escaped your lover at the thought of eating you out, his cock rubbed against the fabric of his underwear as it shamelessly twitched beneath his pants.

“Ah, I didn’t think you’d be calling given the . . . circumstances.” Of course Wriothesley knew. Pure tease dripped from his honeyed voice, most likely paired with a smug smile, and an icy, taunting gaze.

“Why would you give him that?!” 

A chuckle from the other end of the line, “First of all, I just delivered the present. Our head nurse here bought it. She’s helping Monsieur Neuvillette out.”

You huffed, trying to make sense of Sigewinne’s motives, “By what? Feeding him chocolates with a potent substance?” You’ve always adored how Sigewinne cared for her loved ones, especially Neuvillette—whatever one’s deal was, she was always willing to help out in her own unique way. But this . . giving him such a substance without any warning felt like foul play, and not only was Neuvillette receiving the short end of the stick, you were as well.

You weren’t naïve, aphrodisiacs only wore off after one has reached their satisfaction through sexual means, like quenching one’s thirst. 

“You’re making it sound like we gave him drugs.” “It is drugs, Wriothesley!”

Before you could say anything else, gentle, yearning arms wrapped around your front, caressing your stomach which ultimately caught you off guard. Neuvillette. Nuzzling into the junction of your neck just beneath the telephone against your ear, he placed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your sensitive spot, soft smacks of his lips loud enough for Wriothesley to pick up.

You bit back a moan, free hand coming up to rest on the wall to support your weight. Neuvillette’s kisses had your legs trembling, it left prominent goosebumps in its wake as he trailed further down to your shoulder blades.

“Hm. Looks like it's time for me to go. Pass on my best wishes to Monsieur Neuvillette.” And with that, he hung up the phone.

“My apologies, ma chérie. I just—I need you.” Neuvillette sighed, hot breath ghosting over your bare skin, akin to a gentle caress coaxing you into the borders of lust, like a lone finger protruding from the darkness, beckoning you to its endless, sinful void.

“Love—mhm!” You let out a yelp, his hands finding comfort on the curve of your hips, keeping them still as he slotted his clothed cock between your ass. Neuvillette grinded into you, unshameful and devoid of any decorum. Placing the telephone back on the wall, your nails dug into the hearts of your palms, just the feel of his hard cock had you embarrassingly wet already.

Neuvillette was different from this, despite his sexual urges, he was never forward with you, he took his time—sensual and sincere, treating you like the finest piece of gold to ever exist. But saying you weren’t enjoying his brazenness would be a complete lie. Seeing a different side to your lover put you in a rather sensitive state, almost like a virgin bedded for the first time.

Something primal had awoken deep inside his core, and the only way to handle it was to satiate his carnal thirst.

Nonetheless, you tried to get your point across, “Neuvi . . What you’re experiencing is the effect of an aphrodisiac from those chocolates Sigewinne gave you.”

Your words fell deaf on his pointed ears, instead, Neuvillette mumbled some of his own, “I’m sorry . . Ma belle, I promised you about that challenge but it seems I cannot fight my urges any longer.” Another shaky sigh left his rosy lips.

Challenge? Oh.

Oh.

Even in his lust-driven state, Neuvillette was still thinking about the No Nut November challenge you had proposed earlier this month.

“I’m a man of my word but I need you, my love. Let me break the rules just this once, please?” Pure desperation coated every word that came out of his mouth. It was thick like honey, and melted on your skin like snow. God, at this point the stupid challenge wasn’t even on your mind anymore, not when he desperately humped your ass like an animal in heat—quick, little ruts of his hips that soothed the ache a bit better.

Who were you to deny your lover?

The transition from the living room to the shared bedroom was a blur—everything was hasty; desperate hands exploring each other’s bodies; lips sealed together in a rough, passionate kiss; a trail of clothes messily discarded on the floor leading up to the room. Everything Neuvillette did had you on your toes, completely breathless while trying to mirror his hurried actions.

Normally, Neuvillette would bask in your serene glory, peeling clothes off from your body layer by layer, and decorating your exposed skin with butterfly kisses. He’d gently stroke your hair, slender fingers weaving through the strands as he takes in your bare beauty.

Now, his tongue swiftly explored your mouth—lengthy and thick—something he has never done before. It dizzied you.

You landed on the foot of the plush mattress with a soft gasp as Neuvillette pulled away. Breathless and flustered, you stared up at him through your lashes, soft pants escaping your kissed lips. The sight before him made his cock twitch. How your hair was splayed around your head, mimicking a soft halo, a divine being greater than he.

Neuvillette discarded the last two pieces of clothing—pants and underwear—in one fell swoop, and what came into view undoubtedly had you clenching around nothing. Standing proud and heavy at the base of his abdomen were his cocks, both painted in a deep vermillion hue, and generously leaking pre-cum. The sticky pearlescent substance coated his bulbous tips, it glistened beneath the moonlight, beckoning you to wrap your lips around them, and have a feast.

This wasn’t the first time you saw Neuvillette naked nor were you not aware of his kind but it always brought you shock every time, not to mention the faint cerulean scales the underside of his cocks boasted, it was also his sensitive spot.

Stepping out from the puddle of fabric around his ankles, Neuvillette did the same to your undergarments, mindlessly tossing them elsewhere in the room. A low growl sounded from his chest as he pried your legs apart, his deft hands guided them to bend at the knees while resting the soles of your feet on the edge of the mattress, putting your glistening cunt on full display.

In less than a heartbeat, Neuvillette was on his knees, his eager tongue lapping along the length of your slit, your arousal pooled at the tip of his tongue like sinful honey, the divine taste of your cunt prompting another shameless growl from your lover. He repeated the movement a couple of times, each lick reaching closer and closer to your sensitive clit, and when he finally reached it with his hardened tongue, you let out a surprised gasp.

“Neuvillette!”

Shocks of electrifying pleasure kissed its way up your spine as Neuvillette tongued at your swollen bud—tight, fast circles, up and down, side to side, he toyed with you like it was the only thing he knew how to do. Your hands immediately flew to his ivory tresses due to his ministrations, it was almost like playing a game of tug of war, indecisively pushing and pulling his, unsure if you wanted more or if you wanted him to stop and slow down.

Lewd, wet smacks of Neuvillette’s tongue mixed with his low growls filled the room, allowing you to bask in the sounds of pleasure your lover unabashedly made. Almost akin to a vicious beast swallowing down its prey.

As your back arched off the mattress, and the grip on Neuvillette’s hair tightening, he pulled away, earning a rather disappointed whine to fall from your lips. Sweet arousal abundantly coated his lips and chin, bringing warmth to your cheeks. No one in the room dared to say it but this was the first time your cunt got embarrassingly wet, not that Neuvillette was inadequate in bed per se but you were wetter than usual, and you were confident that he had also noticed.

The glow of his lilac eyes and cerulean feelers were proof enough.

Standing up to his feet, Neuvillette languidly stroked the cock that sat beneath the other one, an immodest gaze raking over your sopping cunt, and how it shamelessly dripped with sticky arousal enough to soil the ivory sheets beneath.

“Are you ready, ma chérie?” Neuvillette’s lilac stare captured you in a haze, absentmindedly nodding at his words as though you were rendered speechless.

He slowly rubbed the tip of his bottom cock before pushing it past your soaked folds, it eagerly swallowed him in—a loud, shameless squelch filling your ears as he stretched you open further. Your toes curled at the sensation, hips immediately bucking into him as you moaned his name. The stretch was a pleasurable burn, one that had you rolling your eyes back, and digging your nails onto the sheets a little harder. Neuvillette was able to easily slip into you, courtesy of the plentiful slick that coated your velvety walls.

Neuvillette stilled as he bottomed out, quick, short pants falling from his rosy lips. God, you always took him so, so well, he could never get enough of the feeling of warmth wrapped around his cock. You took this time to get used to the stretch, your muscles relaxing to lessen the resistance he felt. Neuvillette filled you up so well you could almost feel him in your stomach—a thought that had you clenching around him.

One, two, three seconds later, Neuvillette slowly pulled back, letting out a shaky breath at the pleasurable sensation. And with only his cock head inside you, he took no time to slam all the way inside. You moaned, hands flying to his bare shoulders, immediately marking his pale skin with crimson stripes. Neuvillette unabashedly keened at the clench of your cunt around him, knees buckling as you gripped his cock like a vice, making it harder for him to move in and out.

“Haah! Mhm! Neuvi—right there, my love!” Colourful moans and whimpers urged Neuvillette on, dragging him further and further to the state of insanity. “You feel divine, ma belle . .” The words came out as a choked sob—pathetic and dainty. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead paired with a deep crimson blush that painted his cheeks, if anything, Neuvillette looked absolutely ethereal in this state despite how out of it the aphrodisiacs made him.

Not only were his cocks extra sensitive to touch but he could also perfectly smell the scent of your sex that lingered in the air. That sweet, sinful aroma he knew oh so well.

It made his head spin.

He tried holding back, he really did but your dulcet moans stroked his growing ego, and the feel of your sopping cunt deliciously sliding against him, the last thread of sanity that held him snapped.

Violently.

As if he saw nothing but bright hues of ruby, Neuvillette picked up his pace, long thrusts quickly turning into short ones as he mercilessly pistoned his hips over and over again, allowing his cock head to reach your sweet spot. Your fingers raked down the length of his spine—leaving violent ribbons of red in its wake—stopping right at the dimples of his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks as you dug onto the pale skin there. Neuvillette wasn’t the only one on the brink of insanity with how the underside of his other cock furiously rubbed at your swollen clit with each thrust, it rested at the hood of your cunt, thick and heavy.

“S-so good! It feels so good—ngh!” The thrust of his hips felt amazing, too amazing to the point where your body started to reject them. Your body entered fight or flight mode, parted knees instinctively closing together which only allowed an inconvenient amount of room for Neuvillette to move with.

Upon noticing the change, he slowed down, sweaty palms resting on either knee, “My love—haah . . Open up for me, would you?” Winded and weak, Neuvillette attempted to pry your knees apart to no avail considering his mushy state.

“Too much, mon chérie . . I—I can’t.” Neuvillette shook his head at your words before pulling out, leaving you confused and empty. From the mattress, you watched as he sauntered over to his side of the bed, grabbing a lengthy, obsidian object that rested against his nightstand. Before a question could even formulate in your mind, he returned to his spot in the blink of an eye; though, this time, with something in his hand.

A cane—his cane. The same one he used during court proceedings, in that context, it was deemed a sacred symbolism of his authority as the Iudex of Fontaine.

To use it in such a setting would be borderline blasphemy.

Hovering over your trembling body, Neuvillette placed chaste kisses on each knee, “Do you trust me, my dear?” Was that even a question? Of course you did. He wouldn’t harm you and you believed that completely.

With a soft touch, Neuvillette was able to easily pry your knees apart, the scent of your cunt once again filling his senses. He wordlessly slotted the obsidian cane beneath your knees, its surface cool against your feverish skin, you shuddered at the contrast in temperature. Neuvillette pushed down on the shaft of the cane, bringing your knees closer to your chest—you also noticed how it kept your legs still, meaning you had no option to close them.

You whimpered at the slight burn the position invited, especially with the cane pressing down on your soft skin. And once again, Neuvillette sheathed his cock inside your cunt before setting the same merciless pace. Only this time, you wouldn’t be able to deny him.

“Neuvi! Neuvi! Neuvi—aah! Fuck—mhm!” You held on to the ivory sheets above your head for your dear life as Neuvillette roughly pistoned his hips. With each relentless thrust given, your body jolted further up the mattress, breasts bouncing in full display for your lover to drink in. Oh, how he adored the way your naked body moved and reacted to him, so plush and pliant.

Sharp hisses from the bed frame interlaced with the pornographic sounds of your moans, creating a lewd melody for the moon to witness, a sinful song only for the darkness of the night to hear—full of heat and passion.

“Does—ngh! Does it feel good, my love? Will you give in to the—haah! To the pleasure I’m giving you?” Neuvillette curled over himself, tresses of ivory cascading down to cage your face as he leaned closer to you. Despite the blur of your vision, you noticed the faint azure scales that decorated the side of his neck along with his pupils becoming more animalistic.

Neuvillette’s draconic features only ever made itself known during his heat; so, this came as a genuine surprise to you. Not that you were really complaining.

His hand remained on his cane while the other found comfort on your hip, subtly guiding your body onto him to meet each thrust. Neuvillette met your gaze through a glossy stare, you watched as beads of crystalline-like tears formed on the corners of his eyes, eventually rolling down his reddened cheeks. The sight before you was beyond divine, it wasn’t every day one would see the Chief Justice in such a poor state, his usual expressionless face painted with a colourful expression.

One that unmistakably screamed how lost he was in pleasure: rosy lips parted to let out soft whimpers, brows tightly knitted together, creating a deep crease between his brows.

“Are you close ma chérie? Mhm—aah! Come with me?” Neuvillette breathed out. It took all of his will power to hold himself up, and keep his hips moving due to immense pleasure weighing on his body like a great burden. The feeling had him trembling to his very bones, like a yellow autumn leaf braving the evening winds, and no matter how much his brain screamed at him to stop, he didn’t.

The pleasure would be too great of a loss if Neuvillette stopped now; so, he kept going—pounding, rutting, and grinding into you as he chased both your impending orgasms.

You nodded vigorously, throat too dry from all that panting to choke out any coherent words. The burn of the position you maintained mixed with Neuvillette’s cocks stimulating your cunt sent you into a painful yet pleasurable overdrive.

Without a second thought, you hastily placed your hands between your bodies, blindly seeking out Neuvillette’s other cock, and wrapping your fingers around it. To the best of your ability, you vigorously pumped his shaft, matching your strokes with his thrusts.

Neuvillette shuddered, releasing a loud moan into the damp air. After a few more quick thrusts, he stilled deep inside you, sealing his lips with yours as you both reached your climax, eagerly swallowing one another’s lewd moans. Your back arched off the mattress, toes curling, and fingers digging into Neuvillette’s skin as you violently came, the feel of his thick, hot cum painting your plush walls white had your hips bucking into him, begging for more.

Embarrassingly enough, Neuvillette came a lot. Not only inside you—to the point where it spilled out of your cunt and onto the sheets below—but also on you. The cock you’ve been stroking spurted thick ribbons of cum on your abdomen, abundantly covering your skin in his essence. He looked at the filthy art that decorated your skin, colourful curses enough to make Fontainians gasp in shock filled his mind.

How beautiful you were marked by him.

“Did I hurt you in any way?” He asked, slowly peeling himself away from you. Neuvillette made sure to quickly remove his cane from under your knees, placing it flat on the floor before tending to you. He kissed your sweaty forehead, and pulled your bodies up the mattress with your head atop the fluffy pillows.

“Not at all but I have to say, I was reaaally looking forward to completing the challenge, mon chérie.” You joked, letting out a breathless laugh.

Neuvillette blushed, suddenly remembering how he readily accepted the proposal of your challenge . . What was it again? No Nut November?

“Another year is to be expected, I am determined we will overcome the challenge.” And you were looking forward to that. Very much so. You just hoped he wouldn’t consume another aphrodisiac-laced sweet in the coming year so the both of you could actually complete the challenge.

Well, at least you concluded that Neuvillette and aphrodisiacs weren’t such a bad match, right?

Looks like you had a certain head nurse to thank. —

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[aemondsbabe]

Duty & Sacrifice | Claimant Pt 2

summary: your wedding to jace will happen whether you and aemond like it or not; even still, you know where you truly belong

pairing: dark!brother!aemond x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, dark aemond, threats against jace, jace slander do not come at me you were warned, blood purest aemond like he's voldemort coded idk he loves that valyrian o neg, breeding kink, fingering, unprotected sex, piv sex, biting, brief hand on neck, possessive aemond, obsessive aemond, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 3.7k

a/n: big thank you to @rabbit-hearted for sending a request for more dark!aemond! i hope you enjoy!! dark aemond was a bit toned down in this one but he (and the reader) will be going unhinged psycho in part 3 uwu

gif creds to @aemondtargaryensource

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🔪read part 1 here!

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“Oh, you look absolutely beautiful, Princess,” your lady’s maid coos over your shoulder while she finishes tying the laces at the back of your gown, eliciting a chorus of echoing hums and titters of agreement from the other women fluttering about your chambers. 

“Thank you, Kella,” you murmur, meeting her gaze in the mirror, your lips stretched into a thin, tight smile. Even in your periphery, the sight of the ivory dress makes your stomach turn and twist into barbarous knots and you quickly glance away. You try to ignore the pang of guilt that eats at your heart as you keep your eyes trained on the shelves beside the mirror, silently reciting the name of each book stacked on them over and over again, anything to keep your mind occupied. 

It only halfway works, just as it had every time before – every other time you stood in this exact same spot as the tailor measured and fitted your dress, as you discussed hairstyles with your maids, as you chose jewelry with your mother. Helaena had spent weeks, hours upon hours, sewing bead after bead into the alabaster fabric, creating intricate patterns of florals giving way to flames, and you could hardly bring yourself to look at it. 

If I don’t look, it’s not real. If I don’t look, it’s not real, the words, foolish as they were, echoed in your mind for the millionth time as your maids added final touches to your outfit – sliding your feet into shoes and clasping on various ornate jewels. 

“Should we finish the hair first or get the cloak on first?” You hear one of your lady’s maids ask another, somewhere off to the side. 

“Mm, I think the cloak,” another one answers; you can hear the doors of your wardrobe being pulled open, “Her tiara may get snagged otherwise.”

Glimmers of red from the small garnet gemstones decorating your gown create bloody splotches in your periphery as morning sunlight filters through your windows; your mind begins to wander again despite your best efforts and crimson quickly gives way to hues of sapphire. Absent-mindedly, you dig your nails into your cuticles as you recall that night. The events play out behind your eyes like they have time and time again in the weeks between then and now – the pin-pricked chill you’d felt from his gaze, the way his whispered promises made your heart ache with a confusing whirlwind of longing and dread, the way his hands had felt against your skin. The sound of your blood pumping wildly in your veins drowns out any other noise as his voice echoes in your head. 

“Prove your devotion to me, my Strong girl,” he had commanded, directing your attention to the hilt of his dagger. And you had, the memories of it make you shiver even now. 

You had.

But it didn’t matter because here you are, clad in an ivory gown that may as well be a death shroud for all the joy it brings you.

“Princess?” A little gasp falls from your lips as you’re hoisted out of your reverie and your eyes finally focus on Kella standing before you, matching cloak in hand. 

“My apologies,” you say, managing a little chuckle, “I’m not sure where my head was at.” 

“No trouble, Princess,” Kella smiles, waving a hand dismissively, “I’m sure you’re eager to get the day started, marrying a prince and all.”

“Eager, yes,” you sigh, forced smile falling flat the second she looks away. The back of your throat tightens when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror and, for the umpteenth time today, you try desperately to ignore the urge to run – to sprint all the way to the Dragonpit, mount Silverwing, and go. Instead, you swallow down the sick feeling in your gut and compel yourself to be still as Kella drapes the cloak over your shoulders, the red silk underlining enveloping you in a sanguine veil. 

Just as she’s about to fasten it to the little ties at the shoulders of your gown, the doors to your chambers bang open, causing both of you to jump as your heads whip toward the sound of the noise. 

“Prince Aemond,” Kella says breathlessly, draping the cloak over an arm and curtsying politely. 

“Get out,” he murmurs lowly, violet eye not moving from yours as he stands at the doorway, arms tucked behind his back, “I wish to have a moment alone with my sister.” Your heart hammers so wildly that you’re amazed the sound of it doesn’t echo off the walls – that it doesn’t burst in your chest. 

You don’t miss the uncertain glances your maids give one another, though they ultimately nod their heads. A small chorus of, “Yes, your highness,” rises around you as they scurry from the room; Kella quickly drapes your cloak over the back of your vanity chair before leaving as well, the doors to your chambers closing behind her. 

Aemond quickly locks them, the barest hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his lips for a precious second as he does so, before turning to you. Your brows furrow as nervousness builds within you, nails digging into your cuticles as you desperately study the neutral expression on his face as he stalks toward you. 

“Don’t you look breathtaking, sweet sister,” his eye sweeps over your form as he speaks and you feel as if every ounce of air is pressed from your lungs when he gently grasps at your chin, angling your face up toward his when he comes to a stop before you. 

“How did you get in here?” You question, hating how feeble your voice sounds, how your heart slows the second he touches you. Your question is a valid one, though – your mother had taken great caution in the weeks following the night of your betrothal feast to keep you and your brother as separated as possible. 

He chuckles as he tilts your face to the side, exposing your neck. “Someone may have delivered an anonymous tip to Cole informing him of a supposed smallfolk revolt brewing in Flea Bottom,” you don’t miss the twitch of a victorious smile on his lips, “Of course, the Gold Cloaks had to attend to it – we wouldn’t want anything ruining such a… joyous day. Once they were gone, it was easy enough to slip from the Sept and make my way back here.”

“You’ve been planning,” his eye stays fixed on the ruby necklace clasped around your neck as you speak, though he hums in acknowledgement at your words. After another few seconds of heavy silence, you cannot help but huff and jerk your chin from his careful grip, “Did you come here to merely ogle at me or do you need something?”

“Mm,” he hums, narrowing his eye for just the barest of seconds, “There is something I need indeed, Strong girl.”

“Don’t call me that!” You snap, the little huff of laughter he gives only makes you more agitated. He turns his back to you and stalks over to your vanity; it’s only then that you see he’s holding a small box behind his back, “What is that?”

“Only a little wedding present,” Aemond drawls, violet eye meeting yours in the mirror as he runs his fingers over the soft ivory silk of your cloak; his nose twitches in disgust, the most subtle of movements that you’re sure only you are able to spot. 

“Can… can I see it?”

Another twitch of his lips, a little pulling at the corners, just enough for you to know he’s satisfied about something, makes your heart squeeze in your chest. Whatever game he’s playing at, whatever imaginary battle he’s thought up in his mind, he’s winning. 

Am I even fighting back? Do I want to?

Silently, he makes his way back over to you, each heavy step a nail in your proverbial coffin. He’s standing before you again, long hair spilling over the shoulders of his tunic like a pearlescent waterfall, held back from his face by two thin braids that join in the back. 

Finally, he opens the box, carefully sliding the lid off. Your lips part as you stare down at the contents, eyes as wide as the moon as it feels like all the air has been sucked from the room. 

“I had it made by the finest craftsman in the city,” he murmurs, eye gleaming with pride at your stunned reaction, “Do you like it, little one?”

“I… Aemond, I…,” you stammer, at a loss for words as you look over the necklace resting on a bed of soft cloth. Made from a breathtaking assortment of pearls, the attention to detail is immaculate; each milky white stone is threaded onto a fine silver chain, all leading to a gleaming deep blue sapphire in the center, framed by the figure of a small silver dragon. “I-It’s gorgeous, brother, I… thank you.”

“You deserve only the best,” he purrs, watching closely as you reach up and carefully run your fingers over the glittering stones, “Shall I put it on you?”

“I already have a neck –” You start, only for a loud gasp to rip itself from your throat as Aemond tears the ruby necklace from you, the delicate gold chains easily snapping and sending dozens of tiny rosy stones clattering to the floor. All you can do is gape at him, one hand grazing against the place on your neck where the necklace once sat. 

Meanwhile, your brother’s violet eye merely follows a few of the stones as they skid across the stone floors. “Pity,” he tuts, stalking around you like a lion would its prey before stopping behind you and meeting your gaze in the mirror. 

“Do you have any idea who that necklace bel–”

“I don’t give a shit about who it belonged to,” he hisses, reaching over your shoulder and grabbing your jaw, forcing your head to turn back enough to meet his heated stare, “All that matters is that you belong to me, not some sniveling fucking bastard who shall only bring you ruin.”

He stares at you for a second more as if trying to drive the point somehow further into your heart before finally releasing your chin, smirking at the little shiver that runs down your spine when he skims his fingers over your neck. 

Your eyes flutter shut as he delicately sweeps the hair away from the back of your neck before pressing a soft kiss there, only to trail more down the crook of your neck and shoulder; time seems to slow for a moment while you savor the feel of his lips against your skin and your chest tightens when he groans. 

He huffs when he straightens back up, like being apart from you, even if only by a few scant inches, is painful – a feeling you know all too well. Opening your eyes, you watch as he carefully clasps the sapphire necklace around your neck. The larger middle stone sits perfectly at the base of your neck, the rich blue hue sparkles beautifully against your skin. 

“Flawless,” he says lowly, gently kissing just below your ear before trailing his eye up to the floor-length mirror the two of you stand before, hands resting on your waist, “We look perfect together, don’t we, little one?”

Automatically, you nod your head, unable to separate your gaze from the mirror. He’s right, he always is. The two of you simply fit together – perfect compliments of the other. 

He smiles lazily over your shoulder and pulls you closer against him, relishing in the small gasp that leaves your lips as his length presses against you, already half-hard and wanting. “Yes, you and I were meant to be together,” he breathes, slowly pulling up the skirts of your gown, “You may be marrying that traitorous little cunt, but you’ll belong to me soon enough, sweet sister.”

Your brows furrow at that and you start to question him, ask what exactly he means, but before you can utter a word, a feeble, stuttering moan is wrenched from your lips instead. Aemond holds you steady, keeping one hand firmly around your waist, as the other fits itself between your thighs; you’re helpless to do much else than watch yourself fall apart in the mirror as his lithe fingers slip through your already drenched center.

A pleased hum reverberates against the side of your jaw as he presses soft kisses against your neck, ravenous eye glued to your chest as it rises and falls with sharp pants, your breasts heaving beneath the bodice of your wedding dress.

“Promise me you won’t let him touch you,” your brother growls, swirling his fingers around your already aching pearl with practiced ease, “Swear to me that I am the only one who will ever claim you, sweet girl.”

“A-Aemond, I…,” you gasp, already having to fight through the fog in your mind to remain upright, much less speak, “Brother, please!”

“Swear it!” He snarls, biting harshly at your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. 

“I promise, I promise!” You quickly concede, the truth willingly spilling from you. You did not want anyone else, you never had – your gaze had been firmly set on Aemond for as long as you could remember. Your heart had soared with hope when Aegon and Helaena’s betrothal was announced, only for those hopes to be squashed when you were all but promised to Jace not too long after Aemond’s eye had been taken – doomed to a marriage built on regrets. 

Your older brother had felt the same from an earlier age still, always doting on you, even as a child. He loves Helaena, yes, but his heart had only been yours. His screams still echo in your mind – the only time he’d ever raised his voice at your mother, when he’d stormed into her chambers as soon as Aegon had taunted him with news of the raven from Driftmark. 

But it was the same each time, excuses of repairing relations and making amends, commands for you and Aemond both to grow up – to make sacrifices for the realm. 

Was I ever more than a lamb raised for slaughter? That question has kept you up for more hours than you care to admit. Now, watching in the mirror as a man who is not your betrothed brings you to heel on the morning of a day you have mourned for years, the dam inside you finally bursts – you are tired of bowing to duty. 

“Aemond, please!” You gasp, nearly crying as the fog in your mind finally lifts, “Please, take me, please!”

