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hildergard · 6 months ago

Note

Could you do something where Aemond is already married/betrothed to a highborn lady that’s been approved by Alicent and Otto but he has a relationship with a low born woman (a brothel worker or any lowborn really) and once he becomes Prince Regent he starts bringing her around the castle, giving her a room to herself, treating her better than how a lowborn should be treated in Alicent and Ottos eyes and they don’t like it but Aemond doesn’t care.

MINE TO PROTECT ★ AEMOND TARGARYEN

PAIRING | Aemond Targaryen x Lowborn!Reader

TAGS | Suggestive content, swearing, possessive behaviour, classism

WORDCOUNT | 4k

NOTE | I have seen a lot of fanfictions where the Reader is a brothel worker so I made her a baker instead. I hope that's alright with you! Thank you so much for this great request! I had so much fun writing it <333

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

In the seedy streets of Flea Bottom, rumours travelled in a precise order, memorised by all.

A Lord, drunk with lust, would disclose the Crown’s secrets to a simpering whore, who would be quick⏤once the gold dragons were in her purse⏤to repeat what she had just heard, noble semen still running down her thighs. The other, much less wealthy, customers would then talk about it loudly in bars, attracting the attention of patrons who, once sober, had only to spread the news.

Today, the rumour burst into your little shop when Old Gerald came through the door, looking for his daily loaf of bread.

“Prince Aemond’s been made Regent," he said.

For a second, you did not move. The dough fell on wood. Your floured hands remained stuck in the sticky, flabby mixture. It would have to be kneaded again. The sight of your dirty fingers woke you from your torpor. You gripped the towel from your apron and wiped your palms roughly before turning your back on your customer⏤less to get the fresh loaves of bread out of the oven than to regain your composure.

He had done it.

Your shovel rasped against the burning slab of clay and peeled off the loaves.

A few days earlier, when night had enveloped the citizens of King's Landing in its thick cloak, he had told you of his plans and dreams⏤the two were always intertwined, for Aemond Targaryen provoked fate rather than waited for it. His touch had done nothing to soften the brutality of his words. Sordid tales of fire and blood, the kind that filled the tomes of the Citadel.

Even the Targaryens could not play with fire indefinitely. Aemond rose in the flames. For how much longer? You had protested, your voice hoarse from the moans he had managed to draw from your throat, but he would have none of it and simply told you to trust him, as if all this were far too complicated for you.

And perhaps that was the case, for what did you know of war and power?

“What about his Majesty?" you asked.

Old Gerald tossed you three coppers, which you pocketed, before handing you a thick piece of cloth.

“They say he perished in dragonfire. Seems Targaryens are closer to men, after all. With all this quarrel for t'throne, it were inevitable. And, let me tell you, it'll happen again. Today, a brother sits on t'throne. Tomorrow, it'll be an uncle or a sister. Things like that never end.”

You carefully wrapped the golden loaf in the cloth.

“Wi' Rhaenyra in Dragonstone and his brother's heir dead, he’ll no doubt be crowned King. And the Lady Baratheon, Queen.”

You winced at the name but immediately hid your reaction with a tight smile. Gerald, bless him, took no notice of your torment. You handed the loaf of bread to the old cobbler, who nodded at you and returned to his shoes.

The rumour ran on and kept you thinking all day. You burnt a dozen loaves of bread, spilt two sacks of flour and forgot to deliver her apple pies to Dorthy Porter, making you lose a silver stag and a customer.

When the key finally turned in the lock of the shop and cut you off from the rest of the world, your shoulders slumped. The sun and all its problems gave way to the moon. Under its silvery eyes, other rumours would no doubt spread but you did not wish to hear them. You longed for your straw mattress and the comfort of your dreams⏤perhaps your love would visit you there, also freed from the pressure the Gods were piling on his shoulders.

Tiredness weakened your knees⏤you dragged your body more than you climbed the stairs to your modest bedroom. In the middle of the room, the bed and its pillow stretched out its arms to you. You let yourself fall into the feathery embrace and closed your eyes for a moment, praying to the Gods that you would find sleep easily.

They ignored you.

The doorbell rang.

Your eyelids struggled to open. Sleep paralysed them⏤it clutched at your eyelashes and tried to keep them closed but you fought the temptation and, at last, gazed into the dim light of the room. Another series of blows, more hurried, struck against the wood. The whole shop seemed to shake.

“I’m coming, I'm coming…” you mumbled.

You gasped as two members of the Kingsguard appeared on your doorstep, their cloaks far too white to be dragged through the muddy streets of Flea Bottom.

“The Prince Regent, His Highness Aemond Targaryen, summons you.”

They did not care for your reply and seized you. You protested, demanded to be told the reason for this summon, but nothing would do. The guards dragged you like a rag doll through the streets of King's Landing, indifferent to your screams and struggle. Above and around you, the candlelight in the windows intensified. Some people poked their heads out to watch the racket. You lowered your chin and remained silent, but the damage had been done.

Already, rumours were spreading. The baker had been arrested. What had she done? Who would make their bread from now on?

The dizzy shadow of the Red Keep loomed larger and larger. Just the outline of it made your skin crawl. For the first time, you would be treading on the floor of Kings and Queens. You were being plunged headfirst into this unknown, powerful and dangerous place, populated by men and women who despised people like you. One of the guards tightened his grip around your arm. You yelped. Why were they taking you there? Aemond always came to you, not the other way round.

Did someone know? You blanched. Impossible, you thought immediately. You had been cautious.

But what if... What if someone had seen you, despite all your precautions?

Were they taking you to the Keep to put you to the sword?

��A flash of fear stabbed you in the guts.

You finally passed through the large gates of the castle. They were still open, yet, no one was in the courtyard. The swords were resting on the workbenches and the horses were asleep. Only a few guards patrolled the ramparts, their heads turned skywards in search of a dragon.

“Hurry up, girl. The Prince is waiting.”

A solitary, proud figure emerged at the top of the stairs, in front of the entrance. His long white hair fluttered in the wind and the bluish moonlight accentuated his strict features and pale complexion. The mere sight of his face reassured you. You defied the guards and walked towards him.

His rough hand⏤hardened by duty and war⏤gripped yours before thin lips kissed it. The Prince pulled you towards him. Your heart slowed as his familiar scent enveloped you and your shoulders relaxed. For a second, you surrendered to the comfort of his warmth and love. The smell of musk and leather soothed your body, but your head kept its wits about it.

“What's happening, Aemond?”

