#blue-freeze-queen

[bread-that-draws]

The Lovers: Being at crossroads. Choices. Commitment. Falling in love. Harmony. Warmth.

The Lovers Reversed: Misalignment. Imbalance. Disharmony. Coldness.

[lalunanymph]

ΉΣЯ & ƬΉΣ ƧΣΛ

༊ you ask rafayel how lemurians reproduce, and he can't wait to show you

✯ warnings; rafayel x fem!reader, established relationship, MONSTERFUCKING, switch!rafayel, switch!reader, rafayel's lemurian form, sex underwater, reader is coded to be feminine (wears a dress and lingerie), mentions of alien genitalia, rafayel calls reader 'master' once, petnames (my little conch shell, my queen, baby, my love, miss bodyguard), size kink (reader is obvs smaller than him, he's a goddamn mErmAID), OVIPOSITION, dirty talk, language, breeding, girl on top position, missionary, reader sucks his merman cock (lmao), dubious breathing underwater methods, mentions of food, mentions of alcohol, suggestive content, slight spoilers for rafayel's myth if you squint, mild angst

✯ istg i am a zayne girlie but something about rafayel just makes me go feral

"𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐃𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐄𝐒?"

The question stunned Rafayel from taking a bite of his souffle pancakes, his fork pausing from its journey into his now lax mouth. Sunlight continues streaming in past the French windows; the patrons of this cafe going about their day, oblivious to the malfunctioning celebrity artist amongst them.

A glob of whip cream freefalls off the metal tines and onto his plate. Those magnetic pink-blue eyes flash with a multitude of colors—like a sea-worn rock under the brilliant sun. 

However, as fast as your question hit him, he overcame it; no one could say that Mr. Rafayel, the art world's maverick and media-trained connoisseur, was slow in recovering his wits.

His signature teasing smile in place, Rafayel placed his fork back down onto the table.

Across from you, two friends were speaking in low tones and judging from their expression, unpacking their love lives with the sombreness of a priest reciting a divorce rite.

Rafayel blinked, tilting his head to the side. 

"Why would you ask, Miss Bodyguard?" 

He casually slung an arm over the back of his chair, a million dollar smile gleaming and ready. "Or, has something struck your most vivid imagination?" 

Laying it on thick, he couldn't even begin to disguise the gleam of his teeth—shining like the incisors of a great white after smelling fresh blood in the ocean. 

"I never thought you would be so sugges—ouch!"

Rafayel winced, and doubled over, rubbing his shin under the table. "What was that for?" 

You huffed, and fixed him a glare. "Don't embarrass me." 

"I was just joking."

"Wasn't funny." 

"Yeesh. You're really wound up about this, huh?" 

That infuriating smirk was plastered back onto his face; his boyish features making something in your chest squeeze. 

"Shut up and answer the question." 

He pretended to ponder on it for a moment. More color illuminates his stunning amethyst irises. Shining like jewels, only he knew the value of his true thoughts. 

Before you could retract your question and salvage this bright afternoon, Rafayel surprises you with his next words.

"Why don't I show you, my little conch shell?" 

You freeze. Scanning the area, you wondered if this was the right conversation to be having in such a brightly lit area. Granted, you and Rafayel were past the carnal stage —after being together for close to a year, your bodies were well-worn maps that lips and fingers could retrace and discover any time.

Fighting back a laugh, you shake your head.

"Is this another one of your racy propositions again?"

Rafayel merely smirked. "If that is how you wish to see it." 

Seriously now, you counter, "Will I have paint in my hair again?" 

Memories flash in your mind; of a large canvas, soft candlelight, and streaks of paint on the most random parts of your body found weeks after the deed was done. 

Your lover sits back, using one slender finger to cross over his heart. "I promise your hair won't go through such torment anymore." Despite your best efforts, your eyes trail to his broad chest, and the enticing V of his defined pecs.

As if sensing your eyes on him, Rafayel's mirth grows. "Looks like you can't resist much longer, I'll make you a deal—" 

He leaned in close—much too close—and you could smell the vanilla on his breath; the sunlight glinting off those purple irises softening with a look of warmth only he held for you.

"—come with me tonight to Whitesand Bay, and I promise you won't regret it." 

Muggy and balmy in the evening, Whitesand Bay wasn't exactly the ideal meet up spot for Rafayel to finally fulfill his promise and show you how mermaids reproduce. 

But, you showed up anyway.

Dressed in a light, silk dress to combat the heavy heat of the summer night, you cautiously made your way down to the docks, keeping your eyes and ears peeled for Rafayel. 

"You're here." He appeared a moment later, dashing as usual in his white button-down and pristine slacks. Dazzling under the half-light, you allowed him to take your hand and lead you right to a boat.

"We're not going for a to take a deep dive like last time, right?" Hearing the skepticism in your voice, he laughs.

"Of course, not. I paid Thomas a huge bonus last month and told him to buy a speedboat. For us to borrow, if you're curious." 

"Poor Thomas," you mused, letting him hold you close to his side as he helped you atop the board. "His boss is a tyrant... asking him to use his bonus for such lavish nonsense."

"Is it really a lavish nonsense if I get to have you here?" 

Rafayel's sincerity struck you mute. He breezed past your shocked figure, unaware of the effect he has on you. "Well? Are you going to continue mocking my methods of employment or are we going to do this?" 

Even though his chest was puffed and voice full of bravado, you could tell your sweet artist boyfriend was struggling with his nerves. The tips of his ears were bright red, a faint shadow of a pout on his lips. 

"Raffie," you whisper, taking his hand. He glanced at you, wide-eyed like a fish caught on the bait. "What're you so scared of? It's just you and me."

He lets you rub your thumb across his knuckles, tightening your hold on his fingers.

"I just..." he trails off. "... just don't want you to think I'm a freak. That's all."

Rafayel refused to look at you when he was this vulnerable, and you couldn't help the short giggle bursting past your defenses. He glared, and you quickly reached for his face, touching his cheek.

"Never," you emphasize. "I will never think you're weird. Ever. Besides, if you're a freak then I'm the weirdo in love with you."

Your dopey grin sets something aflutter in his chest, like ripples of ocean waves splashing across a strange shore. Rafayel smirks and takes your hand off his face, choosing to twine his fingers with yours. 

"Shall we make a move, then, my little conch shell?" 

"Rafayel..."

The sight before you stuns you with its splendor. Your beloved boyfriend had gone all out—picnic blankets, lighted candles, flutes of champagne, and spreads of seafood as far as the eye could see... arranged all across the flatbed of this hidden alcove where the sea kisses the land. 

In the distance, the gentle swishes of waves lapping at the shore greeted your ears, its waves illuminated faintly as if lit from within.

"Bioluminescent algae," Rafayel murmurs right behind you. His arms came to wrap around your waist, the heat of his breath fanning right across your exposed neck. "They only appear in the summer when the water is warm." You fight back a shiver, trying not to show how affected you were by his presence. 

"Oh." Dumbly, you weren't sure how to put your thoughts together, much less a coherent sentence. 

Sensing your speechlessness, Rafayel exhaled a laugh. "Come on. We should eat before the food gets cold."

There's a dip in his tone, something tinged with a darker emotion you barely had time to unravel before he was tugging you onto the picnic mat. The food was divine, his personal chefs going all out to satisfy both of your palettes. Conversation flowed easily like the champagne slipping down your throat, coaxing you to release the tightness in your chest in favor of bubbly giggles and flirty smiles.

Rafayel's cheeks were steadily growing pinker, and you were sure he would double over and pass out—forgetting about your brazen question—when you felt his hand on your thigh.

"Would you like to take a swim with me?" 

Memories of seaweed brushing your bare legs, Rafayel’s arms steadily around your waist as he led you past the shoreline fills your mind. Anything cool sounded like a blessing from this heat. 

Plus, he was a pretty good swimmer, as evident from what he truly was. Rafayel would never put you in harm’s way. 

Safe. That was the word. You always feel safe with him. 

“Yes.”

He takes your hand, gives it a squeeze and helps you stand.

Rafayel started to undress first. The hem of his expensive silk shirt reveals the fitted band of his equally expensive slacks—made by the best tailors in all of Linkon. Then, pale skin. It stretches, tightens over defined obliques, abs and then his impressively broad chest. 

Scattered across the sinew and muscle roping his torso were smatterings of moles and beauty marks. 

Someone once told you that these marks were spots past lovers used to love kissing. You idly trace your gaze over the one on his left pec, right over his heart. 

If Rafayel and you had been together in the past, you were sure that the spot over his heart would be your favorite spot to plant your lips on him. 

As furtively as you could, you tried not to gape at him, but completely failed.

Rafayel was a masterpiece made by the gods themselves, and you were the poor fool gaping at his altar; transfixed on the sharp V which led to a light dusting of his happy trail. 

His cock strains behind his slacks, bulging noticeably. You want to reach out and skim your fingers, eager to feel it twitch under your touch. 

"Well?" His gentle amusement tore your thoughts from their sinful vices. "Are you gonna just stare at me or are we going for a swim? Your pick, Miss Bodyguard." 

Showing that you were far braver than you felt, you stood up, shaky hands reaching for the straps of your dress. "Don't look at me." 

A surge of heat flooded your cheeks, your eyes resolutely turned to the side. Obediently, Rafayel followed your orders, though you could hear the cogs turning in his head. It's not like I haven't seen her naked before.  

But, this wasn’t the usual plotting, teasing and flirting you both would indulge in.

Something about the air tonight felt heavier. 

Intimate.

You swore Rafayel could pick up your heartbeat from where he stood. The heat on your cheeks spread down your chest, tingling on your fingertips.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

In nothing but in your lingerie, you shift from foot to foot, feeling too vulnerable and open.

The sky above yawns wide, inky black jaws lovingly unfurling like a spread of velvet sheets. His hand is warm in yours, and you squeeze it, trying to hide how you were trembling. 

“Hey.” Rafayel sweeps you into his arms. Try as you might to fight off the nerves, they bubble up in a short squeak when your face meets his chest. “Relax, baby. You’re shaking like a bubble in the sun… don’t pop just yet.”

You find comfort in his scent—oceanic and musky—breathing him in. 

Do you trust me? Rafayel once asked when you both were drunk on a night out. 

Of course, I do. You flick his nose. Why wouldn’t I trust you? 

Even if I’m different? He fixes you with a look, lucid for someone who had just downed an entire champagne bottle. And I can’t be normal for you? 

Especially because you aren’t normal in the sense of its word… I trust you even more because you trusted me, first. 

Waves lap at your toes, and you shiver at how cool the water is. 

“Easy,” Rafayel coaxes you. He takes the lead, sinking into the soft sand first, never releasing his hold on you. 

You do as he says, a sailor to his siren call, except you knew in your heart you would willingly follow him till the ends of the world.

Once the water was up to your waist, Rafayel exhaled. “Stay here. I’ll be back.” 

You don't have time to protest when he dives into the waves, barely kicking up a spray. Eyeing the softly luminated sea surface, you dip your fingers into the warm water, watching a blue orb float in between your loose fists. 

“Hey.”

Startling, you look up to find him grinning, lilac hair darkened with salt water; holding a bundle of what you thought was tangled hair in his grasp.

“I know you hate the taste of seaweed, but this’ll help when we… get into things.” 

He ends in an awkward note, and you wondered what happened to the once cocky, and sure Rafayel you knew. 

Unfurling his clenched fist, he hands you one single strand. “Eat this. It’ll help you breathe underwater temporarily.” 

“What is it?” you sniff at the strange vegetation. 

“Hydroweed. It gives humans the ability to breathe underwater for up to an hour.”

Putting your faith in his words, you nod. Opening your mouth, you bite into the Hydroweed. 

The briny taste was overwhelming, its tough fibers making it difficult for you to chew. But, you manage to swallow it down. 

Instantly, you felt your throat closing, the air choked out of your lungs. “Rafayel—!” 

Strong hands grab your waist, dragging you under the foamy waves. 

You gasp, about to scream at him to let you go, when you took in your first deep breath underwater.

The world suddenly came to life. Bright blue orbs floated right in front of your face, and you reached for them, in awe at how vivid they glowed now you could see them up close. 

Down in the depths, the waves became hushed murmurs in the background, filling your ears with a ringing silence. 

“Are you okay?” Rafayel’s voice shot through the floating calm like a shout, and you cringed back in shock. 

“Sorry,” he laughs, and pulls you to his side. “It’s way quieter down here than up above because sound travels differently. Strange, huh?” 

You nod, not entirely sure if you could use your voice. As if he read your thoughts, Rafayel chuckles.

“Go ahead and speak, my little conch shell. I can hear you just fine.” 

You take a deep breath. “O-okay.” Growing confident and more comfortable, you relax in his embrace. “It feels… strange. Like you said. But, at the same time, I don’t entirely hate it.”

“Mhm,” he rubs your back, smiling reassuringly and wide. “If there are other Lemurians within a few miles, they can most likely hear you scream.”

His double meaning didn’t register until you felt his palms tracing your hips, teasing down your body to give your ass a fond squeeze.

“Hey—!” 

You swat his hands away, mute with embarrassment. “I-is that why you all live so deep in the sea? For privacy?” 

Rafayel hums. It’s a little off putting how clear his voice sounds, like you were listening to him through a pair of high-grade earphones. 

“Usually, Lemurians mate deep in the trenches where the light can’t find us. It helps to keep things more private and intimate. If not, we travel to other seas uninhabited by our species. I used to know a guy who dragged his wife to the middle of the Atlantic when they were trying for a family.”

Rafayel’s focus ebbs into the distance, a tinge of sadness in his tone that appears whenever he speaks of his long lost people and home. 

You take his hands in yours and squeeze, trying to draw him back from the precipice of his ruined memories.

“We could try…” you trail off, unsure if this was the right thing to say. “...to repopulate it?” 

Like your words were a trigger, you found yourself planted right on the ocean floor, soft sand cushioning your body.

You squeak, quickly darting your eyes to his, arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders.

Rafayel’s usual glimmering pink-blue eyes were shadowed by a darker emotion; reminding you of glinting shark teeth or a blade of moonlight slicing through choppy water. 

“Don’t say that, baby.” Was it you, or did his voice drop an octave? 

Your Lemurian lover’s low reprimand made a shudder run down your spine, his half-mast eyes causing your stomach to flip.

“You don’t know how those words make me feel�� my kind used to reproduce by the dozens—I can’t wait to see you bulging with my babies.” 

Wait… babies? 

With a capital ‘S’?

His mouth lands on yours, hungry and seeking. You kiss him back with as much ardor, lost in the sensations that you almost forgot what he had said earlier.

“Raf… Rafayel—” you gasp when he starts to dig his teeth into your neck, nipping down your jaw and collarbone.

Deft hands unclip your bra, the motion fluid like he has done this a million times before. From the corner of your eye, you see every article of clothing he took off you floating right to the surface; moonlight bouncing off the fragmented surface, playing across the broad expanse of his back. 

Your head swims with fuzzy thoughts long discarded when he pushes the plush fat of your tits together, licking and nipping around your areolas, ignoring how your nipples were already circling with need. 

“Raffie…” You fist his hair, trying to push his mouth to where you need him the most. “Don’t tease me.”

He laughs at your soft whine. “I need to make sure you’re prepared, my love.”

My love. Rafayel only called you that term whenever he was in the thick of his passion; it seems like you were about to witness the cumulation of your innocent question coming true.

Strong hands held you firmly while he eased down your body, planting fleeting kisses on every inch of your skin his lips could touch. 

Down in the deep, gasps and screams weren’t sounds, but vibrations; the sounds escaping your mouth resounding around your entwined bodies.

“Fuck,” Rafayel cussed once he reached the apex of your thighs. “I can’t wait to finally taste you underwater.” 

Barely giving you time to brace yourself, the broad stroke of his tongue melted through your folds. 

Never would you have imagined you would be eaten out right on the ocean’s bed—going deeper and deeper into the neverending blue. 

Rafayel’s lips were wrapped around your nub, sucking and caressing it with his tongue exactly how you liked it. Your smaller fingers sank into his hair, the other entwining with his own above your heart; back arched to give him everything you have.

“S’good,” he murmurs, verging on the edge of slurring. “I love you.”

His name tumbles from your mouth like a primal echo, calling him right to the edge of a bottomless trench.

Rafayel wasn’t afraid; he would traverse the deep beyond for as many chances to be with you as he could.

“Put your legs around my waist,” he whispers in between sloppy kisses back up your body. 

If someone were to tell you that your sweet boyfriend was literally making love to you on the bottom of the ocean, you would tell them a Wanderer had infected their mind.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see his body emanating a faint glow. A distant memory claws past the thin membrane of your barely held together thoughts; moonlight bouncing off pink-blue scales, his unbearable body heat and a pearly sheen misting his eyes.

“Rafayel—” 

The change was imperceptible. At first, you couldn’t feel anything but the sinful sinking of his cock stretching out your cunt. 

Then, it hit you like a freight train.

His waist felt like it was expanding, pushing your thighs further apart. But, when you glanced down the line of your bodies, the length of his legs was replaced by something longer. Bigger. It distinctly had two fins attached to the end, bent at an angle to accommodate the position he was fucking you in.

“R-Rafayel—!” 

“Fuck,” he strains, lining his forehead with yours. “I-I’m scared of hurting you.” 

“N-no,” you force your thick tongue to relinquish the words. “You'll never.”

His skin grew harder under your touch, inches of pale expanses replaced by shiny scales. Minus his face, his limbs, back, chest and torso were completely covered by the armor-like toughness of multiple hardened plates. Where the scales couldn’t touch, they were bonded together by thin layers of lamella, giving his entire body an otherworldly sheen. 

Mesmerized, you titled his face towards you, marveling at the scattering of scales adorning his throat and jaw. 

“Wow,” you murmur, touching them. They weren’t as hard or sharp as you imagined; his scales had a delightful give you couldn't stop pressing down on. 

In response, Rafayel grunts. “Baby… It’s happening.”

You were about to part your mouth and ask him what was, when your eyes shot wide open. 

The place where you both were connected suddenly grew tighter, as if something was pushing against your insides. Your muscles instinctively tried to expel the foreign intrusion, tensing and tightening—it was a shot of fear unlike any other you had ever tasted. 

Panicking, you cried out, “Rafayel, stop!”

Immediately, he ceased rutting into you, breathing heavily. Anguished, pastel eyes peel clapped onto yours, a pearly sheen filming over them.

“Shit… shit, I’m so sorry…”

“What’s happening?” you blurt out, a tremble of fear in your question. “Are you… are you putting e-eggs in me?” 

“Eggs?” he sounds bewildered, and that causes you to be perplexed in turn. Breathing hard, Rafayel’s forehead thumps onto your sternum. He doesn’t refute you or confirm your suspicions. Instead, he takes in a deep, ragged breath, like he was trying to tame down a cresting emotion. “Did you actually think, for a single second, that I was going to leave eggs in you?” 

Before you can even speak, his broad shoulders start to shake. Rafayel’s quiet laughter roused your confusion and indignation; your brows furrowing together because he wouldn’t stop laughing.

“Shut up,” it was your turn to be the whiner in this relationship. “You’re mean. It’s a valid question!” 

“Oh, baby,” he wheezes. One second, he was laughing, and the next, he lapsed into a quiet seriousness, the sudden mood change giving you whiplash. “I would never hurt you like that, my love. Trust me.”

Gently grasping your hand with his, he slips it down both your bodies, right to where you two were connected. “What I meant to show you, my little conch shell, is this.” 

He brings your hand between your own legs. You thought he was going to make you touch yourself, but when you feel something hard and distinctively not flesh-like bump your hand, you flinch back.

“Ssh, don’t be afraid,” he murmurs. “Go on and take a look, my love.”

Again with my love. 

Rafayel was either struck with nerves, or he was completely enamored with you at this moment. 

You licked your lips, tasting salt water on them and cautiously stretched your fingers to feel the strange object up. It was long and girthy, like a penis, except it wasn’t.

Steeling yourself, you risk a peek.

Gone was the smooth, veiny skin of Rafayel’s cock. His human one. 

In its place, was a thick length, riddled with ridges and bumps like an octopus’ tentacle. His very human appendage was always a stunner—slender (like his physique), veiny, with a hooked tip—but the sight before you (that strange and downright alien sight) blew your expectations out of the water. 

Your gasp reverberated around the pressing silence. Rafayel was quiet, waiting for you to speak. In turn, you couldn’t keep your eyes off his new genitalia. 

“Is that…” you struggle to piece together a coherent question. “Is that all… going inside of me?” 

Rafayel grunts. “Unless you don’t want me to, sweetheart.”

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, staring past the crest of his shoulder towards the shimmering, seemingly impenetrable ceiling of a world beyond the bubble you both created.

“I do,” you finally whisper, your confession rippling around the both of you, suspending your forms in an endless wave of mutual ecstasy. “I want this. I want you.”

Rafayel doesn’t bother to waste his time replying. You brace yourself, heels digging into his hips, clinging onto him with all of your strength. 

The first breach of his otherworldly cock inside of you felt like a touch of electricity up your spine. You cried out, nails digging into his scaly shoulders.

“Relax,” he paces you through the sensations. “I need you to relax for me, my love. I can’t get in if you’re this tight.” 

You gulp in a few deep breaths with your eyes screwed shut, and eventually, your heartbeat slows down. Sluggishly cracking your lids open, you catch the gleam in his pink-blue irises; locks of his iridescent hair floating around his serene expression.

The strange sensation was back, easing past your ring of muscle. You choke on a moan, trying to swallow your fear. 

“Ssh,” Rafayel murmurs. To distract you, he leaves feathery kisses on your cheeks, jaw and then, your lips. 

If the bottom of the ocean wasn’t enough to drown you, his kiss would. 

Rafayel… you whisper into the water. 

His name was a prayer dedicated to the Sea Gods on your tongue, your body sprawled out beyond your comprehension. Every line of you was taut with tension, the achingly slow stretch of his appendage plunging deeper and deeper into your heat had your head spinning like a whirlpool was threatening to suck you in. 

“Almost,” his harsh whisper clashes with your breath. “So good for me; you’re doing so good for me, my love.”

“Rafayel,” you mewled, the sea taking your tears. Hiccuping his name, you shudder, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. 

Your fist clamped down on soft sand, your back arched, and finally—finally—you felt his hips clipping yours.

“Fuck.”

The both of you groan in unison. 

His kisses were still warm, flush on your parted lips. Rafayel shunted his hips forward, then back. Repeating the same motion. 

Again. Again. And again.

The sensation was unlike any other you had felt in this world. No cock could possibly compare to the ridges wrapped around his length, the blunt, elongated tip almost touching the deepest part of your body.

“Rafayel,” you cried in a thick voice, like your mouth was filled with cotton. “Oh, God…”

Your tits flushed to his chest, your fingers in his hair and his tongue twining with yours shook your inner world like a deep sea earthquake.

This wasn’t like your usual lovemaking sessions; everything was amplified, more sensitive and tangible.

God, was it all so tangible.

You could physically feel every scaly ridge under your fingertips. His modified cock dragging those ecstasy-inducing bumps across your walls. Even his taste was different underwater; like a briny, primal flavor which coated your tongue. 

“Y/N,” his moan more angelic than what you could handle. “I love you. I love you so, so much—” 

Rafayel choked, and you didn’t need to ask to know he was about to cum. 

The ecstasy of it all wrapped its tendrils around both your embracing bodies; a human and Lemurian entangled in a dance as old as time. 

“I love you,” you cry out, toes curling and your nails raking down his back. Rafayel grunts, and in the dim half-light of the ocean engulfing you, you swore you saw his frantic eyes shine like precious pearls.

The world was closing in, darkness seeping into the corners of your vision. 

You pushed on his shoulder, trying to get his attention; acutely aware that the ache in your lungs wasn’t because of his kisses, but of something else.

Something out of your control.

The call of the surface burned through your lungs, and you opened your mouth, about to scream for him to let you go, when it all slammed into you like a tidal wave.

Darkness exploded, splattering across your mind, and you heard his cry of your name, the sound now echoey and muggy.

There was movement. A sharp tug. What sounded like wind whistling through your ears. 

Through your snatches of consciousness, you were aware of the pushback both your bodies weathered through the wall of water; how the ocean was trying to hold you back.

As soon as the sensation appeared, it was shattered by a golden burst of fresh oxygen.

Gulping in mouthfuls of air, you yelled out in fright, blindly grappling across the writhing dark mess of endless ocean surrounding you. 

Rafayel! Rafayel!

You felt strong arms wrap around you, holding you in his embrace like how a father would cradle his child.

Close your eyes, you thought you heard him murmur in your ear. And don’t open them until I tell you it’s safe to.

Arms clamped around his shoulders and legs wrapped around his waist, your intrinsic fear of the ocean made you trust his word. 

Gently now, you were bobbing across the water, the cool currents rushing across your bare skin. It felt like gelatinous cold drafts constantly hitting every body part. Staying true to his promise, you kept your eyes shut until you felt rough sand on your back; the waves receding from your body to lap at your toes.

Gasping, you peel your eyes open, lid by lid.

The alcove where he took you tonight was back in front of you. 

Rolling onto your front, you tried to stand, but only succeeded in stumbling back onto the sand; losing your sense of balance from countless minutes spent suspended in the ocean's mass.

“Hey, hey. Easy there.”

Rafayel was still in his Lemurian form, and this time, under the dim, flickering lights of the bay’s lanterns, you were stunned into an awe-inspiring disquiet.

The flickering warmth casted shadows over his iridescent scales, those once tough and gray plates under the ocean’s darkness glowing from the inside out with a pink-blue flame.