He pauses at that, the fingers on your aching bud stopping as his eye flicks up to yours. His eye is studying, calculating while he looks over you — there is a terrible relief in being finally, truly seen. “Is that what you wish?” He hums, chuckling when you pant as his fingers circle your dripping entrance, “To be filled with me, little one?”

You’re nodding before he’s even finished the question, desperate whines spilling from you as he slips his hand from between your legs, only long enough to loosen the ties at the front of his trousers.

“I’ll breed this sweet cunt,” he grunts, the arm around your waist moving to hook securely around your chest while the other grabs at his length, positioning it at your entrance as you hold your skirts out of the way in a trembling grasp, “Give you a pure Valyrian babe, just as you deserve.”

All of the air is knocked from your lungs as he pushes into you, spearing you on his cock in one swift motion. Your fingers abandon your skirts to instead claw helplessly at the arm draped over your chest, knees nearly buckling as Aemond pauses long enough for you to adjust. 

“Gods!” You whimper as he sets a punishing pace from the outset, though the harsh thrusts feel like paradise after being deprived of his mere presence for so long. Your head droops forward as he snakes a hand around your hip to begin rubbing at your pearl yet again, lucid enough to know that the two of you are operating on borrowed time. 

“You have always been mine, all of you,” he gasps, watching as your bodies writhe together in the mirror. After a moment, he growls and grabs at your neck, forcing your head up until your eyes meet his. “That’s it, sweet girl,” he praises, leaning forward to kiss and nip at your neck and shoulder, “You’re mine, you’re mine…”

You nod as best you can as he chants the words again and again like a prayer, pushing his length in and out of you in time with each one, until your mind is nothing but a cacophony of mine, mine, mine. 

“I-I’m, Gods, I’m – Aemond!” You all but sob, the knot in your stomach that had been pitifully winding itself for weeks finally about to unravel as your cunt tightens around him, his grunts and growls in response only pushing you further to the end. 

“Do it,” he commands, redoubling his efforts on your bud, his other hand scrambling frantically to grasp at your stomach, “Let go and I’ll breed you, I’ll give you a babe, our babe, little one. Let go for me, let go.”

His muttered command sends shivers down your spine and you’re powerless to do much else other than obey and your eyes squeeze shut and your lips part as a harsh, shuddering cry is knocked out of you; fire seems to ignite every cell within you as you pulse around his length. Your knees buckle when your high washes over you, Aemond’s grip around your waist the only thing keeping you upright. 

“Good girl, good girl,” he murmurs, the sound of his voice just barely cutting through the rush of blood in your ears. A handful of thrusts later and he stills against you, growling and squeezing you to within an inch of your life as he fills you, cock twitching. 

You both still for a moment, harsh pants filling your chambers as you catch your breath. You whine when Aemond finally pulls his softening length from you, though he shushes you sweetly before leading you to your vanity chair and sitting you down. 

“I don’t want to marry him,” you whisper suddenly, sniffling softly as tears sting the back of your eyes, “I don’t w-want to, Aemond, I –”

“Shh, shh,” he says softly, gently cupping your cheek and angling your face up toward his, “There’s nothing we can do to change today, as much as it pains me. Were it possible, I would gut him in the Sept and stake my claim to you then and there, Gods be damned, I –” 

He pauses, cutting himself off with a harsh sigh, “I will have you, I swear it. I will not fail again.” 

Were it any other time, the dark shadow that lingers behind his words would give you pause, would frighten you as they have before. 

Now, though, they settle over you like a warm blanket – there is a safety in this fear. Aemond, for all his faults, is nothing if not determined. 

Whatever surety had settled within you only an hour before is swiftly and sharply pushed from your mind as you exit the carriage and climb the many steps up to the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor, unsteady even with Aegon at your side. 

By the grace of the Gods, Aemond had managed to slip from your chambers, and supposedly from the Red Keep, unseen by all except your lady’s maids, and they had all been sworn to secrecy long ago. Once he had gone, they filed back in and had blessedly made no mention of the intrusion as they bustled about you yet again – quickly braiding your hair through the prongs of your tiara and securing your cloak to your shoulders. 

They knew better than to ask about the sapphire clasped around your neck, or about the mess of rubies on the floor.

Your eldest brother, however, had not been so forgiving; his dark eyes had narrowed the moment you were seated together in the carriage. “Today, sister? Really?” He had teased, a dangerous spark in his eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” you had grumbled, clenching your legs together as you sat. 

“Hm,” he hummed, chuckling softly, “Maybe I’ll soon be mother’s favorite after all.”

“We stand here in the sight of Gods and men to witness the union of man and wife,” the septon’s booming voice fills the Sept as you stand together with Jacaerys, your hands in his, “One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever.”

You try your hardest to keep your eyes trained to his, to keep your lips crooked into a smile, but all you can focus on is the two stares practically searing your flesh. 

Alicent’s face swam in your vision, the way her cheeks had paled when she had caught sight of the jewelry clasped around your neck, at the guilty look in your eyes. You can feel hers boring into you now and you have no doubt her jaw is clenched, her fingers bloodied and raw. 

The other stare makes your skin prickle, much as it did on the night of your betrothal feast. You keep inwardly scolding yourself, again and again, as your eyes lock with Aemond’s every few seconds as he stands at the base of the steps to your side. 

“In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity,” the septon continues, gesturing to you and Jace, “Look upon one another and say the words.”

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” you recite together, all the while you desperately try to ignore the hollow, aching pit slowly opening itself in the very center of your chest.

“I am hers and she is mine,” Jace murmurs, dark gaze fixed solely on yours as he squeezes your hands, a terrible longing in his stare, “From this day, until the end of my days.”

“I am his and he is mine,” you say, each word feeling like a knife being twisted in your gut, “From this day until the end of my days.”

The septon gestures once more for the two of you to step closer together; it takes all of your restraint not to gasp when you feel a rivulet of Aemond’s spend leak down your thigh as you do. 

“With this kiss, I pledge my love,” Jace says softly. His warm hands cup your cheeks before he leans in but when your lips touch, all you see is sapphire.

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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[cressidagrey]

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 3

Summary: 

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings: 

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Elain Bashing, Amren bashing, Cassian is being annoying, Azriel's scars and his thoughts about them, Chronic Pain and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

Azriel was quite certain that his shadows were out to kill him.

They were acting like a couple of obsessed, lovesick teenagers around Eira, unable to keep away from her for even a second, constantly wrapping around her hands, winding through her hair, curling around her fingers, as if eager to remain in contact with her 24/7.

And they also kept...dressing her.

He knew they did that because the dress she wore that evening was nothing he had ever seen her in before.

It wasn't like it was particularly revealing. It had long sleeves that covered her wrists and the skirt fell to the floor as well. It wasn't even the fact that the neckline bared her shoulders, elegant, flawless ivory skin on display for him. It wasn't even that it bared the arch of her neck with the way they had swept her hair up into an elegant knot high on her head...or the silver pins they scattered through the updo...It was the rich cobalt blue of that dress that matched his siphons perfectly.

The sight of her in that gown had nearly stolen his breath away, his heart nearly having stopped altogether at the way the rich blue fabric looked against her ivory skin. It made her skin glow and accentuated each and every contour of her body…showing him the soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, her hips…

She was the most breathtakingly beautiful sight, the very picture of grace and loveliness and perfection.

And the most infuriating thing was that Eira didn't even seem to realise it.

She ducked her head shyly…like she expecting him to say something…negative about how she looked, instead of seeing how he nearly fell all over himself as he saw her descend the stairs in the River House...and the fact that he kept clutching that bouquet of flowers like an absolute idiot.

The books had told him to give her flowers. And then they had also supplied him with a whole list of flower meanings when they were already at it.

He had chosen snowdrops. They weren't even in season, which meant his shadows had gone so far as to go to the Winter Court to find them for him, but they clearly thought it to be worthwhile, if the look on Eira’s face when he had offered her the bouquet had been any indication.

There were two reasons for this choice: Her scent had always been a perfect match to them for him...and their meaning: Hope and new beginnings.

Part of him had wanted to tell her the reasons for his choice. Had wanted to tell her the meaning of the snowdrops, to tell her that more than anything, he hoped that the bond between them would continue to grow…But he had bitten his tongue and simply handed them over, silently praying that she would like them.

For a moment, her eyes had widened, her lips slightly parted in surprise, a look of wonder on her face. "They’re gorgeous," Eira had whispered, carefully taking the bouquet from him. “Thank you so much.”

Her words had made his heart flutter. But nothing had quite hit him quite so hard as when she had leaned slightly forward to bury her nose in the blooms, inhaling the delicate scent with a blissful little smile on her face.

And then the shadows had whisked them away and Eira had smiled at him, grey eyes wide and happy. "Do you often attend the symphony?" she had asked him quietly.

He had needed a moment to remember how to form words in his head, too focused on the smile on her face, the soft scent of snowdrops still clinging to her, making his instincts go berserk. Azriel had to force himself to focus, to remember that she had asked him a question. A question he actually had to answer.

"More often than one would think," he admitted. "I...enjoy music," he told her quietly. The soft confession left his lips before he had consciously realised it.

It was the truth, of course. He hadn’t lied. He did enjoy music, though it wasn’t something that people tended to associate with him much at all. Most people tended to think that he spent his time stewing in the darkness and brooding. (Which wasn’t to say that he didn’t do that…but he did have…hobbies of sorts. Music was one of them.)

But he did enjoy the concert halls in Velaris immensely. The symphony in particular.

Eira’s smile softened at his answers. "Do the shadows like the music too?" she wondered. His shadows practically vibrated with excitement at her words, preening at the fact that she had thought to ask them.

Very much so, they answered brightly. 

He looked down at the way they twirled around her hands, the way they twisted around each other like dancing ribbons, as if they were showing off their enjoyment, unable to deny her a single word. Azriel suppressed a smile at the sight.

"They love it," he confirmed quietly.

"So are you going to winnow us one of these days, Az?" Cassian broke into the conversation, his patience clearly ending.

Azriel shot him a glare, though Nesta was there before him. His brother wasn’t even subtle enough to have hidden the smirk on his face. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing. 

Azriel wanted nothing more than to throttle him.

He held out his hands for Cassian, who in turn had his arm around Nesta, who had watched the whole interaction with sparkling grey eyes...and then he held out his arm for Eira. She slipped her hand in the crook of his elbow, giving him one of these shy but dazzling smiles.

The minute her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow, his shadows purred in satisfaction, their voices sounding oddly smug as they twirled around their fingers.

One moment they had been in the Foyer of the River House...the next they were in the private Box the High Lord kept at the Symphony in Velaris. courtesy of Rhys. It made security much less of a hassle and the private box would also ensure some quiet. Which meant he could give Eira his undivided attention. Something he very much intended to do.

Eira stared around wide-eyed, her hand tightening around his arm and he allowed himself to pat it with his other...feel the perfect, flawless skin underneath his own scarred hands. It was hit or miss on a good day how much he could even feel with his hands at all, but that day he could swear he could feel every freckle. 

Her skin under his fingertips was so smooth, so flawless, completely unblemished. The thought that his hands, his hands rough and calloused, marked with scars, were touching her soft skin seemed almost like blasphemy. As if he shouldn’t be allowed to touch her, as if his hands weren’t good enough to even be near her.

"Oh," she breathed out, still wide-eyed. "It's beautiful."

Azriel followed her gaze, taking in the sight of the great hall, of its black and gold, the sheer size of it, the great stage, the hundreds of seats. He had to admit that it was pretty, but in that moment he hardly noticed the beauty of the hall. His eyes were on Eira, the look of wonder on her face as she took in the symphony.

"Did you never go before?" he wondered, but she shook her head.

"I haven't really seen much of Velaris," she admitted quietly. "I found the alterations tailor shop where I take commissions from and...sometimes I go in a shop that piques my interest but I have never gone to the symphony."

Azriel had to fight down a wince at that confession.

He knew that she mostly spent her time in the River House but the thought that she hadn’t even seen the city...it bothered something deep down inside of him. How could she have been here for over two years and still not have seen everything Velaris had to offer? 

But it also gave him...it gave him options what he could show her next...what they could do. If humans did carriage rides, could he get away with offering to take her out on a midday flight?

The thought of her flying with him tugged on something deep inside of him. A primitive part that he usually wrestled into submission easily. But this time it didn’t want to be silent, insisting that he could show her far more of the city, could show her himself while doing so. That part of him practically preened at the thought of having her hold onto him tightly as they flew through the air...

"Do you play any instruments?"  Eira asked suddenly as he escorted her to her seat, letting her gracefully slide into it.

Azriel’s brows shot up in slight surprise.

For a moment, he just stared at her blankly, blinking, his brain needing a moment to get back on track after the thought of a flight.

Then the question registered and he just about managed not to flinch. He shook his head, mutely. "I...I can't," he said, his voice hoarse. "I tried the piano but my hands..."

He trailed off and gestured vaguely towards his scarred fingers. 

He gestured to his hands, the scars, to the crooked little finger on his left hand. The scars were one thing, but the fact that he could barely feel anything in his hands...he usually managed the tremors, but his hands never cooperated enough to allow him to properly play the piano. Sometimes, on the worst of days, he could hardly hold a pen and actually write something legible.

He had enough pure grip strength to hold a sword, a dagger, and a knife… sometimes the fact that he didn’t actually have much feeling in his hands was a good thing in a fight. 

He had learned to mask it, of course...learned to use the right amount of pressure in a myriad of situations...learned to be gentle enough not to hurt anybody accidentally. But even with that...playing the piano had been a try once and never again.

He had made his peace with the fact that he simply wasn’t meant to play the piano. Had long since accepted that he was simply not good enough. But the part of him that still burned, that still ached when he thought about what he had lost, ached at the thought that he would never be good enough to play the piano, to play anything, really…it never stopped. 

His half-brothers hadn’t just given him unspeakable constant pain…but they had also taken so much from him. 

Eira stared down at his fingers in surprise, as if she was only now noticing the scars in them. His fingers itched at the way she stared at the scars on them, his instincts suddenly screaming at him to hide them from her, to not let her see. But he couldn’t do that. So he let her stare, letting her see even the scars.

There was a strange intensity on her face as her eyes roamed over the scars, almost as if...

Almost as if she was memorising every single one of them.

And then she reached out, taking one of his hands into both of hers, carefully touching the thick scars that covered the back of his hand completely.

Azriel nearly startled when she took his hand, only just managing to keep his instincts in check. His entire attention honed in on the touch of her hands, the soft way her fingertips traced the scars on the back of his hand, almost as if she was treating his skin like something very, very fragile.

The moment the lights went out and darkness engulfed them, his shadows twirled through his hair with soft, almost mischievous voices in his mind

He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from focusing on the feeling of her fingertips tracing his scars, from focusing on the fact that she was holding his hand.

Instead, he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to actually look towards the stage, to pretend that he was not focused on every single point of contact between their skin.

He wasn't sure what he had expected. Wasn't sure if he had expected her pity or anything else...

He had never talked about the scars much. Hadn’t really talked about…how they appeared on her skin. Didn’t talk about what they meant for him…how they still hurt him, to this day, centuries later and how they would still hurt him decades from now. 

And he certainly had never had anyone actually look at them so intently, so gently...let alone touch them like she was now.

He never allowed anyone to touch his hands, if he could help it, except for the people he trusted with his life.

And now here Eira was, holding his hand and tracing every single one of his scars so softly...like she wanted to memorise every single one of them.

She didn't let go. Not once. Not during the whole three hours.

Eira didn’t let go. She didn’t flinch back in disgust or shame or embarrassment…she did nothing. She held onto his hand during the entire performance, gently tracing the scars on his skin, as if she was memorising each and every single one of these markings.

She didn’t flinch back like they were disgusting. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t…

Azriel didn’t know what to do. Didn’t quite know what to do with the way his head was racing, the way his shadows were practically purring in his mind.

So he didn’t do anything.

He just sat there, silent, still, and let her hold his hand.

He couldn’t recall a single piece that had been played, not a single instrument that the symphony had played, not a single second.

His entire focus had remained on the feeling of her touching his hands, tracing his scars, holding him delicately like he would disappear if she let go.

Even as the last performance ended, the final violin notes echoing off the walls of the great hall and the lights came up again, her hand remained in his, her fingertips gently tracing the same scars that she had been tracing for the past three hours.

He wasn’t sure if she was even aware she was doing it, still tracing his scars as if they were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen as if she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Part of him wanted to shake her out of it, to tell her that his scars were not something that she should be admiring. A far bigger part of him relished the feeling of her stroking his hand, almost as if it was the most delicate, fragile thing she had ever touched.

But then she seemed to realise what she was doing, her fingers pausing in their movement. Her head whipped around and her eyes met his, wide and nearly panicked.

She looked as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t have, as if she somehow expected him to be angry at her for holding his hand, for tracing the scars.

He could practically read the words on her lips, could practically see the question on her tongue as she looked at him, her eyes still wide, her hand still holding his tight.

Could practically hear her ask if it was alright that she had touched the scars, if he was alright with her holding his hand for so long, if she had gone too far.

He wrapped his ruined fingers around hers, squeezing just tight enough to move her fingers.

Her fingers were small between his, so tiny and slender, but for once the difference in size didn’t make him feel monstrous.

He felt...he felt as if her fingers had been made to fit into his as if they belonged there. He felt the urge to bring her hands up to his lips, to kiss each and every one of her slender little fingers…

"So, are we gonna get some food?" Cassian said brightly, looking bored out of his mind.  Azriel was quite sure that his brother wanted him to snap his neck. Or maybe they should all just be happy that he hadn’t actually fallen asleep and started snoring halfway through the performance. 

Azriel had to fight down a low, rumbling growl at the interruption, shooting a glare at his brother before his eyes snapped back to Eira’s, to the way her slender fingers had tangled with his.

"I could eat," Nesta agreed with her mate, giving him a look.

Which left Azriel to look at Eira, to hold her stare.

"What about you?" he asked quietly, his voice strangely hoarse. "Are you hungry?"

Eira looked at him with those beautiful grey eyes, taking a moment to think.

He couldn’t stop staring at her as she bit her lip in thought, the sight of her teeth worrying the plump skin sending another shudder down his spine.

And then she nodded once, a shy, hesitant move. “Yes, I am hungry,” she admitted quietly.

"Sevinda's?" Cassian suggested immediately.

Azriel had to resist the urge to sigh at Cassian’s enthusiasm.

While he didn’t particularly mind eating at Sevinda’s, he would have rather stayed somewhere more private. But it wasn’t going to happen. So he merely nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Sevinda’s sounds good.”

Another bout of winnowing later...they found themselves at Sevinda's, tucked into one of the tables outside. Eira was still holding his hand. He had checked in with her twice if she wanted to rather sit inside, but she had waved him off. He could feel her uncomfortableness...but it seemed to ease.

Azriel did notice the way she tensed the moment they appeared out of the shadows at Sevinda’s, the way her eyes darted around her as she looked over the restaurant they were now sitting in.

He could see her clenching her jaw, could see the way her hand tightened around his, could see the way the other hand clenched around the fork.

She wasn’t comfortable here, that much he could see.

But it did get a little better as the evening went on.

They ordered. Azriel tried not to notice the way she shifted in her chair, eyes darting around her like she was expecting a battle to break out any moment.

He gently squeezed her hand under the table, pulling her attention away from the people around them.

“Are you alright?” he mumbled to her, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.

She started at his question, her grey eyes wide as she looked at him, clearly surprised that he could tell that she wasn’t at ease in the restaurant.

“I...I’m fine,” she muttered, her own voice low. “Just expecting...the worst.”

Azriel could see the truth in her eyes, and could practically feel the tension radiating off her.

He gently squeezed her hand again, drawing her attention fully to him. “We’re at Sevinda’s,” he told her quietly. “This is one of the safest places in Velaris. If only because everybody is terrified of what Cassian will do if Sevinda isn't there to feed him," he quipped.

Azriel heard Cassian snort across the table. “Damn right,” he said.

He could see the corners of Eira’s mouth twitch at Cassian’s comment, a slight smile pulling at her lips

It was such a tiny smile, but for Azriel, it felt like the most precious thing in the world. 

*****

Eira had never really ventured deep into Velaris. 

She had the alteration tailor shop where she took commissions from…and then she sometimes saw a shop that piqued her interest and she went in there…but she had never…never really gone exploring. 

Never actually trusted herself to do that, in this strange place. Because as long as she had been High Fae…it was still a strange place for her. Never had been…quite home. 

But the Symphony with Azriel? That had been…utterly beautiful. Utterly perfect. 

The symphony with Azriel had been something close to magical. She had spent hours with him, holding his hand, tracing the scars, feeling his rough fingers under her own. Her entire focus had been on him during the performance, the only thing on her mind was the feeling of his skin against her own. His scars underneath her fingertips.

It had been a little terrifying, the realisation that she hadn’t looked at a single instrument, hadn’t heard a single melody...only him.

But that was nothing against the...pure rage she felt when he had told her that he couldn't play an instrument. He had stared at her as if he had never had anyone actually...console him for the fact that he had never been able to learn how to play.

How to learn this art that he clearly had a deep affinity for.

She could feel the scars on his hand, the ruined skin underneath her fingers. But she refused to be revolted by it. The scars on his hands were just that…scars. Just part of him. And she wasn’t revolted by him. The thought of being revolted by Azriel...it didn’t even cross her mind.

She traced over the scars on the back of his hand, gently touching the rough skin.

She wanted to be near him desperately. Wanted to be wrapped in his arms, as close as she could possibly be.

And still, she had wondered...if this one thin line on her chest still ached weeks later...how did these hands feel to him? How much pain was he in on a daily basis?

She had seen him writing, the trembling hands… She had seen him clench and unclench his hands as if struggling with the shaking. And that was just the fact that they were shaking. She didn’t even dare to think about the pain he had to feel, how he still managed to use them while fighting….

She knew, instinctively, that the pain in his hands was still there, and had never truly left after he had been… tortured. Because that was what had happened. Regardless of what anybody else thought.  And now the pain in his hands served as a constant reminder of that, how close he had nearly come to being absolutely broken.

She knew that every tremble, every shake, every clenching of his fingers was just a reminder of what had happened.

And she hated it. She hated those scars on his hands, hated that they caused him so much pain. 

She wished he had never gone through it. 

But then she wished that about so many things. 

So Eira did what Eira always did when she needed some peace and quiet: She went to hide in the kitchen. 

Not even Elain was there these days. Which was something that…Eira didn’t want to think about it either. She wanted…she didn’t even know where to start with that…still didn’t know how to feel about…any of this. 

How she was supposed to feel about her twin sister trying to take away her…daughter. Her daughter. 

Trying to take away her mate and her baby. 

The more she thought about it…the more angry she became. 

Elain was her sister, her twin. But that didn’t change the fact that she had tried to steal her daughter.

Eira clenched her teeth, leaning back on the kitchen counter, arms crossing in front of her chest.

She wasn’t sure how she was ever supposed to forgive Elain for that. 

Nyx took that moment to bang the bowl onto the counter where he was sitting. Eira couldn’t help but laugh at her nephew. 

Nyx, as sweet and adorable as he was, had a temper. And he wasn’t the most patient child. Eira had learnt that the hard way. But that didn’t mean that she didn’t love him.

“Are you trying to make a mess, you little rascal?” she teased him. “How about we make some cookies?”

"kies! kies! Ra Ra!"

“What, little monster? You want cookies?” Nyx babbled incoherently, grinning wide at her.

Eira chuckled, ruffling his hair affectionately before moving to gather the necessary ingredients. Or she would have if the shadows hadn't been quicker.

“Come on…” she grumbled, watching the shadows creep over the ingredients, gathering everything necessary. She gave a small huff. “I was gonna do that.”

You aren't supposed to do anything strenuous, they said softly.

Eira rolled her eyes at that, the motion just a little fond.

“It’s cookies,” she protested. “That’s hardly ‘strenuous’.”

The shadows just glided around her, gathering all the necessary ingredients on the countertop, just within arm’s reach of her. They seemed to almost be…arguing with her if she interpreted their movements correctly.

“Fine, I won’t pick anything up,” she said with a huff. “You happy, you meddling shadows?”

For their part, the shadows just swirled around her with a low, almost smug-sounding whisper.

Eira grumbled under her breath but couldn’t quite help but smile.

She didn’t mind the shadows. They seemed to always be around her, as if they were…watching out for her, in some way. She had stopped trying to question it a while back. 

“Let's go make some cookies," she said with a sigh.

Nyx gave an excited, loud babble, clearly excited at the idea of baking.

Eira chuckled softly. “Alright, alright,” she mumbled. “Maybe if we make them good enough, your parents will give you a treat after.”

And maybe she could steal some for herself as well.

Nyx babbled and giggled.

Eira chuckled and ruffled his hair again before looking at the ingredients the shadows had gathered for her, a smile pulling at her lips.

“I think the first thing we have to make is the dough,” she mumbled quietly to Nyx as she started measuring out the sugar. “Do you wanna help me with the bowl?”

Nyx babbled happily, watching with round, wide eyes as she gathered the ingredients and started mixing them into the bowl.

He seemed a little too excited at the sight of her mixing everything together, little giggles tumbling out of him as the liquid in the bowl churned around.

Eira chuckled when she saw he leaned forward almost as if he wanted to stick his fingers in it.

No," she said, gently pushing his arms back. "Do not stick your fingers in the cookie dough."

Nyx only made a huffy sound, as if he didn't like that she was stopping him.

Eira chuckled. "You'll get to lick the spoon once I'm done," she told him. "If you wait nicely, that’s it.”

Nyx looked at her with wide, round eyes, a little pout on his face. He babbled at her as if trying to convince her to let him dip his fingers in the dough at that very moment. She laughed at the betrayed look on his face when he realised that she wasn't gonna let him eat the dough right away.

Instead, she started humming, Nyx happily clapping along.

She continued humming while she finished mixing the dough, still fighting to keep Nyx from sticking his fingers in the bowl.

The boy was determined, she would give him that. As soon as she was satisfied with the dough, she pulled the bowl away, looking down at him.

"We gotta let it rest for a bit, alright?" she said with a chuckle.

He yawned.

Eira chuckled at that, gently poking his cheek. "Are you getting tired, little rascal?" she teased him. "Did all that baking exhaust you, hm?"

Nyx just yawned again, blinking sleepily.

She chuckled again and shook her head.

"We'll let the dough rest for a bit," she said quietly to him. "And I think a little rascal needs a little nap."

He babbled something in protest as if offended at the very idea of a nap. Eira only laughed and shook her head.

She picked him up, resting him on her hip. "No napping is not an option," she told him in a quiet, mock-stern voice.

Nyx was already looking slightly sleepy, his little head dropping against her shoulder.

Her chest twinged at carrying him, but she didn't try to get up the stairs. Instead, she brought him into the living room downstairs, sitting next to him as she laid him down on one of the couches, curling up next to him.

"Sing, Ra Rar?" he requested softly.

Eira was only too happy to oblige.

She gently settled down on the couch, shifting so she was resting next to him. Nyx curled into her side and she gently wrapped an arm around him, holding him close.

Then she started singing, humming a soft tune under her breath.

Soft, soothing lullabies.