He closed his eye as his name fell from your lips and smiled. His hand came down and grasped your waist in a possessive embrace. You leaned into the touch.

“There are rumours that Aegon–”

You squeaked. His fingers had dug painfully into your flesh at his brother's name.

The mere mention of him brought back painful and humiliating memories, which your lover had confided to you, his head on your pillow. Even today, the wounds had not healed. They continued to transpire in every aspect of his life. You are the only thing he has not stolen from me, he had told you one night. Saying that name was like throwing his past back in his face and breaking your promise. He'll never succeed, you had replied, but today, Aegon was on your mind. What did his wound mean for the Crown, for you?

“Is it true?" you managed to articulate.

“The Council has made me Regent," he nodded. “We will not need to hide any longer, my love.”

“What do you mean?”

But Aemond did not answer you. He smiled, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and let his fingers brush your neck. With a nod, the kingsguards left. The clink of their armour echoed for long seconds, but the din faded with the tenderness of his gestures. His finger traced the veins in your chest. They led him to your breasts, hidden by your dress. Aemond grunted⏤terribly offended by this affront⏤and pulled at the fabric but it held on.

Claere Linstar's work was reknown throughout Flea Bottom. You could not find a better weaver⏤today, you were thankful for the two silver stags you had spent. The garment would become the guarantor of your dignity, the bulwark against your desire.

When you realised that your Prince was not going to answer your question, you took a step back. His hand fell limply between the two of you as a brief look of pain clouded his face.

“Aemond?”

He straightened up and held out his hand to you.

“Follow me.”

The labyrinthine corridors made your head spin. You lost count of the turns you took, the staircases you climbed and the alcoves you passed. The beauty of the mouldings and frescoes drew admiring sighs from you several times, but Aemond did not care. He walked past them without giving them a second glance. He's used to all this, you reminded yourself. People of his rank bathed in this luxury and grandeur since birth.

On the way, maids dressed in red and white stopped at your sight. Their gaze fell on your face, on your body, on your hand locked in the Prince's... Your cheeks heated and you tried to pull away, but Aemond tightened his grip. Out of habit, his thumb caressed your skin. This time, his touch only made you tense. You bowed your head, ashamed.

They knew.

The thought stayed with you.

You only lifted your head when Aemond stopped in front of an ornate door. The mouldings curved into flowers and birds⏤an ode to spring and renewal. Your eyes swept the decor, stopped on a bush of camellias and, finally, met the Prince's satisfied gaze.

“We've arrived," he announced.

Aemond opened the door with a confident gesture. Inside, an immense room stretched out and seemed to never end. Wealth oozed out of every corner, from the four-poster bed to the dressing table adorned with sapphires. On the wall, frescoes of flowers had been painted to match the powder pink drapes⏤an explosion of colour that turned drab the corridors you had been raving about just a few minutes before.

“Is it to your taste?”

You turned back to Aemond. Although his chin was up and his back was straight⏤proud as ever⏤red bloomed on his cheeks. Your lover seemed embarrassed, a far cry from his usual composure. Almost timidly, his hand sought yours. He couldn't help it, you realised. His fingers always found yours⏤skin against skin to find what he had been deprived of all his childhood.

“I don't know anyone who wouldn't like it," you replied.

“Hmm. Good.”

He pulled you to him. His hands went down to your buttocks and pressed you against his chest. Your pelvises collided. Suddenly, the room made sense. You let yourself drown in these familiar gestures. Your hand caressed his muscular shoulders, moved up to his jaw and brushed against his lips. Aemond kissed the pad of your thumb before replacing it with your lips. Soon, the wet sound of saliva echoed through the room. The sweet melody ignited a fire in your lower abdomen and moved down between your thighs.

Your hand resumed tracing arabesques on your lover's smooth skin. It stopped at the buttons on his doublet and hastily undid them before wandering lower and lower…

Aemond stopped you before you could take him in your hand. His hand grabbed yours. He kissed your palm and pressed it against his cheek.

“These will be your quarters.”

The fire went out, leaving you frozen with shock. Your heart skipped a beat.

“What do you mean?" you asked breathlessly.

“Now that I am Regent, we will not have to hide any more.”

A new glare lit up his eye. Purple turned black and made you shiver. Flames seemed to dance in his pupil, crushing all remains of the second son he had once been. That Aemond was dead. In his place was a Regent who thought himself above laws and men.

��It's not proper, Aemond," you tried to protest. “If it gets out that I'm here... If the Dowager Queen or the Hand–”

“They have no say in the matter. My word is law now.”

“If you want me here… Perhaps I could serve the Crown, join the kitchens. Anything but that, Aemond," you said, gesturing to those quarters, far too luxurious for someone of your breeding.

“You do not belong in the fucking kitchens," he scoffed. “No. You will be by my side, as my equal.”

“You're engaged," you retorted. “The Lady Baratheon won't take kindly to my presence here. You nobles can make Small Folk disappear in a blink of an eye and no one would notice or care.”

Alira Merchin's story was remembered as a cautionary tale for young girls naive enough to think love could conquer blood. The fable was classic⏤hundreds of similar romances filled libraries, and perhaps it was these very ones that had encouraged the girl to seduce the heir of House Harte. The man fell in love and made the pretty merchant his lover.

This did not please his wife, the daughter of Lord Chelsted.

She got rid of the merchant with disconcerting ease. The poor girl was found trampled by horses in white and green bards. That day, Lord Harte lost his true love and spent the rest of his life suffering the consequences of his betrayal.

Your heart dropped. What would happen to you if you tickled the stag? Ours if the Fury. Their motto was an ode to their rage, to their thirst for violence. If Floris Baratheon found out that Prince Aemond was bedding you... and in the Keep nonetheless…

The storm would come for you and you would perish in its eye.

“It's not a good idea, Aemond," you finally said.

“Do not fret, my love. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here to protect you.”

The Prince pulled you into bed.

Your protests died on your lips, muffled by moans and the exquisite feel of his skin against yours.

Your fingers tightened around your thighs. The soap made your skin slippery but did nothing to wash away the shame that had been clinging to it for days. It colonised your flesh and left it tainted, eating away at your muscles and weighing down your heart.

On the first day, after a passionate night, maids had arrived to prepare you, but you refused their care. You were no Lady. You had bathed alone all your life and would continue to do so. More than anything, you wanted to escape their watchful eyes, which would no doubt have noticed the hickeys on your chest and thighs.