Half of his tail was still submerged in the water, and you couldn’t help but drag your gaze across the stunning length.

Easily a few feet long, you couldn’t even begin to wrap your head around the mental image of how majestic his entire Lemurian form would look underwater. It was just too bad the Hydroweed’s effects were over before you could even get to the good part.

Your thighs were chafing, drawing attention to your gapingly empty cunt. 

Pulling yourself to your knees, you came chest to chest with him. 

Rafayel’s saltwater soaked fingers grasped your cheeks, titling it up to inspect you. 

Trickles of water seeped down his face, darkening the sand with droplets of wetness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, fraught and remorseful. “I lost track of time. I could’ve seriously injured you.”

“It’s okay.” The both of you flinched back from how hoarse your voice sounded. Clearing your throat, you struggled to put your mushy thoughts into words. “I… enjoyed it.”

Rafayel dropped his hands, his breathing growing ragged. “I should get back to normal—”

“No!” 

You stunned him with your vehemence, scrambling to grip his shoulders, clapping your crazed eyes onto his widened ones.

You’re acting like a mad woman. 

But, he didn’t say that to you. Rafayel grasped your hands, drawing them to his chest, pouring every drop of attention onto you. 

“I want to… try it… here.” 

You pieced together your incoherent request, and a part of you wondered—dreaded—if you had already lost your mind from the lack of oxygen and crushing deep sea pressure. 

Rafayel stared at you for a moment, unspeaking.

Then, he gently dragged you closer. Before you could even squeak, he had you straddling his waist. 

This time, it was your turn to peer down at him, curtains of your wet hair framing your face.

“Take me, then,” his voice was equally as hoarse as yours, though you suspected it wasn’t from ingesting enough saltwater to fill up your lungs. Trembling fingers touched your face, smoothing across your cheeks. “I’m all yours. I’ve been bound to you since the very beginning. You can take me, I won’t fight back. I told you I wouldn’t that night, don’t you remember? I’m keeping my word now.”

Something about the longing in his tone, how those pink-blue eyes yearned to swim in your soul, brought a lump to your throat. 

“Rafayel…”

Strong hands helped to guide your hips over his cock, easing you down with quiet praises and encouragement.

So good for me, baby. Look at you. Taking me so well. Wish I could paint this moment—you look so pretty. All for me. My love. My love. 

“R-Rafayel!” Thin red lines bloomed on his chest from your nails, your eyes rolling back into your head.

Without the sea’s buoyancy to support you, gravity took over, easing you down his bulbous cock.

Rafayel’s thumb circles your clit, rubbing it gently, soothingly, to get you wetter.

Your body felt like it was about to split cleanly into two—he was much too big for you. 

“C-can’t!” you whisper-cried. “I can’t take all of you—ngh.”

His mouth found your nipples, licking and sucking along the fleshy nubs until they were coated with his spit and tightening obscenely; an erotic outline lit by the bay's dim lantern lights.

“You can,” he mumbled in between your breasts. “I know you can.”

The rough strip of his tongue slid from your sternum towards your neck, pausing right at your pulse point. Sharp bites bloomed on your neck from his teeth, and you shiver from the throbbing pain going straight to your clit. 

That strange, heightening sensation was back. You felt much too sensitive, like a lightning rod trembling from an impending electrical storm.

One touch could’ve made you explode.

Rafayel brought your lips to his, tangling his tongue down your throat; stoppering your cries. 

Warm, smooth, distinctively human palms caressed your hips and thighs. 

Almost in, baby, he whispers in between kisses. I can feel every inch of you. 

You flit your eyes to where both your bodies meet, in mute shock from how deep he already was in you.

“You like it, baby?” he breathes warmly on your jaw. “Like watching yourself sit on my cock?” 

Fuck. Stop teasing me, you want to whine. But, the words won’t slip past your clenched teeth. 

His name bounces across the soft sand, the wind picking up and making you shiver. 

The warm glow of the lanterns spill across his sharp cheekbones, planes of his jaw. You’ve never seen someone look this beautiful under a hazy night sky before.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” you feel him murmur against your lips. “Say the word, baby. We’ll stop.”

You’re panting now, trying hard not to break your progress and having to start over. Rafayel was about halfway inside, and you forced your body to push and receive. 

Guh, you gasp, tossing your head back. 

“Love seeing you stretch yourself out on my cock, baby,” Rafayel mutters hoarsely—passionately. 

The implicit meaning in his words is clear: I love how you give yourself so willingly to me.

For Rafayel, you would do this ten times over until your body memorizes him. Willing your cunt to make a home for his monster cock even if it would break your spine.

“Almost,” he reassures in a low groan. “You feel s’good baby.”

He’s sweating as well, bullets of exertion not to break his composure and fuck into you mingling with the last of the seawater droplets rolling down his temples.

Rafayel, Rafayel, you whimper his name over and over. Oh God…

Something bubbles inside of you, thick and hot. You think you’re about to spill over, thighs shaking from the effort of holding yourself up. 

Your lover groans, low and lusty, his eyes trapped right in between your legs. “You’re so wet—look. Your little pussy loves me, baby.”

You glance to where he’s telling you to look, and nearly pass out from the embarrassment. 

Thick, pearly droplets are oozing down his merman length, and you would’ve thought it was from him had you not felt your walls start to twitch—more wetness gushing and trickling down to stain his pelvis.

The added lubrication made it easy enough for you to bottom out on his cock, and both your mutual cries of ecstasy reverberated into the dark night.

Shit, shit. Too big. You’re too big for me.

“You can take it,” he mouths your earlobe, kissing down your cheek. “Doing so well for me.”

Your breathing trembles, like a question hanging in thin air. Can you fuck me now? 

Rafayel scoffs and bumps his nose with yours gently. “Always making me do the hard work. You really are my spoiled, pretty princess, aren’t you? Or…” his voice drops, the heat in his eyes almost scorching you. “Do you want to be my good girl?”

You gasp: I do. I want to be your good girl.

He hisses when you start to shift your hips, the motion making your clit catch on his pelvis. You mewl, leaning forward to repeat the same motion; trying to chase after that spark of pleasure over and over again.

Those big, smooth palms cradle your face, pushing your hair back.

Rafayel’s jaw is tense, like he’s biting down on some inner demon you can’t see. 

That’s it. That’s my good girl. 

Your nails leave white crescent moons on his pale shoulders as you ride him, every bump and ridge of his cock brushing your sweet spot. He was so deep in you, almost plunging right past your cervix. 

“Fuck,” he curses. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

An arm sweeps you right to his chest, your cheek pressed atop his heartbeat. Rafayel thrusts his hips up, meeting your sensual grinding.

Spit pools in the back of your throat, your eyes squeezed shut as you let your Lemurian lover have his way with you. You part your mouth, mellifluous moans touching the air and turning it golden to his reddened ears.

I love you. His whispers against your throat, the sting of his teeth soothed by the sweetness of his praise and adoration. I love you so much, my good girl.

“You fuck me so good,” the words tumble from your split mouth, recklessly thoughtful. “No one can fuck me like you.”

Yeah, he pants, mouthing your pulse point. Cream on this cock, baby. It’s all yours. His hands span across your lower back, traversing down to grip your ass and spreading you wider for him.

Give me everything you’ve got, Princess. 

His cock plunges so deep inside of you, and you were sure that if he came right now, he might’ve knocked you up in one try. 

All yours. Rafayel was all yours. 

You lean up, arms resting on either side of his head as the sand bites into your skin. 

Rafayel thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven. He watches, mesmerized, as your tits sway right in front of his face. You’re fucking him now, meeting each fluid thrust he had to give; bouncing on his lap like you were riding out a desperate heat.

His thighs tense, and he feels your pussy clench down on him. 

Fuck, you stutter, and so do your hips. I’m close. 

He squeezes your ass, smacks it with both palms.

Your breathing catches, and you ride him even harder. Faster.

“Fuck,” those pretty eyes were hooded, latched on your bouncing tits and stiff nipples. “Look so good fucking me—you love using me, don’t you, Master?” 

You gasp, and Rafayel feels your composure slip when you squeeze down on him. He almost cums right there and then. But, he fights it off, needing to see you lose control first.

The sight of your stickiness frothing at the base of his cock nearly makes him white out in pleasure, getting messier with every stroke of his non-human cock. 

He’s never had a human before in his Lemurian form, but it’s something straight out of a wild, wet dream.

Your skin was so, so soft in comparison to his hard scales that he’s almost afraid of hurting you with them.

But, you prove you’re made of tougher stuff when you lean back, bracing both hands on the girth of his tail. 

Showing off your puffy pussy and glistening hole taking every inch of him like it was made for this and only for this purpose.

He feels himself drowning in you. No one has ever taken him this deep. His mouth falls open, a low grunt touching your hot ears. Good girl… good fucking girl. His praises make you warm all over. You would do anything and everything to earn his devotion. But, Rafayel doesn’t make you do it—he gives it to you freely. One large hand smoothed over your belly, your tits, pinching your nipples and smirking inwardly when you gasp and groan. 

Breathy whimpers resound, his thumb on your clit rubbing out full body shudders. The sky above spins, like he’s being sucked into and about to be spat out of a whirlpool.

His eyes bounce from the softness of your belly, your tits jiggling, and then back down to your pretty pussy taking all of him in.

“Like what you see?” 

Rafayel flits his gaze back up. Your eyes were two pools of smoldering heat, about to burn him alive.

You grab his wandering hand, pressing it right over your stomach. “I can feel you here.” He twitches, and you gasp. “So, so deep.”

Sloppy sounds of your bodies meeting; you were so, so wet and perfect. Your pussy was gushing, fighting between squeezing him out or sucking him in. 

I’m gonna cum, baby, he grunts. The vein in his neck tightens, and your whimper almost sets him off.

Gonna cum so deep inside of you. Make you so round and perfect with my babies. You’re my Queen, aren’t you? My love. I’ll love you until the seas dry up. You’re mine forever. 

It’s that tinge of possessiveness which does you under. You were putty to his deep, gravelly voice; those words of unending devotion and sin.

His thick, dark lashes flutter, those pretty eyes rolling back into his head.

Fuck, baby. He grabs onto your hips, looking for something to steady him. “I need you… I’m gonna cum,” he whines, and it’s pathetic really—how much you’ve affected him.

If he was a lesser man, Rafayel might’ve called you his weakness. But, you were more than that.

You were the reason he woke up in the mornings. The reason he relentlessly pursued the passages of time and space to find you; you were the muse to his madness. 

“Do it for me, baby,” you pant, and fall back into his arms. Chest to chest, lips to lips, every breath you took was exhaled by his own. “Cum for me.”

Make me yours forever, Rafayel.

The world goes white, and your pussy quivers around him, an ending opera note suspended in mid-air.

It comes crashing down, slo-mo turned to a normal pace when time rushes back to engulf your sluggish shore.

His cum fills you up, thicker and running hotter than a human’s. It felt strange; pulsating inside of you, glob after glob. Your pussy shudders and breaks, physical and emotional walls all torn down for him; voice hoarse and edged with mania. Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel…

You mumble his name like a prayer while he drags your lips to his, kissing you like an oath.

He feels you shudder around him, growing weaker like a kitten. It would be so easy for him to pierce your neck with his teeth, cut through your jugular with his scales. 

But, Rafayel tames his primal, oceanic urge to destroy, reining it back in favor of nosing your hair.

“Felt so good,” he mumbles tiredly. “Are you okay, my little conch shell?”

You hum, shift your hips. The bulbous head of his cock brushes the opening of your cervix. “I can’t believe I took you so deep.” You drift off and in a few minutes, feel him go from soft to half-hard in you again. 

“Are you still turned on, baby?” you ask innocently, voice soft and frayed with exhaustion. Rafayel swivels his face away, trying to hide his red ears.

“N-no.”

You huff a laugh, using all the strength in your jelly-like limbs to sit up. Something catches your attention, and in the corner of your eye, you pick up the dark strands, fisting it close to your mouth.

Rafayel watches, unsure what you’re intending to do. He sits up, squints, and almost gasps.

That’s enough Hydroweed for you to last a night under the ocean. 

He’s about to stop you, when you ingest it all in one go.

The second you convulse, he pushes you back into the ocean, your gasp of relief second to only his bruising kiss completely devouring your mouth. 

Your legs wrap around his waist, and your back meets the ocean floor again. This time, you take the lead, rolling him off to straddle his waist again. 

Rafayel glances at you, gorgeous pastel eyes hooded. 

He notices how comfortable you’re getting underwater; how easy it is for you to scoot down his torso, your playful smirk making his cock and heartstrings throb. 

“Baby—” he mumbles, only to be cut off by the sight of you kissing his bulbous tip.

Rafayel isn’t a believer of god per say (coming from his own experience as a retired sea deity), but at the sight of your pretty lips skimming his merman tip, he thinks he could give religion another shot. 

What’re you doing? His whisper carries across the currents.

Ssh, you hush him, rimming the tip of your tongue around his flushed head. You don’t miss how his tail twitches, cock now painfully at full mast. 

Isn’t it obvious? You mumble, kissing the tip reverently. I want to taste my Lemurian's pretty cock.

He seizes, back arching, putty in your hands when you take him down as deep as your little throat allows. 

What else you couldn’t fit, you used your hands to jack up and down.

Soft hisses slip past his clenched teeth. “You’re driving me crazy, baby.”

Mhm, you slur, flickering your hazy, fucked out gaze to his flushed face. Tastes so good, you whisper, and Rafayel was glad the ocean didn’t show the line of drool that usually trickles down your jaw; your fucked out expression which would make his control snap instantly. 

You would need to consume at least three more mouthfuls of Hydroweed before he was fully done with you. 

Luckily, Thomas’ yacht came with some fluffy towels.

Rafayel had wrapped you in one while he laid the other under your back; content to curl his tail around you, still in his Lemurian form. The honeywood deck was warm to the touch, the balmy evening offering comfort and respite from hours underneath the cold, dark ocean. 

“So…” he quips, not one for stewing in silence. “Questions? Thoughts? Comments?” 

You fight back a smile. 

“Was there really eggs put up inside of me? Swore I felt a lot of round and hard things sloshing inside.”

“That… would be my tip.” Rafayel flicks your nose when you scoff. “On a scale of one to ten, how freaked out would you be if I said I did actually put some eggs up in your body and it had to be fertilized so the rest would start falling out of you like gelatinous goo until the only one takes?” 

You blink. “Pretty freaked out, if I’m being honest.”

“So… a nine?” 

“More like—” you lifted your hand and made a so-so motion. “—a six, at best. I’m kinda used to your bullshit by now, babe.” 

“Hey!” Rafayel tugs on the ends of your hair, making you laugh. Growing serious now, he murmurs, “So, you’re absolutely fine with being knocked up with a half-Lemurian kid?” 

“Depends,” you mumble mildly. “Am I the first one you’re doing this with?”

Barely missing a beat, he nodded. “The only one. Never had time to sleep around. Always busy running a kingdom. Blah-blah. Typical God of the Sea stuff. No biggie.”

“Aw,” you coo, “I’m so honored you waited for me.” 

You expected him to scoff or roll his eyes, not lapse into a serious quietness. Rafayel’s silence stretched on, and you perched your jaw on his shoulder.

“Hey. Penny for your thoughts?” 

“Hmm.” Rafayel tugs you closer, grabbing your hand and pressing it to his cheek. His lips are inches apart from yours, warm breath touching your parted mouth. You taste him on your tongue, invigorating yet comforting.

A well-worn sign of home. 

“Just that I would do it all over again. Wait for you, I mean. Even if it takes a long, long time.”

A few centimeters and 800 years stand between the two of you. 

But, for tonight, you breach the distance and kiss him, grateful that you had been given this cherished memory together with Rafayel.

— rbs and feedback are appreciated !!

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or translate my work across other platforms.

[chrisbesitos]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀dangerous. 𔘓

꩜ warnings: angst, arguing, cursing, mommy issues.

꩜ synopsis: dealer!chris goes to see ballerina!reader at her concert. After her mother criticizes her dance, chris protects her, but they end up arguing because ballerina!reader calls him a friend.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ꒰͡⠀🩰 𝅄 💸⠀͡꒱

You were so excited, excited and nervous, but you were happy tonight. Your ballet company was presenting tonight The Nutcracker and you were Clara, after working so hard for months, you get the role of the protagonist. You jump around like a little kid in your room, giggling and almost crying. Chris was happy for you, he gave you a couple of kisses in your face and you two celebrate in the best way.

And finally, the night of the spectacle. You look like a princess on the stage, actually, you look like a queen — this in Chris' words —. Look like you were flying, you look majestic and incredible. You run out of you backstage to meet Chris, they came to see you dancing tonight. Your eyes met Chris' eyes, he was with a big and proud smile on his lips, carrying a bouquet on his hands, you never imagined the dealer you met at a party would be waiting for you with flowers and a proud look.

"Hey, thank you for coming." You say, biting your lower lip trying to hold your big smile, but it is impossible when the boy in front of you is looking at you like a little boy stare at his first crush on kindergarten. "Is it for me?" You point at the bouquet, a bouquet of red roses.

"Yeah, yeah. Is for you." He says, giving you the bouquet. You grab it, holding it next to your nose and inhaling the scent. Chris approaches you, grabbing your chin with a grin on his lips, you stare at his pretty blue eyes and give him a peck on his lips. "You looked so pretty, babydoll." He whispers.

"Thank you, baby. For the flowers and for coming tonight." You murmur against his lips, his nose rubbing your nose and his fingertips massaging your waist covered with the white collant. Your eyes catch someone familiar behind Chris, suddenly your stomach drops and your joy seems to disappear. Your heart started to beat faster and Chris noticed your abrupt change of behavior.

"Doll? What's wrong?" Chris asks, changing his hand from your waist to your face. Even behind the makeup, he could see the color drop from your face.

"Mom?" You ask, getting out from Chris' arms and stepping until the woman with red lips and a disgusted look. Chris stares at the lady, she looks like you, at least the eyes and the shape of the nose. "What are you doing here?"

"You really think I wouldn't come to see you tonight? I mean, I just found out you were going to be Clara, because your teacher told me." She says. Your face burning in embarrassment, you didn't want your mother to come, but you didn't expect your teacher to tell her. "Oh, Y/N. Years of training and practicing, but you still look like an amateur." She grabs your chin, lifts your head and stares at your glassy eyes.

"You don't fuckin' know what your saying." Chris says, embracing your shoulders and pulling you away from your mother. She looks at Chris with a disgusted look, like he's a plague. You don't say anything, just lower your head and stare at the floor, feeling embarrassed and upset by the whole situation. You hate how your mother never sees your effort. "You should be proud of your daughter instead of treating her like shit." He defends you. Chris tries to hold your hand, but you push your hand away from his, he frowns his eyebrows looking at you.

"Who's this boy ?" Your mother asks, Chris stares at you, waiting for you to say something, but you look so, so defenceless.

"He's a friend, mom." You whisper, avoiding looking at your mother. Chris' touch on your shoulders looks freeze, his fingertips stopped rubbing your skin, he stares at you in disbelief. But you didn't look at him, nor your mom, you just keep your head down.

All you want is to disappear.

"You should choose your friends better, Y/N." And with this she walks away, leaving you and Chris behind. Suddenly you feel the urge to cry, scream and throw up. All together.

You didn't say anything, neither look at Chris. He didn't say anything either, he just pulled your elbow to walk in the direction of the exit. You squeeze the bouquet plastic in your hands, tears pricking in your waterline, but you hold, not wanting to cry in front of Chris. In the parking lot, Chris didn't open the door for you, like he always does. This breaks your heart a little, you probably have fucked up everything. Not even music was playing on the way home, just the sound of Chris' huffs.

The car stopped, Chris sighs and waits with his hands on the handwheel. Your eyebrows frowned in confusion, he drove to your home, not the restaurant he reserved for dinner. It was the first time you would've a date at a fancy restaurant, but he drives you back home. Your stomach churn, he's mad at you and you don't blame him.

"I thought we were going to have dinner at this restaurant." You whisper, avoiding looking at Chris. Your voice cracking, trying to not cry like a cry baby. You hear Chris' laugh sarcastically.

"Dates are for couples, I'm just a friend." He says, turning his head to look at you, but you are staring at the flowers. He grabs your chin and turns your head to look at him, to face his eyes with your glassy eyes. "Right? You say I'm a friend."

"No, baby. I just said that because my mother–" You say, grabbing his hand with your fingers, but he pushes your hand and cuts you.

"What? She wouldn't approve that you are with me?" He says angry, you shake your head, but he wasn't wrong. You didn't want to tell your mother you are with him, because she always wants to control your life. You didn't mean to, but the fear you feel is always consuming your body and your mind. "You're ashamed of me, don't you, Y/N?"

"Y/N?" Your voice fails.

"Why would I call you doll? You're not my girlfriend."

This makes your blood boil, because even though he's mad, he never asked you to be his girlfriend. He never said he wanted to label your relationship, so he has no right to act like this with you.

"You wanna know something? You're right, I'm not your girlfriend and you never wanted me to be!" You scream, the angry speaking louder than the sadness. Chris frowns his eyebrows at your behavior, because you never act like this with him, every time you feel angry or upset at him, you just cried, but never screamed. "You just want to fuck with me, don't you? Because if you really want me, you would've asked me. So, yes, you are my friend."

"You're really gonna act like a brat with me right now?" Chris says.

"Fuck, I hate you, Chris." You jump out of the car, slamming the door. You walk towards the front door, but you stop and walk back to the car, knocking Chris' window. He opens, still staring at you with angry eyes. "I don't want your fucking flowers." You throw the bouquet on his face, this breaks your heart, because you didn't want to do this with him, but you did it either way.

He didn't say anything, he didn't even react. Chris just nods, closing the window and driving to his place, leaving you behind. You watch he go away, but the second the car disappears from your view, sobs erupt from your throat. You sit on the stairs, hiding your face on your knees. Even though you and Chris weren't a couple, you feel like this was a break up and this hurts.

Hurts like hell.

꩜ chérie's notes: part 2 ? ngl i love to write angst.

tags ; @lizzymacdonald06 @deliciousluminaryanchor @lushjunkie @sweetreliever @watercolorskyy @ivysturnss @brianna-grace12 @blahbel668 @gabri3la-sturns @strnlxlqve @stvrnzcherries @unknvhx @pvssychicken @all4l0vee @i4longhairchris @sluttybitchformattsturniolo @sophand4n4 @sturniololetstrip2 @zayluvss

taglist. | masterlist. | part 2.

[adragonprinceswhore]

Romancer

Aemond Targaryen x Wife

Summary: During King Aegon II tumultuous coronation, Aemond’s wife becomes the first casualty of the Targaryen civil war. The young prince’s grief drives him to Flea Bottom, where he meets a mysterious Qartheen necromancer, who promises to bring his love back. But as with any sorcery, there is a price to pay; with each of Aemond’s touches, she slowly rots away.

Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, death, violence, sorcery, necromancy, angst, longing, smut

A/N: Happy Halloween! 🖤

Word count: 4200

‘Twas but a fleeting instance. 

A dragon, the Red Queen, and her traitorous rider burst through the floors of King Aegon II’s coronation. 

Chaos followed. Shrill voices begging for mercy, children weeping, sobbed ramblings closer to nonsense than prayers.  

Prince Aemond, whose seeing eye had been fixed on his wife before the tumultuous entrance of Rhaenys Targaryen, steps to the side to protect his sister from Meleys’ wrath. 

When their cowardice wins, and the dragon and her rider leaves, his seeing eye falls back to where he had last seen his beloved. 

Only now, he cannot find her. 

As members of the King’s guard swarm around the royal family to protect them, a futile gesture far overdue, Aemond pushes between them to rush down the steps of the elevated platform made for the Targaryens to bask in the admiring gazes of their people. 

She couldn't have left, she was here just moments ago. 

His eye is frantic as it searches the soot-covered ruins around him. His silvery hair whips to the side as he desperately jerks his head from one side to another. Then, he catches sight of her hair. 

She lies on the ground, pushed down by large stones crushing her body. 

Aemond hauls them off with a strength bestowed upon him by his despair. A sob leaves his throat as he pulls her into his arms, gently stroking her hair, burying his face there and inhaling the dust decorating it. 

He holds her until the heat of her body leaves her. Until she’s cold as ice in his grip. Stiff and strange. 

Only once does he glance down at her, and to his horror, she’s changed. It’s not her anymore. 

The soft cheeks he used to trace his fingers down are now hollow. Her skin is discoloured, and her eyes lifeless. Almost white, like the soul has left them and in its wake, a mist settles over the grave that once was a loving gaze. 

Prince Aemond sits like that, with her lifeless, rigid body in his arms, for too long. 

He cannot tell how many hours have passed, but he knows that he has lost a day when the sun appears, and disappears. It feels like an eternity trapped in the blink of an eye. 

No one dares approach him. They know that the fiery prince will show no mercy to whoever chooses to disturb his mourning. 

So he’s left alone in his devastation, until he cannot bear it any longer. 

His fingers are blue from the cold air enveloping him in an embrace so chilling, it rattles his bones. 

His love has also turned impossibly cold in his hold. Colder than the freezing, blue burn of a dragon’s flame. 

When he can no longer withstand the chill, he finally stands. His legs almost give in and every inch of his body hurts. Still, he persists, never letting his love fall to the ground as he keeps a secure hold around her. 

She is heavier than anything he’s ever carried before. He knows her, and this is not her. How many times had he not lifted her onto their bed? Pulled her in his lap? This sack of flesh weighs far more than she ever did, and yet he cannot let go. So he persits, and carries her to their chambers, sacrificing his own aching limbs in the process. 