A human lullaby. One that she had used to humm to Feyre when she had just been a child. 

The boy's eyes started drooping as she sang, and his breath started to even out. He nuzzled against her as if seeking out the comfort of her embrace.

Eira smiled and shifted a little, wrapping her other arm around him and pulling him closer.

He yawned and curled against her, letting out a little sleepy babble. She chuckled at how he curled against her, like a cat seeking out warmth. Her nephew was more than a little affectionate, a constant need for cuddles and hugs and affection. But he was sweet.

Eira continued singing, holding him close as he started drooping more and more against her, clearly struggling to keep his eyes open.

It didn’t take long for Nyx to fall asleep, his breaths evening out and his body going heavy and pliant against her. And still, she kept singing, her voice quiet. 

She wasn’t really focused on the song, on the words…her entire focus was on Nyx, on the fact that her nephew lay in her arms, in her embrace, completely and utterly relaxed.

Safe. Safe and sound and not a single scratch on him. She hadn’t failed to protect him. She hadn’t…Nothing had happened to him. 

Eira was so focused on the little boy in her arms that she didn’t even realise that the shadows were gone. She continued singing, gently running one hand over her nephew’s back.

She wasn't sure what it had been that suddenly made her look up...her singing ceased as soon as she realised that Azriel stood in the doorway, watching her.

His gaze was fixed on her and on Nyx, lying in her arms. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was a look on his face…a look in his eyes. Something soft, something almost…. tender.

She didn’t dare to breathe.

"I am sorry," she apologised softly. "Did I bother your meeting? I'll stop." She hadn’t even known that he was at the River House that day, hadn’t known that Rhys would be busy with meetings. Otherwise, she would have been quieter. 

Azriel just shook his head, taking a couple of steps closer until he was hovering next to the couch.

“You aren’t bothering anything,” he said softly, voice rough. “You can keep singing if you’d like.”

Eira’s breath hitched a little as Azriel took a few more steps, moving until he could slide into one of the armchairs.  She swallowed. 

“Amren said I should stop my screeching, “ she blurted out suddenly. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Azriel blinked. Once. then twice. 

“You could never bother me,” he said, his voice fierce. “And your singing is anything but a screech.”

Eira felt her breath hitch in her throat, her eyes wide. She could feel that her cheeks were warm, embarrassment coursing through her.

And yet…there was still that look on his face, that softness in his eyes as he looked at her, holding their nephew against her chest. 

She swallowed a little before speaking. “…you don’t think it’s terrible? You don’t think I sound like a dying crow?”

He shook his head. “Not at all,” he said softly, voice low enough so that he wouldn’t wake Nyx up.

His gaze was still fixed on her, on the picture they made, on how she was curled around the tiny little boy, still that soft look in his eyes that she couldn’t quite place. 

For just one single second Eira allowed herself to think about…the future. Think about that little girl that she had seen. Would she one day sing her own daughter to sleep?

“You want me to keep singing?” she whispered quietly, shifting a little so she was sitting up straighter.

Azriel met her gaze, as he nodded. 

He nodded. “Please,” he mumbled, his voice low and hoarse, rough even. “Please, keep singing.”

So she did. 

[kneelingshadowsalome]

I Never Missed You 2/3 (Bodyguard!Ghost x F!Reader)

Word count: 7.3 k

Tags/warnings: 18+ only. Romance, eventual smut, fluff, light angst, banter, pining, flirting, minor injuries, major character death, HFN ending. Lady/Knight dynamic. Unequal pairing trope. Bodyguard AU. Reader is a rich bitch (how else could she afford a PPO?)

Summary: You hire a bodyguard to protect you and hunt down the one who's been sent to take your life. This man was your lawyer's first recommendation, and you never even looked through his file because you had better things to do. But it soon turns out that this man – this Simon Riley – is very talented... Talented in driving you crazy.

A/N: A three part fic based on this request. Smutty smut ahead in this chapter. Brace yourselves for impact.

Part 1

You have to admit that you look dashing tonight. 

And not because you want to turn people's heads at the party… But because you want him to look at you like you're the most forbidden snack he will never have.

It's selfish and petty, and you're just seeking attention. But at least you have the balls to admit it: you want Simon Riley to drool after you. You want this man on his knees. And nothing else has worked except that bra.

So you turn to the world's oldest weapon. A woman's weapon. Seduction.

"I'd suggest you keep a low profile until we're done."

He looks at you through the mirror while you finish your hair. Uses the word we instead of I. It makes your heart ache… And you take even that lecturing comment as a compliment. So he does think you look nice, or at least nice enough to stand out. You read into every look, every little tone of voice he gives you.

"I thought we were supposed to lure him in," you say while you neaten your necklace. Of course you look nice. You have done everything you can to look ravishing tonight: a deep-cut, thigh-revealing dress, cat eye makeup, red lipstick...

"Yeah but not like this."

"I'm not locking myself inside the house because of this," you announce pointedly. "I'm not afraid to live my life." 

You turn and look him up and down, give him a little tilt of the head. "Don't you have anything else to wear?"

He doesn't shrink, doesn't bat an eyelash. Just looks down on you from that ivory tower of masculine prowess and makes you feel like a fool for being so dolled up.

"There's a difference between courage and foolhardiness," he states, not falling for your attempts to make him feel small in your world. You suspect there is so much more to this man, but you don't care to know about the circumstances he grew up in, the situations that gave him that broken nose and lip. You don't want to know about his broken soul.

Or perhaps you do...

"I suppose you know everything about that," you say while looking straight at the uneven scar on his jugular.

"I do."

"Tragic past?"

"You could say that."

You feel even more silly, standing before him in all your glory, pearls in your ears and silver around your neck. You pay this man for his services; he's supposed to protect you. But something in his eyes told you from the start that there lies an abyss inside this man. And you didn't pay for that: a peek inside his heart. But a door is open a creak now, and what's inside is pure darkness.

"Well, whatever it is, I'm sorry you had to deal with that."

Your cultured attempt to dance around his chasm makes those brown pools melt. Finally, he melts. But not to compassion, or mercy, or anything that would make you believe that you two understand each other. 

He looks at you like you're a stranger from another planet. He's intrigued but doesn't quite understand how a creature like yourself has come to be. You're not only a child in his eyes but a coward as well for not daring to open that door to hell.

"What do you think," you hurry to change the subject. "Will I do tonight?"

He’s always so hyper-vigilant, his stare fixed on everything else but you. It feels childish, to be jealous of his attention when all he’s trying to do is protect you. 

But now… Now that alert darkness bores straight into you.

"You look good in everything, ma'am."

A breeze of arctic wind goes through your scalp, and a fainting warmth settles in your belly.

You tiptoed your way to the fridge yesterday morning, before official breakfast, in your knickers and an old band merch from your youth - the one you still slept in sometimes because it was far more comfier than your silk pajamas. He walked in fully dressed and mighty while you were sneaking back upstairs with a glass of apple juice. The humiliation was overwhelming, especially when he dared to look you up and down in your state of underdress.

"Goodness… Sorry."

It should’ve been he who was supposed to say those words. But you felt like an intruder in your own house. It was a dangerous slip: to look so homely, with no brush stroke gone through your hair, with no toner on your skin. With no makeup and standing there before him in all your…you.

"No harm done."

He had never looked at you like that, and you swore right then and there that you would only descend those stairs with your full battledress from now on.

"Even in an old t-shirt…?" You ask with a tight voice. Desperate. Longing…

"Especially then."

Simon Riley strips you from your weapons and charades in a second. Your tight, seductive smile slowly falls off your face, and from behind it, a fragile, naked hope arises to gape at him. He clears his throat as if he just offered you an entire bowl full of ice cream when he was supposed to give you only a little scoop.

"I'm gonna go take a shower," he says, calm and adamant, like a statue you would go to see at a gallery.

"I'm afraid we should be going already."

"Takes 5 minutes."

You purse your lips, and he's on his way to the bathroom before you can even give him your nod. The guy is used to military showers, then, and perhaps it's for the better that he puts on at least some effort.

When he comes out, you're sitting in the hallway, and he's only wearing a towel. It's the one you gave him when he arrived, the softest you could find from your closets. You remember how the first odd thought you had upon seeing this man is that he probably isn't used to softness.

And now you see why.

You can see the prominent veins and the sketchy forearm ink, his muscles are magnificent to the point of unholy, he has a delicious, thin layer of fat on top of his belly, and the eyelashes aren't the only breath of hair that's pale on this man… But he looks like he has gone through an inferno.

His back is full of scars, and half of his shoulder looks like it has been dipped into a deep fryer. You catch a hollow dent between his ribs, and there's more, but he walks to his room before you see the rest of it.

The taxi drive to the party is filled with silence as you try to digest what you just saw. You want to call your lawyer and demand him to tell you where the hell did he find this man and who Simon Riley truly is. Who exactly does he work for when he's not taking bodyguard jobs? 

But the first thing you do when you arrive at the large party held in a small palace is to go to the punch bowl and down a glassful in one go.

He's on your heels the whole night, eyes everyone with a hawk stare, and does his job perfectly. He grabs your arm occasionally and whispers in your ear if someone seems suspicious. After one and a half hours, he comes to you and practically demands that you two leave. Normally, you would start an argument, but not tonight.

You kind of want to go back home, too. The people at the party seem tedious, and his scars have reminded you that even if you live in a world where violence is not the norm, it doesn't mean that other worlds don't exist. Otherworlds - where people get shot, stabbed, and blown apart. Whipped and cut and deep-fried. You're in danger, and it took his suffering to see that.

You have been so stupid that you just about wish someone would slap you.

Simon has been so patient with you that you nearly apologize on the ride back home. You want to beg his forgiveness and confess you have been a spoiled little idiot.

But again, that's not an easy thing to do. You turn to look at your forbearing bodyguard, ever silent in the taxi, and turn your voice to silk.

"You really should smile more," you suggest. He doesn't answer, just looks out your window as if there were perils there too. You suddenly realize anyone could shoot through the glass or the door at any given time. With a proper caliber, a bullet could pierce that window and coat his black shirt with the insides of your skull.

No. No. I'm not ducking my head.

There's no one there.

"Have you ever tried?"

You turn to humor and flirt to drive those intrusive thoughts from your head. He doesn't yet know that you're afraid, that you have been afraid this whole time. You should have bought that armored car.

"Am I your most annoying client ever…?" There's a smile on your lips, a little pardon for being so infuriating. His eyes drop there, then lift back up to your eyes with surprising seriousness.

"You're my first client ever."

Well… This was news.

"Oh. Why did you accept this job?"

His stare sails away from you and back to the London night. You stifle the urge to grab his hand, a fistful of his shirt, to draw his attention back to you. Every time he's around, you feel safe; every time he looks at you, everything else ceases to exist. 

You want him so badly you could cry.

"They don't teach you manners at the SAS…?"

"No. They teach us how to kill."

You scoff and turn to look through the window, too. 

"Brute."

"You're entitled to your opinion, ma'am."

When you reach your house, he uses that term again. You're 110 % sure he's only trying to annoy you. 

"Good night, ma'am."

"Stop it," you nearly slam your purse on the table in the hallway.

"What?"

"The ma'am thing…!"

You sound like a wife who's looking for an argument after putting on a charade all evening. When the door to your home closes, volcanoes erupt, and bombs drop, your husband-like bodyguard gets the blunt of your fear and frustration.

But how do you argue with someone who never argues back? He's calm like the Pacific during a stormless season, always, always gets calmer when you're going berserk. He walks to the armchair in your living room like he owns the whole goddamn place and sits down with a sigh. 

And there is a smile playing on his lips.

"What should I call you then?"

You look at him, dumbstruck, on that chair, spreading his legs like there's no tomorrow, arms comfortably on the armrests, and mouth drawn into a genuine, peaceful, thoroughly naughty smile.

"Oh, now you're smiling," you huff. The unbelievable audacity of this man… "Some ideas on what to call me popped into your head?"

"Verily."

"Go on then."

"Nah. You should go to sleep."

"I'm not going until you tell me."

You cross your arms over your chest to underline that ruling. His smile only widens. He looks wickedly delicious in that seat with his legs spread, and the chair doesn't swallow him like it swallows you. Actually, his shoulders are wider than the back panel of this enormous chair.

"Well," he begins, "’princess' came up first."

You try to catch what he just said through the stupor of wanting to climb on that wide lap.

"Truly? How original."

"Or spoiled brat."

You stop breathing for a second, then reel straight toward a spiral of–

"How dare you?"

You notice his eyes dropping to your heaving breasts again. This man is so different from a dinner-offering, cunning man in a suit. He has no pretenses whatsoever. He looks at you with that little smile, eyes burning, legs drifting apart even more, probably his cock stirring from how you are trying to chastise him. If you had pearls around your neck, you would clutch them. Or throw them at him.

"You son of a–"

"Pretty."

His next choice renders you speechless; it cuts through your insult before it even flees your mouth. You gape at him, jaw open, breathing and cheeks burning, pussy throbbing - soaked so thoroughly now that you feel a tiny droplet cascade down your thigh.

"Yeah. That's better," the man says as if he's also blessed with a Superman stare, knowing you're seconds away from drenched. "Better than brat or princess, anyway."

The darkness conceals most of him as he settles inside that massive chair he dwarfs. You are falling, or at least that's what it feels like. A tumble, a slip inside his Styx. But there's no bottom, and the water is warm ink, despite the fact that he's so blanched.

"Pretty…?" You whisper into that water, breathe onto the surface of his depths. The darkness answers immediately.

"Very."

Your swallow is a wet, nervous roll inside your throat when you sink into that river of lust and smoke. 

You take your jewels off first, because you know he doesn't care for them. Money's not his chief interest, even if he's being paid. And fat, at that. But he's not here for riches, he’s not here for the jewels – or that's what you desperately wish.

The necklace and pearls are gone soon, tucked away on the table with your trembling digits, and he's sitting there like a statue.

You have no trouble with this dress: the zipper seems to cascade down on its own as you reach behind your back. He's motionless as you slip out of the straps that keep the dark velvet up. You feel like you're the Styx: but the darkness of the river pools at your feet as you let go of the gown, let go of everything and continue your freefall.

He doesn't move, doesn't give evidence that he's even breathing; he just sits there like a long-forgotten king.

The panic snares you with a drool-wet throat: you salivate not because of him but because of your nerves. 

Are you… harassing him?

Does he want this…?

At least he thinks you're pretty – and you could laugh out loud; your thoughts are vain and petty, even when you're baring yourself before him in more ways than just one. Your breaths are audible distress inside that darkness, and he's still: everything's still.

But he moves when you reach for your bra.

It's just a hand that soars through the darkness, an involuntary reach for support and gathering of composure as his fingers find his jaw. They swipe across imagined stubble before he leans his head on that hand, just an ounce's worth of weight placed on his thumb and pointer as if he's simply in his thoughts. But the hawk stare is fixed on the lace covering your breasts as it falls on the floor too.

You hear his breaths now. Quicker on the inhale, heavy on the exhale. Your thumbs slide under the hem of the last piece of your veil, something you got from the store when you were feeling down. Now the underwear makes you feel better than ever - who would’ve guessed it's the moment you slither it off? Slowly, too: you’re being a tease, hip bones giving a two-second dance for him as he continues to watch you strip before him like the queen of the night.

You breathe in sync now, and your nipples perk up – he hasn't even touched you yet and you're more aroused than ever with a man.

Not a word spoken, and you fear you’re being delusional – if you've just imagined the heat between you two, but then those legs flare a hair's breadth more. His voice is the softest whip as it crackles through the void.

"Yeah... You're pretty. Now what?"

You breathe in gusts now. It's exhilaration, damnation.

"Jesus Christ, Simon."

The chair gives a creak as he rises, like an ancient shadow. Intimidating – intense, always, always, and you've been trying to coat him with soft towels and feed him toast. You wonder if he prefers black tea simply because it tastes more bitter than coffee rounded with milk.

Does he want this? Silly softness and toast and–

You get all your answers as he bends just enough to match your height, just enough to sweep you off your feet. Your hands go around his neck on instinct as he lifts you up from your rich, opulent Styx and into his sea.

You're quiet all the way upstairs – he can't fuck you downstairs, then, has to intrude on your luxury and privacy. You don't mind, especially when the steps give a desperate wail under your combined weight. He lets it sing its music to the night: your ruining already makes so much noise.

He reaches for his gun right after he’s placed you on the mattress. The sound of it is heavy when he sets it on the nightstand that has only seen glasses of water and apple juice and perhaps a few books. 

He undresses with soldierly sharpness, no seduction there. But he doesn't have to seduce you: his stare and heavy-cold demeanor have already done that.

He's so, so different from the others… Looks at you on the bed like you're both a piece of tender sirloin and something akin to garbage. That's an accurate depiction of a princess, perhaps. You know wasps gather around both honey and bloodied meat. 

He looks at you like that because you know nothing. And he's not here to ruin you… he's here to insert himself inside you like you're a foe that needs to be infiltrated, plundered and burned until you understand. 

He's big. Daunting. A brute while you’re the princess, could be the sleeping beauty, the way you stay immobile and try to take in this man's sheer power. You saw him half naked already when he came from the shower, but it's nothing compared to seeing all that taut, scarred flesh up close, soon about to fall upon you like a broken mountain. 

And what's between his legs is wholly proportional to the rest of him. That thing is a menace, and it's not even fully erect - hanging thick between thick thighs, foreskin revealing a fat, sloping tip, and he's veined all over… 

Finally, your mouth goes dry.

His gaze sweeps your beauty, and that cock gives a throb – a good, hard pull that stretches out into the open air, and your eyes go wide. Then he prowls, like the king of the jungle, moving with a fluidity that must be scary to those who meet their end by this big brute’s violence.

You are able to take in air only when his hand falls next to your head. The other claims you by the middle as if to soothe you - but the truth is you're caged in like a tiny, quivering animal.

The hand is heavy as it slopes across your stomach and scales your mound. It doesn't cup or probe, only rests there over your most sacred place, like an enemy surrounding a city. Your thighs part slowly, hoping he would just sweep right in.

"This wasn't in the deal," he rasps as he looks down at you: heavy iron judging a diamond.

"Oh shut up," you breathe, thoroughly thrilled and shy. If you weren't lying down, his intensity would buckle your knees.

"Nor do I take orders from you, ma'am."

"I'm not- Don't call me a-"

His eyes spark as the hand dips down like a deep diver into the blue. You gasp a stunned whiff when he's met with a mortifying amount of slickness. Your arousal sings a pretty song as he draws a finger over your slit, the moist sounds followed by another stuttering sigh. 

"Look at you all wet," he remarks, and you grit your teeth.

“Shut…up…”

"You know why I accepted this job?"

He wrecks you with one thick finger, rough skin lathering you with your own juice like he's trying to make a point here. And he is making a point: it comes across perfectly. The princess is a filthy mess for brutes…

And of course he was given a file on you too. With more than just one photo.

"Yeah," he rasps when you only look back at him with your felled deer helplessness. You could swear that he just heard your thoughts. "I think you know."

"You're–ah– a brute," you whisper, eyes shining. Your thighs part even more, feel yourself leaking over his fingers that stroke you agonizingly slow. You swallow with hunger, the need pangs on your cheeks. Your whole body is throbbing for him.

“Sticks and stones, love.”

He's so infuriating that you could slap him. Claw him, rip him apart. But you nearly laugh instead… It's far better an option to let him claw and rip you apart. He's tearing you apart right now, with those eyes and his hand, exploring you like you're the first course and he's here for the whole dinner. How can he be so calm?

"Could you…" You start, then realize you've never begged for this man.

"Hm? Talk to me," he commands. "Whatever ya want."

You whimper – from bliss or relief, you can't tell. The frantic need to serve is fully fleshed out in his tone. It surprises you. You thought he was here for his own pleasure. 

You try to think through the bliss of his fingers. You've had all kinds of things... All you could ever want, most would say. But that's not entirely true. No man has ever promised to please you however you want.

"Could you go…"

"Go down on you?" He places a thumb, broad and hard, on your clit. Teases it with the slightest pressure and a circle.  "Lick your cunt?"

Fuck…

He has no trouble saying it as it is, and you nod, still helpless.

"Sure. 'N after that I'll fuck you nice and good."

He's never, ever sounded like that before. Dark, and rich, the baritone reaching a level that speaks of hunger – no, need.

A brute, a pussy-drunk brute, the blood in your veins sing as he goes down. Nothing can prepare you for the way with which he manhandles his way between your thighs like they're only a petty distraction in the way. They're forced wide apart with a tight grip that speaks of urgency, but he takes his time to admire the sight bared before him. He’s drinking you in like ambrosia, towering above you while you’re being held open for him to just observe you like you’re a center-spread girl in a filthy magazine. 

"You're fucking pretty down here, did ya know that?"

You don't even know what to say - his tone, his observation is base, and still, they're the most beautiful words anyone has ever said to you.

"No…?"

"Well now ya know."

He steals a final glance at you, and the fire in his eyes already makes your legs feel weak. He dives between your parted legs, right into your leaking, glistening folds, and you're suddenly glad that you've done all that yoga… Those shoulders are so broad they force your thighs even further apart as he makes himself home there between your legs. 

A hot mouth presses against you like this man has been starving, even if you've fed him the best delicacies for days. An even, fat stroke is the first thing you feel before your toes curl and your head falls back.

"Goodness, Simon..." You try to keep yourself from stuttering as his mouth opens you like a flower. You should be quiet, for once, and let him do the job. He seems like an expert, even and especially there between your legs. "Do you-ah, always shag your clients?" 

"Told you you're my first," he rasps a husky sigh on your folds. He could ruin you with that voice alone.... He gives you another sweep of his tongue, full and ample, and your fingers curl around the sheets, your hips buck; your ass drives up on instinct, trying to both escape his mouth and rub your pussy against those thin but eager lips. 

"Don't worry," he tells your pussy with a warm chuckle. "This is free of charge."

You sigh, the first laugh of many up into the air. You're supposed to get angry, but you can't. You can't. 

"Have… no words for you."

"Good. It's about time you stopped talking, love."

He grabs your hips to punctuate it that you should indeed shut up. Fingers sink into your flesh like you're a whole goddamn feast - no more fucking toast and teasing. His hands look so huge as they dig into your skin - so different from the hands of men who work in offices or wait for people to serve them. You upvoted those hands to be the best part of this man long ago.

And that bulk of muscle… Some of those men in suits might go to the gym, but they couldn't forge a body like his in a million years: that breathtaking mass built to work and endure harsh conditions. It's not a flex or a sculptured piece of art: it's simply survival - ancient and primal.

He's got darkness, and you got diamonds, but something tells you his depths are infinitely more valuable. You couldn't buy his intensity even if they sold it in the streets. The skull mask was self-made, everything in this man is self-made, and he's sampling what diamonds taste like, and you wonder… Does he think you're cheap, some fake piece of worthless junk? Does he laugh at how easy you are? That under your manners, you're only a spoiled brat and a promiscuous maneater…? Or that he couldn't care less, as long as he can push his cock inside you?

He gives you his best, that's for sure. A working man, with you as his assigned mission, and the feeling of being a spoiled little princess only increases. And how are you supposed to stay still if he's slow and attentive like that? You might be his first client, but you're not his first shag…

His lips seal tightly around your nub, suck it, lap it, sigh on it - he's already breathless from the need to make you moan and cum. A purpose-driven, ravenous man, and when he dips his tongue inside your cunt, your mind finally goes blessedly blank. Your legs shake and stretch, and you can’t prevent your hand from skimming down to grab his hair when he gives you deep, unhurried plunges with his tongue, huffing against you from the mad want to make you feel good. 

You would never have guessed that Simon Riley would get such pleasure from licking a woman.

One hand disappears from around your thigh, and you guess it's one of his fingers that arrives, wide and thick, to tease your entrance. You can feel the smile on your folds as he slips it in, making you nearly jolt on the sheets. Your fingers instantly curl to tug that pale hair, to grab hold of something, and it makes him rumble inside you. 

He doesn’t even wait for you to catch your breath as he adds another finger. Goes shallow at first, then pushes those fingers in to the knuckle. The feeling of being filled - and not being filled enough - is going to drive you crazy any second now.

"Simon…"  

"Yeah?"

“I want you to… want you to…" you hear yourself choking on your beg as he works those fingers in and out of you while his lips are tight around your clit. He knows exactly what you're trying to ask.

And suddenly, it's he who breaks… 

"Right. 'M gonna fuck you now, yeah?"

The spread is gone, and you're being moved - on your belly, and you briefly think whether it's because he can't bear to look into your eyes when he takes you. You don’t even have time to whimper from the loss of his fingers and mouth before heavy thighs force your legs aside. You’re being spread again, crudely, obscenely, like it’s just a procedure that has to be done. He’s both methodical and impatient, and you wonder - has he wanted to rail you like this ever since he saw you? Force you to lie down on your belly while he takes you from behind like a helpless damsel?

His hands come to your hips as if to make sure that you won’t run away from under him. As if you ever wanted to… 

Something far fatter forces its way between your folds and straight onto your opening. He glides over your folds a few times, spreads your wetness all over his tip. Methodical still, but it makes you moan and swallow.

"Jesus…"

The lathering stops, the jutting cock settles right where your depths lie, and he chuckles. "Not quite, love."

Fuck… 

Fuck this man's cheek and audacity. Fuck his size and pride, the way he knows what he's doing all the fucking time. 

“Desperate for it?” 

That stupidly fat cock just resides there, teasing your aching, leaking hole without going in. But it’s like he answers his own question because you feel the thick of him give a notch against your folds. So impatient. Thoroughly needy. It sends you further down the whirpool of desire, a searing white, fathomless deep..

“Yes..”

When he goes in with a leaden grunt, your muscles go into a spasm - he's too big, he hasn't prepared you right, and still, you force yourself to relax.

"Not what you expected?" 

"It's… too much," you admit. He stops, realizing that for once in his life, he might've been an impatient man. Then he crawls forward, and you feel like you're about to be buried under a boulder as his weight bears down on you. Hands sink into the mattress on both sides of you, forcing you further up against him - you're floating, almost, to where you belong.

"Yeah? C'mon… You can take it."

You shudder. It's not even fully in yet?

He speaks too softly for it to be a demand, even when he's hovering on the brink of wanting to simply ram himself into your cunt. It's an encouragement. He’s cheering you on, like a coach. Or a leader... It’s leadership. 

When you don't object, he starts to feed more of himself in. You try to remember how to breathe because you were wrong, you were so, so wrong - it was barely just the tip, and now you're stretched wide and tight. He's endless, and sinking in deeper, deeper….

And you want it so much - all of him- you want to grip him and never let go. One hand comes to sweep over your hip again, it caresses the swell of your ass, and you know he's looking down at how well you can take him after all.

"How are we doin'?"

Your lips are swollen, and your brows are creased tight. It's still not in…? 

You’re fucked. Literally. But you can take him... You must.

You whimper when he slows down almost to a halt.

"Love. Tell me to stop 'n I'll stop."

"Just–gently," you whisper, brittle and shivering from joy.

"Don't worry. I got you."