You did not know how rumours got around in the Keep, but you were sure that they first burgeoned on the maids’ lips. They blossomed as quickly as in Flea Bottom⏤the inquisitive nature of man was innate⏤, but it would not be Old Gerald getting wind of it. No. The stakes were much higher in these parts, and the consequences even more dire.

The door to your quarters stood in the way of the horror surely awaiting you, but for how much longer?

Your hands massaged your calf, hoping to rediscover a cherished routine. You longed for the feel of dough beneath your fingers. What would become of your shop? Would you have to sell it? Maybe someone had already moved in⏤abandoned houses never stayed so for long in Flea Bottom, the cradle of the poor and the homeless.

You could not cherish the roof above your head, yet, you supposed you had to learn to appreciate it. Aemond did not seem eager to let you go.

Aemond.

Every day, the sun tore him away from you. His hours were devoted to the Small Council and military strategies, only half of which you understood when he explained them to you. Your Prince needed to talk, to get rid of the weight that was arching his back. You became the shoulder on which he rested, the ear into which he poured his doubts, the flesh in which he forgot himself.

“I wish to be with you every hour of the day, to attach myself to your side, but the Gods will only grant me this pleasure when I win this war. I am fighting for you⏤for us,” he had told you.

The moon brought him back into your arms. Every night, without exception, he would cross the threshold of the door and wrap you in a reassuring embrace. His arms would block out your gloomy thoughts and chase away shame and regret⏤all seemed worth it if it kept him close to you. The stars looked down on your love. When the bells rang the hour of the owl, you indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, whispered sweet nothings or simply enjoyed the peaceful silence that the other's presence guaranteed. Sometimes, Aemond, lying on the bed with your head on his stomach, would read you stories with his hand buried in your hair.

And then, the hour of the Nightingale would sound, its tranquillity burning away in the first rays of sunlight. The enchanted interlude would close and you would spend the day dreaming of a life where sun and duty did not separate you.

Shame would reappear, its weight with it, and fear⏤tangible and vibrant⏤would turn your stomach.

The spectre of Floris Baratheon never left you. It haunted you. In the frescoes of camellias on the wall. In the bouquets of flowers dotting your quarters. In the venison served for dinner. The tales of her beauty reached you and left you bitter, but what they said about her quiet authority made your blood run cold.

She would come for you.

The Lady Baratheon occupied all your thoughts, so much so that you forgot about another much more dangerous threat.

One day, Alicent Hightower stalked into your room.

You dropped your embroidery in your lap and hastily sat up. The needle fell to the floor with a disturbing chime. The bell was tolling⏤this farce had gone on far too long and it would now end.

The Dowager Queen dropped a small leather bag on the table. Its contents clinked and masked your gasping breath for a second. Your heart was pounding against your temples. Soon, the air would run out. Already your throat was closing up and you were struggling to swallow.

“What is it?" you asked weakly.

“Five thousand gold dragons. Enough to buy you a new life, far from the Keep, far from Westeros.”

Away from my son, she meant.

“I won't leave Aemond.”

He needs me, you thought.

“The Prince Regent does not need you," the Queen scoffed as if she could heard your mind. “He is engaged. Or have you forgotten that? Whoring yourself in the way you do… It would appear so. Have you thought about the repercussions of your actions when people find out about you? The risks it means for Aemond? Your very presence here jeopardises this entire war.”

“I have tried to–”

“He does not love you, you fool. He just wants a cunt to fuck without having to spend a single penny.”

You recoiled, surprised to hear the famously pious queen speak so vulgarly.

War transformed souls. It made them ugly. Alicent Hightower’s wide eyes and pursed lips twisted her face into a terrifying expression.

She sighed and, for a moment, her features became those of a compassionate woman.

“I don't know what… hold my son has over you," she continued in a calmer voice, “but you seem smart enough to understand this will end badly. You must leave. Take the gold and let us be done with this farce.”

The door slammed against the wall before you could even consider the proposal.

Aemond reached your side with a confident stride.

“What's going on here? Mother?”

When the latter did not answer, he looked to you for answers. You lowered your head, unable to bear the look of concern in his purple eye any longer.

It fell lower, onto the table and the leather purse.

“What is the meaning of this?” he raised his voice.

Silence stretched before Alicent Hightower relented.

“You cannot… support a lowborn in such manners, Aemond. The girl must go.”

The Prince ignored his mother and took you in his arms. His nose nestled under your ear as his hands buried themselves in your hair. He guided your head into his neck and whispered comforting words, which you could not hear. You did not care. His familiar scent embraced you and brought tears to the corners of your eyes. They wet your cheeks and his collar.

You should never have come here.

“Out.”

His mother protested.

“Imagine the shame for your future wife, the Lady Baratheon! For her house! If we lose Storm's End because of... because of this w–”

“Hold your tongue and leave.”

“Aemond, if you do this, we are lost!”

“Get out!”

Footsteps retreated. A door slammed. Aemond sighed. His hand drew abstract symbols on the back of your head for a moment before encouraging you to look at him.

“Oh, my love," he said, seeing your misty eyes. “All is well now. She will not hurt you any more.”

The danger you had put yourself in was greater than you had thought. Fear dried your mouth and exhausted your words. You stammered a few excuses before taking a deep breath. Your Prince's fingers did not weaken. They continued to comfort you and, at last, gave you the courage you needed to finally speak.

“Maybe I should return to Flea Bottom. I–”

“No," Aemond’s voice cracked.

His hands framed your face and pulled you closer until your noses were touching.

“You are not leaving me.”

His lips were harsh, covering every inch of your skin. He kissed the bridge of your nose, your warm cheekbones, your wet eyelids. Tears ran aground in the cracks of his lips and dried up under his exquisite tenderness. No beauty spot, no eyelash, was spared. His lips erased his mother's words and the doubts in your heart.

“You belong here, with me. I do not care for blood or war. I only wish for your love.”

Aemond filled the space between your mouths. His hands reached down and grasped your breast. He feasted on your lips and the taste of them like a hungry man. Tingles caressed your spine and tickled your lower abdomen. You rolled your hips, searching for his, but your lover pulled away.

You didn't want him to stop.

The Prince shushed your complaints and pushed you to the bed. Your back bounced on the goose feather mattress. Eager to feel his skin against yours, you sat up and tried to pull him to you, but Aemond took a step back. A petty smile stretched his lips as he heard you whimper. He ignored you and stood silent, admiring you. His eyes, now black, gazed down at your body, contemplating its shape and softness.