When he thinks he might pass out from the effort, he reaches their marital bed, and lays her on top of it. 

Tenderly, he places her arms on her stomach, brushes her hair from her face, and closes her eyes. 

She’s merely sleeping, nothing more. Nothing permanent, nothing everlasting. 

Soon, she’ll open her eyes, look up at him, and give him a smile that melts his heart. Until then, he carefully places a quilt over her, and lies down next to her to find sleep, as husband and wife, just like so many nights before. 

He finds slumber next to her, if only for a few hours. By the hour of the wolf, he’s once again awake, laying on his back, staring at the intricate carvings in the wooden canopy above him. In a moment of weakness, he reaches for her hand to hold, but when his touch is met by freezing cold fingers, he winches and quickly lets go, instead placing his hand on her stomach, covered by the quilt he’d placed over her. 

His mind is too restless to let him find slumber. One hundred ideas, possible scenarios, flash in his mind. Thoughts of how to fix this; how to undo this, won’t let him rest. 

The Seven say that death is final, but is that truly the case? Surely, in Old Valyria, where dragons roamed free and the practitioners of the dark arts ruled, warlocks would not be content with leaving death to the Gods? 

Another day passes by as Aemond is deeply submerged in his own contemplation. 

This cannot be the end of her; of their life together. His dear wife. His one true ally. The sweet mother of their future heirs. She is not gone. She cannot be.

By next daybreak, an idea from his latent mind floats into his consciousness, and causes the troubled prince to finally see clearly. 

Necromancy. The art of bringing back the dead. 

Fuelled by the fire of determination set ablaze within his chest, Aemond reluctantly leaves his lover's side, throws on a cloak, and orders a member of the King’s Guard to guard the door to his chambers with his life. 

Before he leaves, Aemond throws one last glance at his wife’s lifeless form, and kneels by their bed, pressing a chaste kiss against her cheek. ‘Tis cold and stiff, as he should have expected. Still, his heart breaks when his lips are not met by the warmth he so wishes would still flow within her.

“I will bring you a cure”, he promises next to her ear, and ventures out into the dark, bustling streets of King’s Landing.

Flea Bottom is as he remembers. 

Filthy and depraved. 

The mere smell of the streets corrodes the insides of his nostrils, air so thick with stench from pigsties and tanneries the prince buries his nose inside his hood and breathes through his mouth. 

Around each corner of the dilapidated buildings lurks another distraction; whores beckoning him into their lairs, conmen trying to trick him into buying false treasures. 

‘Tis not a place for the educated. Nor is it for the devoted. Flea Bottom is reserved for the lowest of men; the ones who revel in debauchery and make a living of their falsehood. 

With the help of a few silver stags, Aemond manages to navigate the dirt-filled cobblestones of King’s Landing’s foulest corner. By the hour of the eel, he’s directed towards a short, stocky man with small eyes obscured by thick, bushy eyebrows. 

At last, he has found what he’s looking for;

A foreign man familiar with the dark arts.

He smiles when the prince tells him of the task, cold yet amused, resembling a serpent, 

“There is always a price to pay, my prince. What are you willing to sacrifice?”

“Anything”

“What if the sacrifice is your own selfishness?”

Aemond does not need convincing. He has already made up his mind. Without her, warm and comforting and breathing in his arms, he is willing to offer the sorcerer anything. The strange man inspects him with beady eyes that shine in the fire dancing against the stoney walls,

“10 gold dragons. And I will restore your lady once more”

In the shadows of the night, Prince Aemond brings the warlock into his chambers. 

The mysterious man does not ask for much in order to perform his sorcery.

He orders a servant to bring him boiling water, sage, dirt from the courtyard, and a small vessel. 

The staff of the Red Keep work quickly, and when he has all he requires, he pulls out a short, thin dagger from the inside of his pocket, and hands it to his prince, 

“A drop of your blood, your grace”

Aemond complies, and slashes the tip of his ring finger with the small blade. The warlock catches his blood with the vessel and proceeds to the bed, cutting the skin of the prince’s wife as well, mixing her blood with his. He adds the soil of their land, smoke of burnt sage, and water to his concoction before working his fingers into her mouth to force it open, and pours the brew down her throat. 

Nothing happens. 

Quietly, he leaves her bed to wash his hands in the basin by the hearth. He does not seem displeased by the fact that his magic did not work, or frightened by the dragon prince observing him closely. 

Aemond inhales, ready to have the deceitful bastard executed, flames of anger dancing within his blood from the humiliating disappointment of trusting a common conman. 

But just as he’s about to unleash his fury, he hears it. 

A sigh, quiet as a whisper in the room, yet loud as thunder in the young prince’s ears, floats from their bed to where he stands. He whips his head so quickly to the side his neck hurts, and hurriedly walks towards where she lies, still with her eyes closed and in the same position he had left her in. 

He carefully brings his hand out, shaking like the leaves of a tree caught in a storm. His eyes cannot see her clearly, unshed tears becoming a veil of relief over his eye. His hand gently grabs hers, and despite her still cold skin, he feels it, the drum of her heart, dancing in her chest and sending waves of thuds through her body. He leans in closer, wanting to whisper a greeting against her soft skin, yet is disturbed by the presence behind him he had nearly forgotten,

“We have not yet discussed the price, your grace”

Aemond leans back and turns to face the sorcerer. He wears the same wicked smirk as before, as if the prince’s despair amuses him. 

Disgusting creature.

“You have your gold. You are dismissed”

“Oh, but that is not the price the Gods wish to see, my prince”, he says with a sickly sweet gleefulness that chills Aemond’s bones,

“Witchcraft angers the Gods. It mocks them. I told you your selfishness will be the price you pay, and They have agreed”

“What do you speak of? Spit it out”

His smirk widens, “Release her hand”

Aemond gently lets go of her, and watches as a bruise blossoms forth from underneath the delicate skin of her wrist. 

“With each touch, she moves closer to the Stranger once more. You may have her by your side, but you cannot indulge in her” 

Frozen in place, the prince does not answer. What will become of his life if he is not allowed to touch his beloved? Being beside her, yet so far away. 

The man forces Aemond out of his thoughts,

“Will you settle for that, my prince? Being tempted by her every day, until you draw your last breath?” 

“If that is the price the Gods wish to be paid” 

“Hm. And you are content with a life without heirs? Without a bedmate? Or will you look for that elsewhere? Have another bed your wife, claim the offspring as your own?” 

The question turns Aemond’s stomach. 

“Watch your tongue, warlock. Or I will take it” 

His icy voice does nothing but amuse the man further, whose lips draw even taunter as he feigns regret with a courteous nod,

“Forgive me, your grace. I did not mean offence. Surely, you must have considered all implications carefully to reach this conclusion”

In truth, he had not. But the thought of another touching what belongs to him, his most dear possession, is so repulsive to Aemond he swallows the bile pushing up his throat. 

No one else may ever touch her. 

By next morning light, she awakens.

Still in a delirious state, she asks her husband to come closer and embrace her, frightened by the visions she had seen in her resting state. 

The contentment Prince Aemond feels from once again speaking to her; seeing her draw breath, seeing colour reappear on her cheeks, is dulled the separation between them, and the realisation that this is how they will remain from now onwards. 

He tells her of it all; Rhaenys bursting through the boards, the necromancer and the price he paid to bring her back. 

A tear falls from her lashes when he tells her that they may never touch again, for she will once more decay if they do. 

With a forceful swallow, she pushes down her own sadness and nods, grateful that he loves her too much to live without her. 

And so, their new normality begins. 

They enjoy the same things they did before; taking their meals together, reading together, speaking of their duties together. 

He had told court that her life was saved thanks to a skilled maester visiting from Oldtown, aware of the dangers enlisting a man of the dark arts carries.  

Should the truth about her resurrection come to light, she might be sanctioned not only by the court, but by the Citadel as well, and thus forced back into the arms of the stranger. 

In their endurance, their days grow tense, each moment tainted by the unspoken heartbreak of separation. 

The most prominent change to their lives together is the longing squeezing the prince’s heart. 

Never before has he ached so much for something as he does for her touch. 

The pain inside his heart doubles when he catches her eyes observing him from across the table whenever they sit together. 

She looks so devastated by their separation, so overcome with yearning. 

He knows the feeling, ‘tis the same sorrow that reflects in his heart. And yet, there is nothing they can do. 

Aemond would rather spend an eternity with her, and never once more feel the warmth of her fingers on his flesh, than to watch her get pulled away by the stranger yet again. 

So he endures. 

An unforgiving storm whips the Red Keep with vexed, rainy lashes when he returns from Storm’s End. 

He is drenched, dripping from head to toe. His face looks haunted; as if he has met the eye of death himself. 

She sits by the hearth, embroidering a small, green dragon onto one of his tunics. Her needle clumsily pierces the tip of her finger as she sees her husband’s distressed state, 

“What is the matter, my love?” 

“Lucerys, he-, he’s dead” 

Aemond shakes from the cold of the rain soaking his clothes. With shaky fingers he peels off his leathers, until he is only in his underclothes, standing right before her by the fire to seek some warmth, 

“I did not mean to-, Vhagar-, she-”

The explanations die on his tongue. 

She meets his gaze, bewildered and pitiful, and nods in silent understanding, unsure of how to comfort him. Aemond sinks down to his knees, feeling the heat of the fire lick against his cold skin. ‘Tis little comfort; his bones still feel freezing. As does his heart, when he looks at her. So close, yet never close enough. 

Torture, that is what it is. A cruel jest from the Gods. 

“How can I ease your distress, my love?”, she asks, and he nearly whimpers at her sweet concern. If he cannot confess his suffering to her, then who? 

“I fear I am a selfish man, after all”, he says defeatedly, 

“Even now I miss you, when you sit before me. I crave your touch - to feel you near. To be inside you. I am not whole unless I am with you - part of you, my love”

The smile on her face is filled with sorrow, piteous eyes glimmering against the warm glow of the hearth. She shuffles in her seat, pulls her hand out, and opens it in an inviting gesture, 

“I can spare a few years in my elderly days if I may feel your touch for one more night, my love”

And who is he to deny his love? 

To dismiss her sweet pleas? 

He would never deny her anything. 

He moves forward, crawling towards where she sits like the depraved hound he is. When he reaches her, he pulls the skirts of her small clothes up to reveal the soft meat of her things, and lays his head there, only for a moment. 

A sigh escapes him, so content to feel her softness against his cheek once more. ‘Tis like finding salvation after a life in sin; an otherworldly experience. 

He nuzzles into her skin, and she brings one hand to the side of his face, gently tracing his cheekbone and threading the silk of his hair between her fingers. After a moment of still devotion, he pushes the fabric further up to kiss her cunny, the only drink his parched lips crave. 

A startled gasp echoes above him, and the hand she carefully stroked his hair with turns into a painful grip. He adores the sting against his scalp. Hurriedly, he steals a peak from her, wasting no time to finally feel whole again. 

Kissing his way up her panting body, he finally tastes the reward he had coveted so. Her lips are even sweeter than he remembered them; soft, warm and most comforting. 

He stands and pulls her up to do the same, leading her to their bed with quick, long strides. He removes her small clothes as if he despises them, tearing the fabric and grunting at the layers separating him from the light of his life. When she is finally bare before him, he strips himself and joins her on their bed, finding his home between her thighs. She is so slick he slides in as if he were the missing piece of her incomplete body, and they both cry out at the all-consuming bliss of finally being together, being one, once more. 

His arms snake underneath her back, pulling her so close to him each inch of her skin touches his. Their lips stay locked together, moans and pleasurable sighs bouncing between their mouths. 

He cannot tell if the wetness on her cheek is proof of her own relief, or his. 

Nevertheless, he kisses it away, closes his eyes, and disappears into the bliss of having her again. 

They stay intertwined through the night, and by first light, Aemond reluctantly lets go of his love. 

The light that illuminates their chambers is scarce in the early hours of the morning, yet he can see the discolouration travelling up the limbs of his wife; painting her legs and arms in odd, painful colours. 

Their indulgence had cost her greatly. 

Regret stabs his heart; potent and aching. 

What have I done? 

‘Tis as if the small dagger the warlock carried were lodged inside his chest, reminding him of the devious man he had become. 

A kinslayer. 

His bloodthirsty quest for selfish pursuits; justice, comfort, love, is naught but foolishness. 

And now those around him pay the price. 

Aemond makes sure to keep distance from her, and he suffers immensely from it. 

On the night he came back from Storm’s End, he had found peaceful slumber in the arms of his beloved. Each night since, he is tormented by nightmares; visions of his worst fears playing in his mind. 

Cold skin, blood, bruises.

He fears Rhaenyra’s wrath. The retribution he will have to atone for Lucerys’ life. 

Will he be the one to pay it this time? 

Or will the burden of his crimes once more fall on the shoulders of his loved ones? 

Aemond does not need to wait long for retaliation.  

Rhaenyra’s revenge go by the names of Blood and Cheese, a ratcatcher and a disgraced butcher. The pair snook into the chambers of his young nephew, heir to the Iron Throne Jaehaerys, and slew the boy in front of Aemond’s sweet sister, Helaena. 

His hands are no longer merely tainted by the crimson of Lucerys’ blood. His pursuit for vengeance cost him the life of his nephew, and his sister, so lost in grief she can no longer leave her chambers. He only visits her once, horrified by the ghost of a person the queen has become. 

‘Tis my fault.

And it echoes in the prince’s mind anywhere he goes. 

When he trains with Ser Criston. When he flies on Vhagar. When he breaks his fast with his wife.

‘Tis my fault. 

When his mother can’t meet his eye. When his brother sinks deeper into his cups. When his grandfather no longer confides in him.

‘Tis my fault. 

The only light remaining is his dear lady wife. 

She still regards him with love. 

Her eyes still sparkle as he enters their chambers after a long day. Her mouth still forms a smile whenever he greets her.

“Her sweetness is wicked”, Prince Aemond thinks, “So inviting, beckoning me in, yet I must remain at a distance”

They still sleep next to one another, separated by an arm’s length. A small distance that feels infinite as he longingly steals glances of her sleeping form. 

A siren calling to him, taunting him with her soft, warm flesh. 

He knows that a night with her in his arms would ease his distress; allow him to find slumber and wake up as a better man. 

I would be a better man, for her. 

And that is the last thing he thinks before he shuffles closer, gently pulls her into his arms, and buries his nose in her hair. 

If he were a better man, he would have stopped after one night. But by now, Aemond knows that he is not. 

He is a self-serving, weak craven. 

The first night of having her in his arms while she slept did not soothe the longing aching in his chest as he thought it would. It doubled it. And by next nightfall, he waited for her to drift to sleep before greedily pulling her into his arms once more. 

He sees the toll his nightly indulgence has on her body rapidly. The bruises that had decorated her limbs grow darker, like those of an apple decaying. They now travel from her hands and feet, up her arms and legs, and bloom out over her stomach, chest, and neck. 

Aemond finds himself looking at her less and less. 

‘Tis my fault. 

“Mayhaps we need to seek out the sorcerer again for council?”, she questions one day as she carefully observes the bruises colouring her body. She presses on one and winces, lips pulled down into a displeased frown. 

She is withering. Rotting away. 

“I will”, Aemond says, and the lie is so bitter on his tongue, he wonders if his foul ways have caused poison to grow from within him. 

He had stolen Lucerys’ life above Storm’s End. A quick affair, an instance that he regretted as soon as he saw Vhagar’s jaw close around the small dragon. He did not mean to do it; to take his life. He only meant to seek justice for his eye; for the pain his nephew had caused him. For disfiguring him. 

‘Tis what he has become known for; kinslaying. The merciless murder of the young boy who wronged him. If the court only knew of how vile he truly is.

With each night that passes, he steals another flicker of the flame keeping the light of his life alive. He sees her grow paler, the bruises now covering nearly every inch of her being, slowly working their way towards her heart, drumming weaker and weaker in her chest. 

And yet, he cannot stop. He needs solace; the only good thing in his life. Holding her near, feeling the heat of her melt the icy bolts of remorse and guilt shooting within him. 

Tonight, he knows it is their last time. She can hardly open her eyes anymore. Her lips are purple, skin a sick melody of various shades, and her heart beats slowly, as if it is fighting with each thud. 

Just like the nights before, he lies down next to her, pulls her into his arms, inhales her scent, and closes his eyes. 

“This time, she perishes by my hand”, he thinks, “She gave me everything, and yet I took more”

But what is love, if not to take? 

Take and take and take, until there is nothing left. 

No one savours love. 

No one would ever feel satisfied with only a taste. 

It is meant to be devoured. And that’s what Prince Aemond tells himself, as his love finally draws her last breath in his arms. 

“Forgive me”, his whisper begs, 

“I have devoured you. I have let my selfishness slaughter you. Now I await my own demise, one that will come to me soon”

His fingers gently dance over her cheek, 

“I welcome it. I welcome a chance to meet you once more”

He holds her closer, feeling the warmth of her body leave for the second time in their lives,

“Until then, sleep well, my love, and I will return to you soon”

A/N; I hope you enjoyed this little Halloween fic of mine! I tried to go with a bit more classic, haunting and tragic theme, and it was so fun to write.

If you enjoyed this, please check out my fic Colour My Mind, Bring Me Back. It has very similar vibes and I'm sure you'll enjoy it. Kisses!

[cloudcountry]

OH MY GOD. THE MIX UP VALENTINE POST. YOU ATE!!!! could i rq a version with riddle, ace, deuce, octavinelle, and lillia? 🫶🫶

SUMMARY: you get a gift that was meant for the student you like, and the contents spur you to action.

COMMENTS: this is a spin off post of this post!! IM GLAD U LIKED IT ANON i was proud of that one myself ehehe

also the character limit is five so i picked azul from octavinelle

You stare blankly at the box of chocolate in your hands, the gift crammed into your desk haphazardly. At first, you thought it was for you—that’s what anyone would assume, right? Except...the note on top of it is not addressed to you, but rather, the guy you like. It makes you wonder if this is some joke, or if one of his friends wanted you to deliver it for him. You pick at the heart sticker sealing the note shut and peel it open, taking a peak of the contents.

Your eyes wide and your heart lurches in your chest, panic and annoyance roaring like red hot flames as you read what sounds like a genuine confession of love. Someone had their eyes on him? How did you never notice?

Was it weird to get jealous? I mean, he’s not even dating you yet...you don’t even know if he feels the same way. You can’t deny it doesn’t feel good that there’s another student trying to woo him, though. You’ve been so scared up until this point, so nervous about what he might think, but the clock is ticking. You’ve got to tell him before it’s too late.

Riddle sits up even straighter when he sees you approaching him with a heart shaped box and an envelope, his cheeks flushing pink. He clears his throat when you arrive, expression all twisted up as if you’re unhappy about something. Riddle turns to look at you, holding his chin high as he addresses you by name.

“Do you have something to tell me?” he asks, arms crossed over his chest.

“This is a pathetic gift for the Queen of Hearts.” you reply dryly, throwing the gifts on the ground and stomping on them, “Someone thought that would be enough for you, but I won’t stand for it.”

Riddle stares open mouthed at the torn envelope and crushed box of chocolates, but a giant bundle of roses blocks his line of sight.

“This.” you say, a bouquet of roses in one hand and an entire strawberry tart in the other, with the truffles from the box placed in a circle around it in your hands, “Is a far more fitting gift for courting the queen.”

Deuce freezes after he reads the note you gave him with a sour face, cheeks turning pink. He wonders why you look so upset when you just confessed how much you like him—even though the words seem a bit off...

“See, Deuce? I told you you were popular.” you scoff, wrinkling your nose in disgust.

You glare so intensely at the envelope that Deuce feels your anger and jealousy.

“Is this...not from you?” he asks softly, his heart plummeting out of his body. And here he was, getting all delighted and cheesy about it—

“Nah. It’s not.” you say flippantly, “I’m confessing my feelings in a much better way.”

Deuce gasps when you pull out a bouquet of dark blue roses, kneeling at his feet as you take his hand. He swears you see hearts in his eyes as he stares at the flowers and your face, which look up at him with determination he knows all too well.

“Deuce Spade, I want you to be mine.” you declare, and his legs turn to jelly as he babbles out an enthusiastic yes.

“I can’t believe someone who isn't me likes your dumbass.” you smack Ace’s arm as he snickers over the note, an immature gesture if there ever was one.

“Well, if you like this dumbass what does that make you, huh? A stupidass?” he quips, knocking his whole body against you.

You squeal and shove him back, sticking your tongue out at his shocked face as he falls off the bed.

“Really!? This is how you’re confessing your love to me?” Ace huffs, playful as always, “I want a divorce.”

“You idiot, I’m just speaking your language!” you snap back, throwing a pillow at his head, “All you do is tease and yap and jab so I’m giving you a taste of your own medicine!”

“Oh you’re on!” Ace jumps to his feet, pillow in hand.

It’s obvious he likes you back. It always has been. And even if that person hadn’t sent that note, you two still would have known just how much you care for each other, even if it remains (mostly) unsaid.

(You still trampled that note at least ten times during your pillow fight though.)

“Is this some kind of joke?” Azul says blandly, placing the letter down on his desk of his VIP Room, “This obviously isn’t your handwriting, nor is it your style of writing.”

“That’s because it’s not mine.” you say just as blandly, raising an eyebrow as Azul looks over his spectacles at you, “Were you hoping it was?”

“What is the purpose of this visit then? You bring me some random letter with a confession of love...don’t tell me you’re hoping to butter me up.” Azul chuckles, standing up as gracefully as ever, “You should know better than anyone that those tricks do not work on me.”

You stand up as well, arms crossed over your chest as you meet his stare with your own.

“Because, Azul, someone left that note in my desk. It was addressed to you, as you can see, so I bought it for you. What you just read is what encouraged me to take action.” you take a deep breath and summon all of your courage, there truly is no turning back now, “Azul, I am interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with you. I can assure you I’ve thought this over many times before coming to you with this proposal. If you’re willing, I would love to sit down and have a talk about the terms and conditions of this deal.”

You hold out your hand for a handshake.

Azul’s mouth forms an o shape, and for a second you’d say he looks shocked, but he composes himself quickly as is all too inclined to place his hand in yours.

“Well, well, well!” he beams, voice light and airy with what you can only assume is joy, “Let’s get negotiations underway, shall we?”

“Aww, you shouldn’t have.” Lilia coos, bringing a hand up to his mouth, “Why do you look so sour, sweets?”

“Because it’s not from me. It was stuffed in my desk and addressed to you.” you wrinkle your nose, the envelope clenched in your fist, “I don’t like the idea of someone confessing to you before I could.”

Lilia giggles, still hiding his mouth behind his hand. You stare blankly at him, tapping your foot so hard your ankle starts to cramp up.

“Oh, no need to look so anxious, dear. I’m sure you’re well aware of where my affections lie, yes?” Lilia approaches you, his fingers intertwining with yours as the envelope flutters to the floor, unnoticed and uncared for.

He doesn’t have much time left. He’s loved and he’s lost, he may as well go for what he wants while it’s still here, in front of him.

“That is such an indirect way of confessing.” you groan, squeezing his hand, “I even got you a whole bag of mystery flavored red lollipops...”

“Gifts are best shared, my dear!” Lilia laughs, pulling you over to his bed, “Now, hurry up! I want to see which flavor I get first!”

[solxamber]

may i ask for a colorblind reader with the housewardens? how did they find out? what did they think?

Dormleaders + Jamil x Colorblind reader

Thank you for the request <3 I hope you like it! I added Jamil, (and Grim because I miss my kitty)

Riddle:

It’s during a Heartslabyul painting session when Riddle first notices something odd. “Why is that rose blue? The Queen of Hearts distinctly says red!” he scolds, eyebrows twitching. You tilt your head, confused, “Uh, Riddle, that is red…”

Cue Riddle's brain short-circuiting for a moment. After a quick, awkward silence, he pieces it together. “Wait… are you colorblind?” His face flushes as he suddenly feels guilty for yelling.

After that, he takes his rules just as seriously, but with an added note of gentleness when it comes to you. He even gives lectures on colors—but now with carefully labeled markers.

Leona:

Leona doesn't catch on right away. You’re sitting together one afternoon when you say, “I really like that purple cushion.” Leona, half-asleep, cracks an eye open, glances at the 'green' cushion, and raises an eyebrow. “That’s not purple.”

You shrug. “Looks purple to me.” It takes him a second to process, but when he does, he snickers. “You can’t tell colors apart, can you?” You scowl, “Don’t laugh!” He stretches out lazily and pats your head.

“Guess I’ll be your eyes for colors now, huh? Lucky for you, I’m generous like that.” His teasing never quite stops, but it’s always accompanied by a hint of warmth.

When you're shopping or something, he’ll casually point out the colors you’re unsure of, pretending it’s no big deal.

Azul:

Azul figures it out when you mislabel the colors of several Mostro Lounge drinks. “They asked for a blue drink special, and you gave them… green,” he says, rubbing his temples in exasperation. “Blue, green—what’s the difference?” you quip back.

He freezes for a moment before he gasps dramatically. “You’re colorblind?” His immediate reaction is to offer you a deal, of course—"Would you like a special pair of enchanted glasses for a modest fee?” But once you decline his contracts, he starts subtly helping you behind the scenes.

If he sees you hesitating between colors, he’ll casually say, “This one complements you better,” acting like it’s a mere suggestion—but really, it’s Azul being helpful in his own way.

Kalim:

Kalim finds out when you tell him his outfit looks great today… even though he’s wearing the most blindingly mismatched colors possible. “You really like it?” Kalim beams, bouncing on his toes. You nod enthusiastically. “Yeah, the pink and green look awesome together!”