Slowly, he arrives to the end of him and you. Hips flesh against yours, he’s out of breath before he even starts the thrusts. His length caresses places unfathomable in this position, and his weight is crushing you, even when he's supporting himself. It only feels like the safest place to be. Trapped there between your safe, soft bed and his safe, hard body. 

The first thrust punches the air out of your lungs. It doesn’t hurt, and it’s not uncomfortable; it’s just too much to take. You’ve never been so filled. 

"Fuck…" He swears, somewhere between the third or fourth thrust. "You're…"

"Good…?" You offer him when he doesn't continue. You know he was possibly going to say tight or something crude like that and corrected himself before it spilled. He merely grunts as an answer - a barbarian through and through, you decree. And then the brute speaks…

"The best."

God. You feel like a diamond after all, but you've never been under so much pressure, fearing you might break.

"You-too…" It's a sad little mewl. You sound like a child trying to make friends. Latching a hook on him, no matter how tiny it is. One shake, one ripple from the behemoth, and it will fall loose.

"Don't go lying with that pretty little mouth," he warns.

"I'm not lying."

"Yeah…? Keep squeezing me like that and perhaps I'll believe you."

It's a strange feeling, to meet your mistrust and jealousy on him. He has no pretenses, but he has secrets, camouflage, and flash grenades that blind you from the truth. But even he can't hide it all when he's moving inside you, so close, so terribly close.

You melt into a pool of heat and want, trying to meet him midway by offering your cunt, arching your spine, driving yourself up to give him better access. What was possibly meant as a desperate fuck turns into a sweet, weightless rocking, a rhythm of him and you. The hands on your hip start to gain weight as he holds you still for him, at times even pulls you against his cock.

"C'mon… wanna hear you," he huffs, then slides one hand to your butt and gives it a fond squeeze when you won't instantly make noise. "You're always givin' me that cheek and now you're silent?"

It's a warm question, a thick baritone that settles into your stomach, then shoots downwards and makes you clench. 

"Wh-what do you want me to say?"

"Want you to sing."

Of course the man who never talks won't shut up in bed. But he's not bullying you into submission, nor is he being mean. If anything, he sounds like he's finally on his knees. 

And you don't want to be mean either. Not anymore. But you just can't help yourself from having a little fun now that he's finally desperate and inside you. 

"Make me," you whisper, delivering your cheek with a wicked little smile.

The response is immediate: he dares to land a flat palm on your ass. Like you're a broodmare, a sirloin steak for him to feast on. And it does the job: you almost shriek, or at least that's how it sounds like when a parched little whine pushes through your vocal chords with violence.

"That's better," he barks, pleased with his work.

"You're horrible," you gasp. You're glad he put you face down on a pillow: you can only hope he doesn't see how happy you are in the darkness of his night.

"Yeah? And you're sweet." 

It's said with gravel wrapped in silk. It hits you and ignites, starts a flame inside you without permission.

You want him in ways you shouldn't. You want… more breakfasts, him carrying you up the stairs, taking in the way you tip-toe around the house in an old t-shirt. You want to serve him back rubs and tea and see who he is when he's not being paid. You don't want a lap dog or a guard dog, you simply want... 

Simon.

"I'm– I'm sorry that I've been such a bitch," you whisper. He sinks back on top of you until his nose nuzzles the back of your ear. He leans on his elbows, trying not to break you into too many little pieces, but the feeling of being confined couldn't be more blissful.

"Cock's that good?" He drags the following thrust, sparking your nerves aflame as he hits your core. But it's not brutal; if it is, it's the sweetest wrecking you could ever have imagined. 

"Don't make me take my words back," your lips pull to a smile and a silent, inner laugh. 

"Wouldn't dream of it." 

He's smiling too. Inwardly, perhaps, but you can hear the mirth. His weight on top of you while you're lying under him on your belly, unable to move, unable to do anything other than take the full brunt of his cock as it spreads you open, is pure heaven.

"Want you to cum when I'm inside you," he rasps in your ear, lips brushing the underside of your jaw. "Think you can do that, princess?"

Being told to cum on command is a bit ridiculous, you think. But not when it comes from that Cockney mouth. Not when he asks so nicely. Your cunt pulls, claws at him. 

"... I'll show you princess," you sigh, but it's only a second away from laughter. His fingers dig into your skin, the flush flesh of your ass. It feels possessive… Fond.

"Yeah. Show me. C'mon."

The camouflage gets slightly torn off by a wind of a smile. You can hear it on his lips. Sex should be fun, one of your friends always says. You had never thought about it like that. Bed is not the place for laughter and humor, you had thought. But now you are both on the brink of bursting with it.

"You're a fucking pretty one…" He grunts: a breathless, silent joy. "Know you want this as much as I do. Ain't that right?"

"Yes." 

"That's what I thought. So cum for me. Wanna hear the sounds you make."

You dance on the precipice already, and his voice causes your hand to shoot out to his. You drag that heated palm across your hips and your ribs, curl it next to you as if you were drawing a blanket over youself. It's a lover's caress, and his fingers slip between yours as he wraps around you like the protector that he is. 

Your walls flutter, the thickness inside you makes you swell with every thrust. His hips are relentless as he buries himself into you with blunt force, his flesh clapping against yours and making your cunt clamp down on him. Sweet, sweet, sweet, your blood sings as your lids drift closed. The wave is coming, the final tsunami that will sweep you with it, and you will only succumb with joy.

"Don't-stop," you hear yourself beg through the heavy pants he's grunting on your neck.

"'M not gonna stop," he grunts into your ear, serious now.

"Fuh–Fuck me good and… hard," you're hiccuping through dry tears. It feels like there's a hammer and an anvil placed between your ribs. "I need you hard-"

"Shit…"

You barely grasp that he's about to lose his precious control before the midnight sea takes you under. The world fades into a tight know of blue and white and black, electric, ambient, something soft and hot at the same time. You're choking on your tears, moaning into the pillow like a poor, broken, tortured cat. 

"That's fucking pretty," he swears on your neck as you cum. All humor is gone now, but he's not mocking you. He's just… emotional. The bulk of him rides you through the wave, but the rhythm of his hips becomes erratic. 

"That's it, pretty… I'm gonna…Fuck," he huffs on your skin, a mist of want, and the cockhead rubs something profound inside you and makes you jolt in the middle of your molten euphoria. He grunts, swears, and does it again - bludgeons so deep it forces out a sob, just before he breaks too with a choked, wet swallow and a groan. A trembling colossus, you think, as he thickens and bursts inside you.

You're an aching mess when he comes, his thighs pressing over yours and forcing them far and wide as he buries himself into you to the hilt. He's a behemoth, spasming and crumbling right above you. The broad abs bunch against your back while his hips pin you down and spread you open. The cock pulses inside you, and you are barely able to think how it's a miracle that both his thick flesh and the pool of cum, all of it, just somehow fits there inside you…

A gentle brute until the end, he swallows again, thick and breathless, before giving a few tight rolls of his hips, emptying himself to the last drop. Slowly, you both still inside your bubble of warm, dark blue, something akin to a sea between a tropical storm and a calm sunrise, a drowsy reef shifting with the waves. 

He's broken into a light sweat from the toil when he finally untangles your fingers. Your hips are kept in place with one hand as he slowly pulls out. You feel like you're left emptier than before, even if you feel the cum welling up inside, about to spill over.

Your bodyguard - your late-night fuck - collapses beside you, then reaches to pull you close again. Still back against his chest, still unable to look into your eyes when you're both vulnerable. 

"I'm gonna get you a towel," his fingers tremble as he caresses your arm with the most delicate touch. 

"No–don't, don't go," you whisper, then grab his hand and bring it back over you. You almost squeeze yourself with it. "Please?"

The tension behind your back decreases as he slowly falls back into bed.

"Alright love. I'll stay right here."

It's so peculiar how he reminds you of large water masses. A night sea under a pale moonlight. Not a stormy, roiling one, just a vast depth in an ever-swelling motion.

"I want… I need you to keep me safe," you whisper inside that swelling sea. You never want to come to the surface. You want to learn to breathe underwater. The heavy arm is draped over you; it covers nearly half of your chest as he sighs.

"Then let me do that."

His plea is not humble - nothing in this man is. He's not on one knee, swearing his allegiance and vowing to always protect you. He's not your Lancelot.

But in a way, his plea comes far too close to a beg. You feel a sting near your heart. It's electric, pure pain - the sweet kind, though, as you realize he doesn't only want to do his job… He wants to protect you. He has already tried his best to protect you while you run around like nothing is wrong. 

"Simon… I'm sorry."

"I already forgave you," he hums on your skin, evidently glad that you two finally understand each other. It should send you laughing, the thought that you needed his scars and his…treatment to find common ground. And free of charge, no less.

"Do you still wish you were somewhere warmer…?"

He bows his head against the nape of your neck, and the gush of air from his nose is warm and jovial. "No."

It's hours till dawn, but you wish it would never come. The beauty of the night is only now unfolding before you. It feels far more safe than the violent dawn. You wonder how he would react if you moaned his name as you cum. If he would shudder. You wonder what the hell is wrong with you that you didn't already do it...

"Simon…?"

"Mm..?"

"What happens now?"

There's a pause, but he doesn't shift for more comfort. Still, the bullet vests and battle gears are back on; you just sense it.

"We're gonna get some sleep."

"No, I meant… What does this mean for us?"

"What do you think it means?"

Now he shifts, but only to draw you closer. You feel like jello as he pulls your scent deep into his lungs, then exhales the grace on your skin like you're the only tobacco he needs after a good round of sex.

"Don't worry about it, princess," he murmurs on your skin. So delicately that you could claim this man has never even seen the army, never barked and shouted and smoked his throat dry. "We'll talk in the morning."

You settle into his sea, an embrace full of gentle, heavy safety. It's the sweetest oblivion to slip in as you begin a dreamless sleep, soft and snug. But it's not merciful enough to make you forget that you two… 

You never even kissed.

............................................

Taglist: @lialacleaf @cumikering @val-srz @glitterypirateduck @clear-your-mind-and-dream @milfs4lifee @regatoni1 @glossygreene @raf4el4 @xxmattyboixx @frozenballsack69 @gabygykss @chxrryp0p @sinnisterr @clairdelunelove @megumilover69 @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @ayavaiia @thedevillovesflowers @tiny-kasper

[trendywaifus]

when you get injured during the dreamscape/memory zone quest with firefly and stelle. a lil something while i finish other works. cw: none. established relationship, poly, gn! reader.

air forcefully rushes out your lungs as you get thrown against a wall by an unexpected attack from one of the enemies. dizzy, you struggle to breathe, holding your aching back in extreme pain. you taste a strange liquid in your mouth that didn’t taste anything like blood.

“ (name)! “

“ no, (name)! “

stelle and firefly both screamed, staring at your hunched form in utter horror. they desperately want to come to your aid but they have to get rid of the enemies first. the taller girl angrily returns her attention back to the robots, gripping her baseball bat harshly until her knuckles turn ivory. “ you’re annoying, all of you! get out of our way! “

with blurred vision, you helplessly watch as the two girls fight the enemies before them. you were hoping to recover while they battle but the terrible pain doesn’t ease during your attempt to lift yourself off the floor. to think you can still feel pain even in the land of dreams. the irony. after they’ve dealt with the robots, stelle and firefly ran straight to you. firefly cradles your face with her soft, warm hands while she observes you for any visible injuries. the poor girl looked like she was about to burst into tears.

“ are you okay? are you able to stand? “ she asks in a shaky voice, rubbing your cheek with her thumb in a soothing manner. you attempt to stand up with the help of stelle but you were so wobbly and lightheaded that you immediately crumbled to your knees. “ i-i don’t think i can sweetheart. i didn’t expect that metal piece of junk to catch me off guard like that. i’m sorry for being careless, girls. “

“ don’t apologize, please. “ firefly says, intertwining your hand with hers, squeezing it. “ we just have to assist you until you’re able to walk on your own again.”

stelle nods, “ i can carry you until we can find a way out. “ she tosses her bat to the side to try and carry you but you swat her away with your free arm. stelle looks at you with a baffled look on her face.“ no, don’t. stelle, you need to be ready to fight, it won’t help if you have your hands full with me. “

“ then. .i’ll carry you, (name)! “ firefly insists, sending you a desperate look. you emit a strained giggle. “ that’s funny, sweetie. but no—“

“ then are you suggesting that we leave you behind? because i refuse to do that! “ firefly chimes, tears welling in her pretty eyes. you bring her hand to your lips and kissed it softly. “ don’t worry, i’ll just rest here for a bit then i’ll get up and find the two of you somehow. no biggie. “

stelle shakes her head, “ don’t give us that no biggie crap, you silly dingus. i’ve already decided that i’m going to carry you and you basically can’t do nothing about it anyways. “ she quickly snatches you up in her arms with surprising strength. you weakly tried to wiggle out of her arms but she only gripped you harder. “ you crazy girl, let me go! i told you that i’ll only wear you and firefly down like this! “

your protests fall on deaf ears. stelle adjusts you in her arms and kisses your forehead, you grow silent. “ i’m not letting go, don’t underestimate the power of love! we’ll find a way even if i have to fight with you in my arms, isn’t that right, my pretty lady? “ stelle glances over at firefly who nods with a determined smile on her face. “ y-yeah, i’ll do my best to cover you two so don’t you worry about a thing, (name)! “

ignoring the warm feeling blooming in your chest, you just sighed.

what are you going to do with these two girls?

[alicentofhightower]

the dragon and the crab

pairing: aegon targaryen x fem!celtigar!reader

synopsis: boys seem to catch your eye more, as of late. you wonder if that’s the reason why you’re helping this drunken fool of a prince.

includes: drunk aegon, he’s actually not that bad here. so sorry if this is ooc this is my first time writing a oneshot for him!

WC: 1.5k

a/n: this was written with ty tennant’s aegon in mind because it’s set during laena velaryon’s funeral, but you can envision tgc’s aegon too i don’t really care. i did not proofread this so im sorry for any mistakes, i literally just wrote this on my phone in bed because i miss aegon and im bored. i might write a part 2 idk

-

The first time Aegon sees you, he cannot help but wonder why you take such a liking to Helaena.

Laena Velaryon’s funeral had been an uneventful one. A bore, to be honest, but his mother would smack him if he’d ever voiced that thought aloud. He’d never known the noblewoman well. Honestly, his mind was more preoccupied with the looming thought of his upcoming wedding.

It was tradition for Targaryens to be married to relative. They’d practiced it for hundreds of years, long before the doom of Old Valyria. His mother had always seemed so intent on practicing the customs of her Andal forbears, and Aegon wished she’d been the same for his marriage.

Deep down, he knew why Helaena would be his wife. It was to keep her close to Alicent. If she’d been wed to some fat lord in the Riverlands, or a foolish one from the Reach, it would make no difference; there was no real confirmation that she’d ever be kept safe. His mother would not have another Aemma be made of her only daughter.

“We have nothing in common,” Aegon complained, constantly having to brush his silver waves away from his face. The wind from the beach was relentless.

He stood off to the side next to Aemond, away from where you yourself sat next to the Princess. She seemed to speak in riddles, with the way she mumbled of ‘spools of green and black’, but you did not mind. You could tell she was of a sweet nature.

Helaena handed you another shell to hold, her fingertips tracing the texture of it. “She’s our sister,” interjected Aemond.

Everything about Aegon was improper. The way he could not seem to let go of his cup of wine for even a minute, the way his eyes wandered towards the skittish maids, even down to his posture; hunched and lazy. “You marry her, then,” The elder prince said, his fingers loose around his chalice. If he wasn’t careful, he’d probably drop it, make a fool of himself as he always had.

“I would perform my duty. If mother had only betrothed us.” Aemond did not speak out of genuine desire for his sister, only his yearning to be the firstborn son. To be given the duties of his unwilling brother.

“If only,” He scoffed.

His blue eyes traveled to where you were, listening closely to every word of his weird soon-to-be wife. Aegon did not pay much attention to his Old Valyrian lessons, much less his history, but even he could recognize which house you were from by the dress you wore; ivory and scarlet, the colors of House Celtigar.

Your house was a Valyrian one itself, though far less proud than the one of his own or the Velaryons. You wore a veil of mourning to honor the late Lady Laena, but he could see the earrings you adorned beneath it; crabs, closely resembling your sigil.

You could not hear what the young princes spoke of, but your eyes had averted over to them occasionally, though most of your attention was paid to Aegon. His face was scrunched together as he studied you, trying to figure out why you’d ever willingly be in the company of Helaena. Mayhaps you were just as off-putting as she was.

Blooming into womanhood, you could not help but take notice of boys your age; Aegon himself was quite handsome, though lustful and foolish, and your mother had personally warned you to stay away from him on the way to Driftmark. It only made you want to talk to him more.

Soon enough, Aegon made his way over to another servant, grabbing the pitcher on the platter she held and pouring himself more Arbor gold… away from where you were. You wondered if that’d be the last you saw of him.

-

It wasn’t.

Sleep had escaped you. Taking a stroll outside was far more appealing than tossing and turning in your bed, so you’d wrapped your robe around your nightgown and snuck out of your chambers.

You almost gasped when you saw him. There he was, at the end of the stairs, drunk and hiccuping with his eyes closed. He sat against the stone of the railing, head drooping and hands still grasping his goblet tightly.

“My Prince?”

No response.

Descending down the steps, you poked his hunched shoulder. He did not even start. It took a harsh shake of his forearm to wake him, and Aegon threw his head back when he did, smacking it against the marble behind him.

Aegon’s pale hand flew to cradle the back of his skull. He hissed, features squeezing together as he let out a sharp breath. It reeked of wine, and he appeared to be startled that he hadn’t been smacked yet. “Grandsire?” He asked, eyes still scrunched shut.

“No,” You said softly. “It’s just me, my Prince.”

His eyelids shot open. It took a moment for him to recognize you. “Why are you out here? Shouldn’t you be abed?”

Gods, maybe your lady mother was right about avoiding him. He’d already begun to irritate you, and you’d been speaking to him for less than a minute. “Shouldn’t you?”

His head lolled to the side, falling to rest on his shoulder. “What will you do? Tattle on me to my mother? I’ve already been scolded today,” He grumbled, his words slightly slurred.

Really, you should just leave this fool of a prince alone, act like this never happened, and climb back into bed. You won’t. It’s normal for men of his age to indulge in their vices, but some part of you tells you that this is wrong; that he shouldn’t be out here in the cold night, slumped into a mess of his own limbs. You feel bad.

Boldly, you reach forward again, grasping his wrist. “Come on,” You say to Aegon, your tone softer. “I’ll help you back to your chambers.”

“I’m too tired.”

He yelps when you yank him up, stumbling forward, his hands scrambling to grab your shoulders to keep him upright. “You should not treat a Prince so roughly.” Despite his words, Aegon allows you to wrap an arm about his shoulders, guiding him forward.

His eyes are wide as he looks down at you, seemingly trying to figure out why you’d pour this much time into someone you don’t even know. There’s a flush becoming all the more apparent on his face, and unbeknownst to you, it’s not because of the wine.

You’re sure there will be a scandal made out of this. An unmarried young noble-lady taking King Viserys’s firstborn son, drunk, back to his chambers during the hour of the owl? Certainly the maids will begin to whisper false tales of your relationship with the Prince, and your father will reprimand you on the ship back to Claw Isle. He might have you married even sooner to dispel them. You cannot find it in yourself to care.

“This way,” You whisper, walking towards where the innermost hall is, where the royal chambers are. Aegon’s steps are uneven and irregular. If you’d not been holding him, he’d probably have fallen twice already.

He’s even more beautiful under the torchlight. Soft cheekbones and plush lips, he’s the very image of his mother, though he certainly does not act like it. Your lips almost part at the feeling of his nose nudging against your cheek, though you attempt to ignore it.

He’s drunk, you tell yourself. Pay no mind to him.

The knights on patrol raise their brows at the sight of you when you make your way past them. An awkward position you’re in. Both his and your arm are wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and his knees are bent so he can be at the level of your face. He’s not even looking forward to where you’re trying to go, his eyes analyzing the look on your face.

He was so talkative when you woke him. You wonder why he’s gone quiet, but reason it to be that he’s exhausted. “What’s your name, again?” He sputters.

He nods rapidly when you tell him it, as if he’ll remember it on the morrow.

Finally, you make it to his room; even the doors to it are grand and tall, befitting one of his status. Yours are farther away from his, in the corridors practically across the keep. It’ll be a long walk back.

You find you don’t know what to say. “…Well, good night, my Prince,” You say softly, letting go of him to let him stand by himself. He wobbles.

Aegon turns to leave, but whips his head around before his pale hand can grasp the handle of the door, his eyes darting around the features of your face. He wants to remember you, it seems.

“You won’t stay?” He can barely pronounce the words correctly, let alone stand up, choosing to lean on the door behind him to keep his balance. Somehow, it’s both endearing and pathetic.

Your cheeks flush at the mere idea of following him into his bedchamber. What was he thinking?

“No, my Prince. It’s best I leave you be.”

Aegon nods solemnly at that, tongue running over his slightly chapped lips. He bows his head in thought, then raises it again, a peculiar glint in his eye that you cannot decipher.

“….’s Aegon. Just Aegon,” He says, quiet, like it’s a secret only the two of you know.

“Good night, Aegon.”

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part six

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: suggestive content

word count: 8.6k

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The balconies that overlook the capital city are one of the loveliest features of the Red Keep. Lady Tyrell finds it rather unlikely that Maegor the Cruel spent much of his time considering the optimally ambient spots to break fast, but it is almost amusing how distinctly suited the terraces are for taking morning meals. It is at her suggestion that Cregan Stark joins her in breaking his fast upon one of such balconies, and while she has chosen the location it is he whom requested to dine together at such an early hour. The matter of the Hightowers still weighing heavily upon his mind, he has hoped to ask after the progress that has been made in communicating with Highgarden upon behalf of the Northern council.

It is as splendid a morning as can be wished; soft sunlight extending out over the rooftops of the city below, a gentle breeze that smells faintly of the sea rustling the vines that climb along the arches that are adhered to the stone railing. A great spread of food has been prepared for them, and while the lady cannot claim to enjoy the earliest hours of the day much, she is reminded then of how sincerely she appreciates the food presented at morning meals. The flaky pastries topped with lightly whipped creams, thick-cut toasts drizzled in honey and topped with fresh fruits, sizzled bacon in long strips that smells faintly of sweet smoke, eggs with their golden yolks glistening and sprinkled with garden herbs and salts. Quite a delicious collection has been brought up at her request, courtesy of having long since formed good relations with the kitchen staff. It is quite a beneficial relationship to invest in, according to her own silent opinion. 

With a look of calm pleasure, she begins helping herself to the various foods that sit upon ornamented plates and trays. The gentle serenity upon her face while she carefully selects her breakfast softens Cregan’s eyes – rare is it that she looks so genuinely peaceful. The wind picks up a strand of her loose hair, lifting it languidly about her cheeks, and the delicate slip of a gown she wears is a light and neutral shade. It is a picture of natural comfort that he imagines few are fortunate enough to bear witness to, and the quiet delight that pulls at her lips when a bite of puff pastry and cream enters her mouth is not one Cregan shall soon forget. With silent certainty, he resolves to provide an impressive selection of foods for her to break her fast with the next time they dine in the earlier hours. 

As a drop of thick cream graces the edge of her rosy lips, it is impossible for the Lord of Winterfell to not notice because of how intently he is gazing after her. His eyes drop to his lap, and after a moment of serious consideration he produces an ivory handkerchief and shifts in his chair so that he might lean in closer to her. Her wide eyes flick up to him in soft question as he extends his arm courteously in a subtle motion towards her mouth. One hand is raised elegantly to her chin, as she herself realizes what he is implying, but before she can brush the sugary substance away Cregan clears his throat quietly.

“May I, my lady?” His brows are drawn low over his eyes, which narrow in thought as he speaks in that warm Northern timbre. The morning wind sweeps strands of red hair against his face, and Lady Tyrell’s hand stills before it can reach the corners of her lips. She stares back at him wary hesitation – a lowering of her chin, a twitch to her bright eyes as they study him carefully. Cregan waits with steady patience, arm still outreached as his handkerchief catches a soft gust, accepting of whatever her answer might be. 

Not completely unfamiliar is the tightening of her chest at his words, causing her mind to race as her heartrate upsurges in abrupt uncertainty. A pulse that can be felt thrumming low and deep at the base of her neck and the bend of her wrist, a swallow that passes with some difficulty down her throat which has gone dry. With all the tentativeness of an alley cat allowing a stranger to approach, Lady Tyrell provides the smallest incline of her head to indicate he may proceed as he wishes. It is all Cregan can do to stop the edges of his mouth from twitching upwards.

With utmost seriousness and propriety, his eyes remain firmly drawn to her lips as he presses the soft fabric of his handkerchief to the side of her mouth. She is keenly aware of the way her expression becomes more pliant, her eyes half-lidded and gentler as she allows him a physical closeness she does not usually give to others. His touch is tender; it is with one slow movement that he wipes the cream from her lips. As he leans forward to complete the motion, she once again catches sight of the dotting of warm freckles upon his face, reddish like his hair. When the lord draws away, it is out of habit that her tongue darts forth from her mouth gently to lick at where the sweet cream had been, her lips rolling over top of each other before she takes a quiet breath. 

Cregan feels his mouth go dry at the sight of her tongue upon her lips, where his hand had just been only a moment ago.

Poignantly ignoring the coil of heat in his lower stomach at the action, he folds his handkerchief slowly and returns it to his pocket with an especially purposeful inhale through his nose. His hand flexes with tense, displaced energy before he returns his attention to the generous plates of food that have been set atop the white linen of the embroidered tablecloth. As he reaches for a thick strip of the juicy bacon, his eyes remain drawn to his task while he speaks.

“Have you written to your lady mother regarding the matter of the Hightower boy?” Cregan takes his polished silverware into his hands, the metal catching a slight shimmer of bright sunlight. As he slices an egg topped with the crispy meat, he flicks his eyes to meet hers as she nods delicately. 

“I sent the raven the day we first spoke of it. I imagine she has already received it and should be sending word in response sooner rather than late.” A hand is lifted to brush loose hair from her face – she has grown used to having it arranged when she dines with others. Much time has passed since she has taken such a casual meal with someone, certainly not in the early hours of the day. Cregan leans forward at this, expression growing warier as the situation fills his mind once more. The lush vines snaking up the stone pillars and archways whisper softly in a light breeze, and the faint murmur of raised voices can be heard, carried up from the castle and capital by the wind.

It is not that Cregan is mistrustful of her mother, it is only that he does not know the woman. She must be quite capable, to be the acting head of House Tyrell and to have spared them from any amount of loss during the war, but the Lord of Winterfell does not know if this is a comfort or a concern just yet. And the matter of a Hightower hostage is a delicate situation, one even Cregan finds himself unsure upon the morality of. Garmund Hightower is barely older than Cregan’s own son, and yet is to be utilized as such a crucial piece in this securing of peace. “In your opinion, my lady, what will your mother think of such a plot? To weaponize a child in this manner…”

He does not wish to imply that the Lady of Highgarden would possess a gentle, womanly spirit that might prevent her from carrying out such a threat, but Lord Corwyn Corbray has expressed his concern upon the matter to Cregan in private. At his delicate questioning, Lady Tyrell lets out a soft snort of a breath, her eyes glancing up to the stone roofing above them. The ghost of a bitterly wry smile bites at the corners of her mouth, and she parts her lips for a moment, eyes narrowing sardonically as she searches for the words. “There is something to be said about the determination with which my mother leads our House. I would not let her neutrality during the war lead you to think she has no taste for bloodshed. It is pointless loss that she dislikes. She shall deliver the warning to Oldtown, you can be sure of it. Surer yet that she would carry out the promise if she is not obeyed.”