“Aemond, please…”

Your lover grabbed an ankle and kissed it. You moaned. He moved up your calf, caressing your knee and digging his fingers into your thighs before spreading them apart. His teeth nipped at the flesh, which his tongue immediately soothed. Your breathing quickened and breathy moans fell from your swollen lips, intoxicated by his touch. He skipped over your dripping cunt, his hands grazing your hips and sides.

Suddenly, Aemond stopped touching you, placed a farewell kiss on your belly and sat up on his elbows.

“I will take care of everything, my love. You will never have to fear for your life. It is mine to cherish, mine to love, mine to protect," he said before reaching up to capture your lips with his. “Mine.”

“I love you," you sighed.

Aemond smiled, as he did every time the words fell from your lips. One could not get used to the sweetness of love. It forever stirred the heart and soothed the soul. Your Prince placed a chaste kiss on your lips before moving down and disappearing between your thighs.

His words vanished in desire and pleasure. You forgot them the next day, when the hour of the Nightingale struck.

You should have known that Aemond Targaryen would keep his promise.

Three days later, the Lady Baratheon was found dead in the Kingswood, impaled on a stag's antlers.

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paranoiastudio · 6 months ago

Text

His wife

pairing: Aemond х Tully!wife

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, lactation kink, cream pie

word count: 1,7k

English is not my first language, sorry about mistakes

The rustling of ancient tome pages breaks the silence of the room, merging with the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Night has long since come into its own, but Aemond is in no hurry to go to sleep, studying chapter after chapter, practicing his High Valyrian. The dinner that the maid brought a few hours ago has already cooled and remained untouched.

A loud clap of thunder tears the prince from his thoughts and he belatedly realizes that it was the roar of Vhagar, hungry for flight. But even this noise did not prevent the Targaryen's sensitive hearing from catching something else. The door?

- I told you not to disturb me. - Without turning his head, Aemond returns to the book, bending even lower than before.

- Yes, I was told your words, but I thought that you would make an exception for me... Husband.

Your voice penetrates the prince's head like a sweet melody and he straightens up in his chair. Quiet footsteps are heard behind you, you came barefoot, probably just got out of bed, again not finding your husband nearby.

A light scent of cinnamon and lily fills the space around Aemond and he enjoys the elusive warmth that your presence gives him. His wife... His sweet wife, always so kind to him, always reasonable in public and burning with passion next to him. And only next to him.

- Will you allow me to stay here? - Aemond nods and you find yourself in the chair opposite, straightening out a large sleeping robe for your figure. The blue fabric was decorated with silver threads that formed silhouettes of large and small fish.

- The colors of your house suit you. - A white nightgown was visible from under the robe, the thin lace clung to your chest so seductively that the prince had to make an effort to look away.

- My home is now the Targaryen house. - You smile at each other. - Are you going to sleep tonight?

- It was in the plans. - Aemond shrugs and picks up another book.

- Sounds promising. - You roll your eyes and put your feet up on the chair, like a child. - We haven't been together for so long, since...

It's been half a year since your son was born, maternal cares have not left you, while Aemond was busy with state affairs and only occasionally saw you and your boy.

The maester recommended waiting with intimacy, you needed rest after a long and rather difficult birth. Every day, looking at yourself in the mirror, you could not help but regret your beauty, which now seemed to have faded.

You couldn't help but worry about your marriage: Aemond was so rarely around, and Aegon, on the contrary, hung around more than usual, throwing his barbed remarks at his brother.

- Do you still love me? - Aemond's violet eye immediately pierces you. - If you don't love me anymore, then just tell me not to expect what is not available to me.

Targaryen rises from his seat and kneels before you, clasping your small and cold palms in his large ones.

- No one will ever make me abandon you and you know it. I swore to love you and I love you, do you remember?

Even before the ceremony in the sept, Aemond swore to you, his bride, his love and fidelity. He himself chose you among all and never regretted his choice, it is unlikely that there was a more suitable woman.

- I remember, but...

- No "but", my love. - Aymond touches your hair, which falls in a thick cascade over your shoulders. - And I do not want to hear doubts.

You wanted to download something else, but the prince kisses you, as if deliberately cutting off the paths of retreat. You grab his beautiful face and kiss him back.

It was as if for the first time: Aymond kissed you with passion, pressing closer and closer, your lips seemed to tingle from the intensity of his closeness. His warm tongue slid into your mouth and any doubts in his words disappeared. He touched you as always, gently and lovingly.

You leaned back, the hard back of the chair did not allow you to fall, when Aymond, standing between your legs, opened the heavy robe. The nightgown, the object of his attention, hugged your tender body so beautifully, not hiding you from her husband's gaze. Aymond's gaze slides from the bottom up and immediately notices two wet spots on your chest, milk was still flowing.

- You are so beautiful... - Throwing your legs over his shoulders, Aemond rolls up your shirt to your waist and pulls you closer. - My beautiful, beloved wife.

A wet kiss to the epicenter of your arousal makes you shudder, you squeeze the wooden arms of the chair and slightly lift your hips. Aemond immediately grabs you under the buttocks and presses closer, burying his tongue in your swollen and needy clitoris.

Slowly, he runs two fingers along the wet folds and slightly stretches you, without stopping the movement of his tongue. You play with his blond hair and almost purr from the sensations, you did not hope for this in the morning.

- I will fill you again, dear wife. - Aemond moves his fingers faster, smirking at the squelching sound that your aching cunt makes. - If I could, I would stay inside you forever.

- Aymond, please... - His words spurred you on, your husband's praise always gave you confidence. - I...

- Cum for me, wife. - Aymond doesn't take his eyes off you, continuing to fuck you with his fingers and lazily swirl his tongue over you. - I'll catch you, my love...

Your eyes close on their own, as if a bucket of water had been poured over you: your breath caught, and your limbs were shackled by a sweet spasm. You involuntarily press yourself against your husband, not at all embarrassed by the fact that you are literally rubbing your wet, hot pussy against his face.

Aymond doesn't show any displeasure, he continues to caress you until you calm down in his arms. He doesn't miss the fact that your breasts continue to flow with milk and have almost completely wet your nightgown.

- You are amazing. - Aymond licks his lips and lifts himself up so that your faces are level, the fabric of his pants rubs against your still sensitive pussy and you gasp, pulling him closer. - My beloved. Mother of my child.

Aymond's hand slides along your thigh, feeling how you tremble, but you do not shy away from his hand, trustingly accepting the caress. Aymond cannot help but walk over his favorite places: your hair and shoulders, your plump and heavy with milk and desire breasts, your thin ankles.

- Please, husband, make me a mother again. - You move your hips, leaving wet spots on your spouse's clothes.