Jamil, standing in the background, pinches the bridge of his nose while Kalim laughs. “I didn’t know you were colorblind!” Kalim exclaims, completely thrilled.

From that day on, he asks about how you see colors all the time, fascinated by the idea. Kalim often picks out colors for you, but with his unique sense of fashion, you’re not sure if it actually helps.

“Don’t worry,” he’ll say, “We’ll be the most colorful people around!”

Jamil:

Jamil, ever observant, figures it out when you help him with cooking. You pass him the “red” spice, and he just stares at the yellow jar in your hand for a long moment. “That’s… not red.”

His eyes narrow as the realization dawns. “Oh, I see now.”

From then on, he never explicitly mentions it, but he quietly organizes everything by labeling colors in the kitchen and keeping your clothing outfits coordinated whenever Kalim gets a little too enthusiastic with patterns.

When you thank him, he just shrugs. “It’s easier this way,” he says, but there’s a tiny smile hiding at the corners of his mouth.

Vil:

You’re getting ready for a formal event, and Vil is helping you choose an outfit. You confidently put on a green tie with a blue suit, thinking they match perfectly.

Vil’s horrified gasp echoes through the room. “Absolutely not! Darling, that tie and suit clash horrendously.” You’re confused, pointing at the tie, “But… isn’t it blue?”

Vil’s face softens, and he places his hands on your shoulders. “Oh, darling, you’re colorblind?” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, but there’s affection in his eyes. “Leave everything to me.”

From that moment on, he takes it upon himself to make sure you’re always dressed to perfection, never missing an opportunity to gently roast you while handing you the proper outfit. “You’ll thank me when you don’t look like a rainbow disaster.”

Idia: The Awkward Supporter

Idia finds out during a gaming session when you misidentify the red team as blue. “Wait, what do you mean they’re blue? They’re definitely red,” he mutters under his breath before suddenly pausing and looking over at you through his screen. “…Wait, you’re colorblind?”

When you confirm it, he gives a little chuckle. “Heh, that’s kinda… cool, I guess? Like, you’re playing in hard mode or something.” Afterward, Idia makes a bunch of jokes about your “colorblind powers,” but it’s his way of helping you feel at ease.

Sometimes he’ll even hack the game settings to make colors easier for you. “Don’t worry,” he mumbles, “I’ve got you covered.”

Malleus: The Curious Protector

Malleus notices when you incorrectly comment on a sunset’s “beautiful purple sky.” He tilts his head in confusion, looking at the undeniably orange horizon. “Purple?” You nod enthusiastically, and that’s when he realizes.

“Ah, you must be colorblind.” Malleus is intrigued by your condition, finding it fascinating and charming in equal measure. “Do not fret,” he says one day, after you tell him about a color-mixup, “I will make sure you are never at a disadvantage.”

His magic subtly aids you in little ways—enchanting objects with runes that glow different shades you can differentiate.

When you ask if that’s necessary, he only smiles mysteriously. “It’s simply one of the many ways I will ensure you are always comfortable in my presence.”

Grim:

Grim finds out one day while the two of you are drawing up plans for your next big adventure. You ask for the "red crayon," and Grim, the almighty genius, hands you the purple one.

“Hey, why’d you give me purple? I said red.” Grim stops and looks at you like you just grew a second head. “That is red, henchman!” You two proceed to bicker back and forth until Grim finally realizes what’s going on.

“Wait a minute, you can’t see colors properly? That’s why you’re so bad at picking out tuna cans! No wonder!”

After that, he insists on “helping” you with colors, though it often devolves into him loudly declaring his superior knowledge.

"Lucky for you, you have the Great Grim around to keep you from looking like a mess!"

Masterlist

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Old dog

Daryl Dixon x reader | SMUT🔞

Daryl is never been watched with such interest before, and it grabs his attention. But he feels like he got his order of actions wrong..

The Kingdom was a strange place.

First there was the King, with his pet tiger.

The King spoke in a strange manner, and his ever so friendly right hand too.

The Queen was a kind woman, she had shown you around and given you a roof over your head after you wandered into her lands.

The Kingdom had guards on horseback, and all its residents referred to their leader as the King.

Like a true old age Kingdom.

It was near summer when you arrived and took some time to get settled, now having your routine all worked out and were a happy new addition to the bakery.

While it meant crazy early mornings, it brought many people a good start of their day. You made your delivery rounds as the first people got up to tend to the gardens before the sun got too hot, passing then with a kind smile and a good morning wish on your way to the school building where you'd make your last delivery of the day.

You continued your daily tasks back at the bakery when a returning resident came by.

Each day he'd come by to pick up the same order, so by now it was standard to have it ready by a certain time.

Like clockwork he showed up, the gorgeous older man with his grey streaked hair that framed his bearded face oh so perfect.

You always wondered about the scar that sat around one of his sea blue eyes, but you never found the courage to ask.

You only knew his first name because the baker mentioned it once.

Daryl.

With rough, scarred hands he accepted the packaged food but remained in his spot.

"M'sorry, ya don't happen ta have sun leftovers, do ya? 'M headin' out fer a couple days 'n could use some extras." A little stunned by the sudden change in routine had you stammer a response neither of you could make out before you disappeared further into the back.

To your luck a fresh batch was just taken out of the oven, so you quickly grabbed a few buns and put them in a tea towel before moving back to the front.

"Here you go, fresh out of the oven." You smiled nervously as you held out the makeshift pouch, almost freezing as the calloused pads of his fingers brushed your skin while taking the bread from you.

With a charming as ever thanks he made his way out the door.

After the third time preparing the order for Daryl, who wasn't in town to come pick it up you were told to go take a day or two off, relax and go try and catch him come back home later during the day.

On your delivery routes and walks around the community you had caught wind of some kind of guard dog. You'd pick it up from time to time but today had been much more frequent.

You wondered what they meant. Maybe you'd ask Carol about it later.

The Kingdom was a nice place.

Each day there would be someone in the community's centre, playing some kind of instruments. Alone or in a group, it varied, but it was always nice to enjoy when you could.

You were enjoying it for so long you barely noticed the sun starting to set and Carol finding you. "Couldn't catch you at the bakery today, was told you were given the day off."

She came to sit beside you, enjoying the music and sharing a small snack she brought with you.

After a short while she got up, turning to you and offering a hand. "Come, we're gonna see something. If I have to believe the baker's words you're gonna love it."

Carol's words confused you, the thought of the baker casually talking about you with her wasn't really a happy one. Yet you followed her every step as she made her way to the front gates of the Kingdom.

"We're heading out? Without weapons or gear?" There was nothing around for you to see, confusion rising even more and edging on annoyance. Why wouldn't she just way where you were going?

You stood and watched as as she bounced on her heels with her arms behind her back. She was being all giddy about something and your mind could not come up with what on earth it could be.

Option after option ran through your mind until the guards spoke and the gates started to open.

Carol passed you a smile and raised her brows as she nudged her head towards the gate before turning back to watch.

You took a step closer to see what she was on about, and within the reach of your first step a figure came into view between the large gate doors.

"Holy shit." You stood frozen, much like those few days ago when Daryl suddenly asked for additions to his bakery order.

Despite the distance between the two of you and the low volume of your words, it looked like he heard you and gave you a smile and a small wave.

The scene before you became crazier by the second, on his shoulders a large deer that he carried without any visible strain but that wasn't all. Tied to his waist with a thick belt he lugged a tarp stacked with different hunted animals.

But something else felt off, beside the show of inhuman strength he seemed to possess.

Out from underneath his hair poked an ear, like it did sometimes before as well, although they seemed.. pointed?

His smile as well. You had seen the stubby pointed canines he had, but there were loads of people who had those slightly longer than average. Why did they look bigger now, accompanied with a similar set on his bottom teeth that surely weren't there before.

Also, was he fuzzier than normal? It was all hard to see in the dim light. It could just have been dirt stuck on his skin from being out in the woods so long. Surely he didn't bother cleaning up out there.

All the while Daryl dragged his game inside and stopped to report to Carol, glancing your way every so often as he could feel the energy radiating off you. He was enjoying the way you stared at him with confusion that slowly morphed into something he almost wanted to categorize as adoration.

It wasn't often Daryl got that look from anyone, so to say he was suddenly more intrigued by the baker woman was an understatement.

"Hey," Daryl's voice pulled you from your thoughts, staring at him without a single word running through your mind. "Wanna help unload all'a this at the butcher?"

A silent nod was all you managed as you followed him, hearing Carol say something but not entirely registering her words.

It was the next day when you saw him outside of his usual routine yet again, before the time of his usual pickup. The early summer sun was up when you made your rounds, and so was Daryl.

Across the street from the butcher’s place was a small area that used to be a children’s playground where you caught him doing pull-ups, flannel hanging open over his torso that you secretly expected to be way more toned, but instead you saw lightly furred soft flesh.

He hadn’t noticed you as you moved past to the butcher’s doorstep where you’d leave her order, quietly mumbling to yourself as you stared at Daryl again. “Lords, I want that man to fold me like a lawn chair..” You were so lost in the view of him pulling up his full weight with just one arm, his legs crossed under him, that you didn’t hear the butcher arrive until she pat you on the shoulder. “I may not be into men, but even I can see the appeal of that old dog bending me over the nearest surface.”

The sudden contact made you squeak and jump away, only to be laughed at as you stumbled over your words before running along on your delivery route.

It was only a couple of seconds after you were out of earshot that Daryl appeared on the butcher's steps, shoulders shaking as he softly laughed at the interaction he heard all too well just a moment ago. "Yer horrible, ya know tha'?" He bumped her shoulder aa he walked past her, into the shop to start working on all the kills he brought back the day before.

The butcher let out a breath through her nose. "And you love me for it, mutt." Behind her she closed the door and flipped off the hunter, sticking out her tongue behind his back. "'Course I love ya, ya crazy knife wieldin' hag."

The rest of the day after running off at the butcher went fairly normal, Daryl picked up his order and you cleaned the place alone with the baker having to leave early for a meeting.

It was only when you closed up shop for the day that it got weird. Daryl stood outside, seemingly waiting with his arms crossed under short sleeves so tight you wondered how they hadn't cut off circulation yet.

Without missing a beat he pushed himself off the wall and stepped beside you. "C'mon. Wanna show ya som'n." His gruff voice could tell you to eat dirt and you'd do it so naturally you followed suit, walking around the community until you reached the homes placed at the far end, right at the forest wall.

You took in the beat up old truck with the hood popped and one wheel missing, and next to it inside the garage with the missing door a bike that looked like it was made over years of collecting parts. Was this his home?

You followed him inside the garage, the door in the back opening and leading into a small kitchen littered with tools and materials. The tea towel you gave him the bread in laid neatly folded on the corner of the messy table, not a single grease or oil covered item near it.

In the moment of distraction Daryl's hand landed on your hip as he scooted past you in the narrow space between the counter and the table, his crotch brushing your ass in the process.

He felt you become rigid at his touch and apologized. "Sorry, doll. Place ain't made fer two."

His hand remained in its place, squeezing as he apoligized making you want to just give in to your haunting daydreams and let him take you right then and there.

"So, what did you wanna show me again?" You were fidgeting, trying to calm your nerves with Daryl so close.

"S' upstairs. Sum ol' items ya can dig through. See if ya wan' sum." With a hand placed on your hip he led you upstairs, steering you around the corner and through one of the doors, ending with your knees pressed against a bed.

Before you had a chance to ask anything one of Daryl's hands came around your front, resting on your lower belly as the other one snuck around your chest. "How 'bout ya be a good girl fer me an' lemme fold ya like a lawn chair." His beard drug across your skin as he came to bite your earlobe. "Tha's what ya want, righ'? Got all hot 'n bothered when the butcher mentioned me bendin 'er over the counter.." with one hand sneaking under your waistband and the other softly squeezing your breast he had you whimpering.

"S'fine, righ'?" His hands stilled at your silence. "Words, doll. Ain' gon do anythin' unless ya give me an okay." His hands moved to cafefully turn you around to look you in the eye, but you quickly buried your face in his chest, hands against him as well and all your body wanted was to squeeze.

Squeeze your fingers into his plump, soft chest. Squeeze your thighs together for some desparately needed friction.

You softly nodded, murmuring something Daryl couldn't make out.

"Need ta hear ya." Daryl softly caressed your shoulder, moving to tilt your head up so you'd look at him.

Your eyes scanned his face, soft and gentle. Eyes glistening a bright blue between the thick, red scarred line that cut right through an eyebrow. Your eyes wandered to his lips, partially hidden by the grey scruff that occupied the lower half of his face as you breathed. "I want this."

With your eyes on his lips you saw his concerned look change into a wicked grin that showed his pointed canines.

In a split second after that you were thrown onto the bed and caged between Daryl's limbs, his face buried in your neck as he nipped and sucked at your skin.

"Go on." He whispered. "Take 'em off. I know ya wan' it." Daryl was on his way to the hem of your shirt already as you slowly worked your hands towards the buttons of of his flannel, undoing them with trembling fingers, focus drifting away with every drag of his teeth across your flesh.

With some assistance your top halves were soon bare. Daryl's hands on your soft chest, tongue all over them as he sucked bruises to the underside.

Your fingers found his hair, pulling at the strands in pleasure as the others traced every scar on Daryl's body. From the small puncture wounds to the large gashes on his back, you caressed each one of them.

Letting out short, panted breaths your body burned wherever Daryl's fingers trailed, the rough pads leaving a path of tingling flesh from your chest down to your side, his tongue following down your body between where his hands had gone.

With the descent of his body his scarred frame moved out of reach, placing both hands in his hair and tugging as his teeth dug into your skin, earning a growl that sounded from deep in his chest.

With newfound interest you pulled again, your nails scratching his scalp in the process as your hips rolled up against his torso.

The low, scratchy moan that left him rumbled against your hip and had him quickly slide his hands down your hips. With no effort you felt your hips rise as two strong hands grabbed your ass and fabric slide off your body. Both your loose trousers and panties were shoved down the rounds of your hips as they lifted off the bed, the fabric pulled off your legs before your knees ended on both sides of your chest and Daryl's teeth were back just below your bellybutton where the meat of your folded torso met in perfect, bite-sized rolls.

You watched him litter your stomach in marks, clamping his jaw onto your thighs to color your skin in where only he could admire them.

"Daryl, please.."

Your voice had him lock eyes with you from where he sat between your legs and watched your pleading gaze with a soft nod before leaning back down and licking a broad stripe over the back of your thigh, moving to delve his tongue right into your centre.

Your moans of his name added fuel to the already raging fire, parting your lips with his tongue and drinking up all of your sweetness. With each stroke against your clit your walls clenched around nothing, muscles tensing but your body laying unmoved under Daryl's strong grip.

You squirm, hands finding his on your thighs as you whine and mewl, signaling you being close to finishing.

"Such pretty sounds, all fer me.." Daryl speaks against your clit before wrapping his lips around it once more and teasing you, making you hold back your own thigh so his fingers could join his mouth, stuffing two down your entrance with ease as he kept licking and sucking in tandem with the curls of his digits.

Your sounds increase in volume with Daryl's ministrations, crying out at your peak, clenching your walls tightly around his fingers as you finished.

"'Ere, lemme stretch those legs fer ya." With gentle hands he laid your legs flat against the bed on either side of him, allowing the blood flow to return while you came down from your high.

You watched him with hazy eyes, on his knees between your legs tugging at the button and zipper of his black jeans. Beneath the oh so inviting trail of dark hair he lowered the layers still on him to reveal his thick, hard cock.

Your view was close to perfection, a gorgeous old man between your spread legs. The lines of his body like rings on a tree, showing signs of age and survival. From the scar at his collarbone, at the edge of the soft dusting of chest hair down to his thick strong legs he was removing his clothes from he was like a piece of art for you to admire as you desired.

And gods, you desired him.

"Ya look like ya wanna eat me alive." He looked down at you, one hand running through his hair while the other slowly stroked his cock.

You licking your lips as you stared at his impressive length was all he needed to ler himself fall forward and catch himself right before he'd make contact with you, calmly catching your lips in a deep kiss. With your tongue against his lips you asked for more and he obliged almost immediately, parting his lips and swiping his tongue against yours, lips moulding together in percect harmony until you desperately needed air.

Your hand lingered on the side of his head, thumb caressing the scar around his eye.

"What's the story on this one?" Daryl couldn't get enough of that look on your face. The one filled with curiosity, not a speck of fear or disgust on you.

"Old girlfrien' decided she didn' like me no more." He averted your gaze as he remembered the fight in the cabin back then, and the serrated edge of the knife catching the skin of his face. He deliberately left out the terms his then lover called him as she chased him out the door with a shotgun. That was a tale for another time.

Right now all he wanted was to ravish the woman underneath him.

The setting sun caught his eyes and for a fraction of a second they seemed to glow, icy blue in a sea of black. When they looked back at you it was gone, a pair of normal blue eyes looking at you.

He shook off the memories and brought his focus back to the now, to you underneath him, the scent of your arousal, and his painfully hard cock.

Daryl adjusted his position, his length rubbing your folds in the process earning a soft moan from you.

"Gonna make more o'them pretty noises fer me, doll?" His hand reached for his member and rubbed the tip between your folds, spreading your wetness around, listening to your soft mutters of "yes" and "please".

Daryl needed no more convincing, nuzzling your noses together before kissing you deeply as he slowly inches himself inside of you. The initial stretch hurt and you couldn't help but groan into the kiss at how big he was. His cock was way girthier than just two fingers, and it had been years since your last time before this.

Daryl's hand moved down your body, slowly rubbing your clit to distract from the stretch. His kisses deepened, your tongue sliding past his teeth, feeling around his fangs with fascination.

A soft whimper sounded from you as he bottomed out, making him halt a moment to let you adjust. "Ya tell me when yer good, 'kay?"

You nodded and answered a soft "uhuh." and a bit later, after a few experimental squeezes you told him you were good.

With his hand still on your hip Daryl carefully pulled back and slid inside at a slow and steady pace, letting you get used to him for a few thrusts until your heels came up to dig in his rear.

"Hmhm, eager are we?" Daryl grinned against your neck, taking the hint and quickening his pace. His hands had your hips in a bruising grasp, his hips snapping against yours earning soft gasps on each impact.

"H.. hah.. ah Daryl fuck--" you were a beautiful piece beneath him, with your head thrown to the side, arm covering your eyes and chest heaving and shaking with each thrust.

"So good, doll. So pretty for me." Daryl was huffing out a laugh, moving his hands off your hips to grab at your lower legs. Deep, short thrusts continued as he moved your legs from around him back to up beside your torso, knees pressed against your shoulders as he fucked into you with your ass up off the matress.

He was so deep all of a sudden it had you see stars, crying out his name aa your orgasm crashed down on you.

You were sweating all over, breaths deep to get enough air and body heavy. With your eyes closed you laid still, getting the air back into your lungs as Daryl teased you by softly rutting into your overly sensitive cunt.

"Don' tell me yer tired already, I haven't even finished yet.." His thrusts changed angles and now brushed your clit, having you mewl out pleas he chose to ignore. "Tha's more like it, music, those sounds o' yers." His thrusts continued, as did your pleas. You didn't even know what you were begging for but the knot in your belly was quickly returning in time with his thrusts getting sloppier, not long after crying out again as you came a few thrusts before je did too.

There were tears rolling down your face, laying limp on the bed. Daryl's hands had let go of your legs again, letting you stretch them for thr short moment before he was fully hard again.

Unexpectedly Daryl flipped you onto your stomach and moving your hips around to his preference.

"Time fer round two?" He wached you nod wit your face in the pillows, moving to slowly press inside you once more and bending down to press soft kisses to your back. Your mind went back to being hazy a few thrusts in with how good his cock felt at this new angle fist gripping at the pillows beneath you that muffled your moans.

His hands were all over your backside, kneading every soft surface he could reach as he continued his steady pace.

Your sounds were like music to his ears, wishing to hear them every night, over and over again until your throat was so soar he had to bring you medicine and nurse you back to health. Your curiosity was already enough to make him want you, never having anyone radiate such a type of energy towards him and it has him hooked. But having you here like this now had him almost addicted, wanting to keep you, claim you but he knew he didn't have the right to do so. He didn't deserve it, for he was sort of still lying to you about large aspects of his life.

But if he could make you feel this good now in this moment, that was all he cared about.

He fucked you from behind until you came once, twice and then moved you onto your side, holding onto one of your legs against his chest as je continued rutting into you, earning two more orgasms from you right before finishing himself for the second time.

As he came down from his high he stared at you, passed out and asleep beneath him. Ever so carefully he moved you so he could lay down as well, pulling you against his chest as he settled to drift off too.

It was morning by the time you woke up, groaning in pain as your legs resisted being moved off the bed. You blinked the sleep from your eyes and shot up off the bed. "Ah, god damn oww.." Your ass hit the matress again, the crunchy layer of dried fluids scratching your thighs.

"Oh for fuck's sake I'm gonna be late!" You stumbled around the place searching for the shower to scrub yourself clean, picking up your shirt off the floor and sniffing it. "Nope, can't wear that. Shit!" You found the bathroom and were vigorously scrubbing your legs and quickly back to digging through all of Daryl's drawers in a panic, trying to find something decent to wear.

"Ya know ya can just ask, right?" You didn't even register what he said and grumbled back at him. "I don't have time, okay? I'm already gonna be late for work and I got nothing to wear because my own clothes stink so I'm gonna have to run home first and be even later."

Face down in a drawer your attention was pulled by a short whistle, and the second you were up and turned towards the noise an entire outfit found your face.

Underwear, socks, simple sweats and a flanel.

"Why do you have a stash of women's clothes?" You were genuinely curious but that didn't stop you from struggling to put on the clothes with your entire body aching. "I don't even know how I'm gonna walk my rounds. Everything hurts.."

You were already dreading today and it had barely even started.

"Need me ta make yer rounds? Got time so I don' mind." Daryl was following you down the stairs now, hands ready to catch you as you stumbled, not wanting you to fall.down the stairs on your wobbly legs.

"No way I'm letting you do my rounds. I don't want the whole community on my neck tomorrow about why I sent you." You were halfway out the door already, walking as fast as possible and waving Daryl off on your not so fast way to work.

You arrived late and got told off for it, but the baker quickly changed his demeanor once he saw you limp. He gave you a quick rundown of what he had planned to do at the bakery and let you stay in as he took over your rounds, which you were very thankful for.

The front door bell rang and Carol appeared, a while after Daryl had dropped by for his usual, and bringing in a bag with your clothes.

"Hey, didn't see you this morning." Carol was as cheery as ever, her hair braided and her smile kind and motherly.

"Yeah," you leaned against the counter, wincing as you moved your weight. "Hurt my leg yesterday, so I'm in here thr whole day now." You tried to shrug it off, not feeling like coming up with a decent enough lie. Not that you needed one anyways.

"Which clearly has nothing to do with you spending the night at Daryl's place?" A knowing smile spread on her face as she looked you up and down, arms crossed over her chest, laughing as she watched your eyes about to pop out of your head in response. "You're wearing my emergency clothes. Looks like we have about the same size."

You felt blessed with today being a quiet day and could clean while you chatted with Carol and closed up shop after, with the baker off again while you ran the bakery.

"There's something wrong with that man." You sighed as you bent down to lock up the garage door, groaning as you came back up. "He's like, what? Almost sixty? And he still held out longer than me. I swear I passed out once before he was done."

Carol was giggling all the way with your bags in her hand. "He's fifty-four, but alright."

"Yeah, okay. That fifty-four year old would have kept going if I hadn't clocked out after lord knows how ma--"

"Five, doll." Daryl's voice suddenly behind you had you jump up and almost fall if it wasn't for his quick response to steady you.

"How the hell are you fine?" Your question was directed at Daryl, but your eyes were on Carol who was having the time of her life seeing you be so confused about her best friend's energy levels.

"There's a lot about Daryl you don't know yet, dear." She winked at her friend, who only grunted in response.

"Oh really? When are you planning on telling me all about yourself? Do I need to cook you a romantic dinner?" Your words came out with way too much excitement, letting out how eager you were to learn about Daryl.

"Ya'll learn eventually. No need ta rush things, righ'?" His voice kept cool, but Carol read his body language like a book and quickly saw he needed help to cross that line. Him scratching the side of his fingers, and obsessively wiping the hair out of his face, eyes looking everywhere but at you. They were all tells, and Carol felt bad for him.

"Why don't you two stay over for dinner? Ezekiel won't make it home in time so I'd be all alone otherwise." Carol quickly set up a plan, making it all seem like coincidence but in her mind she had all the steps figured out already.

"I'd love to stay over, but only if it's not too much effort." Peeking past Daryl you saw her wave your assumption off and assure it was fine.

And thus you three ended up around Carol's nice dinner table in the King's home.

Somehow you expected it to be fancy and pristine, but that would never happen with how selfless the King was.

The food was nice and Carol had gifted you some stronger painkillers she had laying around to ease your body, you all just chatted about your day, and you thought your subtle questions about him were going okay, until Daryl excused himself to go smoke what seemed in a hurry.

"It's okay honey, Daryl has a hard time opening up to people. He needs to find the right moments to talk." Carol gave you a loving shoulder squeeze and pointed you towards the back door where Daryl had just left through.

"He loves the forest, he feels safe there." With a wink she sent you off.

You carefully approached him and settled in the doorframe. "Hey," Your voice was soft as to not startle him. "Wanna go for a walk? Outside the walls."

With a nod he got up and offered you his hand to take, and with a sigh he let a smile come through. "Carol really set us up, didn't she?"