Cregan pauses, halfway through chewing his bacon, eyes meeting hers as she looks back to his face. With a curt nod, he presses his lips together and swallows, having gained a clearer picture of the woman he is dealing with at present. If the Lady of Highgarden is anything alike to her eldest daughter, the Lord of Winterfell feels it is in the Hightowers’ best interest to submit and stand down. “If a peace can be secured, the Realm will be all the more grateful to House Tyrell for it.”

“The Realm’s gratitude is often of unfortunately little value, my lord,” The Lady Tyrell muses with a sparkle of amusement in her eyes as she uses her knife to smooth berry jam onto a flaky biscuit. The red strawberry puree glistens tantalizingly in the clear light of the morning. “Your gratitude, in contrast, has proven delightfully useful.”

In truth, Cregan’s request to dine had been delivered on the premise of discussing the raven sent by her to Highgarden. Yet there is not much to be said upon the matter – she has sent her letter and awaits a response alongside the rest of the acting council. There is no need to sit for an entire meal over an issue that could have been asked after and answered about in a swift exchange. Yet neither of them seems too eager to point this out, nor to rush through the delicious breakfast and lovely morning weather upon the terrace. She watches as Cregan piles fried eggs onto his plate, careful not to break the yolks just yet.

Despite his previous irritation at the thought of being manipulated by her, Cregan finds himself nearly smiling at her words. When she had asked for something in return for her assistance at his council meeting, he had been prepared to sacrifice something that might pain him. It was to his great surprise that she asked for something so genuine and pure in nature, and it has been his honest pleasure to continue to accommodate her over the past two days. 

“Princess Jaehaera’s Septa informs me that she has been faring much better since your visiting began.” His remark is tinged with soft approval, the usual gruffness to his tone shifting into a rumbling, melted ease. Both yesterday and the day before, Cregan has been true to his word and brought Lady Tyrell by the Queen’s Chambers to see the princess and spend time with her. On their way out of the rooms last night, the Septa had taken Cregan by the arm, tears in the old woman’s eyes, and graciously thanked him for allowing Jaehaera to see the lady. From the time spent watching Jaehaera and Lady Tyrell together, it is increasingly obvious just how much the two love each other. Cregan cannot help the guilt that fills his heart, knowing that he has been separating them since his arrival at the castle.

The softening on Lady Tyrell’s face comes with a sweet promptness upon hearing the girl’s name. She gives a gentle smile, her eyes dropping to the table as a rush of pride and love swells in a tender crescendo within the often-empty hollow of her chest. “She has always been a tender-hearted child. I cannot imagine how difficult this has been for her.”

With a pause, the lady’s smile wavers with the weight of what the war has cost. She fights back the urge to worry her teeth into the skin of her mouth, instead raising her eyebrows and letting out a soft breath. It is far too early in the morning to allow such heaviness to sit upon her shoulders and her mind – lest she wish to spend the remainder of the day bedridden by the affliction of guilt and sorrow. Instead, she forces her thoughts to return to Jaehaera. “She is exceptionally bright. She learned to read before other children her age, in both the common tongue and Valyrian. I have never had the mind for it, but she took to it so quickly. There is much upon her thoughts, it is only that she is shy.”

It is with a devoted attention that Cregan listens, eyes fixated upon the way her countenance lightens as she speaks of the princess. Within the shadow of the shaded balcony, a spread of delicious morning foods and the sparkle of genuine fondness dancing about her eyes, the Lord of Winterfell experiences the closest thing to peace that has settled upon his weary heart since his arrival to the tumultuous viper’s den that is King’s Landing. Such a feeling is reflected upon his features – his brows raised gently, his jaw eased and loosened as he tilts his head to observe her further. “The princess seems quite comfortable in your presence, my lady. You have a way with her.”

A soft breath of mirth is exhaled from her mouth, her hand absentmindedly stirring a tiny spoon into her morning tea. The cloud of milk she poured disperses into the dark liquid slowly, turning it to a gently creamier shade. Scents of bergamot and floral notes waft up to her nose in dreamlike swirls. “I have known her since she was but a babe. Spending so much time with my own younger sister has helped, since Cassia and I are rather far apart in age. I was seven when she was born.”

“A rather large gap, for siblings of a noble house. Mine own brother was only two youngers my younger, and Sara is but three.” The remark is an easy musing, low and casual as Cregan attends once more to his breakfast. It is simple to get lost in conversation with her, more so now that it is not shrouded in deceit and performance. Lady Tyrell gives a small shrug at this, well aware of how odd it is to have such large gaps with her siblings. While Cassia is seven years her younger, her brother Lyonel is only three. Nineteen years passed between Lady Tyrell’s birth, and the long-awaited birth of the heir of Highgarden.

“it is not for a lack of trying, by any account. My mother did very much wish to provide a son. It only took much longer than intended.” For years, Lady Tyrell had watched silently as her mother consulted with every maester she could find, hoping for some cure to whatever might be causing the seed to not take. As the years went by, it would seem her father’s age might be the problem, but few were willing to suggest this as it is much more commonly accepted to blame the woman. Highgarden had been overjoyed when a second pregnancy finally took, only to be given yet another daughter. Lady Tyrell had not minded in the slightest – a son would have been raised as the heir to House Tyrell and Cassia was instead given to her. A darling sister, the sibling she had always wanted. “My mother tried to shield me from it, afraid it would make me hesitant to have children of my own. But I have always longed for it, in truth. Daughters as much as sons, perhaps out of spite.”

The wry smile upon her lips widens at this, some faint amusement at her own stubbornness dazzling in her eyes before she takes a sip of her tea. Heavy is the breath that falls from Cregan’s lips at her words, heavier yet the way his lids lower slightly over his eyes. It should not be surprising, given how good she is with Jaehaera, but the confirmation of her inclination only serves to strengthen the draw he is becoming increasingly aware of. His lips part – and close at once, despite himself, instead swallowing thickly. A twitch of his jaw is the only indication of anything amiss in his mind. It is with decided intention that he focuses his thoughts upon those better suited to propriety and civility. 

“Your lord husband shall be quite fortunate, in that regard.” Is the most restrained phrase he can manage in return. With some great luck, she does not seem to be paying his reaction much mind and is instead staring wistfully out over the city’s rooftops far below, the handle of her teacup held delicately between her fingers.

“Whomever the stranger shall be, I suppose. The prospect of having children with a man I do not know does not sit well with me, I must confess. Yet is it not the burden for all highborn ladies to bear? Complaining of it is for naught.” Lady Tyrell does not seem altogether thrilled at the prospect of a decidedly upcoming betrothal, a curl of her lip showcasing quite plainly how little she desires such a future. A slight sigh finds its way out of her mouth, and she rests her hand upon the palm of her hand, eyes still cast to the horizon. To a gull drifting lazily over the city, wings outstretched upon an ocean-bound wind.  

“It is not the most ideal prospect, nay,” There is a gentleness to his tone, a consistent presence at their breakfast that morning that does not go completely unnoticed by her, nor is it commented upon. “Lucky am I, that mine own son was born of love that is true.”

Her eyes return to Cregan’s face at his words, studying it with a soft wistfulness as she notices his attention wander down to his hands. The tenderness with which he speaks of his late wife and young son give her pause, and she cannot help the tendrils of curiosity stirring within her. Such softness and devotion, from a man so stoic and steadfast. “Love.”

It is a quiet echo, floating gingerly between them as a hesitant question. Summoned back from softly nostalgic reminiscing, Cregan returns his attention to her. The wondering in her eyes has an innocent yet weary confusion to it, alighting something warmer within his chest. For all her scheming and her wickedly brilliant mind, he can sense this has eluded her. With a slow blink, he hopes silently not to offend or overstep. “Have you ever been in love, my lady?”

An almost imperceptible breath. The digging of nails into palms, the drop of her eyes. A soft tap of her heeled shoe that is muffled by the light fabrics of her morning gown. A blink as measured as his, when she tilts her chin down and stares wordlessly into her tea. The molten heat of anger, the trickling of a tempered sadness which sizzles upon collision. It is much easier to forget and she is much more suited to banishing such thoughts from her head. A flap of a gull’s wings above and she speaks with a detached and observational cadence. “I thought I was, once. It turns out I am occasionally a terrible judge of character.”

This, Cregan is not expecting to hear. His brows furrow, drawn above his stormy eyes as a look of pensive confusion flickers briefly across his stern countenance. Calloused fingers brush the tip of the fork he holds within his hands, while he briefly considers the unreadable expression upon her face. For all her studying, all her carefully crafted productions, it would seem unlikely for a girl so cautious to be wrong upon such matters. “I do not imagine you misjudging a person.”

“Harboring affection for someone can leave one blind to their true nature. It is not a weakness I am quick to subject myself to. Akin to aiming a sword at my chest, I imagine.” Bitterness wins out amongst her remaining emotions and pulls tightly at her lips and the corners of her eyes that crease with mordant amusement. A curl of her mouth as she sips her tea, allowing the pleasant bitterness to counteract her own sour discontent. “As if one needs more to fear, in such times.”

An offhanded note, said into a half-sipped teacup with a mild raise of her shoulders. But Cregan has seen the weight behind it, the truth of the matter on the few occasions he had seen any semblance of truth prior to that night in her chambers. The anxious way she had gazed up at him, as if afraid he might harm her and there would be nothing she could do to defend herself. And there had been the attempted assault, which Cregan has far from forgotten about. The thought of her unable to protect herself is one that does not sit soundly with him.

“Less to fear if you are the one holding the sword, my lady.” The Lord of Winterfell’s quiet yet steady observation causes her eyes to flicker up to him questioningly as she sets her teacup down upon the saucer. The seriousness in his gaze is not lost upon her, and it is without clarification that she understands the literal sense of the phrase. Tilting her head, a quizzically amused expression flutters onto her face. 

“I cannot wield a sword. I am too weak, I have not the build for it.” Lady Tyrell feels an ease at the shift of the conversation, at the ridiculousness of his proposal. Leaning back in her chair, she crosses her legs beneath the skirts of her gown and fixes him with an appraising gaze. The chatter of voices drifts slowly up to the balcony in a more insistent volume, signaling that most of the castle has arisen for the day regardless of debauchery engaged in the previous night. The toasts have gone rather cold, but she selects one for her plate nonetheless.

“You are weak because you have not practiced. The more you practice, the less weak you shall become.” It might have been a biting comment if it came from anyone else, but she knows well enough by now there is no point in searching for cruelly aimed jabs within his words. Only with direct practicality does he speak, and she sees the honest truth in it quite plainly. All she can do is raise her eyebrows in quiet agreement, maneuvering her fork and knife gracefully to cut into her fluffy toast. Cregan watches silently for only a moment, before a smile quite nearly pulls at his lips. “That is something I can remedy, my lady.”

Boots echoing within the quiet passages that snake through the lowers portions of the Red Keep, the Lord of Winterfell is mildly aware of the realization that he might starve if he allows himself to give each free moment of his time to the lady instead of taking meals. His chair had been pushed back as soon as the afternoon meeting concluded and the plans for that evening had been decided upon. The scratch of wood on stone, of click of shoes upon the floor, the unhinging of the lock and he had disappeared. A small glance from one of his retainers, yet no further commentary upon his great rush to the sunlit and silent halls that line the far side of the castle, golden in buttery afternoon sun that falls in warm swoops across the expansive stone. One might think him in a hurry to devour his lunch, with the quickness that his heavy steps carry him down the corridors. Nourishment is indeed what he seeks, albeit for a different organ and of a debatable degree of good for him.

It had been with little thought that he had promised her time in these few moments of respite he savored during the afternoons, usually taken within the silence of his rooms. His dining hours the last two nights had been offered to her as well, so that he might take her to see the Princess Jaehaera. It quite nearly mystifies him, the ease with which he is willing to discard a meal if only to attend to her. It would have, save he swears he has felt the stirrings of this sensation before. Different, this time, but recognizable nonetheless. If only he is not so hesitant to name it, he might have a better grasp upon the situation.

And there it is again within the veins of his heart as he catches sight of her, covered in the warm sun streaming in through the open window in front of her. As if the sun itself has delivered her down from the sky, the edges of her hair and the bow of her lip almost glowing under the golden rays. She, who at night is of starlight, takes so easily to the sun during the daytime hours. The image of her within the Queen’s Ballroom, shimmering silver and soft smiles as a crowd cheers for her, remains prominently painted as a primary reference of her brilliance in his mind. The delicate glow she possesses in the evening, alone or attending to Jaehaera, is the only picture he might think after more often. 

She turns at the sound of his approach, eyes flickering to the wooden sword within his hand. In her mind, a debate upon the seriousness of his proposition earlier has been occurring. But as Cregan descends the staircase to meet her in the empty hall, Lady Tyrell finds he is indeed serious after all. As if she should have expected anything less from him, all Northern stoicism and drawn brows. Her hands fold elegantly in front of her gown and she lowers her chin with a look of wary amusement that might be viewed as affectionate if she were not so mistrusting of others. 

“Are you quite sure you wish to do this, my lord? I might be wholly unteachable.” Light and goading is the tone with which she addresses him, standing before him with a delicate raise of one eyebrow. Cregan dips his head, his eyes running down her figure for a brief moment as he offers her the pretend sword with an outstretched arm. It is with slow allowance that she sees more of his shrouded Northern wit, those ghosting half-smiles that grace the edges of his mouth as he does his utmost to be a gentleman. Shaking his head, he feels the brushing of her fingers upon his palm as she takes the sword from him.

“You have the mind for warfare. It is only right that you engage in the physicality of it as well, my lady.” A quiet assurance, steady in the consistent manner he always is, his eyes shining in wordless approval as she appraises the wooden sword, her gaze running studiously up its length. It is not too heavy in her hand, designed to mimic a longsword rather than the greatsword occasionally worn upon Cregan’s back. The heirloom weapon of his great house, Ice, which she has only witnessed him bearing when holding court. Her hands slot themselves at the base of the hilt, while she attempts to familiarize herself with the weight of it within her grasp. Uncertainty curls in hazy flickers through her arms as she frowns, unsure of how to mirror the manner that she has seen men hold swords before. This earns her a soft breath of what she might hesitantly deem as amusement from the lord. 

It is his natural instinct to correct her poor form, no fault of her own as she has not received instruction before. His figure draws behind her, his broad shoulders eclipsing her back as the scent of cedarwood and leather and the faintest hint of amber rise to her senses. Her grip tightens slightly upon the hilt and Cregan grows still as her shoulders rise, her chest tightening as she inhales a sharp breath. He shall not forget why he is instructing her at all. 

“May I?” Heavy and whispered upon his lips. Although she cannot see his face, the breath of his quiet words brushes the top of her hair. It is with a moment of weighty silence that she considers and slowly accepts. There is no point in learning if she does so improperly.

“You may.” Her shoulders square and she raises her chin, loosing her grip upon the wood of the sword as Cregan reaches around her frame with a steady arm. His hand envelopes her much smaller one, encasing it fully as he guides her left hand down to the faux pommel, the wood round and smooth against her skin. Cregan’s hand is warm, calloused from his time spent training and upon the battlefield, yet cradles hers softly as he positions it as he pleases. 

His other arm wraps around her slowly, before he pauses once again. Her heartbeat quickens traitorously within her chest and at the pressure points of her wrists at the touch and proximity, her veins thrumming low with his steady presence so close to her. She does not dare to move, does not dare to risk brushing against him further. His right hand hovers above her own as he dips his head, the low cadence of his voice spoken as if a secret. “May I, my lady?”

Hushed repetition in a thick tone, met only with a silent nod this time. Her eyelashes flutter in near annoyance at the intensity of it all: surely, this is not the atmosphere in which men learn to wield their weapons. In that fleeting moment she wonders if she ought to have someone else teach her, someone who did not evoke such an infuriating reaction beneath her warming skin. His fingers close overtop of her right hand, leading it up to rest against the cross-guard. Her eyelids lower, watching the nearly tender manner in which his rough skin waits upon hers. A flicker of heat emanates – as if from a fire, if only in her affected state – from his nearness to her back. 

With his step back, taken to better appraise the corrections he has made to her form, she can allow breath to flow freely through her body. Until he moves, she is unaware of the blockage that bottles the air in her lungs. Her eyes remain fixated pointedly on the wooden sword, maintaining the hold that Cregan adjusted.

“Swing it forth, as best you can. Lead with your left foot.” The Lord of Winterfell steps deliberately around her figure, grey eyes narrowing with serious assessment while he watches. His arms are folded sturdily across his chest. With a deep breath, she shifts her legs to maneuver as he instructs, the sword falling through the air with a gentle swish. As a soft wind is produced from the movement, Lady Tyrell is left to stare at the wood. How strange it is, to copy an action she has observed countless times and longed for in equal measure. 

Violence is not what she desires, only the power to defend herself fairly. But if the former must be obtained to achieve the latter then she shall not lose sleep upon the matter. 

Cregan gives a slow nod at the action, the draw of his brow signaling his approval at her attempt. His eyes rake across her figure, unabashed as he studies her form for areas to critique. Underneath his heavy gaze, her chin lifts unconsciously and her chest flutters with pressing breath. It is with few large strides that he reaches her again, eyes following the curves of her body as she returns to the stance she had been in prior to swinging the wooden sword. 

Thus begins his returning correction of her positioning before each time she attempts to wield the sword appropriately. A rush of wind from the swiftness which with she cuts through the air and Cregan is behind her, a whispered asking after her allowance before every touch like a sacred mantra chanted heavy and reverent upon his lips. Each time she forgoes speaking and instead dips her chin in acceptance, not trusting the strength of the words that might escape her mouth. Certainly not when he presses his large hands to the sides of her hips, calloused fingers slotting into the satin of the skirts of her gown as he rotates her lower body to face straight ahead instead of shifting when she moves. 

“Nay, do not turn so.” His voice is a low rumble, and he indicates for her to swing again while his hand remain to her hips, the weight of it keeping her from turning as she swings the wood forth again. She can feel the way her body instinctively desires to shift with the movement, but as her hips slide forward Cregan tightens his hold and keeps her still. His chest is nearly pressed to her back, the curve of her brushing precariously against his lower body. There is an almost imperceptible phantom of his breath upon the top of her head as her hips stutter beneath his hands. If she were to turn, his low-lidded eyes and blown pupils might indicate a thought most improper settling within his mind. 

“Good, good, my lady.” With a press of his fingers further into the fabric at the words, so tight she might feel the imprint of his thumb into the small of her back, Cregan steps back to watch her once more. Little is to be done about the sweet ache beneath the heavy skirts of her dress, altogether not productive to the end of learning to better hold a sword. And in truth, Cregan does not need to pay such dutiful attention to the movement of her breasts, bound so tightly within her corset that they bounce slightly with each swing, rather than to her hands. 

As she grows more familiar with the weight of the wood and the motion of wielding it, the Lord of Winterfell guides her to step forward as she swings. To move her right foot and shift her weight to drift out of the way of any potential incoming attacks. It is not a motion easily done in such heavy clothing, but she shall make do as best she can given the trying circumstances. Indulgence does not suit her, but the heat pulsing insistently between her legs is disinclined to be ignored. It is wholly unfair, the press of his hands to her back as he readjusts her stance, the roughness of his fingers upon the skin of her wrists to guide the wooden sword through the space in front of her. The warmth from the golden sun shining upon the shadowed hall holds no candle to the warmth that blossoms beneath his every touch. He becomes a steady presence at her back.

When she turns her head to ask after the progress she has been making, her breath catches in a silent stumbling within her throat at how close he is. Her eyes drop to his lips, – parted and patient – to the freckles upon his face, and only then to his own eyes. Intently and steadily gazing upon her, with such Northern weight. Lady Tyrell might simply be crushed beneath it this time, as the pressure swells within her chest and plummets.

Cregan is left wholly grateful for the thickness of the skirts that separate her back from the prominent physical manifestation of his own budding need. It is with such sweetness that her lips open, the pink of her tongue plush between them, a rose in every sense. Her bright eyes wide, blinking gently up at him, and the surge of want that courses through his veins at the sight is enough to make him swallow back a quiet noise in his throat. In a desperate, grasping attempt at propriety, at civility, at honor, he draws back slightly before he hears footsteps echoing down the hall.

Lady Tyrell tightens her grip upon the hilt of the sword as an approaching presence shatters whatever heaviness has fallen between them, and she gives him a small nod before extending her arm and returning the sword to Cregan quickly. It is not as if she wishes to be caught training with a weapon, decidedly not a ladylike endeavor, nor alone with a lord, decidedly an even less ladylike endeavor. 

“I am grateful for your instruction, my lord.” It is a breath, a rush of words that are exhaled from her diaphragm, as she folds her hands tightly across her front. Squeezing her fingers far too forcefully, she gives him a small dip of her head.

“You are a fast learner. It is no trouble at all.” The only indication of struggle within his voice is that it has somehow deepened as he turns away from her, not eager to show the effects that touching her has upon his body. Quick to depart before she is caught doing something she knows quite well she should not be, she nods to express her gratitude and disappears down the hall in a swirl of soft hair and satin skirts. The scent of vanilla and honey left in her wake leaves Cregan closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

A crowd gathers within the hall that evening, a hushed and tense murmur buzzing in the great room like a swarm of thousands of roused bees. The torches have been lit and flicker brightly, alongside the ornamental brazier that hangs gracefully from the ceiling, illuminating many a worried face as gossip spreads quick and speculative through the crowds of nobles assembled within the halls. Not as many as might be there for a royal event when lords and ladies throughout the Realm are called to journey to the massive throne room, but all those in the capital at present. So tense is the atmosphere these days, that when called to gather the nobles do so with haste and without question. Ladies turn to their husbands and place their hands worryingly upon their arms, a few of the younger handmaidens whisper behind raised hands to each other. Men exchange deep frowns, their rumbling whispers upon what might transpire low and concerned. The large window behind the throne extends a view to a cloudless night sky.

The twinkle of stars, the shimmer of a silver crescent moon. In front of this sits the object of Lady Tyrell’s great ire, shining coldly as it is backlit by the moonlight. If only she could, the lady would take it upon herself to find the dragon whose fire forged the damned monstrosity and use all one thousand swords to slay it. Never could a chair be worth the price that has been paid, not to her. Helaena had never longed for the power that came with it, and when it had been forced upon her it had driven her to madness and death. 

To prevent herself from glaring at the throne with repulsed distaste, the lady occupies herself by composing a discussion with the Lord Benjicot Blackwood. Although rather quiet, the young lord had peaked her attention upon their sole extended encounter within the council chamber. After sending her informational network to produce more knowledge of the lord, she finds him a rather suitable young man. His battle prowess has been echoed by many who witnessed him fight during the Dance, and yet he is known to behave with utmost decorum and respect when off of the field. In fact, he seems nearly shy when he lacks his armor, which Lady Tyrell finds perfectly acceptable.

Although Lord Blackwood seems rather flustered upon her beginning of the conversation, once she is able to bypass the initial awkwardness, they are able to converse rather pleasantly upon a selection of different topics while she studies him discreetly. The young lord is handsome enough, she decides objectively, and House Blackwood shall be in a position of favor with the young prince as they sided with his mother in the war. As he is already the Lord of Raventree Hall, any wife he takes shall immediately become the castle’s Lady. The Lady of a prominent house, in good standing with the new ruler, not lacking in funds nor men. Lady Tyrell does her best to not allow her eyes to glimmer as she questions politely about the lord’s intentions to marry and watches him stumble over his words, clearly lacking any plan. Her darling sister would adore him, this she knows for almost certain. And as the lord is only one year Cassia’s younger, the match would be perfectly ideal.

When the large oak doors swing open, the eyes of every nobleperson in the room turn to the incoming Northerners and voices drop to a hush. Lord Stark is accompanied by Lady Jeyne Arryn and Lord Corwyn Corbray, who follow behind him with neutral expressions as a pathway parts in the crowd to allow them to cross the room towards the staircase before the throne. It is with such ease that Cregan commands the attention and respect of a room, perhaps the loathing of one as well, despite not being of royal blood. As Lady Arryn pauses to speak to Lord Leowyn Corbray, it is Lady Tyrell’s eye that Cregan searches for among the throngs of nobles who have begun speaking amongst one another once again.

The Lord of Winterfell catches sight of her conversing with Lord Blackwood, the soft smile and flutter of her lashes signaling her public persona’s appearance for the convening that evening. As he makes his way to her, towards the head of the throne room, she turns as she grows increasingly aware of the wandering of eyes in her direction. Upon meeting his, the lady realizes that it is becoming habit to speak to Cregan plainly. To do so in front of others would be foolish, but she finds she need not attempt to as Cregan gives Lord Blackwood a rather heavy look and the young lord scrambles off to find the other members of the Northern council. She is left rather alone with Cregan at the head of the room, keenly conscious of how many nobles are boring holes into the pair of them. The torches cast a decadent yet wary light about the room, still fraught with tension.

Yet within Cregan’s eyes, she sees only the silent shimmer of familiar questioning as he narrows them at her. His voice is as low as he can make it, barely a murmur that passes between their ears alone. “You look far too pleased with yourself, my lady.”

The comment quite nearly brings a smile to her lips, but she presses them together a moment longer to prevent it from fully blooming. Instead, she folds her hands together and blinks up at him with soft innocence. “Is it so unimaginable to think that I might simply enjoy a pleasant conversation, Lord Stark?”

“Of course, Lady Tyrell.” With courteous ease and the slow tempo of his tone, Cregan dips his head to indicate he means her no offense, as any gentleman might. The lady takes a deep breath, her eyes flicking over to Lord Blackwood for a moment before she lowers her voice and tilts her head up at Cregan with an almost entertainingly solemn expression upon her delicate features.

“It is only that he seems to be lacking for a wife. And he is such a promising young lord, whose character I have studied and deemed appropriate.” As casually as a comment upon the clearness of the night sky outside the arched windows of the throne room, yet it is far more information than she would normally provide someone regarding her motives. The ghost of a smile once again challenges to grace her lips, but she forces it away, in an attempt to remain neutrally expressive in front of a crowd of so many.

It is clear to her then, fighting at the edges of his mouth as well, that Cregan finds himself facing a similar issue to her own. His eyes shine with the cloaked amusement of knowing, yet his face remains as impassive and stern as ever. Save for the twitch of his brows, and the shift of his jaw as he considers her. Leaning forward so that he might whisper quietly into her ear, his eyes are cast to the ceiling as he speaks. “I might ask you leave Lord Blackwood out of your schemes, my lady, but I can think of far worse fates than to be betrothed to your lady sister.”