Aymond lowers his pants just enough to expose his already erect member. He is still kneeling in front of you and pulls you so that he can comfortably settle between your plush thighs.

You feel his heat, dripping onto Aemond's cock and taking it easily as he fills you in one smooth motion. It's so tight and hot inside that the prince freezes and closes his eyes, trying not to cum right then and there.

You whine and squirm beneath him, but Aemond doesn't move, watching you with a cheeky smirk. He always loved to see what desire did to his sweet, kind wife.

- Aemond, why are you... - You huff angrily, pushing your unruly hair out of your face. - Please, let me...

- You will have everything you want, my dear. In time... - Aemond runs a finger over your lips and you immediately grab him, sucking the finger into your mouth. - So needy...

- Kostilus... Kostilus, valzȳrys... - The words come out of your mouth surprisingly easily, you have long studied High Valyrian, wanting to communicate with your husband in the language of his ancestors.

You see the effect your words have on him: Aemond's healthy eye darkens even more, he licks his lips and falls to your breast, biting and kissing the tender flesh, still wet with milk.

His tongue collects the droplets and finds a hot, swollen nipple, absorbing the milk and easing the pain in you're full tits.

- Gods. - You pull your husband closer, running your fingers through his blond locks. - Aemond, please...

The prince pulls away from you and settles himself more comfortably, distributing his weight on his elbows. You grip his strong forearms and shift, taking him even deeper.

A rough growl escapes your husband's mouth, he catches a fast rhythm, filling you so perfectly that you were ready to cry with pleasure. A white ring gathered at the base of his cock, demonstrating your desire.

- My sweet wife. - The fact that Aemond could speak so smoothly amazed you. - My beautiful, sweet wife, the most beautiful woman in the world. Fuck!

Aemond penetrates especially deep and you close your eyes, feeling how he hits the right spot again and again, pushing you to the edge.

- Aemond, I... just a little more, kostilus... - Targaryen fucks you, the chair creaks under you and you fall over the edge when Aemond's thumb touches your clit.

- Yes, that's it, my girl, cum on my cock, show me how much you want me. - The grip on your hips tightens and you only accept what your husband gives you. Your pussy pulses along Targaryen's length, as if sucking all the seed out of him.

- I love you... - Your whisper does not go unnoticed, and Aemond cums, crushing your lips in a greedy kiss.

Sweat covers your body and your legs ache slightly from the awkward position, but the unique feeling of fullness and satisfaction overpowered all the inconveniences.

- Wait. - You stop your husband, not allowing him to leave your body. - Stay.

Aemond slowly softens inside you, feeling the fruits of your love flow out of you. Slipping out, he pushes his seed into you with his finger, catching your quiet sighs.

- Don't you dare think again that I don't love you. - Aemond grabs your chin and turns your face to him. - You are all I have and I will never, do you hear me, never betray you.

You wipe a drop of milk from your husband's chin and smile tenderly at him, accepting Aemond into your arms.

- And I love you, my dragon. - The warmth of this closeness calmed your heart, which had been gripped by fear for the past few months.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon imagine #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #imagine #smut #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #hotd #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen x you #aemond smut

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 months ago

Text

Cut Deep

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, violence, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Bad news brings the worst out in Logan. [reader is a mutant who can see emotions]

Characters: Logan Howlett (Wolverine)

Note: since this is my first time writing this character, I'd especially appreciate some extra feedback

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

“So, me and Scott just wanted to let everyone know we chose a date!” Jean is ecstatic. You can feel her happiness radiating from her. Despite how often you try to block those vibrations out, hers are so strong, you can’t. “And we’ll send out the invitations soon. Be sure to RSVP! And we know you all can make it because it will be right here at the mansion.”

She beams as Scott drapes his arm around her shoulders. They are such a cute couple. Perfect. Everyone on the team loves them. Well, everyone except for the one person roiling with black clouds of spite.

You glance over at Logan as he stews by the door. He stands with his burly arms crossed, his biceps straining in his leather jacket. He glares at the happy couple and curls his lip. Everyone also knows that he has a rotten infatuation with Jean, too. You feel bad for him really.

He catches you staring before you can tear your eyes away. He tilts his head and narrows his eyes. You quickly look away and swallow. You get up and go to Jean and Scott.

“Congrats, guys,” you smile, “let me know if you need any help with planning.”

“Thank you. Of course,” Jean smiles as Scott echoes her.

You make room for another well-wisher and back away, basking in the good energy all around. Well, mostly. You feel Logan steaming still but you refuse to look at him. You know how he gets when he’s upset. You don’t need to be able to see into his mind to know he’s pissed off.

As the room converges on the happily engaged couple, you opt to leave before the noise can get too much. You’re always a bit more sensitive with the extra effort of trying to block out the sounds that you don’t want to hear. It’s like a buzz on the other side of a wall. If the door cracks open, it will all blast in like a sonic wave.

You go into the library and reclaim the book you set left carelessly open on a leather armrest. It’s a history of mutants written in the 1700s. A secret tome Professor Xavier collected among his endless search for compatriots, both past and present.

Some you know from the history taught in schools for non-mutants. Like the queen accused of witchcraft or the countless people executed for the very same. Emperors who’s legacies are chalked up to folktale and superstition over the reality of their beings.

You sit up as you sense the shift in the air. That greyness seeps in before the door opens. You know who it is already yet you’re surprised to see him enter. Logan scowls as his eyes pinpoint at you. His rage continues to burn hotter and hotter.

“Oh, hi,” you close the book, “sorry, did you need the library--”

“I need you to stop tryna poke around in my head,” he growls.

You flinch as you stand slowly, “I... I don’t do that. Those are the rules. I stay in my own.”

“I saw you staring,” he accuses.

“I just looked. I could... feel. That I can’t control,” you explain. “Sorry.”

“Feel what? Huh? What do you think you know?”

You clear your throat and shake your head. “Nothing, I don’t know anything.”

“Damn right, you know shit all, little girl,” he stomps over to you.

You gulp as you stare back at him. Logan, Wolverine, X-Man. He’s one of the most admired and well-known mutants alive but that’s all you know of him. You’ve seen him hundreds of times in the mansion, but only in passing. He never wanted to talk to you, only Jean. As far as you knew, he didn’t even know you existed.

“That’s correct,” you agree.

You peek down at the book in your hand. You should put it back. You sniff but as you go to turn, he rips you back by your upper arm. His grip is steel. You face him and wince as he squeezes enough to make your bones ache.