You laughed along with him and decided then you wouldn't push him, and let him talk at his pace.

With your gear gathered the two of you found yourselves walking along the tree line in silence.

"M' sorry." Daryl kept his eyes on the ground where he walked, but with his pinkie he touched yours and hooked them together.

"When Carol brought ya to welcome me back after the huntin' I was confused. But when I felt yer curious stares instead of gettin' negative 'n scared I got.." He fell quiet, his hand pulling away from yours but you quickly grabbed it fully, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles.

But you stayed quiet, and just walked with his hand in yours.

After a long stretch of only hearing the ground crunch under your shoes Daryl stopped.

"S'where I stay when I go out each month." You stood a few feet away from a rock wall, overgrown with green and a small clearing in it. Looking around you there was no way of being seen here from any angle.

You also saw trees with torn off branches and what looked like deep claw marks. "Should'a shown ya 'fore last night."

You looked over at him and made sure he saw you smile. "You really think anything would have changed my mind?" Your hands came up to his face to hold his gaze on you, hoping he'd see the truth in your eyes.

"I know yer not lyin'. Ya haven't lied since we started talkin'." His hand moved to touch the small of your back, the other one gesturing at the overgrown wall. "C'mon."

Daryl had his knife ready as he moved past some hanging vines with your hand in his to keep you close.

The area was void of any dead, except for the picked clean bones covering the ground.

And the seemingly random pile of fabrics and signs of humans staying here.

He let go of your hand and let you wander around, staring at every little thing.

You kneeled down off to the side, getting up to move some vines to let in more light before walking back.

"You stay here?" Your fingers traced the print in the sand, glancing over at Daryl who was slowly stepping closer with calculated steps, like a true huntsman would to not startle an animal.

Quietly he leaned down next to you, and without saying a word moved his hand to the print in the loose sand.

The world went blurry around Daryl's hand as you watched it change. Muscles under the skin warping to reshape as flesh darkened and nails grew, and then fit perfectly into the indentation.

Daryl was hyper aware of everything around him, senses almost overwhelming him as he felt the worms crawl under the earth and heard the birds fly over outside. But even with his senses running on overdrive he couldn't find a single negative feeling coming off you.

You stared at his hand, now more a claw and it felt like everything suddenly made sense.

His strength, the way he heard things from so far off, his way of using terms that didn't make sense and that strange glow in his eyes.

Daryl's mind kept showing you running away, crying as he got closer each time.

Instead, there in the small cave like structure he called home once a month, you reached out your hand and placed it on top of his changed one.

"I don't regret being curious." Your shoulder rested against his, slowly easing into more contact. "And I'm still happy I went home with you, and came here to see this. To see you." Your weight was now entirely resting against his side, and for the first time since he sat down he dared to look at you.

You, who laid comfortably against his side.

"I'm honestly kinda glad you showed me this." You watched Daryl raise his brows at your words. "Suddenly your strange but interesting things make sense. Kinda obvious for someone to be so strong, or have glowy eyes when they're not human."

Your hand gave his a comfortable squeeze. "I hope you'll show me all of this you one day." With a finger pressed to his knuckles you moved your head to kiss his cheek.

"Close yer eyes fer a minute." Daryl moved to stand after he kissed your head, moving behind you.

Noises filled the air. Clothes being undone and landing on the floor.

And then cracking. Tearing and groaning. Coughing and growling, a thud that acompanied a shove against your backside that almost made you turn around, but je asked not to, and you were going to respect his wish.

Once the noises died down and all you heard was deep breathing you opened your eyes again, staring straight forward as you waited. Waited for something to signal it was okay to turn.

That something was a press against your shoulder, a press and a huff of air against your exposed neck.

From the edge of your vision a nose peeked, making you turn and stare right into his scarred eye.

"Wow." It caught you off guard and you stubled backwards just a small bit, staring and laughing at yourself for falling on your ass. "Okay. Big guy. That's ..wow."

You followed his movements as he walked into your view. And you recognised him. All ofrhe features that made Daryl look like himself changed along with him, from the dark, shaggy mane to the scar and beard. Even his tattoos were spots of darker fur, especially clear on the lighter areas.

But, still..

"Wait. So Carol knows about," you wildly gestured at his entire self. "you know, this. She's seen you? And what about the butcher? That comment of hers, she knew."

You gasped in realisation. "You were testing me! You could hear us, you were there on purpose oh my god."

Daryl only sat and listened to your rambling. If anyone had asked him how he envisioned this scene to go, he would have never guessed this to be the way. Not that he was complaining or anything, he liked this.

He liked you, and you liked him too, even in this shape.

With a tap to your hand and his paw covering his eyes he asked you to look away once more, changing back to his human self and getting dressed before coming to press a kiss to your temple. "So, ya sure this's all fine?"

You stood up to join him at eye level. "You're either the most dense man ever, or are still convinced you don't deserve love just because you're different." Your deadpan look spoke more than needed.

"Yeah, alrigh'. Sorry." He shook his head in apology.

"You literally just turned into a goddamn werewolf." You paused. "Wait. That is correct, right? You're a werewolf? I mean, I don't wanna assume and be wrong, or offensive.."

He kept his head low but nodded, telling you were correct in your observations.

You stepped into his space and peppered his face with kisses, grabbing his hands to fake a sense of chaining him to you and it worked. He let himself melt into you and accept your affection.

Your love.

"Let's go home?"

With a nod he stepped back go retrieve your items. "Yeah. Home's good."

The walk home was silent, only sporadic and very random questions with short and simple answers.

Only when he dropped you off at home he spoke full sentences again. "I wan' ya t'move in with me."

You shrugged and nodded. "Yeah, okay. But we gotta clean the place first."

With a nod he agreed and let you go for the day. Only a week later moving the last of your items into his home after strategically cleaning and rearranging his home to accomodate two people.

That night, in bed all cuddled up together after a shower, Daryl pressed his lips against your jaw and uttered three simple words.

"I love ya."

A/N: Okay yeah damn that became way longer than I originally planned. But it wad fun! Hope you enjoyed it~

[ronwestbreeze]

too slow

pairing: miguel o'hara x spider!fem!reader

warnings: angst heheh. spoilers! small scenes of somewhat explicit nsfw. mentions of death!

summary: the both of you would come back from this. you would...right?

word count: 4.9k

author's note: did i come out of hiatus just to post a angsty miguel fic? yes. you know i had to as y'alls fav angst queen

part 2

No matter how far you left that spider life behind, he somehow managed to pull you back in.

And god you tried so desperately to stay away. To refuse him.

Miguel O’Hara just had a way with you. He always did. 

Sometimes you wished you were stronger.

The moment you stepped into your apartment was when all of your senses struck your spine and made you freeze in your doorway.

No one else would have known to continue forward cautiously by leaping up to your ceiling and crawling the rest of the way into the apartment, high on alert. Then again, no one else was you. At least not in this universe.

Your spider senses got worse as you crawled toward your ajar bedroom door. When you were close enough, you dropped down as quietly as you could to the floor. One hand preparing a web to shoot and the other raising toward the door to push it further open.

Only you freeze all together.

A sharp tingle struck your back.

Behind you.

Of course, you were quick. Without turning toward the intruder entirely, you shot a web to grab a large vase sitting on a nearby table in the short hallway and swung it behind you. They dodged the vase just as fast and you instantly shot both of your webs toward the intruder. Only for them to be caught by them with both their hands.

“I’m disappointed, Domino.”

It was a mistake to let your guard down by only a little. It was a mistake to instantly recognize his voice.

“Miguel—AAARGH!”

A sudden yank from the webs caused you to fly forward until an iron grip wrapped around both your wrists. Until you were facing the scarlet and blue mask of the one Spider-Man you never expected to see again.

“Too slow.” Even with the mask, you could hear his smirk.

Now that you were aware of who you were dealing with, the tension in your muscles lessened. Just a little.

Some part of you wanted to say “You shouldn’t be here” but since you weren’t in the mood for a long and exhausting spout with the man, you took the more easy and straightforward route of the conversation.

“Why are you here, Miguel?”

His hold on your wrists loosened but he didn’t let go right away. Which was to your dismay as you really didn’t want to be this close to him. Not when you knew that both seeing him now and now having very little space between the both of you would compromise your senses, your steeled will.

And yet you didn’t pull away.

You watched quietly as his mask disappeared, trying your very best not to get too drawn into his features like you used to. Resisting the urge to run your fingers through his dark locks, tugging on some of them like the old days.

Stop.

That was a long time ago.

And it should remain that way.

Unfortunately, Miguel didn’t appear as strong or restrained. The way he hungrily looked at you wasn’t missed but it certainly wasn’t voiced. By either of them. That was something they wouldn’t touch right now. Probably not ever.

When his forehead gently brushed against yours, when his scent overwhelmed your nostrils was when you forced yourself back on solid ground.

“Miguel.”

Eventually, he also had to pull himself together. Eventually, he dropped his hold on your wrists and walked around you, putting a good distance between the two of you. Warily and curiously, you watched his movements.

He gestured toward the shattered pieces of what once was the vase, “I bought you that, you know. That was rude.”

“So is breaking into someone’s apartment.” You retorted dryly. 

Miguel suddenly took out a small object that shone in the gentle light of the sunset, “I still have a key.”

You huffed, “Imma need that back.” You tried reaching for it, only for Miguel to quickly yank it out of your reach, the beginnings of a smirk forming on his face. That’s when you grew annoyed. 

“I thought you were never gonna come back to this universe again. Remember? You went on a whole tangent about it.”

“Mmm.” Was his response at first. You silently watched him tuck the extra key away into some invisible pocket in his suit. “That was only after you said you were never coming back to the team” You tensed at this as the memories came trickling back. “Or coming back to me—”

“So what’s changed?”

Miguel frowned, “I need you—”

“No.”

You reframed from smirking at the twitch in his jaw, at the way his trained mask momentarily slipped at your obvious stubbornness. You gestured in the direction of the front door, “If that’s all, the door’s over there—”

“It’s Electro.” That, of course—he knew it would—made you stop. It was your turn for your mask to fall, just enough for Miguel to notice as well. The intenseness in his features softened, “It’s your brother…he somehow made it into another universe—”

“When do we leave?” Miguel had the audacity to look surprised. You glared, “I’m not doing this for you, O’Hara. It’s like you said, he’s my brother. After that, I’m done for good, you hear me?”

With that, he schooled his face back to a controlled mask. One that meant business.

“Whatever you say, Domino.”

You wince and send him another glare before stalking toward your bedroom to change.

Ever since he started calling you that name, Domino, you’ve hated it. It originated from a mission gone bad—mostly for you—and he hadn’t stopped calling you Domino since. It was mostly because you had been knocked down into a bunch of trash cans that happened to be in a long line. 

Hobie said you tumbled like a stack of dominos. Miguel never let that moment go.

Fuck him.

Yet despite your hatred for it, you never discouraged it. You just liked the way he said it. You liked the way his voice softened whenever—

No. Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck. Him.

After this you wouldn’t ever have to see him again. You wouldn’t ever have to be wrapped up in his shadows, in his overwhelming way of showing…

Fuck him.

It was odd being back in your old suit. Frankly, it felt dated as you swung around in it. There was an itching part of you that wanted to update it, get new designs, and test them out of your suit. Self-restraint was a challenge during that mission. Especially around Miguel.

Thankfully, Jessica and Hobie showed up so it wasn’t just you and Miguel facing Electro—or in other words your estranged brother. It was already enough having to face family drama, but then you add a frustratingly unlabeled drama that kept interfering with your focus.

“Stay on your side, O’Hara!” You snapped when you dodged an electric zap sent your way.

“Don’t be a child!” Miguel shot back.

“I’m not! We agreed Hobie and I’d take left and you and Drew would take right! You are not holding your end of the agreement!” You landed on a nearby pylon. “Which is no surprise!”

Another blast came from Electro, this time aimed at Miguel and Hobie. Hobie was able to swing out of the way and land on the same tower with you while Miguel landed on the other side, “What the hell is that supposed to mean!?”

“She means you’re an asshole, bud.” Hobie added.

“Nobody asked you!”

“Hey!” Jessica shouted from below, steering her motorcycle toward Electro, “Less fighting like children and more getting this guy before he causes the entire city to go dark!”

The fight hadn’t gone on for long. Eventually, you were able to confront your brother up close despite Miguel’s protests against it. Yet you were the one that knew your brother the best, who was he or anyone else to tell you what to do when it came to him? Certainly not, Miguel. Leader of a secret society or not, this was your turf. He asked you here and you would complete the job the way you knew how.

There was a point where you managed to get Electro at a somewhat calm and the thrilled part of you was ready to prove Miguel right. But unfortunately, family bonds wouldn’t save you in this situation. It wouldn’t tie anything up in the neat bow you were expecting.

The blast nearly threw you entirely off the building if not for a bunch of webs catching you in mid air and bringing you back up. Miguel and Hobie managed to subdue Electro thanks to your unintentional distraction while Jessica was the one to pull you back to your feet.

“Damn, babes, that was a close one.” She gave an amused smirk. “Just how long have you been out of the game?”

“Shut up, Drew.” You grumbled despite the other woman’s grin.

Coming back to HQ was the very last thing you wanted to do. But you wanted to make sure your brother was properly dealt with. Even if that meant dealing with Miguel’s bullshit along the way.

As you entered the computer room, Miguel’s mask came off, “What the hell was that back there?”

“Domino doing Domino things.” You mutter dryly.

“Yeah you are.” Hobie held up his hand for a high five, which you reluctantly gave.

Miguel sent him a scathing scowl before turning back to you, “You think this is funny? You could’ve gotten yourself killed back there!”

“I had it handled.” You gritted out, removing your own mask. “He didn’t need everyone coming at him all at once. If you had given me a few more minutes with him—“

“But we didn’t have a few minutes, did we?” Miguel snapped quickly.

“No, of course not.” You crossed your arms, ignoring how he stood taller than you. Ignoring how he would’ve appeared menacing if not for your pissed off mood. “Because everything has to go O’Hara’s way, right? Fuck everybody else.”

Hobie smirked from the side of the room, his mask also removed, “I missed her. ‘ow come she’s not around often, Bossman?” 

Miguel’s jaw twitched dangerously because they all knew Hobie never referred to him as “Bossman” unless to piss him off. because he knew that Hobie didn’t respect him as much, and didn't care for him as a leader. Bossman was just Hobie being a little shit, in Miguel’s words at least.

“It was fucking reckless.” Miguel seethed. “And as usual, you’re too immature to even realize what you did. What could’ve happened—“

“You brought me here!” You snapped back, as venomous as his fangs. “If you don’t like my way then you should’ve left me the fuck alone!”

“Guys, come on.” Jessica sighed, already used to the both of you like this.

Miguel was fuming and trying so desperately to hide the fact that you easily worked him up this way. And him failing at hiding it only made him pissed off even more. 

He hissed, turning his back to you.“I was being considerate. For your sake. It was your brother after all…It was a mistake bringing you in. I should’ve known fucking better.” 

A bitter laugh left your lips, “Finally! We can agree on something!” You stalked out of the room with Hobie trailing behind you—you were used to him following you around—as you muttered, “Let me know when you’ll be sending Max back.”

Just as you left the room, there was a loud crash and Jessica snapping at Miguel.

When your brother was finally sent back to your universe so that he could be sent to a cell powerful enough to hold him, you left HQ and didn’t look back when you did. Swearing to yourself that it would be the last time you would ever allow yourself to step back into that place. To allow yourself to set your eyes upon him again.

Unfortunately, that promise didn’t last too long.

Despite yourself, you started messing with your suit designs. Adding new stuff to make it look less dated than before. But that didn’t mean you were back to that spider life. No. Not one bit.

Hobie swung by your dimension and suggested that both of you went crime fighting for the day. And you only agreed just so your fighting techniques weren’t so rusty anymore. But you weren’t back in the game. Not one bit.

Then Jessica came to visit, claiming that she wanted you to see the progress in her pregnancy and catch up as friends. Which then led you to following her into another dimension to fight another Rhino, which was a great success.

Fuck, you missed this.

And you were tempted. You really were tempted to swing through your city as their Spider person again.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt after all. Didn’t mean you had to face Miguel. Yes. That was fine.

In the next month forward, you had started your crime fighting as the spider person of your dimension. A new suit and refreshed skills, you felt unstoppable. You even brought out your dimension traveling bracelet. Just to go and visit Hobie and Jessica whenever. Just that.

Soon, Jessica took on a new protege. Spider-Gwen. She was a nice kid and started coming over to your dimension with Hobie whenever they had the time. You liked her alot. She was like a little sister whenever she came around. Same as Hobie being like a younger brother to you.

At one point you found yourself back at HQ—you were honestly terrible at keeping your steeled will—but only to return a few bad guys to their respectful dimensions. You had fully planned on avoiding Miguel—at this point you hadn’t seen each other since your spat a month ago—and going back to your dimension.

That was the plan at least.

“How come you never go with us to see Miguel?” Gwen asked while the two of you watched one of the villains being sent back to their dimension. “You two don’t get along or…?”

Spider-Byte snorted and you sent the hologram a glare, “They have a special history, newbie. You’ll see someday.”

“Quiet, kid.” You mumbled, crossing your arms before addressing Gwen, “Yeah…we don’t get along. It’s best for the both of us that we aren’t in the same room together, right now.”

“Is it?”

You tried your very best not to allow your face to fall into shock at his voice coming from behind you and Gwen. Really, you should’ve expected that to happen.

Miguel approached the two of you, glancing briefly toward Gwen but his eyes remained glued to yours. “Drew’s asking for you. Says she needs your help on Level 4.”

It took you a few seconds to realize he had been talking to Gwen as the blonde nodded her head and disappeared out of the room. Spider-Byte threw on some headphones and continued with her work. In other words, it was just the two of you. The very opposite of what you had planned and wanted.

“I hear you’ve been coming around here a lot more often.” Miguel mused as he brushed past you, his arm grazing yours as he did. You watched him, a lot less hostile than you thought you would be. Instead, you only stared at his back muscles. “I didn’t know you’ve become quite the contradicting person.”

You shrugged, hugging your arms closer to you, “I’ve just been helping Jess and Hobie out. S’not a big deal.”

A sound came from his throat, similar to a chuckle, “I also hear that the White Spider is back on the news.”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on me?” You instead said, one of your brows raising slightly. “When did you start that up again?”

Miguel glanced over his shoulder, his face unreadable, “Who says I ever stopped?”

You smirk, trying to hide how tight your chest felt at his words. At how soft his voice had gotten.

“Look who’s become contradicting now.”

Miguel was quiet at that.

You tried to continue your original goal after that frustratingly vague interaction. You weren’t really sure where you had stood with him after that. Sure, you still were hesitant to rejoin the society fully—mostly because of him—but now you were going on missions with some of the members and helping Jessica train her protégé. At this point, you were practically back, just without the official stuff.

And now you were on a mission with Miguel. You hadn’t been on one of these since your fight. Piece by piece you were just breaking your own promises, your stubbornness was weakening. Your spine had shaken.

Damn him.

No matter what you could never resist Miguel.

You could tell it was the same for him.

“You should go home.”

“Do you know how many times you’ve said that and I’ve still ended up staying?” You leaned on the doorway entrance to his quarters with a smug look on your face. “I think you should give it up by now.”

Miguel was topless. After a particularly long mission, a lot of the team had come out with some cuts and bruises, Miguel wasn’t exempt from that.

You watched as he was cleaning his wound on his left shoulder, only that put too much strain on his bruised side every time he reached his right hand over to tend to that shoulder. For a few more minutes you watched him keep going at it before you sighed and eventually stepped in.

“Stop.” You smacked his hand to the side gently and took the bloodied cloth from his hand.

Miguel tensed, “Domino—”

“I’ve got it.” You told him sternly. “We don’t need you reopening your stitches. Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Your words had disarmed him and caused him to loosen the tension in his muscles at your gentle touch. The wound wasn’t too bad, at least not as bad as the one under his right arm. Once the blood was wiped away, there was just a bit of purple coloring. The blood must’ve been from someone else.

His breaths fanned against your own shoulder. You didn’t forget how close the two of you were in that moment. It was more like you were trying to distract yourself from the fact.

Instead, a small smile tugged at your lip, “It’s been a minute since you’ve been injured.” You noted the light scars on the other parts of his arm.

“Not really.” Miguel grunted, ducking his head down as he rested his elbows on his knees. “I got hit a couple months back. Only difference was that you weren’t there to lick my wounds clean.”

“Do you always need me to?” You joked halfheartedly.

A small tug upward in his lip made your heart skip, “I would prefer it better than being alone.”

“I thought you liked being a loner.”

“Not these days.”

You knew you were treading dangerous territory but the question left your lips before you could rethink it through.

“Did you really want me to go?”

Underneath your fingers, you felt him inhale, slowly.

“Honest?”

You scoffed, “I wouldn’t be asking if I wanted to hear a lie.”

Over his shoulder, he stared at you. A part of you wanted to shift under his intense gaze, a part of you wanted to look away sheepishly but you bravely held it. Though the change in your grip was probably a dead giveaway at your nervousness.

“If it were up to me, you wouldn’t have ever left my sight.”

You tried not to feel too overwhelmed by his words, knowing it was your own fault for asking. For even bringing it up in the first place.

So instead you snorted, “Wow. Sounds awfully possessive—”

His other hand grasped the back of your neck and brought you toward him, your lips connecting. His desperation for you was clear. And your resolve had slowly fallen—no that was such a lie. It had quickly crumbled the moment you felt his touch, the moment his lips were on yours, the moment you felt his desperation sink into your skin just as easily as his fangs would.

When his larger body moved on top of you, you knew your resolve had fully broken. Completely gone. When his lips found your neck, you were gone. When his hips rutted against yours, your mind was gone. When you finally felt him sink into your being, when you felt him inside you—god you never realized how much you had wanted this until now.

No. You knew.

Miguel held your hands down to the bed sheets, only you managed to slip them from his grip and find them tugging and running through his hair, legs wrapped around his hips to pull him closer.

You felt him smirk against your neck, “My stubborn girl.”

And just like that you were back into a cycle in which you swore not to fall into again. Only, this time the two of you didn’t make it known to the others. It was a silent choice between the two of you to keep whatever this was to yourselves. It was better that way you realized.

But as time went by, you knew it would be a little more difficult to hide it. Miguel was touchy. It was fine on days where it was just the both of you, when the both of you were working on something together. Yet on the days where you are around others, such as missions, you know he can’t help himself. And neither can you.

The both of you were terrible at hiding it in the end.

Hobie was surprisingly observant.

“You’re lookin’ cozy now.”

You glanced up to find Hobie lounging about as you were looking at videos of different dimensions. “Let it go, B—”

“I ain’t sayin’ shit.” He shrugged. “Just noticed a few things is all.”

And the two of you left it at that. Never really spoke on it again. Hobie now knew. And Jessica had eyes and a brain, she probably already put two and two together. Especially with you coming to HQ a lot more often now. Even the newbie, Gwen, took double takes every now and then whenever she saw you and Miguel together.

“You seem particularly stressed tonight.” You hummed to him on another night—this time in your apartment, squirming as his cock twitched inside of you.

Miguel looked down at you, a brow raised in challenge, “Can’t take it tonight, baby? Usually you like it a little rough, hmm?” He buried his face into your neck, his thrusts slower than before. Gentle nips at your neck that would sure to leave bruises the next day. Just the way he liked it. The possessive shithead.

“And yet, you’re still stressed.” You whisper next to his ear, breathing out a sigh of pleasure.

Miguel grunted in reply and remained at your neck. Until he slowly pulled away to rest his forehead on yours. He sighed against your skin, “Just another anomaly. Nothing we can’t fix.”

You smiled with a soft hum, “You always do anyway.”

His lips were pressed into yours, a hint of a smile shaping his mouth, “Not just me.”

The anomaly problem never went away it seemed. Soon Miguel got buried deep into his work. You were fine with it, already used to his committed work habits. Besides, you had your own world to manage. You weren’t just waiting all night for him to come home like some girlfriend slowly practicing patience. No, instead you had your own thoughts to keep you busy. But you still managed to find time and visit HQ. To visit the others. To visit Miguel.

It wasn’t until the anomaly was formed into a single person. Another Spider-Man. A kid.

Miles Morales.

Gwen told you about him a few times. How he was the first friend she made after her Peter’s death. You remembered wanting to meet the boy with how much Gwen kept talking about him. And you told Gwen this as well. That they should plan a day to go visit him. Unfortunately, that day never came to fruition.

The unfortunate part was the why.

“What are you not telling me about this Miles guy?” You already knew the answer. You weren’t stupid. You just wanted to know if Miguel would tell you. Would trust you with the information.

Miguel had his back turned to you, facing the screens when you stalked into the room to ask him this. “He isn’t your concern.”

“Bullshit.” You cross your arms. “Clearly, you said something to Gwen. And Jess. Hell, even Hobie. What are you not telling me, Miguel? Why is Miles Morales so important?” You narrow your eyes challengingly, “Or rather, why does he make you so nervous—”

“Enough, Domino.” Miguel said through gritted teeth, trying desperately not to snap at you. “He isn’t your concern. Let it go.”

Hobie had already filled you in on the details before you had come to Miguel about it. The information in itself was troubling, yes. But what was even more troubling was why you were hearing it from someone else other than Miguel. Why did he want to keep you in the dark about this?

That’s when your eyes landed on the old video of him and his daughter. The daughter he lost on another Earth.

“Fine.” You frowned. “Don’t tell me.”