The unspoken remainder of the sentence is heavy upon his tongue – if she is near as beautiful as you are. Her eyes flick down to the floor as she attempts not to look pleased at his approval of her idea. A small tilt of her chin as she lets out a tiny, gentle sigh. “I would wish to gain her opinion of him first, but I am afraid I am running short on time.”

The Lady of Highgarden wishes to betroth both of her daughters as quickly as possible, and the lady knows her mother well enough to know that a match with Oldtown is highly coveted. In marrying Cassia to Lord Lyonel, her mother would possess greater influence within House Hightower and could control them far easier. Yet Lyonel is foul-tempered and quick to anger, and if that were not enough to give Lady Tyrell cause to oppose the match, the young lord is obsessed with his father’s young widow. She simply could not allow such a union to proceed, not when it would surely bring her sister such misery. Even if Raventree is further in distance from Highgarden and of a cooler climate, Cassia would be far better suited for a boy such as Lord Benjicot Blackwood.

“If it would please you, I could send Lord Blackwood to treat with House Tyrell on my behalf.” Cregan offers quietly, his eyes searching hers passively as he continues to speak in quiet whispers, to avoid the ears bending with poorly concealed interest in their direction. Her eyes soften, her brows drawing closer gently. 

“It would please me, Lord Stark.” The lady murmurs, her eyes holding Cregan’s steadily as he gives a deep hum to indicate his agreement upon the matter. Their gazes remain locked upon each other for a moment longer before the Lord of Winterfell must make his way to the top of the staircase that stands before the Iron Throne. As she turns her attention back to the nobles around her, she discovers with some surprise that Lady Arryn is staring at her quite astutely. The other woman is too far away to have heard their conversation, and yet as she approaches, the lady cannot help but wonder if she somehow knows its nature. Lady Arryn stands beside Lady Tyrell without speaking, instead turning her attention to Cregan, whose presence at the head of the hall has brought the whispers to a hush.

Beneath the imposing throne of swords, his ancestral weapon heavy upon his back, even Lady Tyrell is left to stare at him wordlessly. The picture of strength, reminding every noble in the crowd whom it was who forced King’s Landing into submission and rules it still. The ever-present sternness upon his face is far more serious as he addresses the lords and ladies, his deep voice echoing out into the massive hall. Addressing the nobles as a man of true power, despite the young prince Aegon still maintaining claim to the crown and title. It is trials that the lord announces, much to the shock that ripples through the crowd like a stone upon water. Hushed, worried mutters from those gathered as they immediately begin to surmise the fate of those arrested by the Northerners. Her own concerns are still heavy upon her mind; she has yet to hear of how the Hightowers responded to her mother’s warning. War might still find House Tyrell yet.

Lady Tyrell catches a glimpse of the twin princesses Baela and Rhaena, their faces betraying their own grave concern for their grandfather, Corlys Velaryon. The Sea Snake remains imprisoned, and the lady is unsure as to what his fate shall be. She holds no allegiance to the man, but it would seem that her mother is rather keen to make an ally of him yet. This matter she would have to consult her mother upon further. 

Noticing the direction in which her eyes are wandering, the Lady Arryn leans over as Cregan finishes his announcement. “The Lord of Winterfell shall be just in his trial proceedings.”

It is a slight surprise that the older woman addresses her directly, almost as much as Lady Arryn approaching her in the first place. Lady Tyrell blinks for a moment, before dipping her head elegantly, her eyes dropping to the stone floor. “I am sure he shall.”

A polite yet detached offering, given with a sweet smile and a demure posture. Lady Arryn hides nothing in her eyes as she scans the lady with an impassive expression, cool eyes raking across her figure. The direct way that the woman carries herself is of great interest to the Lady Tyrell, as it had been when she had seen Lady Arryn at the council meeting. Even so, she does her utmost to gaze gently back while waiting patiently for the other woman to finish her assessment.

“It is tradition for those of House Stark to carry out the sentences themselves.” Lady Arryn informs her with calm neutrality, expression sharp as she searches for a reaction to this information upon the younger woman’s face. 

Lady Tyrell pauses, yet ensures that a saccharine smile remains pleasantly painted onto her lips. Her eyes flicker to Cregan, descending the staircase with heavy steps, and to the greatsword he carries upon his back. Ice is an intimidating size, quite heavy to wield by most standards. She finds she can conjure up an image of him utilizing it with ease, the rippling of his muscular arms and chest as he wields it in battle. And yet the idea of him condemning someone and beheading them himself, rather than deferring to the Southern custom of bequeathing the duty to an executioner, creates a sense of unease in her chest. It is not that she disapproves, if she thinks upon the matter further she will surely find it a rather honorable and accountable action, it is just foreign to her. She remembers then with perfect clarity that despite the North existing as a part of the Realm, it is a place wholly unknown to her and vastly different than the Reach and the capital. 

She gives a small breath and nods softly, declining to comment additionally upon the matter as it requires more contemplating. Lady Arryn’s hawkish eyes have not looked away from her visage since Cregan finished speaking, but as Lady Tyrell notices Cregan’s own gaze fixed firmly upon her, it would seem that Lady Arryn does as well. The older woman gives a sigh, her eyes flicking between the two of them for a moment, before she lowers her voice. “It is a shame winter approaches so quickly. I imagine it difficult to adjust to the North in such a time.”

The other woman slips off into the crowd of nobles as they begin to trickle out into the halls, their faces creased with worry and, darker yet, a glimmer of excitement at something new finally happening in the castle they are all but trapped in. Lady Tyrell does not have the opportunity to answer, nor to wonder what Lady Arryn might mean.

[sanjoongie]

𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝑳𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒆𝒅

🍄Pairing: Fae Prince! San x Mushroom Guard! Reader

🍄Au: royal au, fantasy au, fae au

🍄Trope: prince/guard, power dynamic

🍄Genre: smut

🍄Rating: 18+, MDNI

🍄Warnings: descriptors of reader because you are a mushroom fae, dom! reader, sub! san, fear play, begging, making out, rutting/wet humping, degradation, verbal instruction, penetrative sex with no barrier, psychedelic sex (san got high from fucking a mushroom girl), consent before said high sex, pussy-drunk san, oral (f), hair tugging (m)

🍄Word Count: 4,259

🍄Summary: you were created for one sole purpose: to guard the nephew of the Unseelie King. Choi San was arrogantly confident that you would keep him from Death's Door; for if he died, so ended your life as well. But what you did not expect from your Fae Princeling was that he was just as dedicated to your body as you were his.

🍄Author's Note: happy birthday to the man that never fails to make me smile. your hard work and dedication to your craft and to make others around you happy never ceases to amaze me. Here's to your large heart (and even bigger tits)

San entered the ballroom with all the impudence of an arrogant Fae Prince. Nephew to the current King of the Unseelie, San was one of the most important Fae in the room. But he was also very much in danger. 

That’s how you came to be created. No allegiance could be sure, in the Fae realm, and even an oath binding could be wiggled out of with a few loophole words. So, life was breathed into you, as a mushroom. You were created in a woman’s image and your bond to San was that unlike any sworn servant. You see, your life was in San’s hand. You were created to be his loyal guard, and if he so happened to die, then your life would be taken from you as well. 

The whispers ran through the crowd like a wave retreating from the coast. Your deep russet hair, with random white spots and dull ivory skin had not been seen before. The simple rush of being the attention flushed through your body.

“Where did you dig up this beauty, San?” A bored voice drawled.

San ducked his head in greeting to multiple people but smirked towards the one asking this particular question. “From the dark, musky part of the forest.”

You scratched the back of your neck and turned your head to hide your flush. 

“Does she guard your body well?” Another asked.

Your sword whipped from its sheath by your side and wavered at the chest of the Fae who dared demand you did not complete your life's duty to the best of your ability. 

San pushed your sword down with two fingers, chuckling. It drew your sword down the body of the male fae, who looked a little turned on by it, if you were being honest. “Careful now, Wooyoung, that sword is poisonous.”

“Is your uncle really that worried about you?” 

San shrugged like he hadn't a care in the world. 

A spring dryad walked with an extra sway in her hip to your charge. You intercepted her immediately. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I was bid to entertain the prince,” The dryad responded, sending a gratuitous wink towards San.

You smiled but it was full of bitter recognition. “No one is allowed to come near the prince, dryad. Go find someone else to weakly hump.”

The dryad let out a loud ‘humph’, clearly insulted, and found a more receiving Fae Lady. 

San leaned into you from behind to whisper into your ear. “Jealous?”

“No one is touching you,” You insisted, keeping your face blank. 

San mingled during the ball but he did not ask for anyone’s hand to dance. He conversed and drank, spilling out anything that wasn’t approved by you. You ate and drank anything he consumed first, to make sure it wasn’t poisonous. You, of anyone, were the best at discovering if something was poisonous or not. 

But soon, your Fae Prince tired of socializing and was ready to leave the ball. It was truly sad that he was unable to attend the final waltz of the evening. He danced so well. You shook your head. This was no time to get your head full of images of San.

The quiet roar of the crowd fell behind the both of you as you left the ball. San’s smart shoes clicked rhythmically against the wood floor polished with age and use. You kept your ears and eyes open for any threats that thought they could take advantage of the early morning hours. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many eyes more interested in someone other than myself,” San said.

You scoffed at his statement. “Oh, you had plenty of eyes on you, My Lord.”

San cocked his head curiously, turning on his heel to look at you. “Did you want to squish those offending eyes with your fingers, Red?”

Your hand tightened on the grip of your sword. “My Lord,” you growled in warning.

San smiled impishly, playing with the black opal bracelet on his wrist. “But it's so fun to tease you!”

You jerked your chin in the direction of San’s rooms. “Shall we get to where it’s safe first and you can tease me all you want?”

San sighed wearily. “Fine, have it your way.”

A tiny bit of stress left your shoulders the minute you closed the door to the suite of rooms that were due to the Unseelie Fae King’s nephew. San did not move to his bedchambers nor did he begin to disrobe, like you had hoped. He was looking to wriggle under your skin with his words like a worm in a rotting apple. 

“I should have insisted you wear a more revealing dress,” San teased, his eyes alit with malicious merriment. “Perhaps that would have lured Yunho to caress that perk little bottom you were created with.”

“My Lord--”

“San, please, Red. We are in my rooms and you shall address me as I prefer. I am your lord, as you say.”

“San, your self destruction is almost an art.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Is it self destruction to--”

You gracefully swung your sword from its sheath and had the tip delicately touching San’s neck, just below his Adam's apple, in mere seconds. “--yes, it is.”

San held himself still, glancing down at the sword and then back to meet your eyes. “You can’t harm me.”

“Wrong,” You corrected him. “I cannot kill you.”

You leaned in slightly and a small cut bled immediately from San’s neck. You gasped when you felt a nick of pain on your neck. You reached up with your free hand to check and came back with black ooze. 

“See.” San smiled crookedly, revealing his canine teeth. “I told you, you can’t harm me.”

You twisted your lips in a grimace. Even your poison would have no effect; San consumed an antidote for your poison every day, for the sake of you simply being unable to harm him. You should have guessed that along with your lives being intertwined, you would be harmed when he was harmed as well. 

In a small fit of rage and rebellion, you whipped your sword in the air and then twirled it to sheath it. San opened his mouth as if to question the sudden embellishment of swordsmanship and then gasped when his decorative armor fell from his body. 

“It is time for you to go to sleep, little lordling,” You commanded. 

San slipped both his hands into the deep pockets of his satin pants. “Put me to sleep?”

You rubbed your face tiredly. “That, most definitely is not a part of my job.”

San stood there, topless, folding one arm behind his head while scratching the back of his neck. “I would like it to be.”

“I am supposed to be guarding you,” You growled. “I can’t do that if you’re inside of me.”

San sent you a boyish grin. “What better way to guard my body than to be as close as you can be?”

 You searched what you assumed was your heart, to see if this was the right choice in your path of your new life. You could feel your heartbeat but was it for the Fae Prince because if his heart withered, yours would go with it? Or was it because the roguishly handsome Lord really had grown on you enough to bed him?

San took a step forward, cautious of your abilities with your sword. He ran a finger along your bare shoulder. “You’re not even a little bit curious?”

“I didn’t have time to be curious,” You spat. 

This wasn’t the first time San had propositioned you. Nor would it be the last if you declined. He was adamantly vying for your body. Something about tonight was pushing you towards finally folding for him. 

“You’ve got time now,” San said. He walked around you, still trailing that finger along your skin. He was behind you now. “So how about it?”

He was temptation, with his muscles gleaming and the satin clinging to his legs. San knew that, you knew that. And of course you were curious. But was the risk worth it?

“If you ask me, I think it’ll only bind us even more,” San whispered, now on your other side. “You will have known me in my most intimate moment and will always be able to protect me.”

“I think someone had a little too much Fairy Wine, my lord,” you mused. 

“Nay.” San shook his head. “You would know me as a giggly fool if I had drunk truly. I am sober and looking to finally bring down your barriers, Red.”

“Want me desperate for you when typically I am reserved?” You mocked him.

San stood in front of you once again. His face was a combination of seriousness and lust. He put his hands on your shoulders and pulled you against him. You didn’t resist him. Your chest was pressed against his when he murmured, “Don’t our hearts beat as one? Shouldn’t we be connected in this final way?”

You tipped your head and kissed your sworn liege lord. His lips were soft and wet and when he sighed into your mouth, your tongue sought to tangle with his. San cupped the back of your head, tilting his head, and deepening the kiss. You allowed him to back you up to his bed and tumbled onto it with him. San managed, with his strength and grace as a Fae, to turn you around so that he hit the bed and didn’t even break the kiss.

You ate at his mouth like he was honey and you couldn't get enough of the sweet, sticky substance. You could feel your body tingling from the kisses but San was fairing much worse. When you broke the kiss, his tongue came out, chasing yours. He lied there, his pupils blown, looking like a panting dog. 

“San, are you quite alright?” You wondered. 

“You are like the sweetest, strongest brandy I have ever drunk.” San smiled lazily. 

You sat back. San appeared… he could not lie so he wasn’t drunk before you began to kiss. The situation was odd. 

Now that you sat back, however, you could not deny what was waiting for you under San’s satin pants. The Fae prince moaned lowly as your ass put pressure against his straining hard-on. His hands found your hips, and he held you in place, so he could grind up into you. “What will it take for you to let me slip inside of you?”

You frowned delicately. You petted your braid in thought. There was something off about this but you could not put your finger on it for the life of you. “Have you been taking your antidote potion regularly?”

“ ‘course I do. Don’t be silly.” He groaned as he pushed his cock between your lips, with only his satin pants as a barrier. He was ruining the garment but it didn’t seem like he cared at the present.

“Very well,” You shrugged. 

You grounded your lower half against San and his back arched off the bed. “Please,” he whimpered. 

“What do you want, San?” You said coolly. “Tell me and I may be able to fulfill your demand.”

San’s eyes widened, as if in an attempt to push off whatever stupor was pulling him in. Was he simply the type of man who became a slave to a cunt until he was satisfied. “Take me, take all of me, deep inside of you. I need to feel encompassed by you.”

“My sweet Fae prince,” You cooed mockingly. “All high and mighty because of his mushroom guard but the minute he gets behind closed doors, he’s a whining mess, rutting up into a pussy that’s always been denied to him.”

San pouted. “You’ll let me have it, right? You won’t let me lie here, begging, will you? Please, I’ll be good.”

You clucked your tongue against the roof of your mouth, moving your hips against San again. “Be good? You don’t know the meaning.”

San raised his hands from your hips and laid them on either side of his head, in abeyance to you. He even kept his eyes lowered but his Adam's apple was bobbing again. “I can try.”

You lifted your lower half up so that you could reach underneath you and yank San’s pants down. San gasped as the cool air suddenly hit his raging hard-on. You grasped his phallus immediately and began to run the head of him along your wet folds under your short copper dress. 

It was a test and San was struggling. His hands made tight fists and he bit hard on his lower lip. “Don’t you want to be inside of me, Sannie? What’s stopping you from…” You angled his cock to be flush with your hole. “...simply penetrating me with one sharp movement, San?”

San whined in the back of his throat. “I can be a good little Fae Prince for you.”

You let go of San’s cock, watching it slap his stomach satisfactorily. You rutted along the length, coating it in your slickness. You didn’t know which god or goddess San was praying to, but his lips moved fervently in silence. As if that would help him. 

You supposed he was taking his oath seriously. He was being good and hadn't attempted to take control since he said he would relinquish his power to you. Perhaps you could reward him.

You leaned down against San’s chest. He was sweating profusely, withholding back was taking a lot out of him. You ran a finger around the areola of his nipple. “Shall you show me what a good boy you can be?”

San nodded very quickly. “What do you need from me?”

“Flip us over and you may penetrate me. But!” You stopped your new lover. “You must go slowly. I want you to watch as every inch enters me.”

San licked his lips, wetting them once again. “And then?”

You chuckled. “Let’s see if you can do it first, Sannie.”

San had you flipped just as quickly as before, albeit slightly more clumsy. “You are the most beautiful mushroom lady I have ever had the pleasure of fucking.”

You snorted. “I am the only one of my kind, Choi San.”

“Still.” San grasped his dick with a soft gasp and then angled it between your open thighs. “You put the majority of the Fae Court to shame.”

You both groaned lowly as he finally pushed the head of his cock into your wet entrance. He pushed and pushed, and to be honest, it was a struggle for both of you. He was thick and seemed to fill you up perfectly.

“So! Wet!” San panted. “I--” he whined in the back of his throat. “Are we in the middle of a fairy ring?!”

Alarmed you had accidentally caused a growth of mushrooms, you looked wildly around but the room simply had San's minimal but expensive decorations; no mushroom in sight.

“San, are you sure--?!”

San completed sinking into you. He held himself aloft, his arm muscles moving as he shifted. He closed his eyes, perhaps in an attempt to focus on not jackhammering inside of you.

“Please? Queen of my desires? Let me plunge in your depths. I need to--I will die, surely, holding myself inside of you like this!” San pleaded.

You traced a finger along San’s collarbones. “You are so dangerously handsome.”

San swallowed loudly. “Dangerously handsome enough to fuck you so hard that you'll see stars?”

This fae princeling, this arrogant, untouchable man, was a puddle between your legs and you were becoming quite charmed by it. 

San blinked hard, clenching his eyes and shook his hair out of his face. The lines of his nose and jaw balanced out the soft curves of his lips. He really was gorgeous. 

“San,” You hummed softly. 

San opened his eyes and they were glossy with lust. “Red. I'm all yours. I've always been all yours. You're dedicated to keeping my body safe and I'm dedicated to yours.”

You pulled San closer, wrapping your arms behind his neck, and bringing him chest to chest to you. “Fuck me so hard I'll see stars,” You whispered into his ear.

A shudder went through San's body and then he tensed up so that he could pull back. “Better hold onto my arms,” he suggested.

The first thrust punched the air in your lungs out in a lusty cry. Your shoulders moved up the bed a full inch with the strength that San had thrusted into you. You immediately wrapped your hands around San's bicep to hold yourself in place. 

The cries didn't end as San fucked you hard. His thrusts were punctuated by a noise from you being thoroughly fucked, just as you had requested. You could hear the obscene slapping of skin against skin and the squishing of San’s cock against your wet entrance. It was debauchery at its finest and you couldn't find an ounce of you regretting it at this moment. 

San was a drooling mess in the crook of your neck even though his hips worked relentlessly between your legs. He whimpered and whined, pussy drunk inside of you. “So good, feels so good being inside of you, so wet, so tight, so good,” he babbled.

“San,” You said in a strained tone. “Remember, you are fucking me until I see stars, not the other way around.”

“I can… I can… I can be good…” San panted through his lust-filled mind. 

“Can you?” You groaned after a particularly hard thrust. “Can you put my needs before your own, you greedy princeling?”

“Can, can, can,” San chanted, even though he sounded like he was getting closer to his climax. 

You couldn't help but to sow a little chaos, considering how much chaos San had thrown your way this evening. “Are you going to come inside of me, Sannie?” 

San cried out and stilled his hips against you. “Nooooooo,” he lamented. “Why did you do that?”

“To see if I had that kind of power,” You admitted. You petted the back of his head in comfort. “But you were not a good little princeling, Sannie. You came before me.”

“It was so good,” San whined. “You can’t blame me!”

“I guess you’ll have to start over again,” You said flippantly.

San raised himself up so that he could look at you. He had the right amount of suspicion in his eyes as he said, “Start over again, how?”

Your fingers brushed some of his hair from his face that had stuck to his hairline from the sweat that was pouring off him. “Why, Sannie, you’ll have to clean up the mess you made inside of me and fuck me again.”

San’s eyes widened and you watched as he visibly slipped back into his subby headspace. “You want me to lick my cum from your pussy and then fuck you again?”

“Mmm,” You hummed. “Can you do that for me? Be a good little princeling and fix the mess you made? Do you want to be a good boy for me, Sannie?”

“Yes, please,” San murmured.

He immediately slid down your body and pressed his plush lips to your core that was aching for a release. You could feel his cum leaking from you and that’s how San began, licking your cunt diligently. And when he couldn't find any more cum to lick, he slowly stuck his tongue inside of you, looking for leftovers. 

“Yes, San,” You moaned. “Such a good boy for me. Put your tiny little tongue inside of me and make me feel something.”

San groaned against your cunt, and the richness of his baritone voice washed over you. You would have let him make you come with his tongue plowing inside of you but you were firm in teaching San that you were the one in charge and he needed to follow your directions. 

You pulled San’s head up by gripping his hair and tugging upwards. “Time’s up. Did you clean me up well?”

San’s appearance, with your slickness and remnants of his own cum all over his bronze face, was one for the record. He smiled lazily, looking like a cat caught drinking the cream. “You taste so good. Like a mushroom pastry. I could eat you up all day.”

You brushed some of the fluids from his pink lips with the pad of your thumb. “Shall I tell the other courtiers why you’re so busy? Can’t be bothered with any of the Fae politics or affairs, because you’d simply rather be between a mushroom guard’s thighs?”

San’s face flushed with pleasure and embarrassment. “If it pleases you.”

“Lie down, Little Princeling,” You commanded softly.

San did so, his body now horizontal to the bed. You finished pulling off his pants and discarded the soft copper-worked dress you had donned that evening. This moment of total dominance, of a bared soul, deserved flesh against flesh, heart against heart.

“I will ride you, my fair lord,” You declared. You set a knee on either side of San’s narrow hips. “I will take you within my cunt, dripping of my own desire and yours spent, and I will take exactly what I want from you. And you will lie there and give me everything, won’t you?”

San’s irises were round like saucers. He seemed unable to completely focus but he did respond. “I would pull the stars from the sky and string them along a chain for you, Red. Is that what you want? To show that the Fae Prince you guard is owned by his mushroom lover? I will do it. I would prostrate myself before my uncle and declare myself unfit to be next in line because I am simply a puppet to your--”

You put a finger to San’s lips and he quieted. “Do not speak of such a thing while you are between my legs, San. All your wits have gone out with your cum.”

San smiled dopily. “You make me this way, Heart.”

“Do not call to me fondly either,” You scolded him gently. “This should not cross from lust to love.”

“Then I will simply have to work harder for your love,” San sighed dreamily. 

You laughed under your breath. There really was no stopping this man once he got something in his head. “Let us start with this,” You said as you angled his cockhead to your entrance. 

San began to babble once again while your body struggled to adjust to his girth. “Why must you squeeze me so tightly? It is as if you would eat me whole with your cunt!”

You laughed in amusement, voice tight with your own withheld struggles. “If you were a mortal and I, a simple mushroom, it would be so, would it not?”

San groaned, his eyes rolling into the back of his head with pleasure as you took him full-hilt inside of you. “You make me come undone, Red.”

You moved your hips, watching San intake sharply at the sudden movement. “I quite like it this way.”

San part moaned and part laughed. “You’ll drive me mad with lust. Can I touch you?”

“You may,” You allowed with a small dip of your head. 

San’s hands smoothed up your thighs, over your hips, and then they encompassed your waist, thumbs skimming your rib bones. Finally they rested just below your breasts, looking to cup them both. “I wish to sink into you every morning and every evening, sometimes in between.”

You bounced slightly, enjoying the way San’s eyes were eating you up. His hands held your breasts in place as you slowly began to build some pleasure between the two of you. “Perhaps I’ll allow it, Sannie. But only if you’re good.”

San licked his lips slowly. “I can be real good to you, Red.”

“So far you’ve only been a spoiled princeling, taking what he wanted and giving nothing back,” You reminded him.

San pursed his lips in thought. “Only--!” He paused to gasp at the pleasure luring his mind away from reality. “--only you do this to me. I am a skilled lover. I have made others weep. Please, I can prove myself a second time. You are--there is something about you that drives all the edges of my brain to soft, unending, blurred lines.”

“But you know enough that it is me you are inside,” You joked.

San sat up suddenly, more serious than you had seen him all night. His eyes traveled over the planes of your face. “Nothing could make me forget you.”

And so you rode San like this, chest to chest, heart to heart, eye to eye. You drank in every gasp and whine that left his pretty lips. San ran his fingers up and down your bare back. And finally when your orgasm overwhelmed you, breaking over you like a wave over a cliff, he kissed you with his mouth slanted over yours, determined to feed from your noises. 

You were both spent but you realized that regardless of the energy, neither of you were looking to be separated from each other, even when San’s cock softened and your wetness leaked out. He continued to keep you in his arms and you found yourself tracing the sharp planes of his face. There was something new between you; but you didn’t have a name for it yet. It was pleasant and that would suffice for now.

[tightjeansjavi]

Et Auream - Act III : The Girl

A/N: I just want to start off by saying that for this chapter and the next, please heed the warnings. Also, I have included one historical inaccuracy regarding the reasoning for Marcus to tell Aurelia his first name. His reasoning was because only those who were worthy could know a gladiators true identity, and since she is about to save his life, he feels that she is worthy. Historically, roman male citizens had three names: first name, family name and nickname. It would be seen as too intimate or disrespectful to address a male citizen by their first name (typically only if this male citizen was an emperor or someone in power). This is why Geta, Caracalla and others refer to Marcus as Acacius. Aurelia is the only one who has been granted the privilege to call him Marcus (thus far) Thank you to @sinsofsummer for betaing as always <3 word count: 4.9k Summary: Marcus opens up about his past to Aurelia, but does not divulge further than what he is comfortable with. Time is forever fleeting, but he hopes that their meeting will not be a one time occurrence. Pairing | Marcus Acacius x f!oc Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! This chapter includes SA of a minor (not by Marcus) loss of virginity, hyper sexuality as a result of SA, slight stockholm syndrome (if you squint) sexual enslavement, domestic abuse, canon typical violence, angst, misogyny, minor character death, language, +18 minors dni! If I have missed anything, please let me know! series masterlist

When Aurelia was just a little girl, and the world was bright, shiny, and new to her innocent eyes, she begged her parents for a horse of her very own. A beautiful ivory mare, or a sunburnt black stallion. She was too young to understand the pecking order in society, too naive to recognize that her family was not blessed with riches from the gods above. No, her parents were poor common folk; farmers whose only duties were to produce enough crops to feed Rome and her noble pupils. She didn’t understand the means of power, wealth, and status. 