“You think I’m what? Some pathetic creature that’s slathering over another guy’s girl?” He barks.

You shake your head, “nope. No. I wouldn’t... know.”

“You fucking wouldn’t,” he grits, his fingertips pushing into your tender arm. You let out a squeak. “Me? What about you? Always around. Riding her fucking coat tails. All for what? Cause you can tell when I’m having a bad fucking day. Every day is fucking bad.”

You stare at him. A vein bulges in his forehead, another in his neck, and he’s slightly red with his fury. You don’t understand why he’s mad at you. Well, people often don’t aim their emotions in the right direction. Often, there’s too much for them to feel and it just spills over.

Logan’s aura deepens to a thick black. Darker and bolder than anything you’ve ever witnessed. It tendrils around you as you squirm. You clasp onto the book and try to wiggle free as the blood throbs in your arm.

“Ouch. Please, let me go. I wasn’t meaning to--”

“You’re never going to be her. You know that? You won’t even be an X-Man. You’re just one of Charles’ pets.” He reaches for the book and rips it from your hand. “He keeps you in your birdcage and you flutter around and read these stupid things.”

He tosses the book onto the floor and steps closer. You step back and whine. He keeps on until you’re against a shelf.

“You’ll never be her and I’ll never have her,” he grits out. “So, we’ll compromise.” He grabs your neck and you writhe and whimper. “What do you feel now, huh?”

A wisp of red tinges the black fog unfurling from his broad shoulders. More anger but something more. Lust. Love is a delicate pink or a pale purple, but lust is a deep and lurid crimson. Mixed with his rage, it is something more. It’s a tainted hue.

“I can pretend. You should try to do the same.”

“Please,” you press your hands against his stomach.

“Don’t try that shit,” he drags his other hand down your arm and puts his knuckles to your side. He lets his claws out just enough to jab you. “You can’t get in my head. Professor made well sure of that.”

You squeak and shake your head, “I wouldn’t-- Logan, please--”

“Shut your damn mouth and pull your pants down. I ain’t got all day,” he snarls.

“What?” You bat your eyes as they glisten. “No, no, what are you--”

His claws poke you again, easily piercing your shirt and scratching your skin. You lean back into the shelf as you peel your hands away from him. He glowers at you as he releases your neck. He crowds you in as you wait just a moment longer, hoping, wishing he would go.

You lower your hands cautiously. You drop your gaze, humiliated. You shake as you hook your thumbs under your waistband and push your leggings down. You gulp as your eyes tingle.

He grabs your shoulder and spins you to face the shelf. You let out an oomph as you catch yourself against the books. He trails up to the back of your neck and pinches. You squeal into a sob. Your disbelief bubbles to horror. You brace the wood as he yanks on your panties.

“Fucking girl,” he mutters. “Lookin’ at me... what d’ya fucking know?”

“Logan--”

“Stop saying my goddamn name.” He shoves your head so it hits a shelf and you groan. Ouch.

You close your eyes and lean your forehead on the wood. Jean says you need to breathe. Centre yourself. It’s hard when you’re terrified.

You inhale, taking in his emotion, his anger, even a tinge of that other desire that drives him so slap your ass. He digs in his nails as you babble. You gather the black cloud and blow it out.

He hisses and recoils as it ripples off of you like fire. He growls and as you go to turn, he sweeps your feet out from under you. You flail as you fall, landing on your elbow so it throbs. You whine and roll onto your stomach. You drag yourself over the floor as he clutches his head and snarls.

“I told ya not to try anything,” he barks.

“Please, please, I didn’t do anything.”

He steps over you and falls to his knees. He straddles you as you claw at the floor, pushing your toes down as you try to escape him. He swats the back of your head so hard your vision blurs. His anger darkness the room and disorients you.

You’ve never felt anything so intense and you feel everything. Love, joy, pain, grief, confusion... fear. His anger strangles you as he forces your head down to the floor, leaning his weight on his head as he pins you.

He raises himself on his knees and shifts. You kick out, thrashing your arms. You open and close your hands and clamp shut your eyes. You can do it. Take his anger in--

You scream as you’re scalded by the corrupt energy pouring from him. No, it’s too much. You’re not ready. All that training and you’re still weak.

You murmur at the floor, “no, no, please, no...”

He traces his hand down your ass and forces his fingers between your thighs. He feels around roughly, scratching your as he flicks along your dry folds. You gulp and heave. Your tears swell in an unstoppable flow.

You slap your hands on the floor and tense as he prods around, dipping a thick digit into your cunt with a grunt. Your legs distend and you push your toes down. He delves, in, out, deeper, harder, smashing into you.

He rips his hand away and you whine again. He leans over you, his hand stretching across your skull entirely. You can feel his strength in your neck. He bends, hot breath scalding your scalp with the flames of his wrath.

You weep as he brings his tip along your flesh and guides it around blindly. He puts more weight onto your head as he stretches you around his tip. You shriek and jut your arm out straight, the edge of the rug curling in your grasp.

“Help, someone! Help--”

He grabs your head with both hands and slams it into the floor. The reverberating impact fractures your voice and thoughts. He rams his hips down and impales you around his thick cock. You murmur as spittle leaks from your mouth and tears continue to smear your face.

He thrusts, holding himself at his limit and well past yours. He grips your skull tighter and tighter with each tilt. He huffs and puffs, growling and groaning as he tears you up from the inside.

Finally, he releases your head. The metallic shink of his claws cuts through the delirium of physical and mental anguish. The pain in your bones can’t compare to the dagger of his anger piercing through your soul.

He stabs his claws into the floor on either side of your neck. The adamantium grazes your skin, keeping you still for fear of cutting deeper. You wheeze and go rigid as he rears back and slams down harder and harder. His flesh clasp louder with each cruel descent.

The black cloud creeps over the floor like heavy fog. It crawls up the walls as a glimmer of red weaves through it. He ruts deeper and deeper, the motion jarring you so that his claws scrape away the skin at your neck.

He bends over you, curling his shoulders as you feel him tense. He exhales as the blackness covers the ceiling and casts you into shadow. You reach to grasp at his claws, slicing your palms helplessly as you cling on.

He thrusts until you feel him in your guts. Once, twice, several time with all the hatred he can summon. He growls and trembles as he spills into you, a heat hotter than even his boiling rage.

Your hands slip from his claws and you spread your bloodied palms on the carpet. You quake in horrified sobs. He buries himself as he lays his entire weight over you limply. He puffs as he dislodged the metal from the floor.