Miguel still had his back toward you. You scoffed and turned to leave. You would’ve been fine to leave it there. That was the one thing the two of you disagreed on the most. The canon stuff. Your sister had to die for it. That’s why Max had become what he had become. That’s why you had left the society, left him in the first place.

Restarting all of this. Thinking you could forgive.

But there was no way you could’ve ever forgotten.

You had to stand by and watch your sister die because it was a part of canon. Because Miguel cared for you and your world so much that he did not want to see it unravel like his did. A part of you wanted to believe that—maybe there was a small part that did—but that didn’t change the grief nor the terror. You just hoped.

Hoped. And hoped. And hoped….

Eventually, you did some research for yourself. Apparently, this Miles guy hadn’t lost his parents but his uncle. Apparently, he was supposed to lose his dad once he became captain. There was nothing you could do about it if it was supposed to happen. You certainly couldn’t tell him that was going to happen.

You couldn’t do anything….

Until you could.

Hobie appeared in the middle of your living room that night.

“I quit that place.” He shrugged, flopping down onto the couch next to you. “But I suggest you suit up, yeah?”

“Why?” You furrowed your brows, placing down your book you had been reading until he unexpectedly arrived.

“Because I ‘ave a good feelin’ you are the only person that wouldn’t like what’s about to happen. What’s currently happening.”

This time you frowned, an aching feeling tugging at your chest.

“Hobie. What’s going on?”

It wasn’t long until you were flying through the HQ, following all of the spider people as they chased after one thing. One person.

Nobody had known you were there. Nor what you were there for. You had blended into the crowd of spider people, flying around, swinging around until you spotted a blip of the boy that they were chasing. And you saw Miguel, Gwen, and Jessica going after him.

All that you knew was that he was alone. The boy was alone. He needed at least one person at his side. One person who understood what he was going through right then.

By the time you had gotten to the speeding trains, Miguel had Miles pinned down to the top of the train. He had yet to see you. But there was no doubt he would sense you. There was no doubt that he would see your flashing figure, zipping toward him. There was no doubt that in the corner of his eye, he would see you flying at him with a kick and landing it just perfectly, and in time before he could prepare to block you.

Now you stood in front of Miles as Miguel rolled away before clawing his hand into the top of the train to keep him on it.

You removed your mask and grinned, “Too slow, O’Hara!”

“Y/N!” Gwen stared at you in shock.

“Who’s that?!” One Spider-Man with a pink robe—and a baby—attached to him questioned in confusion.

Miguel crawled to his feet. In the corner of your eye Miles jumped off the train and disappeared in seconds. “What have you done?!”

You shrugged, “Nothing yet. That depends on you.”

“Y/N, don’t!” Jessica shouted. “You can’t beat him!”

Miguel’s face was twisted into a scowl, mixed with both betrayal and anger, “She’s right, Domino. You can’t win. You’re on the wrong side!”

You pulled your mask back on and melted into a fighting stance, “I don’t have to win. I just have to give the kid more time.”

For a brief second, the scowl was gone. This look was only for you to see. The same look he wore when you first quit the society.

They were back to where it all began. This was the cycle. It was bound to happen. You knew this. He knew this.

“I don’t want to fight you.” He gritted out. “Stand down, Domino. I’ll only ask this once.”

Not once did you budge.

“I hope we come back from this, Miguel.”

You dashed forward.

Miguel let out a roar of anger and dashed toward you.

The two of you would meet in the middle. And for a second, you really wondered…

Would you? 

Would you come back from this?

[incognit0slut]

Much Ado About Nothing (Act III, Scene III: The Close Encounter)

The tension between you and Spencer finally snaps as you find yourself sharing the same bed.

Part warning: sexual tension and (finally) heavy kissing Words: 1.6k A/n: this is relatively short because I got really busy this week😭 i’m so sawry

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly why he kept that book on his lap the entire time. It just seemed wiser to pretend not to notice—not just for his sake, but for yours too. The less said, the better, especially when your own reaction had been anything but subtle. Because who the hell would moan at the slightest touch? Who would shudder and gasp from a mere brush of fingers across the skin?

Well… you, apparently.

You couldn't believe he managed to fluster you this much. This was Spencer. Spencer. Someone so complicated in your life, the same guy you swore you'd never let yourself get close to. Yet here you were, pulse racing and cheeks hot, all because of a few innocent touches that shouldn't have meant anything.

No, you were probably too caught up in this stupid situation. It was the only explanation that made sense, that had to be it. And now, you needed to pull yourself together. A reset, perhaps. A way to snap back to reality and remind yourself that everything was just a performance. Because there was no way in hell that these feelings were real—they couldn't be.

So you did what you did best: you kept your distance. Not completely, but just enough to keep the act while building an ever taller wall between you. You touched his arm occasionally, you even leaned on him when others were around. But whenever it wasn’t necessary to be by his side, you avoided being alone with him.

Until later that night.

You had been so focused on avoiding him that you completely forgot the dread nagging at you since this morning. You lingered with the girls, laughing over the last drops of wine until you somewhat felt the slight buzz of alcohol in your system. It was close to midnight when you finally made your way back to your room, only to stop dead in your tracks.

The bathroom door swung open just as you entered, and there he was—fresh out of a quick shower. His hair was slightly damp, carelessly flopping onto his forehead, and he was clad in a classic pajama set, stripes of soft blue and white that somehow suited him. Your gaze slowly drifted back to his face, catching his gaze just as time seemed to freeze.

Neither of you moved, neither of you spoke, and you wondered whether you could fake a fight and slip into Penelope’s room when he finally cleared his throat.

“I, uh, I’ll just grab a pillow,” he mumbled awkwardly, motioning towards the floor.

You watched him fumble with the flimsy pillow, his fingers clumsily adjusting its corners, and the sight made you feel bad. The thought of him all curled up on the floor while you sprawled out on a queen-sized bed felt downright ridiculous, but at the same time, the idea of laying so close to him was making your palms sweat.

“Wait,” you blurted out, surprising even yourself. “I…”

Say it. Just say it.

“You can sleep on the bed.”

You winced as the words left your mouth, but Spencer just looked at you, frowning slightly. “I don’t want to take the bed if it means you’re on the floor.”

You shook your head quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity of the situation. “I mean… we can share it?”

His eyes went cartoonishly wide.

“You want to share the bed?”

You nodded.

“As in… both of us?”

You nodded again.

His voice turned a pitch higher. "Together?"

“Yeah, just… you know, you stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine,” you added, trying to sound more confident than you felt. The room was suddenly too warm, too stifling. Or maybe it was just the heat rising to your cheeks. You waited for his response, but when he seemed to hesitate, you started to second-guess yourself.

“You know what, just forget about it—”

“No!” He quickly said. He cleared his throat again. “We can... we can share the bed.”

You held his gaze, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

One long second passed until you bolted into the bathroom with your change of clothes.

You slammed the bathroom door behind you, your breath catching in your throat. You quickly stripped yourself naked, a little more harshly than necessary, and pulled on your shorts and t-shirt. The fabric clung to your skin as if it too sensed the shift in the air.

It’s just one night, you repeated in your head like a mantra. You were just going to sleep. Sure you had history, and sure, sharing a bed would complicate things further. But the two of you had shared spaces before—late nights at the office, long stakeouts in cramped cars. This was no different. It had to be no different.

Finally feeling somewhat calmer, you unlocked the door and stepped out. Spencer was already under the covers, his back to you, the lines of his shoulders tense under the thin blanket. The mattress dipped slightly with your weight when you finally slipped under the covers, and you lay down on the very edge, as far from him as possible without making it obvious.

One minute turned into two, and then those minutes stretched into more, and you realized both of you were still very much wide awake. The quiet was starting to drive you insane.

“Reid?”

His voice was oddly quiet. “Yes?”

But what were you even trying to say? You scrambled for something, anything, but you couldn’t find the right words. Your thoughts felt tangled, a jumble of half-formed ideas that fizzled out before they could be voiced.

Spencer noticed your hesitation and turned towards you. “What is it?”

Feeling flustered by the way he was looking at you—especially when you caught him glancing briefly at your lips—you blurted out the first thing that came to mind, which wasn’t at all what you’d planned to discuss.

“When do you think we should fake our breakup?”

The question hung awkwardly in the air. You regretted it the moment it left your lips, but there was no taking it back now. His gaze changed subtly.

“Break up?”

You nodded, feeling suddenly foolish but too committed to stop. “Yeah, I mean, with how things are going… and how we’re supposed to be pretending, right? It just… it feels like something we should plan out, doesn’t it?”

Spencer watched you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as if trying to read your thoughts. Finally, he let out a slow breath, nodding slightly.

“Sure… we should have a plan.”

“Maybe we could have a big argument,” you suggested.

He shifted to face you, the bed sheets rustling softly under him. "What kind of argument?"

"Something dramatic," you proposed, your heart beating a little faster as the distance seemed to close with his every subtle movement. "Something public where everyone can see it’s over."

“I don’t think we can handle something that intense."

“You’re right,” you agreed softly. “Something… simple then?”

Spencer unconsciously licked his lips, a brief, nervous gesture. Your eyes followed the movement, lingering just a second too long. “We could just say it isn’t working out.”

You drew your eyes back to his, and unconsciously, your foot brushed against him under the covers. He tensed for a moment. But after a pause that stretched a beat too long, he shifted slightly, not to pull away but to gently rest his leg against yours.

“You think that will be enough?” you whispered, your breath hitching slightly.

“Maybe,” he replied, his voice equally low. “We can say we want different things.”

You swallowed hard. “Different?”

"Different… paths, maybe," he suggested, his leg sliding against yours again and you felt a rush of heat spread through your body. You could hardly think when you were too focused on the sensation of his bare skin against yours.

"Like... we grew apart?"

He nodded slowly. “Seems believable.”

Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. The space between you seemed to shrink with every word.

“Believable,” you echoed.

He moved a fraction closer. “Yeah, believable.”

Your eyes locked, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop spinning. You could see the slight hesitation in his eyes, a question perhaps about crossing a line. But then he leaned in, closing the remaining distance, his forehead touching yours. Your eyes fluttered closed as his breath brushed against your lips… and then there was no space left at all.

You felt him everywhere. Your mouth, your waist, your thigh. Spencer Reid was kissing you, and it felt utterly surreal. Although this wasn't the first time you found yourself in this position, you chose to ground yourself in this moment, letting the past fade into a distant memory.

So you focused on the way his lips barely brushed against yours, his touch so soft and tentative at first before he slightly pulled away. It was as if he was testing the waters, trying to gauge your reaction. When you moved forward, closing the gap between you, he finally kissed you again, his lips moving against yours with a growing sense of urgency.

Everything around you started to blur, the edges of reality fading as your every sense focused on his touch, his warmth, his scent. When he carefully slipped his leg between yours, you sighed into the kiss, a soft, inviting sound that encouraged him further. He took it as an invitation, his tongue gently probing at the seam of your lips until you parted them.

The moment his tongue met yours, you were overwhelmed with a rush of sensation. You held onto him, tracing your hands along his back, feeling his body tense under your touch as you pulled him closer. His hands were just as busy, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other gripped your waist, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough.

You didn't know how long you stayed like that. When you finally pulled back for air, you were both breathing hard, your foreheads still touching. Your fingers lingered on the nape of his neck, tracing delicate patterns while his thumb gently brushed your cheek. There was a moment of stillness, a shared breath, before he moved again.

Spencer leaned in for another kiss, and as you pulled him closer to you, you knew this was no longer about pretending. What you felt was as real as the lingering taste of him on your lips, a reality that was impossible for you to deny.

[valardohaeriss]

Abstract (Psychopomp) - C.S.

Hello everyone! This is my first fic in like 4 years. I took a major hiatus, but it's nice to ease myself back in.

Synopsis: Cregan stark is cold and reserved, an arranged marriage wouldn't help him break that shell...or so he thought.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x House Dayne au!Reader (we're not making this super accurate. We're team black in this house)

Warnings: loss, DILF Cregan because let's be real...that's hot.

------

It was cold in Winterfell. No. Not cold, freezing. But you couldn't tell whether you were shaking from nerves or the chill. Looking out the carriage window and picking at your fingers, your handmaiden held your hands to stop. You nearly flinched at her touch, breaking you from your thoughts.

"Thank you, Miryna" you smiled softly at her. "I hear he's called the King in the North. That he seems cold, but I'm sure you'll make him come around" She tries to comfort you. A king in the north was better than the so-called-king sitting on the Iron throne. Thank god your father stood for Queen Rhaenyra's cause.

The carriage stops and your heart beats faster. Miryna comforts you telling you everything will be alright and that she will be right there with you the entire time. All of a sudden, your carriage door opens and your handmaiden steps our first, then a hand extended towards you to aid you.

Stepping out, your cheeks were kissed by the cold air. Already turning your lips blue, your cheeks pink, and your fingers red. Looking up you see him standing there, tall, big, cold. You look into his grayish blue eyes for any emotion. He's guarded. Got it. "My lord." you greet him with a dip of your head. You quickly see behind him a little boy.

"And who might you be?" You ask kindly, seeing him brought warmth to you. He looked like his father, only warmer. "My name is Reckon Stark." he introduced himself. With a quick nudge from his father, Rickon finished by addressing you with "My lady".

Cregan looks down at his boy and then back up to you. "You are welcome here in Winterfell. I have arranged for your room already and I hope it brings you comfort. One of the staff will either bring you supper or if you care to join me, you are most welcome. Lets get you inside"

At least he was somewhat hospitable, but there was something else. You wanted to know why he was guarded. More than usual when you meet a stranger. Especially one that you're supposed to marry soon. You mentally shrug your shoulders and follow him and the staff into the keep.

The castle was huge, dark, and warm surprisingly. Cregan walked you to your room and stopped in the door way. "These are your chambers, should you need for anything, my chambers are at the other end of the hall. Send staff and I shall answer. Dinner will be served at the 7th hour."

You and Cregan shared a look before you left into your chambers. A look where you could actually see his face, the lines, the color of his eyes, his lips. Cregan cleared his throat before looking down at Rickon and holding his shoulders. "You need a bath, my boy." he chuckles and sends him along with a staff member. Reckon groaned and went on. Cregan looked back at you and nodded his head. "Should you need me..." he reminds you.

---

Cregan's POV

You were beautiful. He could actually feel his heart stop at the first sight of you. But he couldn't fall this fast, couldn't rush his heart. Not when it's been broken so easily. Not when he barely knew who you were. Only of your house. He was enamored by your hair, the color of your eyes, the way you smiled. And of course the way you welcomed Rickon.

He knows he should make the best of this the same way you were. He should try. But he doesn't want to try too hard. He doesn't want to scare you. Is he being to harsh? He had many thoughts running through his head. The least he could do was invite you to dinner to get to know you. He didn't have much time before marrying you, but war was inevitable and a union needed to be made.

There was only one thing that scared him more than war. Love, and the loss of it.

[kassiekole22]

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

His Angel

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

Pairing: Josh Washington x Fem!Reader

Description: Desperate to save your boyfriend, Josh, you travel through the mines alone to find him, soon to have a bittersweet reunion...

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Mention Of Death.

Word Count: 735

A/N: The queen of fluff and angst is back, bitches!!! Haha, just kidding. I'm not the queen. 😂 But I am back and plan on delivering some brand new fics to the Until Dawn fanbase to celebrate the remake, starting with this fic here. I hope you enjoy it. 🖤 (Find all my fics at #kassieuntildawnfanfics until I can fix my masterlist, and comment to let me know if you want to be added to the new taglist!)

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

She screams his name, her voice echoing off the rocks walls and dirt pathways, traveling for miles through the underground tomb but falling on the deaf ears of the dead. She runs through the rugged maze that is these old mines, while fear grips her heart tightly. But she isn't as afraid of the possible dangers that lurk in the shadows as she is afraid of losing that one person she searches for.

Jagged stones scrape and cut her flesh as she climbs, painting the environment crimson with her blood. The harsh cold air bites fiercely at her skin, freezing through to her bones enough to cause nothing but a painful numbness to course through her limbs. The agony she feels is more intense than anything she has ever been through, but she must keep going. Her love for him fuels her strength as she pushes through and bears it all.

She won't stop until she finds him... Death wouldn't even get in her way...

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

He sits with his head in his hands, his body trembling from the freezing temperature and his deep fear of isolation. He wishes for redemption—to see her again and make things right. It is the only thing that keeps him holding on anymore. He chews at his dry and cracked lip while familiar voices echo in his brain. Are the memories? Did he create them? Were they even real? He doesn't know. Though he hopes that some day he can get some answers.

But suddenly—amist the sadist voices swirling around his mind—another voice calls out. It's much sweeter than the rest, with a hint of sorrow and a broken sob mixed within it. Though it still sounds warm, just like home. It takes him a moment before he can comprehend the voice, until she is crouching before him and taking his bruised cheeks in her icy, frostbitten hands.

His pale blue eyes lift up, and a gasp of a shaken breath leaves him at the sight of her. Soaking wet hair frames her dirty face, and a few trickles of blood drip from a wide cut on her forehead and a few more from falling from her lips. Then his eyes glance back down to see even more blood covering her clothes. He wants to ask what happened to her, but he can only muster up one word to speak...

"Angel..." He whispers, which filters through a cold breath, parting his chapped lips ever so slightly.

She smiles faintly at this as her glistening eyes light back up with life. It was a word that always made her heart flutter, just as long as it came from him. She wraps her arms around him, embracing him like it will be the last time she ever gets to. And he rests his head on her shoulder while returning the embrace, sighing happily now that he is right back where he belongs. Although she looks a mess, she couldn't look better to him in this moment. His angel—the girl who had saved him time and time again—was finally back in his arms. He couldn't be more grateful for it.

And she is grateful that he didn't hear it—the screams that tore from her blood-stained lips as her stomach and other vital organs got ripped out by the wendigo. He didn't need the guilt weighing him down any further than he had already sunk. She may have died trying to find him, but she reached her goal in the end. She vowed that not even death would stop her. And even though it tried right before she got to him, she continued to push through due to her overwhelming love for him. 

Now she will watch over him while he waits to be saved, maybe even while he tries to heal in the hospital and longer if she's allowed to leave this place. She would hold his hand while he learns of her fate, even if he doesn't know of her presence. She knows that deep down, he would still feel her near. She would watch him find love again and raise a family like they had talked about in the past. Despite the pain of that future no longer being with her, she would watch with a tearful smile, proud of him for all he overcame. She would continue to protect him from beyond for years—she would continue to be his angel.

𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐⭒𖤐

[utterlyotterlyx]

The Fox and The Fawn

High Lord Eris x Rhys!Sister!Reader x Azriel

Part Nine

Summary - Eris and your found family make their move whilst in Velaris, you embark on the most dangerous game of all.

Warnings - depression, torture, angst, more realisations, flashbacks, slight fluff

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven Part Eight

All that echoed about the chamber were her soft groans and pleading cries. It had gone on for hours. For hours the Princess of Velaris had been chained to a stone altar, writhing in unspoken agony as inch by inch her wings were carved from her body.

Beautiful wings of midnight purple, thick onyx membrane laced through the feather-like surface, they glimmered in the moonlight, the stars dying as they lay slumped on the blood-soaked floor.

It was a grave punishment.

No, it was a plan so evil that even the King of Hybern had shuddered in a mixture of fear and delight when his finest general told him of her movements.

To place a demon in the body of Prythian's most powerful creature.

Amarantha had crossed the room to the girl with the paled skin, the one with eyes of flame amongst an ocean of violet waves, and she had laid her talons to rest on her face, a momentary flash of care as she wiped her tears away.

Pain. It wouldn't even begin to describe the horrors inflicted upon her, for pain was too light to explain it.

"I know that this hurts, but it'll be worth it. I promise you," the girl couldn't move, she thrashed against her chains with all of the meek weakness in her bones, but she couldn't break free, she couldn't tear the thing apart that was taking her most sacred possession, carving it from her body like a butcher.

"One day, the demons will take over thanks to you and your position in this world. You will breed them, and you will rule them."

Soft sobs drifted from the girls mouth, she had been panting for too long, on the verge of death for even longer. The pets had taken their time on the Princess, that much was clear from the deeply embedded wounds inflicted into her flesh, in locations that were nowhere close to where they should have been. Amarantha would deal with them later.

For now, she had more pressing matters to deal with.

"What are you going to do to me?" That sickly paled mouth asked, her lips were tinted blue, her eyes had glossed over, and Amarantha knew that she was close to letting herself go, but she was meant for far more than an offending death.

The queen hushed the girl lay atop the altar, tutting at the soiled skirt of the thin nightgown she adorned, "I'm helping you," her eyes were wide and delirious, "You are already the most powerful thing in this world, with my help, you could be the most powerful thing in the universe," Amarantha dragged a talon down the centre of the girls chest, smiling to herself, "Your position means that you will one day marry a High Lord, your power and theirs will create the perfect host, an unstoppable being which will allow the darkness to spread across the universe, a body that our queen will like very much."

"You're insane," Amarantha was sick of listening to her loose and shaky breaths and muttered a simple perhaps in reply. "You have no idea what you're doing."

"No?" the woman craned over her, hovering mere inches from her face as she produced a small onyx stone that shimmered in the dim light, "Then how do I know that placing this tiny stone in your marred flesh will be the answer to all of our problems?"

The scene played out in the flames weaving between one another in the fireplace, Cassian had come to light it for you, knowing that there was no desire in your body to move from the comforter, but also knowing that in order for you to have the strength to get through whatever Rhys had planned that you needed to not freeze to death.

Looking from the window, you had no pull to go outside, and you were sure no one would allow it anyway. All it would take for Rhys' act to crumble would be one word to someone across the boarder, and then it would spread like wildfire. The entire image of the Night Court would be destroyed. Signs of his manipulation had showed when the first bouquet of flowers had arrived the morning after your return, they were from the priestesses at the library who must have heard of your return from someone at the House of Wind. More bouquets followed, from the art gallery you used to frequent with Amren, from the bakery that made the best beignets you'd ever tasted, flowers had even arrived from Hewn City, wishing the Princess a speedy recovery.

Nothing about your recovery was going to be speedy.

Some days had passed but you weren't sure how many exactly, not when you were grappling with the demon in your body who would occasionally allow you to step into the light rather than just have a hand on the wheel of your mind. A haunting hum sounded in the night, a soft stalking song rumbled at your chest, it was sad, every note was laced with your longing for freedom, for Eris, and you knew that it was the symphony to their guilt. The same song drifted over the city, a solemn cloud hanging overhead, reminding your people that all was not as it seemed, and it was up to them to decipher the message.

The door had been left slightly ajar after Cassian's last visit, he had left a tray of meat and roasted vegetables at the foot of your bed, a tray that had gone cold long ago. Cassian had come to you frequently to check on you, you didn't say much to him but you knew that his mind was reeling at the sight of you, at what was happening to your body and soul. A plan was forming within the Illyrian, a desperate one, such became clear when his finger drifted along your cheekbone and felt it freezing under his touch, that alongside the hallowing cheeks and pallid hue to your skin made him flinch with a pain that wasn't even his.

But it wasn't Cassian that had come to see you.

No.

Golden blonde hair poked around the edge of the door, her sultry brown eyes teeming with despair as she looked to you on the bed, wrapped up in your own embrace, humming softly and carrying your melody as far as it could go, "Hey y/n."

Mor's voice floated through the air to you. Stepping into the room, Mor closed the door with a soft click and lingered by the fire, waiting for you to acknowledge her but when you kept humming that awful song, Mor had no choice but to approach you, to pull you back to your horrid reality.

The song caught at your lips and you looked down to her hands resting on the forearms that were curled around your knees. Fluttering eyelashes welcomed her, you were confused but you dragged your eyes to meet hers, "Mor." There was no warmth in the depiction of her name, your voice was empty and monotone, almost as though you were in a trance.

"How are you?"

Shivering, Mor perched beside you, Cassian was right, a certain chill had taken ahold of you, the air shifted as soon as anyone would enter your space; it made them feel unwelcomed, watched even, as if they were under surveillance. The only one observant enough would have been you but there was no way that you were keeping an eye on them, not when you looked so ghostly and pale, not when all you did was hum that sickly sad melody until your throat went raw.

"I'd be better if Rhys stopped drugging the water," you motioned to a half-empty cup sat atop your bedside table, a table that still had yours and Mor's names scribed into the wood, where a strong aroma of herbs emitted, "It's not like I can go anywhere." Raising your wrists, a line of chains rattled at your movements, they connected your wrists and feet together so that if you somehow escaped you wouldn't be able to get very far at all.

Rhys had ordered a that your own supply of water be established, water that he had drugged with various herbs and tonics to subdue you, to make you more docile. It was barbaric. None of them wanted to believe what was happening, all they wanted to do was block it out and deny it, but they couldn't, not when you were suffering so badly.

There was little that could be done to bring you joy, there was no hope that life would return to the way it used to be. But, if all Mor could do was remind you of a time when you were happy, to hopefully coax you into holding on, then she would spend the rest of her life doing it, "Tell me about Autumn. What was it like?"

A ghost of a smile tugged at your chapped and broken lips, and it was the first time Mor had seen your eyes light up since your return, "It was magical. Everything about it was perfect." Gentle darting pupils told Mor that you were lost in a flurry of memories, ones that you would no doubt carry for the rest of your life.

"And Eris?"

"Eris," your eyes glazed over, his name was a whisper of air, "For the first time in my life I had someone who understood me. I couldn't stop myself from wanting him, not when all he had to do was smile and say my name to have me melting."

Mor shuffled closer, watching intently, "His scent still lingers on you. It's like its moulded with your own."

Because he's my Carranam.

If only you knew what she had sacrificed in order to protect that part of you.