Her parents prayed to the gods for their crops to prosper, and the gods answered, but a sacrifice would have to be made. her parents promised that where she was going, she would be rewarded with a thousand horses of all different shades and breeds. Instead, she was met with an iron collar around her delicate neck; a symbol of ownership. She was a slave to a Dominus, stripped down to an object to be bought and used in whatever means he felt necessary, and she had only just flowered. 

Her parents abided by the god’s wishes for them to sell their only daughter, and yet, their crops shriveled and dried to dust. It was too late, the damage was already done, and she could never return to the home she once knew. 

When Aurelia’s parents sold her off to senator Cassius, she had expected to live her life of servitude in a dingy cell, wearing tattered garments and begging for scraps. No matter how foul and unsettling Cassius was in her eyes, in a twisted way he did treat her better than she had expected. Atleast, she had convinced herself that he had. He ensured her that she would be educated in the arts and literature and all things a proper Roman lady should be taught. For that, she should be grateful, but only bitterness resides when she imagines the life she could be living had her parents not thrown her away so carelessly.

She was granted her own room and bed with silken sheets and a wardrobe with garments of every color. Handcrafted and threaded with the richest fabrics she had ever laid her eyes upon. Cassius prided himself in his appearance and so the same expectations were set upon her.

The first night of her new life, Aurelia found herself helping him undress and sink into the bath that she had prepared for him. He paid no mind to the obvious scald marks appearing on her small hands from the water being too hot for her delicate skin to handle. “You will tend to me in whatever manner I may request of you, Aurelia,” he said sternly, leaving no room for her to protest against his command. “Yes, my Dominus,” she responded quietly, her voice laced with nervousness. He grinned at her displeasure and ignored the fear that lingered in her eyes when he grasped her wrist, smaller than his own, and he dragged her hand beneath the steaming water to wrap around his hardening cock. 

“I will make you happy, my pet. Just do as I ask and never fight me,” he hummed in contentment and his head tilting back against the fine porcelain as her wrist moved around his hardened shaft with shaky, insecure and unguided movements. 

“Yes, my Dominus.”

He didn’t wait for her to be well adjusted to this new life. He was the type of man who would take as he pleased, no matter the consequences. “You will lay with me tonight in my chambers, Aurelia,” he said from the entryway of the bathing area. A linen towel was secured around his hips, and she took little notice of her hands trembling as she followed him down the dimly lit hallway and to his private quarters. After that night, she was no longer a girl. She was a woman. This was evident from the dry crusted tears that laid like canyons upon her soft cheeks and the blood that stained his linen sheets with the loss of her innocence and youth.

As time went on, the pain subsided little by little. It left her experiencing confused and conflicted feelings. It felt wrong to experience pleasure from the monster, a man that took her away from the only life that she knew. Yet, her body began to crave it; yearned for that forbidden touch and that crescendo of muscles spasming, and her cunt fluttering. She felt like a woman entering her divinity through the arousal of slickness between her thighs and tender breasts; a body graced with curves, swells, dips, ridges, and soft skin.

Like summer turned to fall, and fall to winter, her feelings began to sour; turned bitter like grapes that exceeded their fermentation period. Resentment reared its ugly head the further she strayed from girlhood and entered into womanhood. All those hours of studying had gifted her knowledge that she once did not possess, and she wanted more out of her life. She craved freedom above all. Her anger and resentment towards him manifested and she could no longer keep it at bay. Her youth, stolen from her, but she intended to gain her autonomy back in some form. This angered Cassius greatly that his once perfect, compliant, obedient, pet had begun to unabashedly disobey him. She was his. His property. her mind, body and soul belonged to him, and him only. 

“You will never be free from your servitude. No matter how many fruitless hours you spend praying to the gods. You will always belong to me,” he hissed through gritted teeth, towering above her trembling, cowered body that laid upon the cold tile in his chambers.

Her cheek felt hot to the touch where he had struck her, and the tang of copper bursted along her tongue from the torn flesh of her upper lip. 

She glared at him through her tears, vision blurred before becoming clear once again. His bedroom chamber was deathly silent. “I belong to no one.” 

He swiftly yanked her up by the scruff of her neck dragging her at his will towards the crumpled sheets along his bed. “You will remember my once unconditional kindness after I have fucked the defiance out of you, girl.” 

She knew no tenderness from him after that night and was only met with cruelness. 

She took solace in Cassius aging faster than most men, but perhaps it was due to the constant stress of losing the bitter war against the Caledonians and being a trusted advisor to Emperor Geta. Any day Cassius could lose his tongue…or his head, and she found herself praying for his death every morning and every night to no avail. 

When Cassius was away for days, weeks at a time, she found her freedom and solace through familiar faces. The brothel became her oasis along with its inhabitants. She lay with men, women and indulged in the simple pleasures. Her garments became tattered at her own doing, and she finally felt as if she owned a sliver of her autonomy once more, but she was not yet free. 

The Ludus Magnus

“Marcus,” he whispered, “My name is Marcus.”

Time ceased to exist for both the golden one and the gladiator. He had never told a single soul his true birth name that his mother had bestowed him. No one in his twenty three years of life was worthy to know his identity–until he met someone who had shattered his psyche and stitched it back together all in one breath. He did not believe in soulmates–at least, he thought he didn’t. There must have been a reason why his mother came to him in his dreams and spoke the words she did. It made him believe that she was somewhere out there, watching over her son, and doing all that she could to lead him down the right path. Surely, this stranger would be entwined to his fate and him to hers.

“Sir…” her voice wavered, “I am unworthy to know of your birth name.” 

Marcus gave her an incredulous look, one with furrowed brows and lips pursed in utter confusion. “What unworthiness do you speak of, my lady?” 

“Your birth name is sacred to your creed and identity, is it not? Only those who are closest to a gladiator, such as a family member, or lover is worthy to know of one’s birth name.”

His lips pulled into a small, yet noticeable grin, and for a moment he forgets about the pain from his deep wounds in his back and the pulsing sensation in his shoulder “You are familiar with my creed? Then you speak true. Only a person of worth is granted the knowledge of my birth name, my lady. You are more than worthy. You’re about to save my life after which I will be forever indebted to you.”

“You are not yet out of death’s grasp, Marcus,” she reminded him. 

“Then we must not waste another moment, my lady.” Aurelia positioned herself behind him so that she could easily assess the damage that was inflicted to his back and shoulders. The lacerations were deep, and she could only imagine how many times the biting sting of a whip was brought upon him. The tips of her fingers gently brushed an unmarked area of skin with careful tenderness. The scar that resided there was raised, and although it did not cause him pain, he flinched nonetheless. “I…noticed in the arena that you favor your left side,” she said quietly and sat back on her haunches before reaching for the pitcher of water and vial of olive oil. “You are very observant,” he said softly. “Is there a reason as to why you favor it?” He turned his head over his shoulder so that he could observe her briefly, before he faced forward once more. “I suffered an injury when I was just a boy.” She tore a strip of fabric from her stola and dipped it generously into the water. “This will sting,” she warned him preemptively. The soaked strip of fabric descended against one of the lacerations. The cooling touch is soothing, yet the pain intensifies. He lurched forward from the sensation, gnawing on the soft flesh of his cheek so that he would not cry out. “I fell from my horse,” he continues. “How old were you, Marcus?”

He did not immediately respond, and his mind began to drift to that fatal night where his entire world was turned upside down. He inhaled a shaky breath before continuing, “I was nine.” “It was the eve of my tenth birthday–and it was entirely my fault. I should have been more careful, but my own recklessness guided me. All it took was for me to lose my stirrup, and my whole life changed.” “What happened?” “What didn’t happen,” he muttered through clenched teeth. His entire body tensed up, and it had nothing to do with his physical wounds, and all to do with his mental ones. “If I had not fallen from my horse, my father…would still love me.” His words were laced with bitterness, sadness, and guilt at the forefront. “I–I don’t understand,” she whispered in confusion. “Your name,” he said suddenly. He was not yet ready to divulge in something that was deeply personal. “What of it?” “You have yet to tell me.” “Marcus,” she starts. “It is not of importance right now–” “Please,” he begged. “I must know your name, my lady.” “Aurelia,” she concedes in a whisper, “my name is Aurelia.” “Aurelia,” he repeated, testing the way it sounded on his own tongue.

“You do not have to reveal more than you feel comfortable telling me, Marcus,” she reassured him. “You would be the first to hear of my past in its entirety, but I am not ready to revisit it.” “I understand,” she said earnestly. Silence passed between them, the words of her name echoing in his eardrums, Aurelia, the golden one.

She worked methodically on tending to his wounds, and when they are fully cleansed, the pitcher of water faintly reflects a light pinkish hue. “Marcus, did you always want to become a gladiator?” she finally broke through the silence with a question that left him frozen on the spot. “No,” he muttered. “Had I been given the choice, I would have declined it, but the choice was never mine to make. My father–he sold me to a slave trader that was well-known for training gladiators for the Colosseum. The first time I grasped a sword, I was thirteen, and I had no desire to…kill. When I turned eighteen, and had proven myself as a valiant fighter, I was brought before the emperors. My Dominus was reluctant to sell me, at first, but Geta was persistent, and offered more coin than my Dominus had ever seen, and well…here I reside.” “And I presume that your reasoning to defy the emperors in the arena was because of the resentment you hold towards your father?” 

“You ask many questions, Aurelia,” he said flatly, but intended for it to come across as lighthearted and teasing. 

“I’m—sorry…” she trailed off. “I should not pry,” she bowed her head in shame 

He turned around fully so he could face her and when he took in her appearance of shame, he frowned and gently brought the knuckle of his pointer finger to rest beneath her chin. 

“Aurelia, do not feel shameful for your curiosity. Your questions do not upset me, my lady. Forgive me if my tone has expressed otherwise. It is…comforting to have someone to confide in. I have never experienced these privileges until tonight.” 

She lifted her chin slowly, her eyes meeting his softened gaze in the dim light. “It is a privilege that most do not get to experience in their life.” 

“Indeed,” he sighed and slowly dropped his hand from her chin and rested it on his bare knee instead. “I do not know what came over me in the arena today,” he admitted. “I have killed many men before without a second thought…but I saw the fear in his eyes, and I just could not bring myself to kill him.” 

“Marcus, to not kill when you have been commanded, takes compassion and bravery. I have never witnessed such an act. It left my Dominus enraged and perplexed. It is the reason that I sought you out this evening. When we returned to our villa, I could not stop thinking of you.” 

Heat began to rise to their cheeks in tandem and he swiftly averted his gaze to the wall behind her instead. 

“I feared for your safety, and despite knowing the risks of traveling after nightfall, I…had to make sure that you were okay,” she continued. 

“Emperor Geta did not command that I would be punished for my defiance,” he said as if he was capable of reading her mind and knew exactly what question was lingering there.

“He did not?” confusion etched across her face at his words. “Who gave the command?” 

“Well—I am under the impression that he did not give the command, and his praetorians took it upon themselves to punish me. I imagine that sounds a bit…improbable, but I did not hear him utter the command,” he let out a frustrated breath as he himself could not wrap his mind around what had taken place hours prior.

“That does sound implorable, but I believe you.” 

“You said that your Dominus is a Senator, yes?” he interjects.

“Yes, he is,” she confirmed. “He works closely with the emperors, but mostly Geta, or so I have overheard.”

“And you haven’t had the displeasure of acquainting them, have you?” He referred to the emperors. 

“No,” she shook her head. “Cassius does not allow me to stray far from his side, or to be in the company of other men. He is unaware that I have left the villa, but he spends his evenings in the brothel for many hours.” 

“Be grateful that you have not made their acquaintance, Aurelia. Nothing good comes from either of them,” he said gravely.

She nodded in understanding. “Your wounds will heal with time, Marcus. I have done all that I can to cleanse them. Olive oil contains healing properties. It will keep the wound moist, and repel debris from contaminating the surrounding flesh. If the gods grant you reprieve, you will not face an infection,” she murmured. 

“You’re leaving?…” 

“I must,” she said regrettably, and slowly rose to her feet. “Cato will still be expecting to return me to my Dominus, but I intend to slip away before he has the chance.” 

“Cato will be asleep by now, my lady. He nurses a bottle of wine each evening, and sleeps till late dawn.” 

“Regardless, I should leave you to rest,” she insisted. 

The likelihood of Marcus ever seeing her again was slim, given the circumstances that they were facing, but something in his heart told him that this would not be a one time occurrence. 

“Will I see you again, my lady?” his tone held a sense of hope, something he hadn’t felt in many years. 

“If the gods allow it, then yes, you will,” she said with a reassuring smile. “I am grateful to you, Aurelia. If the gods do not allow us to see one another again, I promise I will hold onto your kindness in my heart. Go now, quickly!” he said hurriedly. “Ride fast and swift. I will pray that your travel is perilous, my lady,” he reached for her hand and brought it up to his lips, brushing the soft skin of her knuckles with a farewell kiss.

“Iterum visurus sum, Marcus. Promitto,” (I will see you again, Marcus. I promise) she whispered.

He dropped her hand from his embrace, falling back against the wall in exhaustion, “Adero, te exspectat, auream unum,” (I will be here, waiting for you, golden one)

Palatine Hill

The moon had since risen high in the starry sky when Geta returned to Palatine Hill. His evening had been the most pleasant in the company of a woman that he had intimately gotten to know over the years. Her name was Laveda, and the first time she had made an acquaintance with the young emperor was at a brothel. He would visit her often in his hidden moments of distress, and tonight was no different. The emperor showed up with a hood covering his brassy curls, concealing his identity. She welcomed him between her thighs without a single question leaving her tongue.

The palace was quiet and he had expected that even Caracalla had retired to his quarters for the evening, but this was squashed when he heard a hushed voice coming from the grand triclinium (dining room). He investigated further, driven by curiosity.

“I advise you to cease your squirming,” Caracalla whispered against the ear of a servant girl belonging to Geta. “There will be a severe price to pay if a single drop of wine leaves my cup and does not end up on my tongue,” he warned her.

“Dominus, please,” she whispered in his grip. Her eyes were glassy with tears reflecting the soft glow that was emitted from the many surrounding candles.

“Do you know what happens when you struggle, my dear?” he posed the question in a seemingly non-threatening way, but his tone said otherwise. “I will constrict around you like a snake, and my coils will tighten and tighten till those pretty eyes bulge right from your head!” he cackled manically.

She struggled further, not heeding his warning and all hope seemed lost until she locked eyes with a familiar figure looming in the entryway. “Emperor Geta!” she cried out in relief.

Caracalla scowled and followed her gaze till it too landed on his brother’s displeased look written across his face. “And like a savior dressed in gold, he arrives,” the younger emperor said with an annoyed roll of his eyes, “You have quite the impeccable timing, brother.”

Geta gave her a reassuring nod, and granted her a moment of reprieve. “Why are you antagonizing one of my servants, Caracalla?” he walked further into the room and dragged his ring hand above one of the flickering candles. His eyes locked onto his brother’s in a staredown.

“I have all the authority to antagonize her, Geta. She came to my chambers on your orders, after all. I was actually quite touched at the gesture…until she tried to murder me!” he said dramatically to make a show of it all. He was a wild fan of theatrics and the eldest emperor didn’t bat an eye at his pointed accusation.

“He lies!” the servant wailed and Caracalla swiftly slapped her cheek with the back of his hand to silence her.

“Peace, brother,” Geta said calmly and took the seat across from him. “Your accusations are false. I was…attending business all evening. I would not have the time to confide in one of my own to carry out such a treachery.”

“Ah, business,” Caracalla wiggled his eyebrows suggestively in a light jest. “I even have the weapon she carried that was intended to kill me,” he dangled the small blade in his freehand as proof.

“That could belong to anyone, Caracalla. There is no proof that she was in possession of it. I demand you release her this instant.”

A deep set frown crossed over Caracalla’s features and he drew his attention back to the severant, whose name he wouldn’t even bother to remember. He pointed the edge of the blade against her cheek that felt hot to the touch from the phantom bite of his cruel hand just moments ago. “Can’t you just play into my theatrics for once?” he sighed in disappointment, but his eyes flickered with something truly sadistic and amoral as he drank in the terrified look painted in her irises.

Geta rubbed his temples with his ring clad fingers, the ruby jewel on his left middle finger reflected in the candles glow. “Perhaps if these…theatrics did not involve one of my own servants, I would be more willing to participate.”

“Iocum de omnibus suges, frater,” (you suck the fun out of everything, brother) Caracalla hissed.

“Immo ego, tyranne,” (Indeed I do, tyrant) Geta said coolly.

Caracalla dug the edge of the blade into the softness of her cheek. A bead of blood pooled at the surface of the shallow wound, causing her to whimper from the sudden pain.

“You will play along, Geta. Especially with her life so delicately hanging in my grasp,” he chuckled. “So, what will her fate be, hm? Will you be merciful like Acacius?”

“I will not have you spilling her blood so carelessly. There is no game to play, Caracalla. Now, I will ask you again, release her this instant.”

“Ah. Ah. Ah. That is not how the game is played! Pretend that we are back in the Colosseum and she is begging for her life!” Caracalla said gleefully and dug the edge of the blade further into her cheek. “That’s your cue, girl. Beg for your life and make it believable!”

“Mercy, I beg! Mercy upon me!” she cried out, but Caracalla was unsatisfied with her performance and proceeded to drag the blade down her jaw and to the column of her throat. He leaned in close enough that she could see his pupils dilate and grow darker.

“Your performance is quite…pitiful,” he snickered. “You can do better than that.”

“Caracalla,” Geta said in a warning.

The younger emperor simply waved him off and applied pressure to the edge of the blade against her throat and locked eyes with his brother with a sadistic grin plastered on his thin lips. “Beg for your emperor to be merciful.”

She cried out into the peaceful evening air, begging and pleading for her life to be spared and when Geta arose from his seat, Caracalla’s hand ‘slipped’ and the edge of the blade sliced through her throat fatally. He released her from his grip as she clawed at her neck, blood spurting onto the table below and all over Caracalla’s evening robes, staining golden hues to deep crimson. She made a chilling gurgling sound that emitted from the back of her throat and her body slumped across his lap, twitching before growing still.

“Oops. My hand must have slipped,” Caracalla said with a light sigh that was lacking empathy. He looked down at her deceased body, still warm in his lap with disgust and pushed her to the floor beneath his sandaled feet while she continued to bleed out.

Geta stood unmoving, his left eye twitched, but he did not advance towards his brother. “I quite liked that one,” he muttered under his breath and reached for the empty chalice in front of him. He snapped his fingers once and another servant appeared with a pitcher of wine trembling in her grasp. She quickly poured his wine and was careful to not spill a single drop. Before she could retreat, she felt the cooling touch of his many rings brushing against her skin as he gently grasped her forearm. “Peace, girl. Retire for the evening.”

She bowed quickly and turned on her heel to leave.

“Leave the wine!” Caracalla barked.

The pitcher was carefully set down in the middle of the table and soon the two emperors were alone.

“You’re too soft with them, Geta,” Caracalla muttered over the rim of his chalice.

“No, I just consider all those who serve me to be valuable. I don’t wish to see any of their blood spilled and wasted so carelessly,” he gestured to his dead servant on the floor.

Caracalla glanced down at her deceased form and to disrespect her further, he placed his sandaled foot to rest upon her cheek as if she was his own personal foot rest. “And what of Acacius? Does he still hold a great value to you even after his display of defiance?” he questioned sharply.

“Even in his defiance, Acacius is still valuable. He has always been strong spirited, and I will simply just have to tighten the reins a bit. He will soften to me eventually, but all in due time.”

“That is if he lives much longer,” Caracalla mused and swirled the contents of his chalice with a bored expression.

“He’ll live long enough to vex you, I am certain.”

Caracalla snorted under his breath at this. “And tell me, brother. How do you intend to tame a heart as fierce and defiant as his? How will he suddenly grow loyal to you, hmm? Furthermore, even if your plan is successful, he has no experience on the battlefield and zero strategy. Brute strength will not be enough to sustain our armies.”

“Our armies?” Geta snarled as he leaned over the table, narrowing his eyes at his brother. His upper lip curled in disdain.“You mean, my army?” His tempered demeanor had shredded away, and his claws were unsheathed.

“Your army? The same army that will be wiped off the map if you and I do not reach an agreement? Do you wish to see Rome fall to her enemies, brother? To be stripped of our titles and forced to be slaves for the rest of our miserable lives? You wouldn’t last five seconds having to serve someone outside of yourself,” the younger emperor snapped coldly and the tension brewing between kin could be sliced with the very same blade that was stained with the blood of the innocent.

“An agreement?” Geta snorted at his brother's blatant idiocy. “I will be the reason that Rome remains in power. When Acacius becomes the general of my army and defeats my enemies, you will be eating your words. How foolish are you, truly? Servitude? No, you amentis, (idiot) they will have our heads displayed on spikes for all to see if Rome is to fall.”

“Temper, temper, brother. There is no need to grow restless, we are simply conversing, are we not?” he cackled. “Perhaps your business did not quench your thirst entirely, hm? I cannot say the same for myself,” he subtly gestured to the dead servant. “She met mine quite well. Shame that she had to die…I would have quite enjoyed having her in my bed again. Which of your servants shall I kill next?” he leaned over his half of the table, his eyes dancing with mischief as he took another long sip from his chalice, teeth gleaming in claret over the golden rim.

“My business satisfied me plenty, brother,” Geta responded with a curt nod and rose from his seat.

“Oh, before you go,” Caracalla commenced and leaned back against the plush cushion situated at his lower back, “Perhaps for your next attempt at murdering me, you choose something…” he snapped his fingers as he tried to think of the word, “discreet,” he grinned. “Ah, Yes! Discreet. What about poisoning me?” he suggested. “You could slip something into my drink or food and I would never know.”

“That is the most wicked, Caracalla. I quite enjoy the mental image of seeing you claw at your throat as blood seeps from your eyes. I think that is what I will dream of tonight,” he tipped the rim of his chalice in Caracalla’s direction mockingly.

“And I will dream of cutting your vile tongue out and feeding it to one of your whores,” Caracalla quipped back.

“Indeed,” Geta mused. “Sleep well, brother,” he said with a subtle wink. He downed the rest of his wine before setting the empty chalice along the table, leaving the room without another word leaving his lips.

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[alwritey-aphrodite]

SHDNDJ IVE BEEN CALLED FOR YPU DONT KNOW HOW SPECIAL THAT MAKES ME FEEL OMG🤭 LOVE YOUU!!

ok so these are kind of just half-ideas that I’ve thought of that aren’t fully formed but I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something with your giant amazing brain😍 feel free to disregard these tho they’re kinda trash

- sejanus being really flirty with reader at the club place while he’s in district 12 (idk if that really fits his character but I feel like he could get bold at times🙏) and she’s just not really connecting the dots. her friend Lucy gray has to flat out tell her and reader has a giant revelation

- reader catches snow recording sejanus’ conversation about the rebellion and calls him out for it, stands up for her mans

-ok so this is kind of a song prompt— “Dear Arkansas Daughter” by Lady Lamb specifically the line “you with the dark curls, you with the water color eyes” not really sure what you could do with that, but maybe something with capital!sejanus w/ his curly hair

hope these give you some inspo pookie!!

love,

pooksters 💖

Your ideas are not trash!! Please feel free to send more or just to hop into my ask box to chat <3 I went with the first idea because it’s adorable but I might come back and write the other ones at some point

If the day that Lucy Gray was reaped was the worst day of your life, then the day that she miraculously returned to District Twelve as victor of the Hunger Games was the best. Ever since then, you spend most of your nights at the Hob with the rest of the Covey, sometimes taking the stage yourself but most of the time dancing and clapping from the audience.

Peacekeepers off duty are a normal sight in the Hob, but there are two in particular that seem to have a connection with Lucy Gray, two Capital boys that she knew during her time in the Games. You’re not sure how they came to be peacekeepers stuck in District 12, but you know better than to ask. They’re nice boys, and the blond one, Coriolanus, is absolutely smitten with Lucy Gray, you’re sure he’d do anything she asked. The other one, Sejanus, seems to have less of a connection to Lucy Gray but he’s kind all the same, and most nights he spends at the Hob are spent talking with you at a back table, away from the stage and the dance floor.

Tonight, Lucy Gray is taking a night off from performing and has joined you and Sejanus as you watch the rest of the Covey, Coriolanus never far from her side.

“I like your dress,” Sejanus says over the music, leaning over to speak into your ear so you can hear him clearer.

“Thank you, I made the one Maude Ivory’s wearing too,” you gesture towards the stage where the younger girl is busy singing.

“You’re very talented,” Sejanus turns to face you, giving you his undivided attention despite everything that goes on in the Hob.

“Oh, it’s not as hard as it looks,” you respond with a smile before pushing off the wall and heading to the bar, leaving a giggling Lucy Gray to deal with a despondent Sejanus.

“You’d think a girl as pretty as her is used to all the compliments and the flirting, but you’ve gotta be more obvious than that,” Lucy Gray tells him with a mischievous smile, as if you’d rather have the floor swallow you whole than have her share this information. Before Sejanus can respond, you’re returning with a tray of drinks for everyone in your little group, and he just about melts with the smile you give him as you slide the glass into his hand.

“Maybe, if you’re not busy, you could show me around some time? I’d really like to learn more about twelve,” he asks, and you’re quick to nod in agreement.

“Oh sure, I can show you all the best spots,” you reply kindly, but Lucy Gray knows you’re still not getting the message.

“He means you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen,” she whispers into your ear, loud enough for Sejanus to hear, “and the sweetest and the funniest and the most talented.” You look to Sejanus with wide eyes, as if Lucy Gray would be lying, but he’s nodding at you, despite the blush that’s taken over most of his face.

“Well, I’d still love to go,” you tell him, rewarding with the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen. The two of you spend the rest of the night talking, the chaos of the Hob fading into nothing while Lucy Gray silently watches with a smile.

[caitlynmeow]

The Dimitrescu sisters are well versed in music. Alcina made sure that her daughters know their way around instruments and she took it upon herself to see where each daughter excelled and focused on amplifying that.

Although they have different skills, the lady of the castle didn't let it bother her. She decided to focus on their strengths and take it from there.

Both Bela and Cassandra can sing. Although, Cassandra's range and vocals are unmatched. Even Alcina admits that her middle daughter's voice is not something that comes across very often.

Daniela can sing, but she is average compared to her sisters, because not even Bela is as good as Cassandra when it comes to that sort of thing.

All three daughters are adept at playing the piano. It’s the first thing they were taught since they could actually sit and tap on the black and ivory keys.

The violin is also a mandatory instrument that Alcina insisted her daughter learn how to use from early on in their lives.

While imposing, aside from the basics, Alcina allows her daughters to experiment and find something they enjoy playing. It’s just that there are basic instruments and skills they need to learn before they can branch out on their own.

On the plus side, the three daughters do love music, so they’re actually enjoying these activities and they’re not just forced down on them.

[centuryberry]

Flourish AU

Me, looking back at the Replanted AU after posting the recent Unpaid Babysitting update: Yishan needed better parents. Also, I wish I could incorporate Shanzha and RinRin into the Sundown Era AU without more dimension shenanigans.