He hangs his head next to yours and sneers, “it shouldn’t be him, Jean.”

You hold your breath. You can’t speak or move for fear of reminding him what he’s just done. Or worse, reigniting his assault.

He groans and slides out, flipping off of you to sit on his ass. He rests his arms on his bent knees and sighs. You watch the black haze dim to a dull grey. He’s still angry but he can contain it. The storm has calmed but it's far from over.

#logan howlett #dark logan howlett #dark!logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #fic #wolverine #dark fic #dark!fic #marvel #x men

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honest-moth-of-silver-grove · 3 months ago

Note

hc for adrian having a girlfriend or s/o prior to his mother's death. they're human and maybe her apprentince or something. and the church takes her too, but before they can burn her at the stake, dracula shows up and rescues her because he knows lisa was fond of her. during adrians and draculas fight maybe she interbenes at a critical moments so drac doesnt kill him and alucard gets away but she's now a prisoner of dracula w/n his castle. and maybe she befriends the generals?

A/N: Aw, man. Sometimes I wonder if Lisa did have an apprentice, that maybe Dracula wouldn’t be as anti-human as he ended up being, or if she could start to turn him to see the error of his ways sometime before Alucard and Dracula end up in Adrian’s childhood bedroom.

Apologies for the delays in updates. But my brain went WILD with this request so it’s a long one, I hope that makes up for the less frequent posting. Anyway, I hope you enjoy these somewhat bittersweet (then depressing then bittersweet again) headcanons! (Also this is unbeta-ed and prob grammatically messy as hell, so read at your own expense lol.)

Word Count: 6.2k

TW: Canon Typical Descriptions of Graphic Violence; Brief Mentions of Sexual Violence; Canon Death; Descriptions of Torture (the church is high-key fucked up here) 

Adrian W/ A Human S/O Reader (Who’s Also Lisa’s Apprentice, Prior to Her Death):

━━━━━ ❂ ━━━━━

The Beginning:

Okay, so let’s get one thing straight… FIRST OF ALL, Lisa would adore you!!! Like, you make her baby boy happy and you’re smart??? What else is there to it? And then to top it all off, you’re super sweet and kind and interested in learning about medicine and the world around you!

Lisa meets you once over dinner and she’s already planning the wedding in her head.

Adrian is smitten, because of course he is, but in an adorable, somewhat restrained way. He doesn't have a lot (ahem, ANY) experience in this department, so he’s hesitant to take things forward with you, mainly because he doesn’t want to scare you off or make you suspicious about what he is. (It’s hard to make out with someone when you have two big vampire fangs in the front.)

Adrian is young, like you. So, on top of all the complications, he feels no need to rush things. Sure, he’s heard a few whispers here and there about Dracula having a son, a son who according to rumors and gossiping villagers is to rise as the antithesis of Dracula. It’s all silly superstition, but it does stay fixed in the back of his mind. What would this future legacy mean for his relationship with you? And, should it ever come to pass, would you even be a part of it?

That’s neither here nor there though, and in the meantime, the two of you simply enjoy the talking phase. You get to learn more about each other's interests, and beliefs, but mostly, you spend time in proximity to one another— you remain busy attending to his mother, learning all you can about healing while he, just a table over, spends his time rereading one of his many favorite tomes.

I honestly don’t see you meeting Dracula until you and Adrian are like a fully committed couple. I’m pretty sure you would have to have been Lisa’s apprentice for a while and/or lived with the Tepes in their Lupu cottage for months before Lisa finally breaks through Dracula’s protests and makes him officially meet you.

I don’t think that meeting would happen in Lupu either. No, I imagine it would have to take place at Dracula’s castle, just in case you were to freak out, you’d have no way of escaping and telling any others.

I can almost see your reaction being similar to Lisa’s upon first entering the castle, especially if Adrian is already at your side. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Dracula is terrifying, but there’s also a giant telescope in the next room calling your name so….

Much to Adrian’s relief, this newfound information doesn’t make you frightened of him at all, if anything, it simply reignites your fascination with him. You throw rapid-fire questions at him: If he's part vampire, how come you’ve seen him eating human food? Does he need both food and blood to satisfy each of his halves? If he needs blood, he could take some of yours you know…

Your penchant for learning softens Dracula a little. For a brief time, he wonders if, perhaps, it was as Lisa said, that the humans could change, that humanity was changing for the better.

He sits across from you at their grand dinner table, watching you intensely as you and Adrian talk about the recent literature you’ve read. You’d no doubt feel Dracula’s all-powerful gaze on you, making you turn to him and… Wait, did you just smile?!

You’ve got guts, Dracula will give you that.

Knowing the family secret, you can’t exactly break up with Adrian, nor do you have any desire to. I wonder if Dracula would have rings made for the two of you, maybe commission a new family portrait or two.

You stay with Lisa in Lupu during Dracula's travels. Adrian is around, although he's always off between the castle and their cottage, so you never feel entirely alone or vulnerable. Your life is perfect! It’s better than you could have ever imagined!

That is, until…

━━━━━ ● ━━━━━

The During:

When the Church comes to take Lisa, you beg them to see reason. You cry and scream, hell, you even try to fight your way out at one point, only for both you and Dr. Tepes to be overpowered by the Church’s henchman.

The two of you are taken, violently, to Targoviste, where you’re thrown into dark, damp cells with little to no light. Freezing, you huddle together for warmth, each trying your best to reassure the other, that all will turn out well. Adrian was still around, right? He’ll have to come home to find you missing, he’ll come and rescue you. And Dracula was due to return soon, correct? Surely, they’ll come. Surely, they’ll stop this madness.

It’s a few days later, after hours of interrogation and brutal torture that you realize with a heavy heart, that no one is coming to rescue you. And what’s worse, that these so-called men of the cloth cannot and will not listen to reason. You’re starved and beaten, your hair is sliced off so close to your skin, that they take bits of your scalp with it in some places. And despite initially being imprisoned with Lisa, you find yourself being separated from her for longer periods.

The men try everything to get you to turn on her. They tell you if you recant her wicked ways now, say she used her evil magic to trick you, your sentencing will be easier. You could still live— they dangle betrayal in front of you as a last lifeline. You don’t take it of course. You love Mrs. Tepes, and you know she’s no witch. You muster what little might you have left, spitting at the men as you tell them to go to hell. You swear she’s innocent, that she knows nothing. Hell, at one point, you find yourself confessing to having manipulated her! You don’t think they buy it though, if the poor doctor’s screams from down the hall are anything to go by.