"I know that you hate him for what happened," you looked to her, eyes glistening in a mixture of fire and alabaster moonlight, "But he means everything to me." A single tear rolled down your cheek, a faint line weaving between the streaks dotted down your skin, "I'll never see him again. I'll die here," your gaze intensified on your oh so gorgeous cousin that was almost crying at your broken words, "Tell him that I love him. I never got to tell him that," your sight shifted back to the golden valley beyond the window and you leaned against the headboard, falling from Mor's grip, "Thank him for me, for his patience, for teaching me more about myself in a few weeks than I ever learnt here. Thank him for giving me a home and for not being afraid of me. Can you do that for me?"

Mor was practically shaking, with sadness, with anger, with every emotion possible, "I'm not telling him shit," Mor rose from the bed, her eyes ablaze in the moonlight, a deathly clash of molten gold and silver, "You can tell him yourself when you get out of here."

Determination was rife in her features, "I'm not getting out of here."

A violent shudder coursed through you, the same one that occurred at least five times a day, that filled you with dread and darkness, like the bindings drinking your power were piercing you with their talons and draining every ounce of your energy.

The bindings were monstrous, so dark and hateful that Mor wasn't sure where exactly Rhys had precured them, who he had commissioned to create something so vile. Such people deserved to rot in hell. Mor had scoured the library the night you had returned wearing them, looking for any bit of information possible on their origin, unable to scratch the image of your marred black flesh beneath them from her mind. Amren had joined her, a knowing look between them confirming everything, that Rhys had lost his mind, that they had to stop him before he reached too far and destroyed everything.

"Even if I have to cut down Rhys myself, I will get you out of here and get you to Autumn. Your family is waiting for you."

A soft moment. Guilt poured from Mor in waves, tidal waves of guilt and love that crashed against you, "You'll always be my cousin, Mor," an olive branch, a chance to repair what had been broken.

Pausing at the foot of the bed, Mor gripped the railings and used them to steady herself, "Never accept the definition of who you are, from a person who's trying to hide the truth of who they are. Don't let him win, y/n."

As quickly as she appeared, Mor vanished from sight, gliding from the room and signalling her exit with a gently closing door. A moment passed before you sat up, cocking your head to the side and wiping the tears from your cheeks. The demon lurking within you caressed your mind in approval, slithering around your consciousness and muttering her praise.

Somewhere beyond the window, you wondered where Eris was, you thought of what he was doing at that moment.

Had he slept? Had Nesta made sure he’d ate? Was Lucien making him laugh? Was he crying?

Silent tears spilled from your eyes, a pain that no word or sound would ever be able to convey rattled you. The gravity of the situation was grinding down, forcing you tighter into the box that Rhys had crafted with his bare hands; he hadn't come to see you yet, he hadn't even drifted by your door, probably too sickened by your scent to bare being around you.

That link with Eris had been locked away, the key to it residing in the furthest part of your reach thanks to the other one living within you. It wasn't like you hadn't begged her to open it, for just a moment, just to tell him that you were alive and thinking of him, but she had willed you into submission, she had told you that the link between your minds would only hinder your collective progress.

Once we are done, you will be with him again. Hold on.

Squinting, you willed your eyes further, you begged the Mother for one glimpse, and you could have sobbed when the sky didn’t split apart and allow you one singular comfort. It was silly to command to the universe that he not be sad, you knew he would be, if their would-be faces had flashed through your mind that day at the boarder you wouldn’t have been able to cross it.

If Eris had-

No.

You couldn’t think about it, think about the reality where he came to you at the last second and convinced you that there was another way. It wasn’t the reality you were drowning in.

But it was the one you’d dream of.

A reel of endless possibilities paused on the centre stage of his mind, snippets of potential realities weaving between one another and your face was at the epicentre of each image. In some you were sad, in others you were consumed by the feminine rage you did so well to keep in check, in others you were laughing, and then there were a couple, the odd one or two where your body was shrouded in darkness, images where no life existed within you where shadows caressed you like an old friend.

Eris wasn't sure which image he found the most terrifying.

Willow sighed in his lap, her head rested on his thigh as he idly ran his fingers through the tufts of hair on her head, and from her furrowed brows over the closed eyes, he knew that she was thinking of you. There had been countless occasions where Eris would enter the sitting room or your chambers only to find you with Willow snuggled into your chest, most of the time you'd be sleeping, nuzzling your head into her fur and sighing gently. Eris smiled to himself at the thought.

The High Lord had found himself sleeping in your room, your scent lingered on the sheets and it brought him more comfort than anything else ever could. Crackling flames filled the space, giving some life to the emptiness that had taken hold of the manor. A chill had befallen the home, even the foundations cried in the night at the realisation of your loss; even the hour of golden sun that you adored so much felt less dim, like the sun herself had nothing to impress, like she had nothing to shine for.

A shuffle of weight beside him pulled Eris from his thoughts, albeit unwillingly, and he turned his head to the side to see Nesta, "Anything?" Eris enquired, Nesta had been holed up in the library for the last couple of days, scouring the towers of books for something, anything that may act as the key to your freedom.

Shaking her head softly, Nesta answered, "Not really," she fiddled with her fingers atop her skirt and Eris' eyes narrowed at the action, Nesta wasn't a nervous female, but something was bothering her, "That day, Under The Mountain, when I found out what happened to her," Nesta's voice drifted off, she was fighting her own mind, fighting whether or not to divulge another detail, "I didn't just find something, I took something."

Eris straightened, being careful not to move the hound dozing on his lap as he turned to Nesta, "Took what?"

Knowing that she couldn't keep it to herself any longer, not when you were suffering in the worst of ways, Nesta had no choice but to admit what else she knew, what she had kept from everyone, "Something that belonged to Amarantha, a book," A book that she didn't think to pluck from the library upon her exit from the Night Court, a book that was quite literally in enemy territory, "It details everything that was done to her, even things from before Under The Mountain."

The air shifted, a seething tension took hold of Eris that was directed toward Nesta's nervousness, at how her words stumbled over one another, "I need you to tell me," From the way her gaze darted about the room, Eris knew that it was no small nugget of information, actually, he knew that it was information that would tear him apart entirely.

Nesta didn't know where to look, at the floor or walls, at the bouts of dancing flame, or at Eris whose gaze was scouring her skin. Nesta chose the latter, "You've said before that there are gaps in your memories of y/n?" Eris nodded slowly, trying to anticipate what exactly was about to leave the lips of the eldest Archeron sister, "It was Rhys. He invaded your minds and stripped you both of one another."

"What?"

"Y/N was already far too powerful, she was already a threat to his title and position, and then they found out that your power elevated hers, and they had to stop it."

"Who is they?"

"Your parents. They instructed Rhys to remove you both from each other's minds. According to the book, it had been a rigorous and painful process. From what Amarantha suggested, it seemed like you two had been very much in love at the time."

That's why Rhys had been so desperate to get you back, it wasn't just because you had left and denounced the Night Court, it wasn't just because of his fear of your power, it was because you had left the Night Court and settled in Autumn, that you had settled in Autumn with Eris, the male that Rhys had plucked from your mind and washed away. Then you had been caged and the next time Eris remembered seeing you was on the night your wings had been taken, the same night that Amarantha did what she did.

The world was rumbling, the earth was shaking all around him, and it took all of his will to reign that anger back in, "Does Rhys know of this book?"

"No."

"And it's in the Night Court? In the library?"

Nesta hummed in approval, "In the House of Wind. Rhys wouldn't have taken her there, not when the priestesses could so easily see her."

Maybe, just maybe there was a key in that book, a way to open the gateway to those memories.

The room warmed upon Lucien's entrance, he sat down on the armchair opposite them sporting a wide, feline grin, and he slid his arm over Elain's shoulders who matched the grin of her lover, "What is this?" Eris motioned to the love-sick pair, his own desire writhing in agony at the sight.

Leaning forward in his seat, Lucien continued to grin, "We realised something. Something that will most certainly help us and in turn help y/n."

Elain squeezed Lucien's thigh, her gaze lingered on him a second longer than it should have, her eyes were bright and hopeful, "There are two people who value y/n as much as we do. Two people who have been vying for her hand for quite some time. Two people of very high standing in this world who would pledge themselves to her without question."

Nesta looked between them, confused, her eyebrows dipped low and lips parted in question. Then it hit him, of who exactly Elain was speaking of, and his query was met with russet confirmation from his brother.

"Who are you talking about?"

Of course, how could Eris miss it? How could he forget about the two males who constantly gravitated toward you and spoke nothing but the highest of praises of your character despite the vile word that had been born of you?

Grinning, Eris settled back into the comfort of the seat, "They're talking about Helion," he snapped his head to the side to meet the eyes of the woman whose own had widened in realisation, "And Tamlin."

"Helion could call a High Lord's meeting," a whisper from Nesta, her entire body shivered with the hope that singular notion brought her.

Rhys wouldn't be able to deny a High Lord's meeting, and once Helion knew of what was happening to you, of what had been done to both of you, Eris was sure that he would have no ill-feeling toward calling such a thing.

There wasn't a moment to waste, but as Eris looked to Lucien, it was clear that he had already taken the step, "You've summoned them?"

Lucien shrugged, sipping from his goblet of wine before setting it down on the table beside him, "They'll both arrive in the morning."

"What did you tell them?"

Elain chuckled softly, "That the High Lord of the Night Court is committing a crime so vile that if they allow it to continue then they may as well have a hand in the suffering of the Princess of Velaris. That they have a chance to better this world for all if all they can do is answer our call."

Pride flowed about the room, it coiled around Lucien and Elain, for listening to the world close enough to be able to forge a path forward. It curled around Nesta, for having the strength to tell the truth no matter how dark it may be. And then it settled onto Eris, it caressed his soul, it soothed what he already knew, that you were made for him and he for you, and in that moment, as the weight of the oncoming struggle nestled itself into their embrace, did Eris feel the softest and slightest tug.

Author's Note

The way in envisioned the song she hums being the one with the girl harmonising with her microwave 🥺

Iykyk

Taglist

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[novaursa]

To Win a Princess

- Summary: Once you come of age, the realm seeks to curry the king's favor once more by seeking a hand of his younger daughter. You. 

- Paring: targ!reader/Tyland Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: the dance

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

- A/N: Consider this to be a serious version of A Lion's Leap. I'm not sure where it will fit into my posting schedule. It depends on how well the story is recived.

The quiet of the evening is your only companion as you find yourself wrapped in the warmth of Tyland Lannister’s arms, his breath a whispered heat against your neck. Your pulse is still racing from the sweetness of his kiss, one that lingers with the faint taste of Arbor red wine and the spice of his desire. His hands move over your skin with a certainty, his touch igniting in you a need you hadn’t realized until you found him at the periphery of courtly life. Hidden away from the glare of prying eyes, Tyland is your haven, one of indulgence and escape in a world filled with duty and restraint.

There’s an urgency to his touch tonight, his body pressed against yours as if he can’t bear any distance between you. He captures your face between his hands, his blue-green eyes watching you with that flicker of intensity that only comes when he’s this close.

“You shouldn’t tempt a lion, princess,” he murmurs, his voice a low purr that has you sinking further into him, into this space that is all your own.

“I’ve never known fear,” you reply, your voice a breathless whisper, fingers sliding through his golden hair, the softness of it like silk against your skin.

Just as his mouth descends to capture yours once more, the door creaks open.

“Y/N?”

Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the charged air, her familiar tones suddenly a sharp and shocking reminder of the world beyond this room. You freeze, eyes widening as the unmistakable figure of your sister stands there, her expression a mix of disbelief and something akin to amusement.

Tyland pulls back, releasing you with an urgency that borders on panicked, though he composes himself as he turns, straightening his disheveled tunic. You, however, find yourself momentarily rooted in place, unsure if this is a dream or a waking nightmare.

“Rhaenyra—” you start, scrambling to find words, but your sister only raises an eyebrow, folding her arms across her chest as she observes the two of you with an unmistakable glimmer of surprise.

“Of all men in Westeros…” she says, a hint of laughter in her tone. “Tyland Lannister?”

Her eyes sweep over Tyland, who’s doing his best to look as composed as any nobleman caught in a compromising position could. He manages a polite, if slightly sheepish, nod.

“Princess,” he greets her formally, though you can see the tension in his jaw as he fights to keep his composure under Rhaenyra’s unwavering gaze.

Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker between the two of you, an unexpected curiosity lighting her expression. “I thought you’d have chosen someone younger,” she remarks with a slight smile. “Perhaps a knight… or a squire. But a Lannister?”

You feel your cheeks burn, heat flooding your face at the implication. “He’s more than just a Lannister, Rhaenyra,” you reply, stepping forward as you gather your courage. “He… he understands me.”

Tyland’s hand reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours in a silent show of solidarity, but his eyes are trained on Rhaenyra, calculating the depths of her reaction. He is used to navigating treacherous waters, and he knows that, in this moment, every word counts.

Rhaenyra’s expression softens, her curiosity morphing into something gentler, though her tone remains teasing. “It seems you’ve found yourself an unusual ally, sister.” She pauses, a slight smirk touching her lips. “I suppose there are worse Lannisters than Tyland.”

At this, Tyland inclines his head, his voice as smooth as ever. “High praise from the future queen,” he replies, his eyes meeting Rhaenyra’s without hesitation. “Your sister is…” He pauses, choosing his words carefully, “remarkable.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifts to you, a hint of approval glinting in her eyes. “I’m surprised by the choice, but perhaps I shouldn’t be,” she muses, her voice softening as she takes in the way Tyland’s hand rests protectively over yours.

She sighs, her expression growing more thoughtful. “I always knew you’d find someone who saw you for who you are. Even if he’s… well…” She waves her hand in Tyland’s direction, her smile widening. “A lion.”

Your heart aches with the realization that she does, in some way, approve. Rhaenyra, always the fierce, protective sister, has a flicker of understanding in her gaze that you hadn’t expected.

“I’ll leave you two to… whatever it is that brought you here tonight,” she says finally, smirking as she turns toward the door. She glances back, adding in a tone laced with mischief, “Do try to be discreet. Rumors travel fast in the Red Keep.”

With a final, amused glance over her shoulder, Rhaenyra slips out of the room, the door clicking shut behind her.

For a moment, you and Tyland stand in stunned silence, her words echoing in the quiet. Finally, Tyland lets out a low, relieved chuckle, his shoulders relaxing as he pulls you into his arms once more, his lips finding your forehead in a lingering kiss.

“Your sister has a way of surprising people,” he murmurs, his voice laced with admiration.

“She’s always had a knack for the unexpected,” you reply, leaning into him, feeling the warmth of his embrace as a balm against the shock.

His thumb brushes your cheek, his voice soft. “Then let’s give them something else to talk about, shall we?”

And as he kisses you once more, the world outside fades, leaving only the two of you in a moment that feels like it belongs to no one else but you.

Tyland Lannister sits quietly, his eyes assessing each of the faces present as the King’s Small Council convenes. Viserys, resplendent yet weary, presides at the head of the table, his fingers idly tapping against the polished wood. Otto Hightower sits beside him, his sharp gaze flickering with purpose as he waits for the council to settle.

Clearing his throat, Otto finally leans forward, voice carrying the deliberate calm of a man who measures each word for impact. “Your Grace,” he begins, glancing pointedly at Viserys, “I bring before you a matter of some… importance. As you know, your youngest daughter has now reached an age where the question of marriage becomes both pertinent and pressing.”

Tyland’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and he shifts in his seat, the motion subtle but enough to catch Otto’s eye. The words ignite an unwelcome heat in his chest, but Tyland maintains his silence, allowing the Lord Hand to continue as he carefully considers his next move.

“Many houses have sent petitions for the Princess’s hand, Your Grace,” Otto goes on, his tone professional but carrying a faint undercurrent of ambition. “The opportunity for a marriage alliance is ripe. And House Hightower, already bound in loyalty to the Crown, would be honored to strengthen that bond.”

Tyland clenches his jaw, his fingers tapping lightly against his knee. Otto’s words are too familiar, too practiced, as if rehearsed. Of course, the Hightowers would press for another foothold in the Targaryen family. Alicent was already Queen, and now Otto had the gall to suggest another marriage to his kin.

The silence in the room stretches for a moment, broken only by the slight creak of leather as Lord Beesbury shifts uncomfortably, clearly weighing the implications of Otto’s proposal.

Tyland seizes the pause to lean forward, his golden hair catching the light as he speaks. “Your Grace,” he begins, his voice smooth and calm, carefully measured, “while House Hightower’s loyalty is unquestioned, it would be wise to consider the value in expanding alliances beyond what is already secured.” He pauses, letting his gaze sweep across the council, landing on Viserys with a look of respectful counsel. “There are other noble houses, some with ties yet to be strengthened, who could offer their fealty through a marriage bond. The Princess, after all, is a precious jewel to the realm.”

Viserys nods, seeming to take in Tyland’s words, though his weariness is evident. But before he can respond, Otto speaks again, his tone calm but unmistakably forceful.

“With all due respect, Lord Tyland,” Otto interjects, “House Hightower is not simply any house. It is a trusted pillar of the realm, deeply invested in the Crown’s prosperity. My son, Ser Gwayne, holds the princess in high regard, as he has demonstrated with unfailing respect and admiration. Such a match would ensure not only the Princess’s happiness but the Crown’s continued stability.”

Tyland’s mouth sets into a line, his irritation sparking to life at Otto’s boldness. The Hightowers already held the Reach and the Queen herself—did Otto truly believe the Crown needed more from Oldtown?

Clearing his throat, Tyland leans forward again, speaking with an air of practiced calm. “Your Grace,” he says, directing his words pointedly at Viserys, “Otto’s suggestion has merit, yet the needs of the realm go beyond what House Hightower alone can provide. House Lannister is well-known for its loyalty and wealth, resources that could serve the Crown in countless ways.” He lets his words linger, letting the subtle hint of his own interest shine through as he meets Viserys’s gaze. “A match that unites the Princess with a house of the Westerlands might open new avenues of support and loyalty.”

Lord Jasper Wylde’s deep voice cuts through the tension, surprising everyone as he joins the discussion. “Lord Tyland has a point, Your Grace. House Lannister is an influential ally. Expanding alliances to the Westerlands would create a balance among the great houses, preventing any one house from holding undue influence over the Crown.”

Otto’s gaze hardens, his fingers steepling as he speaks again, his voice low and steady. “The King knows the loyalty of House Hightower, and what could be better than family to ensure trust?” He leans forward, his eyes fixed intently on Viserys. “Gwayne is a devoted knight, one who would honor the Princess and protect her with his life.”

The room falls silent as Viserys considers the weight of each suggestion, his brow furrowed. The aged Maester Mellos clears his throat, his ancient, gravelly voice adding a cautious note to the conversation. “Your Grace, while the idea of strengthening alliances is sound, one must consider the Princess’s own wishes in such a matter. She is not without her own mind, and a union should serve her interests as well.”

Tyland nods in agreement, glancing briefly at Mellos before speaking again. “Precisely, Your Grace. The Princess should be given a choice that does not bind her exclusively to those who already wield power within the realm. A broader reach, a different alliance…” He allows the words to hang, his gaze settling firmly on Viserys, silently pressing his case.

Otto remains unyielding, but there is a flicker of tension beneath his composure. “The Crown should value loyalty that is proven, not loyalty yet to be tested,” he insists, glancing briefly at Tyland, a thinly veiled challenge in his gaze.

King Viserys shifts, his fingers rubbing at his temple. “Enough,” he says, raising a hand, his voice weary but firm. “Otto, Tyland… you both have made your points. The decision will not be made lightly.”

Tyland bows his head, the flicker of frustration barely visible beneath his polite expression. He had not anticipated Otto would be so relentless, but he wouldn’t give up so easily. As the council disperses, he lingers, waiting until the others have exited before catching Viserys’s gaze once more.

“Your Grace,” he murmurs softly, “my only wish is that your daughter’s choice brings her happiness and serves the realm.”

Viserys offers him a faint, tired smile. “I know, Tyland. But these matters… they are never simple.”

As Tyland takes his leave, a fire burns within him, one fueled by the prospect of having to contend with the relentless ambition of the Hightowers. But he is a lion of the Westerlands, and he will not yield his pursuit so easily.

The corridor is cool as Tyland makes his way from the council chamber, his thoughts swirling with a mix of frustration and resolve. The weight of Otto's persistence hangs in the air like a heavy mist, lingering and clinging as he mentally reviews their exchange. He is only halfway down the hall when he hears footsteps approaching—a purposeful, measured cadence he recognizes without needing to turn.

"Lord Tyland," Otto’s voice, calm and composed, cuts through the quiet. Tyland pauses, inclining his head politely as he turns to face the Hand. Otto’s expression is unreadable, his sharp, calculating eyes studying Tyland with the intensity of a man who does not often find his decisions challenged.

“Lord Hand,” Tyland replies, his tone cordial but cool. “I gather you have words left unsaid?”

Otto steps closer, his expression calm but firm, hands clasped behind his back. “Only that I find it curious, Lord Tyland,” he begins, voice smooth, almost conversational, “that you seem so… invested in the matter of the princess’s marriage.”

Tyland raises a brow, masking his irritation with a faint smile. “And why shouldn’t I be? She is the King’s daughter and a Targaryen princess. Whoever she marries will wield significant influence over the realm.” He allows his words to sink in before adding, “Surely, it benefits the Crown to consider all its options, rather than binding itself to the Reach alone.”

Otto’s lips curve slightly, though the smile does not reach his eyes. “The Crown has always valued the proven loyalty of House Hightower,” he says evenly, “and a marriage between my son and the princess would only strengthen those bonds. My son, Ser Gwayne, is an honorable man who would care for her deeply.”

“Indeed,” Tyland replies, his tone deceptively mild. “But House Lannister has long been a stalwart of the Crown as well, with a reach that extends far beyond the walls of Oldtown. We bring not only loyalty, but wealth, resources, and alliances across the Westerlands.” He pauses, letting his words settle, before adding, “Surely, even you can see the wisdom in that.”

Otto’s expression remains unmoved, though his gaze sharpens, a flicker of irritation betraying his controlled demeanor. “And yet, Lord Tyland, you speak as though it is the Crown’s duty to court Lannister favor. I assure you, we are quite capable of holding the realm’s loyalty without undue dependence on the Westerlands.”

Tyland’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice steady. “Perhaps, Lord Otto,” he says, choosing his words carefully, “but it would be unwise to dismiss the value of broadening alliances. Overreliance on a single house… can leave one vulnerable.”

Otto’s eyes narrow slightly, a glint of something cold flashing within them. “Are you implying, Lord Tyland, that the Crown is vulnerable with House Hightower at its side?”

“I imply nothing of the sort,” Tyland replies smoothly, though he meets Otto’s gaze with a steely look of his own. “Only that diversifying one’s alliances strengthens a kingdom. Surely, that is something a man of your experience can appreciate.”

Otto regards him in silence for a moment, and Tyland can almost feel the calculations turning behind his gaze, assessing, weighing. Finally, Otto speaks, his voice cool but edged with warning.

“Be mindful, Lord Tyland. Ambition is a potent force, but so is loyalty. My family has served the Targaryens with unwavering dedication, while others… have not always shown the same consistency.” His tone carries a subtle, implicit threat, as if reminding Tyland that House Hightower’s position within the Crown’s inner circle is not one easily challenged.

But Tyland is not so easily cowed. He straightens, his own expression hardening as he meets Otto’s gaze directly. “Loyalty is indeed a powerful thing, Lord Otto. But loyalty should not come at the cost of wisdom. And it would be unwise to assume the King’s daughter would prefer a match simply because it pleases you.”

Otto’s mouth tightens, his facade slipping just enough to reveal a hint of irritation. “The King knows the worth of House Hightower. And Gwayne is a respectable choice—far more appropriate than other… options.”

Tyland inclines his head, offering a slight smile that does not reach his eyes. “And yet, the choice remains the King’s… not yours, Lord Otto.”

The silence between them thickens, charged with a subtle animosity. Finally, Otto’s face smooths, his expression carefully neutral once more as he steps back, as if dismissing Tyland’s challenge. “Indeed,” he says quietly, though there’s a steely edge to his voice. “The choice is the King’s.”

With a curt nod, Otto turns, his robes swishing as he strides down the corridor, leaving Tyland standing alone in the dim light. Tyland watches him go, his fingers curling into a fist as he steels himself. He would not allow Otto to dictate the fate of the woman he cared for.

Tyland continues down the corridor, the distant echoes of his footsteps mingling with the faint whispers of the castle walls. He feels the lingering bite of Otto’s words, flicking like embers. His mind turns toward Y/N, the thought of her lifting the weight of his frustrations, though the path to her chambers is already proving more circuitous than anticipated.

As he rounds the corner, he nearly collides with a tall figure—none other than Ser Gwayne Hightower, resplendent in his polished armor, his posture as upright as his father’s ambition. Gwayne’s brows knit together momentarily before a polite, if strained, smile forms on his face.

“Lord Tyland,” Gwayne greets him, his tone courteous but carrying a faint edge. “A fortunate encounter. I’d hoped to find the princess and offer her my company this afternoon, should she wish it.”

Tyland’s expression remains calm, though a flicker of annoyance rises within him. He bows his head slightly, maintaining the polite veneer expected in the corridors of the Red Keep. “Ser Gwayne,” he replies, his voice smooth. “The Princess has not been one to lack for company, as I understand it.”

Gwayne’s eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting as he regards Tyland with an air of subtle scrutiny. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice laced with a hint of defensiveness. “Yet, as one who holds her in high regard, I believe she deserves companionship suited to her station.” There’s a faint emphasis on the last word, his gaze assessing as though to imply that Tyland’s attentions may fall short of that standard.