Me:

Me: Wait -

And so, this AU came to be. Say hello to Iceflower's Son!Yishan, everyone. He's here to bring Shanzha and RinRin into the Sundown Era AU, grow up better than he could've been, create a myth or two, and - most importantly - father Yue, Louhou, and Jidu so all four Celestial Primates can have grandbabies to spoil.

Background: The Land of Eternal Snow still doesn't exist in the Sundown Era AU. Shanzha and RinRin are also nowhere in China during the Rebellion against Heaven. Why? Because they're in Goryeo (Korea) and Nippon (Japan), respectively, making a name for themselves. After inheriting the powers of the Celestial Primates and shaking up their respective pantheons, they headed over to China to retire together since one of their own ascended as Jade Emperor.

In one another life, Yishan was the firstborn son of a prestigious clan who grew up viewing almost everyone as his enemy. In this one, he was the son of legends posing as common herbalists living in the mountains.

What does a more well adjusted and untraumatized child Yishan look like? Well, he has more friends growing up. And when I mean friends, I mean animals. He likes animals more than people. He also has a habit of bringing home wounded animals for Shanzha to treat. (He begs to keep them every time but his moms keep telling him no.) He’s also incurably blunt and judgy - even to his mothers.

Shanzha makes sure to train her son in healing and martial arts while RinRin teaches him how to socialize and act. These are very necessary lessons since Yishan tends to piss off a lot of people just by being himself.

(Despite being raised by Shanzha and RinRin, there are some things about Yishan that stays the same lmao.)

Yishan ends up being a nerd over medicine and poisons. As for his social skills, he technically knows what to do in theory but doesn’t bother to extend the effort towards those he considers stupid.

As a late teen, Yishan became a traveling doctor so he could leave the nest and explore the world.

While Yishan heals people and battles against stupidity (and make more animal friends), he gains a reputation for being an amazing healer with the worst bedside manner. He also beat up a couple of powerful yaoguai because either 1) they were in the way of a key ingredient of a medical breakthrough or 2) he pissed them off first.

During his travels, Yishan meets and makes his first non-animal friend: a soldier named Mensheng. He turns down the offer to serve the soldier’s Ivory Lady and continues his journey.

Eventually, Yishan is kidnapped invited to the Celestial Realm by some very pushy attendants (one of whom he gives a nasty black eye) so he could become Laozi’s new apprentice.

Despite Yishan kicking and screaming through the entire process, he ends up being Laozi’s favorite. The man wouldn’t let him go.

Yishan frequently conspires with Laozi’s Bull to break out. They fail every time. The only reason why Yishan wasn’t as successful in leaving was because of the cool shiny new medicinal plants Laozi kept waving in front of his face.

Then, Yishan was tasked to assist Laozi in checking up on the health of the Princess of the Celestial Realm and acting ruler of Flower Fruit Mountain.

"Princess?" All of you are probably asking. Yup, Wukong and Macaque did end up having one (1) kid and it's Sangshen. Because of an attempted poisoning incident, she came out weak and sickly. Sangshen is adored by her parents but is seen as a disappointment to the Celestial Court (since she's female, weak, and takes after Macaque), so she prefers to stay in FFM.

Still, because of her poor health, Wukong would frequently send Laozi down to check up on her. At this point, Laozi spends more of his time at FFM than in the Celestial Realm. He even has his own room and lab there.

Laozi's plan was to drop Yishan off to FFM and take over in keeping tabs on Sangshen's health.

When Yishan first laid eyes on Sangshen, he was a complete goner. It was love at first sight. As for Sangshen, she fell slower, but no less harder. Yishan was so considerate and charming and devoted that she couldn't help but develop feelings. (Everyone else who knows him: Are we talking about the same Yishan?!?!)

Yishan being Yishan beings ridiculously rare and hard-to-obtain stuff to shower Sangshen with. With his attention (and daily offering of super rare medicine), her health improves by leagues.

Sangshen eventually breaks it to Yishan that he probably shouldn't be courting her since her parents would kill him where he stands if they caught wind of this. Her parents established pretty early that they wouldn't let anyone marry her unless they lasted 15 min in a battle against both of them.

Instead of being deterred, Yishan takes this challenge and asks for some PTO to visit Shanzha and RinRin.

Yishan: Hey moms, how do I stay alive in a spar against the Emperor and Empress of the Universe? Shanzha: What RinRin: What happened to "hi"? Also, wtf Yishan: I'm in love and it's the only way I can get permission to marry her

*Cue intense training montage*

After training his tail off, Yishan presents himself to the Emperor and Empress as a suitor for their daughter's hand. They are less than pleased and put him through the wringer for daring to ask. They beat him to the ground.

And yet, Yishan lasts for 30 minutes. So, after recovering, Yishan happily accepts the begrudging permission of his future in-laws and heads down to FFM to tell Sangshen the good news.

FFM: You mad bastard, you actually did it. Yishan: Obviously. If I didn't, Sangshen would cry and that's unforgivable.

Yishan wasted no time in proposing and Sangshen wasted no time in accepting. A wedding was then arranged in the Celestial Realm and Yishan's mothers were invited. Shanzha and RinRin come, of course.

An official freaks out at seeing Shanzha since he recognizes her as the Godslayer who wiped out the entire court of Korean Primordial Gods.

Another official flips his lid when he recognizes RinRin as the Trickster who swindled him during his time abroad in Japan.

When Shanzha and RinRin's identities as Celestial Primates come to light, the entire Celestial Court is filled with dread. Oh no, there's FOUR of them now.

Shanzha and RinRin get along with Wukong and Macaque like a house on fire. They trade unhinged stories of their youth and make plans to hang out. Shanzha jokingly offers to take out any Celestial who annoys Wukong too much. Wukong takes this offer very seriously, making many of his ministers sweat.

Yishan and Sangshen get married and spend many years of wedded bliss before Sangshen announces that she's pregnant.

Say hello to Yue~

This cutie pie made Wukong cry. At first, he was a little disappointed to see that she took mostly after Yishan's side of the family. Then, she sneezed and lo and behold, six ears popped out. Yishan had to fight with his father-in-law to get his daughter back.

Wukong wasn't any better when Louhou and Jidu were born. He might've been reluctant to be a father, but he took to being a grandfather like a duck to water.

Shadowpeach would squabble with Iceflower for grandbaby time. In the end, Iceflower simply moved into the Celestial Realm so all of them could have grandbaby time.

Extra Facts about Iceflower:

Shanzha used to be a devotee of the Primordial Korean gods. An event shattered her faith and took away everything she's ever cared about. Eyes opened to their cruelty, Shanzha started her quest in wiping them all out. Shanzha trained under the Long-Armed Gibbon as the Celestial Primate was sympathetic to her circumstances. She's very much inspired by Kratos as she was very unhinged during this period of life.

RinRin, on the other hand, was a pet monkey of a daughter of a samurai who evolved into a yokai after a tragedy. She sowed discord as a shapeshifter until she was killed by an angry god. The Red Buttocked Baboon found her in the Japanese Underworld and found her amusing enough to be his successor. RinRin then proceeded to cheat death, harass Japanese deities, and become a Loki-like figure.

Shanzha, born as “Nari” (Lily), renamed herself after a Chinese Hawthorn fruit usually used for medicine solely to outsmart a god who could cut a life short by calling out their name three times. The new name kept the god guessing long enough for her to shoot them down. Since it helped her keep her life, she ended up keeping the name.

Since RinRin had many names and faces during her time as a trickster spirit/deity, she was much more attached to her true name. Fun fact: Her name means “dignified bell” in Japanese.

[agathaandbrienneslesbian]

Love-Letters

Jane Murdstone x Fem!Maid!Reader

Hiyaaaa I've finally finished my Jane murdstone fic and it's the first fic I'll upload on Tumblr so...

Big thank you to my freinds for proof reading this mess :3

Disclaimer: English is not my first language!

Warnings: SMUT 18+, minors DNI

Authors note: Just because we love our red flag on legs. Smutty fanfic of Female Reader Maid and Jane Murdstone. Secrets, Love confessions, (kinda) soft Jane, top! Jane, bottom! Reader.

Words: 4’000+

Ao3 Link

Taglist

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The second you saw her in the maid's quarters, holding a stack of notes in her hand and glaring at you, you knew you were royally fucked. There she stood. The object of your (very questionable) affection, Jane Murdstone. You knew you shouldn’t like her, but you couldn’t help yourself. There was just something enchanting about the way she carried herself.

Jane Murdstone, who has been terrorising you for so many months, ever since she set foot in your Lady's manor and made you her personal maid.

THE Miss Murdstone who, as soon as you laid eyes on her, burned her beautiful image in your mind and heart, making it impossible to forget her icy blue eyes, the pale ivory skin, or her soft long black tresses you so gladly brushed out each morning and evening. And even though everyone else feared the Iron Lady, you saw a gentler, more vulnerable side of her, you saw behind the facade, and that's what made you fall for that woman.

However, this Jane Murdstone was now marching up to you at a dangerous pace, her eyes narrow and unreadable. A shiver went down your spine, as soon as she stood towering in front of you in all her stoic beauty, looking down at your small and weak form.

“What is this?” She asked through gritted teeth, wiggling the loose notes in front of your face. Confused, you focused on the pages in her hand, and your heart dropped. She was holding the poems and love letters you’d written about her in secret. The only way to confront your feelings towards her and the biggest secret you’ve harboured in your boring little life as a maid. Have you forgotten to put them away? You are usually so careful, but this time it must have slipped your mind. Fear rose in you and you swallowed dryly.

“I- I don’t know my Lady.” You answer, trying to sound as clueless as you possibly could with the amount of panic and fear rushing through your veins. Miss Murdstone, of course, picked up on the slight quiver in your voice. She was like a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out fear and lies. You didn’t dare look at her, as you were sure disgust and discontent would colour Jane’s ivory features.

“Lies,” She hissed and gripped your chin painfully, moving your head so you had no other choice but to make eye contact with her. The second your eyes met hers, your fear mixed with confusion. She looked… Hurt? Afraid? Angry? The stoic Iron Lady was portraying emotions you have never seen on her face, or at least emotions she would never dare show anyone.

“I know you wrote those letters and poems. What were you hoping to achieve with that? Have you planned for me to find them? To mock me? To get under my skin? What is it?” She barked at you, anger rising in her throat. How could you? Your eyes softened as you recognised what she felt. Pain. But… Why would your poems and letters, which describe her otherworldly beauty and confess your true and raw feelings for her cause pain?

“My Lady I-” 

“Save it,” She grunted  and shoved you to the side, leaving you stumbling to the ground. 

“I do not need to remind you of your place in this household, do I? If you should ever as much as THINK of trying to get under my skin again with such childish mockery, I WILL have you thrown out. And that is a promise!” She stormed off towards the direction of her study and you followed suit, unsure of what to do or say but you wanted to tell her, tell her that you were not mocking her but that every word you wrote is true. Tell her that you, indeed, have lost yourself in her sparkling blue orbs, that you longed to run your fingers through her raven black locks, that you desired to feel what her soft and pink lips feel on your own. How endearing her little quirks and laughs were when she was relaxed, reading a book whilst you helped her get ready for the day. You wanted to tell her all of this and so much more, but you knew it wasn’t right.

The moment she entered her study, you could hear the sizzling of the flames in the fireplace grow louder. Was she… no… You rushed in only to freeze in place, watching with horror and dismay as she had thrown your notes, the declaration of your undying devotion and love for her, into the blazing flames. 

“And you…” She turned to look at you, an enraged expression etched into her face, obscuring her usually so beautiful features, causing the little faint scar on her upper lip to become very noticeable.

“I do not wish to have you anywhere near me ever again! You clearly have gotten way too comfortable, thinking I wouldn’t notice your disrespect towards me. Now get out… Get. OUT!” Jane was fuming with anger. She thought you might have been different, kinder, but you were just like everyone else.

You didn’t know what to say, simply looking at the dancing flames consuming your thoughts and feelings. You didn’t dare look at her anymore and simply turned around to leave the study, feeling numb and empty. The walk to your chamber felt long and treacherous with a million thoughts running through your head, yet it was blank at the same time. You were sure, that night was the worst night of your entire existence. You felt heartbroken and worried about what was going to happen now that she knew you craved the fairer sex. Not once were you able to close your eyes, as the haunting image of her face lined with hurt and betrayal presented itself to you as soon as you did. 

Of course, you were hoping for this to be a bad dream, but the next morning, Mr. Murdstone, her brother, informed you of your new position as a kitchen maid. And that’s where you were to remain, not once being able to see Jane’s face or hear her voice. No matter how much pain it caused you to see her that night, it hurt even more not being able to see her at all. You even caught yourself sneaking out of the kitchen and through the manor just to, hopefully, accidentally bump into her but luck wasn’t on your side. The other maids kept complaining about Miss Murdstones temper. Every maid who was assigned to her hasn’t lasted for more than a day. Each and every one of them has come back to the maids quarters either furious, spitting vile comments about your beloved Lady, or sobbing but not once were you asked to return to your original position as Jane’s personal maid. You had almost given up on ever being able to see her again, that was until one morning Mr. Murdstone entered the kitchen, looking for you.

“Y/n?” He called out for you, causing all the other maids working in the kitchen to turn around and face you with curiosity. Some have already started whispering and gossiping as soon as you were released from your role as Miss Murdstone’s personal maid. But this… This must have been even worse. You felt helpless.

“Yes, Sir?” You set the soap aside and dried your hands on your apron as you turned around, bowing lightly. The feeling of so many eyes on you was uncomfortable. You only wanted one pair of eyes on you but the person whose icy blue diamonds belonged to didn’t want you around anymore.

“My sister is in need of assistance and none of the other maids are currently at disposal. Now I know for some reason she has asked me to remove you as her personal maid. However, I do not know why nor do I care to find out. I trust you have enough time to spare?” He looked at you, waiting for a reply. Was this really happening? Have you heard correctly? Anxiety rose in your chest, you took a deep breath nodding lightly.

“Of course, Sir.” Your answer was quiet. This seemed to suffice as he just turned around without another word and left. Miss Murdstone might be known for her iron status but it was her brother you feared more than anyone in this household. Nervously you took your kitchen apron off and put your regular apron on, making your way down the hall and up the stairs to Jane’s chambers. You tucked a strand of hair, which had fallen out of your braid when changing the apron, behind your ear and knocked, waiting for her to call you in.

Once you heard her calling you in, you opened the door and entered. Closing the door again behind you, you saw her sitting at her vanity still in her nightgown. She hadn’t noticed you yet and was focused on unbraiding her hair - that beautiful silky raven hair. With careful steps, you walked towards her, standing behind her and grabbing the brush on the table to start brushing through her locks. Jane was too busy rummaging through her vanity drawer to look up at you but she did notice a change of maid. 

“Finally someone who knows how to use a hairbrush correctly. All the other maids were klutzes.” She murmured, more to herself than to you, then she looked up and froze.

“What are you doing here? I thought I was clear enough with my demands to have you out of my face.” She spat and moved to grip your wrist, stopping you from brushing out her hair. You jumped at her reaction. Her grip was tight and it was starting to hurt.

“None of the other maids are available, my Lady, so Sir Murdstone has asked me to come and assist you” You replied, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible to avoid any further irritation. She huffed and let go of your hand, glaring at you poisonously through the mirror. After a few seconds and a deep breath later, you continued with your ministrations, not wanting to look at her. It felt weird, really. You were with your Lady again but it did not feel right…

“So you’re back to disrespecting me? Were the letters and poems not enough of a mockery for you?” She averted her eyes but you could see that the expression of hurt was back. Your heart clenched with pain seeing her in such emotional distress.

“It was never my intention to mock you, my Lady.” You state quietly, watching her reaction carefully. There was a soft flicker of something unfamiliar on her face. Only for a split second, then it was gone again. 

“Then what was your intention?” Jane looked at you again with a dangerous stare. Would you dare tell her? Before you could answer she continued, “I do not know how or when you discovered my affection for the fairer sex but by god, I know you were planning on using it against me. So what was your intention?” 

Wait.. what? You stopped your movements and looked at her in disbelief. She just rolled her eyes at your reaction and huffed impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest and looking away. It took a second or two for you to collect your thoughts again before you spoke, carefully.

“My Lady… My intentions were nothing but pure.” You start carefully, watching her as her icy blue orbs shoot to look at you. There it was again. That flicker you’ve seen before.

“I can assure you that all of the things I have written are true. I know it is frowned upon but who am I to deny my heart the freedom to feel, to long for.” You gently put the brush down and move to Jane’s side, kneeling on the ground in front of her and looking up at her. Jane’s body has visibly relaxed but her facial expression was unreadable. 

“It might not be right, not only because we are women but because I am just a simple maid and you are my Lady… but I simply cannot deny the feelings I have developed for you…”

“You’re… Are you true, y/n?” Jane asked quietly, almost in a whisper. It was obvious to you that she tried to look unbothered but yet she has never seemed so small and fragile as she has in this very moment and you wanted nothing more but to hold her hands, reassuring her of your feelings. Still, you decided to keep your distance, giving her only a curt nod as an answer.

“But… I have been nothing but vicious to you… how,” she looked down into your eyes, hers shining with uncertainty and guilt.

“So you have… But I have also seen you at your most relaxed state, right here braiding your hair, and I felt you were not as cruel as you portray yourself to be. My Lady… It was never my intention to cause you pain or disrespect you, I simply didn’t know where to go with my feelings. I wrote them down because I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure if you felt the same and-” Soft lips suddenly pressed against yours, stopping you in the middle of your sentence. A hand gently placed on your cheek pulled you closer and instinctively your eyes closed shut. To say that she took you by surprise was an understatement. You carefully moved your hand to find her other and squeezed it lightly. An affirmation for the both of you. This caused Jane to deepen the kiss, her lips moving against yours in a heated frenzy of desire which you reciprocated gladly. You knelt there, basking in the affection she was willing to give to you and taking everything in before she evidently changed her mind. 

When air became necessary you pulled away, looking up at Jane with a longing gleam in your eyes and heated red cheeks. She looked down at you, her face just as drunk with desire as yours. Chewing on her lower lip, she thought for a second then pulled you up with her. You followed her to her bed like a lovesick puppy, holding her hand tightly in yours, not willing to let go. The desire has spread south and you could feel the well-known warm sensation in your abdomen growing more and more. Jane turned around and looked at you, her eyes searching yours for any sign of regret or disgust but all she saw was you smiling up at her with the sweetest expression she has ever seen. Pure adoration. So there was actually someone who could adore her?

“Is this alright?” She asked as she pulled you closer, still a bit uncertain. Your heart almost burst out of your chest at the gentle nature of the Iron Lady. 

“More than alright my La-”

“Jane. Please call me Jane.” She interrupted and your smile grew even more. She couldn't believe how you could look at her like that when she has never said a kind word to you in all the months you have worked for her. Jane wanted to make it  right, treat you right and give you the affection she knew you deserved and craved and she was more than willing to give it to you. 

“Okay… Jane.” Her name has never sounded so good before and Jane wanted to know in how many other ways her name could leave your lips. She sat down at the edge of the bed and pulled you in, to sit on her lap. You did so without hesitation and moved to cup her cheeks, leaning in and pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. A reassuring tenderness she has never received from anyone before. Jane inhaled deeply at the gentle gesture and moved to hold onto your waist, pulling you into her. She needed you impossibly close. The first few kisses were soft and timid but they soon turned heated. Jane squeezed your waist which caused you to open your mouth in a silent inhale, allowing her to explore your mouth with her tongue. You battled with her for dominance but evidently gave up and let her take control, the thing she does best. Her hands started roaming your body, moving from your waist to your hips and your thighs. Your head was swimming in pure bliss. 

A quiet noise escaped your lips as Jane moved her lips to your neck, attacking it with hot open-mouthed kisses and nips. Your hands instinctively shot into her hair, holding close onto her as she assaulted your soft skin with her delicate lips. You couldn’t take it anymore. The aching between your legs has gotten uncomfortably strong and you squirmed against her lap. Jane noticed and gently slid her hands under your dress, running her fingertips over your warm skin, whilst her kisses moved to your ear, gently nibbling on your earlobe.

“Jane… please,” You whimpered out pathetically for the stoic woman beneath you.

“What do you want me to do, my dove?” Jane husked in your ear and smirked as you responded with a strangled groan. She loved how you reacted to her touch, how you reacted to her words. Never would she have thought that she could have precious little you on her lap like this, pudding in her hands. 

“N-need you… please,” You breathed out frustratedly, moving your hips towards hers instinctively. You needed her hands on you, all over you, needed her to relieve that ache between your legs. Jane chuckled and removed her hands from your legs, causing you to pout. 

“Don’t get impatient, darling.” She smirked and moved to remove your apron and then started unbuttoning your uniform. You took this as a sign to unlace her nightgown, pushing it down her shoulders. Although you have seen Jane's bare chest before when you had helped her dress for the day or undress for bed, this was something completely different. Your eyes were trained on her soft ivory breasts as she finished unbuttoning your garments. She expertly pulled your uniform over your head and tossed it to the side, leaving you in your undergarments. Being way too impatient, you pull the fabric off of your head yourself. Jane smirked at how desperate you were and instantly started roaming your figure again with her hands. Her soft fingertips discover every dip and curve of your body, sending goosebumps over your skin. 

“You are so beautiful.” Jane said with bated breath, immediately attaching her lips to one of your nipples. You inhaled sharply as she ran her tongue over the hardened bundle and then sucked it into her mouth again, releasing it with a plop. Without wasting a second, she gave the same attention to the other breast before sitting up straight again. 

“Lie down.” She ordered, moving you off her lap. She stood up and watched you lie on her bed, her nightgown now pooling around her ankles, she stepped out of it and climbed in bed with you. Jane lay close to you and pulled you in for a kiss as her hands started roaming your body again, your own hands finding purpose in exploring hers.

You broke the kiss, gasping as you felt Jane run her finger through your soaked folds. 

“My, my. Is all of this for me, darling?” She husked and watched your reaction closely, spreading the wetness around, focusing tiny circles on your very sensitive clit. You closed your eyes and inhaled sharply then let out a desperate whimper. Jane was mesmerised by the way your body reacted to her and it aroused her greatly. She teased your clit for a little while longer, watching you writhe and squirm under her. The little noises and pleas coming from your lips and the way you called out her name filled her with pride. It was addicting how she had barely touched you and you were already reacting so much to her.

“J- Jane please… please I need you-  ah,” You bucked your hips against her in hopes of more friction. You were so desperate for relief and just wanted her to claim you as hers and who was Jane to refuse? She leaned in, capturing your lips with hers to silence your moan as she slowly pushed a digit into your aching hole. She managed to slip her finger in with ease and started moving it slowly. The feeling of her finger in you was enough to send your head spiralling. You moaned into her mouth and wrapped your arms around her neck, pulling her closer, causing her nude body to almost fully lay on top of you. The sensation of skin on skin had both of you shivering with arousal. She sped up her movements, as soon as she felt that you were ready and pulled away from the kiss, looking down at you lovingly. 

“Darling I need you to be as quiet as you possibly can now… Do you think you can manage?” She asked, panting lightly. Her own arousal had started trickling down her thighs. You nodded and opened your mouth in a silent moan as she curled her finger into your sweet spot. Jane smiled and moved to kiss and suckle on your breasts again. The sensation of her finger moving in and out of you and her lips and tongue exploring your chest and stomach made you feel dizzy. She moved her kisses and kitten licks all the way down your body, never halting her movement with her hand until she was positioned between your legs. 

Looking up at you, she placed a sloppy,  open-mouthed kiss on your thigh, right next to your hot and wet core. Your back arched off the bed and you gripped the sheets, holding your breath before exhaling strongly. Jane moved her kisses closer to your centre, removing her finger and before you could protest she ran her tongue over the length of your folds, collecting the wetness which seeped from you. 

She enclosed your clit with her lips and sucked lightly, having you bite your hand gently and groan so you wouldn’t make too much noise. She continued giving attention to your clit with her mouth, slipping two digits into your hole again to curl them upwards. Jane sped up her movements and you felt a knot build in your core. Staying quiet was getting more and more difficult as the tension grew stronger. Jane noticed your struggle to stay quiet. She felt your walls clench around her fingers and knew you were close. Her movements didn't stop, but she pulled away from your clit, reattaching her lips with yours to swallow the sweet noises you made for her. 

“That’s it, my girl. You’re doing so well for me! Let go!” She panted against your lips, her praise sending you over the edge with her name on your lips. Jane helped you ride out your orgasm before pulling her fingers out and holding them to your lips. You understood immediately and licked her fingers clean, groaning at your taste on them. Jane watched you intently, pulling her fingers away when the aching between her legs got too much, she couldn’t hold back anymore. She needed you. Jane straddled you, enclosing your head with her toned and strong legs, holding onto the headboard for support. Your mouth watered, seeing her glistening core in front of you. As the scent of her arousal filled your nose, you couldn’t help but whimper in anticipation. 

“Be a good girl and make me feel good too, will you?” She said breathlessly, and gently lowered herself to your mouth. You wasted no time, running your tongue through her folds, collecting her desire. Her taste was addicting, and you wrapped your arms around her thighs, pulling her down more. Immediately you went to work on her clit, giving it kitten licks and sucking it gently, causing Jane to throw her head back and let out a guttural groan. 

Your hands moved upwards, feeling her warm skin, massaging her soft breasts, and teasing her nipples. Meanwhile, your ministrations on her clit never wavered, causing Jane to roll her hips down onto your tongue. You groaned into her core, letting her ride herself on your tongue however she desired. The sounds coming from her were a mix of obscenities and praises of your name, which sent your head reeling. Shortly, Jane’s legs started shaking, and you moved your hands to support her, holding her in place for you to continue your feasting on her. She was close, and you could hear it. You collected all of your remaining energy to focus on her clit, licking and nibbling. Sucking on it hard one last time caused Jane to come undone on top of you, clasping her thighs around your head, trapping you momentarily as you helped her ride out her orgasm on your face. She released you from her grip and collapsed next to you on the bed, panting heavily.

“You’re aethereal when you come undone like that.” You pant gently and smile brightly when you catch her blush. Jane moved her head to look at you, an affectionate smile spread on her lips as she extended her arms for you. Gratefully you snuggled into her embrace and held her close, resting your head on her chest and listening to her heartbeat, gradually calming down. The two of you stayed like this for a few minutes before you turned your head to look up at her.

“We should probably get dressed again before anyone notices.” She looked down at you, playing with a few loose strands of your hair. You didn’t want to get up, but you knew it was dangerous to stay here for too long.

“We should… but I don't want to.” She smiled and pressed a sweet kiss on your forehead.

“Let's just stay like this for a little longer. I don’t want to let go of you just yet.” Jane smiled and nuzzled her nose into the crown of your head. You were more than content with that decision.

You wanted to tell her you loved her, and let her know how much she meant to you but… this could wait. Most important was that you could enjoy the closeness and calm with Jane, bask in each other's presence, exchange kisses, and whisper sweet nothings to each other until the two of you fell asleep eventually.

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Tags: @weemssapphic @pro-weems-places @winterfireblond