Tyland’s jaw clenches, though he forces a polite smile. “Indeed,” he responds, his tone even. “I’m certain she values the company of those who see her as more than a stepping stone toward ambition.”

Gwayne’s expression cools, his own smile thinning. “I assure you, my interest in the Princess is nothing less than sincere. She is, after all, a Targaryen—a rare jewel, worthy of reverence.” He hesitates, his eyes flickering as he chooses his words carefully. “Not all who approach her can say the same.”

Tyland raises an eyebrow, a glint of amusement barely masking his irritation. “The Princess’s worth is evident to anyone who possesses a mind,” he replies smoothly. “Yet, unlike some, I do not seek her company for the approval of others.”

The slight barb does not go unnoticed, and Gwayne’s eyes harden, his polite facade slipping just enough to reveal a hint of irritation. “I wonder, then,” he says slowly, his tone almost thoughtful, “whether your intentions are as noble as you claim. The Princess may find herself the subject of… unwanted scrutiny if certain alliances are encouraged.”

Tyland’s patience wears thin, though he keeps his voice calm. “The only ‘unwanted scrutiny’ the Princess might face would be due to those who believe they have the right to decide her future. She is not a pawn, Ser Gwayne. And if your intentions are as noble as you say, you would know that she deserves respect beyond what can be claimed through marriage.”

Gwayne’s lips press into a thin line, a flash of offense coloring his face. “You speak as if you alone hold her respect, Lord Tyland,” he counters. “Perhaps it is you who misunderstands her station. A Targaryen princess deserves more than whispered conversations and stolen glances.”

Tyland steps closer, his gaze unyielding as he meets Gwayne’s stare. “And yet, I am not the one using her as a bid to curry favor with her father and his council. My respect for the Princess does not hinge on how close it brings me to the throne.”

A tense silence hangs between them, the air thick with unspoken challenges. Gwayne’s hands clench at his sides, though he forces a calm expression, his eyes darkening with a restrained intensity. “Remember, Lord Tyland,” he says quietly, his voice a warning, “the loyalty of House Hightower is not a force to be taken lightly. My father’s position is one earned through unwavering commitment to the Crown.”

Tyland holds his ground, his voice steady as steel. “As is the loyalty of House Lannister. But unlike some, my house does not rely on proximity to the Crown for validation.” His tone hardens, his words pointed. “The Princess deserves a choice, not an obligation.”

Gwayne’s composure falters for a brief moment, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. He takes a step back, offering a curt nod, though the tension remains clear in his stance. “Then let the Princess make her choice,” he replies, his tone sharp. “And may it be one worthy of her name.”

Without another word, Gwayne steps past Tyland, his shoulders tense as he disappears down the corridor. Tyland watches him go, a sense of satisfaction tempered by lingering annoyance.

With renewed purpose, Tyland resumes his path toward Y/N’s chambers, his steps quickening. He would ensure that Otto Hightower and his son did not shape her future. And, if he could help it, he would be the one at her side, proving his devotion beyond the words of a council chamber.

[m0chisenpai]

Louis x reader x Armand

The reader is a witch and she meets Armand and Louis and Claudia when going to watch a vampire play. They are mesmerized by her enchanting presence, wondering what and who she is

superstitious

˚｡⋆ louis de pointe du lac x black!fem!reader x armand

˚｡⋆ platonic!claudia x black!fem!reader

in which the missing piece fills the gaps

author note: We're gonna play with the idea that Louis has somewhat integrated into coven life

Another night of plays. And a new role for Claudia. A nod to the past, Claudia plays the maid to Marie Antoinette who witnesses both affairs and murders of the king and queen.

The role is silent, but it is better than falling out a window every singe night in that godforsaken blue dress. At least she could be a woman for the many nights to come. She'll give Louis that little credit due.

As always, Louis assumes his usual spot, watching his sister perform while his companion sits above. There is peace between all three. And at the same time, a feeling of lonesome resides. Like there is something missing. He assumed Madeline would fill it, a fledgling that he felt such pride and dare say love.

But the loneliness remained. She could feel it in him. But Louis would brush her curious gaze aside.

Until that evening when she enters.

Armand smells her before she even steps foot into the theatre. It is rich, it is new. It almost smells familiar of his previous years abroad. Whoever is here, their blood sings to his dead heart. It begs for him to consume it, to be bathed in it.

Had an ancient one found their way back? He looks down into the seats. Soldiers, husbands and wives, students fill the house. But he sees nothing.

Louis catches Armand's gaze, he sees his gaze, 'what is it?'

'Something is here. An ancient thing or being. I do not know what it is. But there is power in it.'

His gaze shifts to Medline, 'keep watch over yourself and your companion.'

"One ticket please!" The dressed up vampire hands the young woman her ticket which she holds between gloved hands. She felt out of place in her softer colors against the dark theatre, but she always did stick out. Perhaps the vampire assumed her to be a child, she certainly exuded such child like excitement as she skipped into the theatre

"Vampires pretending to be humans pretending to be vampires," you whisper to yourself in awe finding your seat. "How dramatic, Prudence was right. But when is she never?"

The act begins. Murder marks the end of all the scenes and your laughter is like a bell in the vampires ears. Armand searched but can not find you nor can Louis pinpoint your presence. But a magnetizing feeling washes over their bodies.

Then the final act happens. The vampire troupe feast on the woman and silence fills the theatre. But you stand in loud applause shouting your praise in French. And it is as though the world ends when all three look upon you. Even though the applause thunders over your praise, they hear it so loudly.

How your eyes shimmer in praise, how your pearly white smile lights the room. Claudia freezes with the blood dripping along her lips. Trying to remember your face as the curtains pull shut. Armand watches as you look up, nodding your head giving your applause to him now.

But Louis, oh he wants you then and there. But the crowd keeps him from meeting you in the aisles as you quickly move out.

You may appreciate the arts, but you know not to engage those much farther up the food chain.

"Oh sisters it was wondrous as you said!" you whisper in awe as you tie your scarf looking in to the mirror of your flat.

"Did I not tell you it was a delight, though in their early days they were more Shakespearean. I suppose they choose to cater to their English crowd now."

"And times are changing sister dear. some of us have not graced this land as long as you have," you smirk as she gasps at your retort.

"And did you see the leader? Is he not handsome!" Your fellow sister Urydice exclaims moving Prudence aside to stand in front of the mirror. Her milky white gaze grounds you as she press forward closer.

"He was..beautiful." you shyly whisper and the girl squeals.

"Oh you must approach them! you must! if not for you then for romance my sister!" She was always the most romantic of you all. Each of your sisters had their areas of the arts they adored. And your dear sister favored love above all.

"Enough girls return to your chambers."

"Yes Mother." You whisper your goodbyes to all the girls until she sits in front. Your leader, the mother of your group. She is old and wise from the many lifetimes she has survived, but no age touches her complexion. Her hair large and thick is braided back and you realize how much you miss your mother.

"My darling," she whispers with a smile on her lips "I see you are adjusting well to the city of love." You quickly nod, folding your hands tight in your lap. "Be safe. These vampires hold great power. And they have numbers. Until we have arrived you are to not engage them, please my dear."

"Yes mother," you bow your head and press a kiss to your pointer and middle finger pressing it to the glass. And as soon as she does the same all that is left is your reflection.

You should listen to her, but you don't. You ponder and mull over the many protection casts that could offer you a chance to possibly approach. But in the end you toss any ideas aside and blow all the candles out and raise a hand to dim the lamps as well.

And as you shed your robe to slip into your bed. The golden eyes that watch from your balcony disappear into the night.

That next night you sit at the cafe writing letters to your scattered sisters. Some in English, three in French and the one in Italian you work on slowly, whispering your thoughts to yourself.

"You're not from here ma'am? Haven't heard Italian before," the young girl sitting in front of you startles you, but you keep your face neutral. The younger ones are far more dangerous. Quick tempered, more fierce.

You smile at her and shake your head. "No, I am not. But Italy is not my home unfortunately." You sip from your glass of coffee. "I must say you are an exceptional actress. The breath was taken right out of me, especially at the end."

"Thank you, years of practice led me here."

"From...America?" you guess, no you know.

Her eyes widen as does her smile, "how'd you know?"

"Southern accent. Heard it growing up when I was a bit younger than you, course till we moved and such."

"Claudia, what'd I tell you bout disturbing folks?"

You hate to admit how the man who joins you both at the table makes your eyes widen. The way he places his hand on the back of her chair, appearing from the entrance inside the cafe to sit beside her. Your cheeks feel hot as his gaze settles upon you. You seem to have some affect as well because he is no longer chiding at the girl.

"No, she is fine sir. Just some simple conversation is all" you tilt your head, "your daughter I am assuming?"

"Ah well...yes" he fumbles his words. "Lost her mother and wound up here for some time."

"How sweet," you smile at the two now bundling your letters to drop at the post hoping the tremble of your hand is unnoticeable. "I should be taking my leave now. It was lovely to speak to you both."

"Claudia," she quickly shakes your hand when you step to her.

"Louis."

They wish you could stay. But you toss the necessary amount by your cup and leave the two behind to watch you walk down the stony path. You move slowly, hoping the urgency in your leaving goes unnoticed. Where two are gathered surely a secret third will try and interceded. To make you a meal.

One night turns into two, then three when you return again it has been a challenging week. A week of you trying to avoid that theatre, but they call out to you in the night. "Come, come to us." It's as though they sit by your windows whispering, begging for you. But the leader requests your presence tonight.

One of the women leads you to where he sits. The only empty seat beside him is where you situate yourself.

"When did he turn you?"

"Don't have a creator." You whisper, eyes remaining on the stage. They flicker to Louis who looks up, giving you a smile which you quickly return along with a small wave.

"You know we are not human, yet you yourself are not one of us," now his head turns to look at you. "But you do not smell mortal. And your presence...it is unusual."

"I smell?"

"Nothing like the boys of war I can assure you, it is not unwelcoming" Armand can not help the smallest of smiles when he hears your sigh of relief. "But I must ask you again. What are you if not human?"

You hesitate, remembering the words of your mother. "We are not human. In the past humans maddened by thoughts of God and Satan killed us one by one. They stopped it from being publicized but they still hunt us to this day running us into the shadows of the night and to all corners of this world."

"You are a witch?"

"We refrain from calling ourselves that," your hand rests against a necklace. The very one all of you share engraved with an ancient sigil, the metal untouched by the years you have owned it. "We are scattered across the world to avoid any more unnecessary murders."

You pause to clap for Claudia, smiling as she grins up at you at the end of her act.

"Will you be in France for long?" Armand asks once you sit back down.

"I would like to be. Rome was for a moment. And I am not sure I wish to return again to Greece, though I miss the waters." Armand returns his gaze down to Claudia and Louis both steal glances at him.

"If you stay here, I can gurantee your safety."

Claudia adores you and spends any moment she can to hear about your travels. Taking you to Madeline's shop where the young fledgling happily dresses and styles you and around the city while Louis walks around the city with you. Taking shots of you facing the moonlight or along the river. They are some of his best work.

Armand shows you artwork from the world. And some of his older works of plays dating back to the theatre's founding days.

Each of them can not help but feel you fill the gap in their hearts.

They feel dizzy just being in the midst of your presence.

Then one night, as you sit atop Armand's lap. Louis' hand settles at the back of your neck, squeezing it gently to pull your head to look up at him. Your bare chest heaves as Armand lays kisses upon it. There is something electric in the air, something magical in your eyes.

The candles burn brighter with each kiss. Flickering with your breathing, as though they are breathing with you.

"Stay with us," his voice a whisper. Your eyes remain on his. He whispers it again, "join us."

Your mothers words are drowned from the two. Their warnings are nothing but a fly in your ear which you swat away.

"Yes, please." Armand lets a soft hiss as he bites into the juncture of your neck while Louis bites into the other side. And it is like liquid fire fills your vein and fills theirs.

The candles flicker out at that very moment.

It is as though you are bonded to them in that moment.

Theirs for an eternity.

[imdeadinsidesiriuslydead]

Must you be so cruel?

Cardan Greenbriar x fae!princess!reader

a/n: this concept was most requested so here you are. warnings: swearing, no smut (unless y’all want a part 2 with some😏lmk), not proofread I have like six more to write

As your steads stop for water, your mother approaches you.

“We are almost there.” She grins excitedly.

you roll your eyes as you fix your riding skirt.

“yay.” You say, unenthusiastically. Your mother had arranged a ball with the High Court, you suspected she was trying to marry your older sister off to one of the princes. But you dreaded seeing a particular prince with a stupid rat tail.

“Don’t take an attitude with me, y/n” your mother warned, “we need to be on our best behavior. We mustn’t insult the High King or Queen.”

Your mother made you changed once you made it to the Palace. Your dress was black as to not outshine your sisters. As you walked into the Throne room, you spotted the king and queen but no sign of that dreaded prince.

You make your way to the King and bow as your parents exchange pleasantries.

After your mother turns to you “Go grab your sister some wine.”

“Why? She has legs.” You said as you smooth down the ruffles of your skirt.

“She is talking to Prince Dain. I will not interfere with the makings of an engagement.” Your mother said sternly.

you sigh, “yes ma’am.”

As you make your way to the banquet table, you look around at the folk dancing. Trying to shield your eyes from the naked folk, you grab a glass and have a servant fill it with wine.

You look back and see your sister dancing with Prince Dain, and you smile to yourself. Even though your mother made you come here and has been driving you crazy, it’s nice to see your sister radiant smile light up the dance floor.

The glass being rather useless now that she’s dancing, you start to down the drink when someone clears there throat.

“It’s unlady like to chug wine 30 minutes into a ball.” Nicasia said sharply. “You filthy half breed.”

you turn dreading facing her. When you look, she’s wearing a body hugging blue dress and a face of pure disgust.

“Mermaid style dress? That’s a bit on the nose isn’t it?” You say continuing to sip from your glass.

“Why are you even here?” She spits, seemingly losing her patience even though she approached you.

“She was invited unfortunately.” A voice behind you called.

You freeze. God damn it. You turn around to find Cardan’s gold rimmed eyes staring back at yours.

“Cardan.” You acknowledge, turning back to watch your sister.

“Y/n. Is your mother trying to push your boring sister onto my brother?” He asked as Nicasia laughs moving to link arms with him.

“Must you be so cruel?” You ask, annoyed.

“Only to you.” He replied.

“I’m not completely sure of my mother’s intentions, I haven’t asked.” You say, finishing your glass. “Afraid of your reputation if you become related to a half mortal?” You ask, motioning for a servant to get you another glass.

“I’d be disgusted to be related to you.” He says as Nicasia laughs.

A grin spreads across you face as an idea comes to your head.

“Why?” You ask with an innocent grin.

“must there be a reason? That’s a reason enough.” He replied.

“Yes, I’m curious. Why would you be disgusted to be related to me?” You ask.

“Most far find the existence of half bloods disgusting.” He said brushing if off

“Yes most of the folk. What about you though? What’s your real reason for not wanting to be related to me?” You smirk.

His smirk momentarily drops before regaining his composure.

“My opinion of you.” He says before grabbing Nicasia’s hand and pulling her to dance. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll be leaving.”

you laugh to yourself as a servant puts the wine glass back in your hand.

—————————

Later that night as the ball is winding down, your Mother asks you to retrieve your sister.

You look around the dance floor to no avail, no sign of her.

Walking out of the hall, you make your way into hallway. Looking around and opening seemingly endless doors, grew tiresome.

As you give up and walk back to the banquet hall, you feel a hand on your shoulder.

“Your boring sister is in my brothers room.” A drunken voice called.

turning to see Cardan with the gold juice of fae fruit smeared on his lips while the smell of wine on his mouth. He looks at you with an intensity you’ve never seen before.

“Oh.” You say, realizing you’ll have to explain to your mother that your sister is spending the night with the prince. But then you realize Cardan has not moved his hand from your shoulder.

Quickly pushing his hand off you, he stumbles grabbing ahold of your arm to stabilize himself.

“Cardan how much have you had to drink?” You asked annoyed.

“I lost count after 12 glasses.” He said as he focused back on your face. “And why’d you have to shove me?” He whined.

“Oh you’re such a baby.” You say, using your arm to support him as you guide him to walk.

“Where are we going?” He asked leaning on you.

“Your room, you need to be put to bed before you hurt yourself.” You say dragging him through the corridor.

“But I left my wine goblet.” He says trying to pull you back to the alcove he emerged from.

“If you go back for it, I’ll leave you there and you can pass out on the floor for all I care.” You say letting go of him.

“Fine.” He huffs.

As you reach his room you open the door and close it behind you. You push him onto the bed and he laughs looking up at you.

“That’s not how I imaged it.” He laughs, eyes glazed over.

“Imagined what?” You asked as you move to leave.

“You pushing me onto the bed.” He replied as if it was common knowledge.

You mule over the words in your head. He seems more honest when drunk. Before you can stop yourself, you find your self asking.

“Why would you hate it if we were related?”

“My thoughts of you would be considered inappropriate. The thoughts I don’t want to have.” He relied his eyes getting droopy.

“What do you think about me?” You ask.

“The thought of you in my arms.” He said as his eyes shut.

You stare there for a minute, processing this new information. You wait until you hear soft snoring before opening the door and turning to find your mother.

~~~~~~~

[breadbrobin]

blanket hog

tim drake x reader — dc / batfam

[gn!reader]

summary: you’d never been close with tim, but now you were sharing a bed—too close. far too close—and you didn’t know what to think

warnings: light swearing, sharing a bed (ONE BED TROPE MY BELOVED), idiots in love, kissing, is my writing good? idk anymore

word count: 1.7k

(this was meant to be in two parts but it’s way shorter than i thought it was when i was writing it lmao. anyway happy birthday tim drake!)

—————————————

if tim drake was a magnet you were his polar opposite. that much you knew for sure. rather than draw you in, he repelled you backwards, unfazed by his ceo smile and somehow perfect hair. it was his unnerving ice-blue eyes that seemed to look through you and his fumbling words that pushed you back. there was something in his stare, and it made your cheeks burn and your heart race, and you didn’t like it. if you could’ve stayed away, you would have.

but fate was a fickle thing.

and when blankets were hogged, you’d fight tooth and nail not to freeze to death.

it had been an easy decision to share the queen-sized bed. the hotel room was small—a bed, a dresser and a bathroom alone—and none of his siblings had wanted to share with him. steph and cass took the only other double room in the small-town in, leaving you with no choice. there wasn’t even any floor space.

“we can take shifts?” tim had suggested, his cheeks uncharacteristically pink.

you’d told him not to be ridiculous, and then you’d had to practically tackle him into the bed to get him to sleep at all.

finally, the room was filled with only soft breathing as you drifted off, warm and cosy in the surprisingly soft sheets.

and then you were cold.

what?

your sleepy eyes blinked open and you frowned. did someone open the window? your sleep addled brain hadn’t put the pieces together just yet. your fingers tightened around the blankets you had pulled against your—ah. that was the issue.

you frowned and rolled onto your back, reaching around to find them. where did they go?

there! you connected. how did they get there? no matter.

you pulled the blankets loosely, but they barely budged. you frowned again. what the hell?

you blinked in the darkness, peering at the shape in the bed next to you. it came rushing back. tim drake. typical. you had to be bunking with the blanket hog.

you pulled the blankets harder, to no avail. you gritted your teeth and dug your heels in (metaphorically), pulling with all your might and hoping they wouldn’t rip. sure, bruce could pay for the replacement, but you’d feel bad.

finally, the blankets came wrapping around you. you rolled back onto your side as you pulled them tight to your chin. then an arm was around your waist. then there was a warm breath on the back of your neck.

oh.

tim’s chest was pressed loosely against your back. he was still gripping the blankets too, obviously dragged by your pulling. you shifted for a moment, but his grip on you only tightened. fabulous.

your heart raced—why did your heart race?—and your palms sweated slightly. it wasn’t hot, but you felt all warm and fuzzy, like you’d just had a big cup of tea. it was tim. even if he wasn’t like a furnace, you realised he’d warm you like this. finally, you let yourself relax into his embrace.

you’d deal with that in the morning, and just hope no one came in before you woke up.

the morning was warm and cosy. you didn’t think too hard about why. there was sunlight streaming onto your body through a gap in the curtains and the blankets were warm and—what was that?

it felt like a breath of air against your skin. you opened your eyes and immediately slammed them closed again.

oh. right.

tim.

throughout the night, you’d clearly managed to roll in his grip until you were face to face. his arm was loose around your waist, hand tangled slightly in your sleep shirt. your legs were tangled with his. your stomach lurched with something unknown, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

you opened your eyes slowly, tentatively, and—

oh.

you were thinking that a lot lately.

it was rare to see tim without a tense frown on his face. it aged him, made him look more stressed and intense. but now… his face was soft with sleep, lips parted just so. oh god, your stomach fluttered.

maybe that was why you’d never been able to be comfortable around him. were you…? no. surely not, right?

as if your thoughts were probing into his dreams, tim stirred slightly. the arm around your body tightened for a second, and his eyebrows twitched. your breath caught in your throat and you snapped your eyes closed again. you really didn’t want to look at him when he woke up, but a soft sigh came from his lips, then a gasp, and he retracted his arm like he’d been burned. you felt instantly colder as he jerked backwards.

you looked up him as he sat up abruptly.

he had a shell-shocked look on his face. scandalised, even. his eyes—startlingly blue—met yours. “i’m so sorry.” his voice was soft and rough with sleep.

you had to swallow tightly before you could reply. “it’s okay.”

“i don’t—“ he shook his head and rubbed his face. “i shouldn’t have—“

“you kinda grabbed me when i pulled the blankets back last night.” you admitted quietly, sitting up too.

“oh.” he said dumbly.

“yeah. blanket hog.” you shot him a small smile.

that seemed to break the tension. he smiled back. “shut up.”

“does koala fit better?”

he groaned and flopped back down onto the bed, covering his face. “i said i was sorry.”

“and i said it was okay.” you shot back immediately, watching him with a small smile. you didn’t quite know what it meant, but you did know that there was something different between you now. it was like you’d broken through the previous tension to discover something more. worse? better? you didn’t know yet.

he opened his eyes and peered at you between his fingers. “you’re not upset?”

“why would i be? it was cold. you’re like a furnace.” you shrugged, deciding to play it cool.

he sat up again and pushed his hands through his hair. it fell back in front of his face. your fingers twitched like you wanted to push it back again. “right. yeah.”

you found yourself studying his face. when he wasn’t looking stressed or exhausted, he was actually really pretty, you realised. obviously, you objectively knew that—the tabloids did a great job of describing how pretty he was (not that you read them, no way)—but you’d never taken the time to see it yourself.

he shifted under your gaze. “what?”

“nothing.” you said sharply, turning your head away. you leaned back against the rickety headboard. he followed suit.

there was silence for a long while. you fiddled with your fingers, not looking at him. you could feel his gaze on your profile, probing and studying and examining you like you were a piece of evidence at a crime scene.

finally, you let your eyes dart back to him.

he wasn’t looking at your eyes.

there was a rush that went through you as his piercing eyes flashed between your lips and eyes. your breath caught and you looked away again, before you could do anything stupid.

“why don’t you like me?” he asked softly. “i mean… you act like you hate me. why?”

“i don’t hate you.” you said softly.

he scoffed. “yeah, i know that. why do you act like you hate me?”

you were silent for a moment. you could feel tim’s gaze on your face again. “i don’t know. i think it’s because…” you swallowed your pride. “you always look like you want to say something to me, but you never do. i think i felt like you didn’t like me.”

“i do.” he said in a rush, the words spilling out of him. “i do like you. i don’t know why i can’t seem to talk to you like a normal person, but i just…”

you looked over at him with a small smile. “you’re doing a pretty good job right now, for a boa constrictor.”

he groaned and laughed a little, shaking his head. “you’re terrible.”

“seriously i think you cut off my circulation.”

“very funny.”

“i’ll sue you for my medical bills when i have to amputate from the lack of blood flow.”

“i’ll pay them anyway.” his voice was soft. it sounded like a confession.

your heart fluttered. “so you admit guilt?”

he nodded slightly. his eyes weren’t so piercing in the warm dimness of the hotel room. they were warmer, softer, more gentle. or maybe that was just the way he was looking at you. “and i’d do it again.”

yesterday, you would have laughed at him and kept joking. today… you bit down a smile. “i think i’d allow that.”

he didn’t hide his smile. “yeah?”

you let yours show a little too. “yeah, i guess.”

“and if i were to maybe kiss you? would you allow that?” he asked softly, barely above a whisper. his eyes dropped to your lips again.

your heart climbed into your throat and did a little dance. you nodded. “yeah, i suppose i could allow that.”

for a moment, you wondered if this was a good idea. if this would backfire on you. if this would result in pain and loss and not to mention hours of teasing from steph about getting her ‘sloppy seconds’. if this would end terribly and ruin your entire dynamic with the bats, who you’d only just started working with.

and then tim’s lips were on yours and your mind went blissfully blank.

you sighed into the kiss, your hand coming up to his chest.

the kiss was brief, but as his lips pulled away from yours, your hand tightened on the collar of his shirt and pulled him back to you.

after all that time not understanding what these feelings were, you finally got why your cheeks burned and your heart raced and why he could never talk properly around you.

god, it all made sense, and his fingers in your hair and cupping your jaw were exactly where they were meant to be. the knock on the door only drew you back to reality for a moment before his lips were on yours again, and again, and again, and you realised you could stay there for a lifetime. you’d be happy to.