The night they light the pyre, the night of Lisa’s murder, you’re sick on more than one occasion. You scream your throat raw, begging them to burn you first! That she was innocent! That you corrupted her! That it was all your doing! But to no avail.

In a scene that could only rival the Crucifixion of Christ himself, you look up through tear-soaked eyes to see Lisa, enshrouded in flames, begging Dracula to show mercy on her killers, to forgive them, that they know not what they do. “I know it's not your fault,” she cries out, “But, if you can hear me, they don't know what they're doing! Be better than them. Please!”

You sob and wail, watching as your would-be mother-in-law is burned alive. You scream out for someone, anyone! To please help you, save you! With Lisa’s last words echoing in your mind, you can’t help but fear Adrian’s and his Father’s reactions, should they find you both killed.

Oh, gods…

You don’t know what makes you feel sicker… The barbaric display you’re witnessing now or the hypothetical one that threatens to wipe out all living people in Wallachia once Dracula learns of what’s happened. You need not wait long for an answer.

In a fury of fire and grandeur, Dracula’s head appears, molded in flame, demanding to know what has happened to his wife. You cry out to him, apologizing profusely, saying you begged them to burn you first! You scream out how they refused to see reason, they killed her for helping! Injudiciously, in your indignant anger, you plead with Dracula to release his fury on the priests who did this, to send them to hell to be tortured for eternity for this unforgivable transgression!

With the silent fury of a gathering storm, Dracula’s fiery visage speaks calmly as his anger grows concertedly less. "I give you one year Wallachians,” he finally decides. “You have one year to make your peace and remove any marks you have made upon the land. One year, and I'll wipe all human life from the land of Wallachia. You took that which I love, so I will take from you everything you have and everything you have ever been. One year."

No sooner than he spits out the words, a coil of fire bursts from his image, winding itself around your body. The guards surrounding you gasp and flee, avoiding the coil’s tail as it whips back and forth, hoisting you into the air.

The fiery coil burns your skin, and the smell of even more burnt flesh makes you gag. If you had any bile left over at all, you’re certain it’d come up yet again. The pain is like a thousand stinging nettles and boiling water constricting your arms and midriff all at once. Your vision grows blurry as you feel your body move through the air, your nostrils taking in one last wretched breath of sulfur and smoke.

━━━━━ ◉ ━━━━━

The After — Part One:

When you awake you find yourself laid, practically bare, a heap on the floor within Dracula’s castle— the evil Lord himself only feet away, raging over his magic well— as shards of his magic mirror whip around him at incredible speeds. Your head is pounding, it feels as if it might explode, and your arms… Fuck.

Where the supernatural coil grabbed you, your skin was red and raw, small pockets of blisters already beginning to form. Your arms tremble uncontrollably as you try to move them, the pain that’s consuming your nerves is far too intense to hold them steady as you sit up into an upright position.

It doesn’t feel real; nothing feels real. It feels like a nightmare. It had all been perfect, everything was perfect— you all were happy! How did it turn into such horror so fast?

Shakily, you rise to your feet and clutch the remains of your clothes to your chest in an attempt to preserve your modesty, although it’s more of a subconscious act on your part. Everything feels like it’s moving in slow motion, yourself included. It’s like the air is heavier here somehow, its weight filling your lungs and weighing you down.

A loud noise shocks you back to the present, nearly making you stumble over in fright. At least you would have, had Adrian not used his superspeed to catch you before you fell. One of his gloved hands grasps your left arm directly over the burn, causing you to let out a hiss. His rectangular eyes look wider than you’ve ever seen as he releases his grip, looking over your battered form.

“(Y/N) ...” Adrian says, his voice serious and quiet, barely a whisper.

You shake your head furiously, unable to trust your ability to speak without breaking. Upon Adrian’s gentle insistence, you feel your mouth opening, and the words slipping out, scraping against the back of your reddened throat as they exit your frail body.

“They killed her, Adrian…” you whisper, your voice quivering. “I, we tried to stop them, they just wouldn’t listen!” Somehow, your eyes begin to water again, despite your earlier certainty that your body had no water nor tears left in it at all.

“Once she realized they wouldn't listen to reason, she lied and told them I was innocent. She told them she had manipulated me, that I was just a child, that I didn’t know what I was doing, that she never got the chance to teach me!” A feeling of guilt consumes you as you speak the words aloud, and soon enough, your body is once again plagued by uncontrollable sobs.

Adrian listens intently to your words, his brows furrowed. You watch through teary eyes as a range of emotions flash across his face: anger, hurt, pain, sorrow, and finally… acceptance. Your beloved hardens his gaze, choking down whatever grief he may be feeling. At the present, Adrian knows, there are more pressing matters at hand.

You follow Adrian’s steely gaze back, seeing his Father where he is bent over his summoning circle, cursing in a language that is foreign to you before he switches back to Romanian.

“One year! It will take me one year to summon an army from the guts of Hell itself!” Dracula proclaims, promising to enact vengeance for the death of his love.

“No.” Adrian counters, slipping out of your grasp.

“Adrian,” you whisper, warningly. “Don’t—”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? That woman was the only reason on Earth for me to tolerate human life!” Dracula retaliates, enraged his son could even conceive of such lenience.

“Then find the one who did the deed,” Alucard proposes. “If you set loose an army of the night on Wallachia, you cannot undo it, and many thousands of people just as innocent as her will suffer and die.”

“There are no innocents! Not anymore! Any one of them could have stood up and said, ‘No, we won't behave like animals anymore.’"

“(Y/N) did.” Adrian points out. “She tried to take all the blame, in an attempt to save Mother’s life.”

Dracula looks over at you with blood-red eyes, contempt clear on his face. “And yet,” he snarls, “Here she stands, and my Wife, your Mother does not!” He hisses the last word, livid that out of the two of you, you were the one who survived.

With large, fearful eyes, you watch as Adrian closes the gap between him and his Father.

“I won't let you do it. I grieve with you, but I won't let you commit genocide.”

“Adrian,” you warn again.

The next bit happened all so quickly.

Faster than you could blink, you watch, helpless, frozen in horror as Adrian charges his father, his longsword drawn. Despite their vampiric speed being unrecognizable to the untrained human eye, you swear you watch the scene unfold in slow motion. Adrian charges first, but Dracula, roaring in a fit of rage, counters faster— his Father’s elongated claws slash diagonally across Adrian’s chest, before his fist pauses, still embedded deep within your lover’s gut.

You don’t have time to think before you act. To you, Adrian has the abilities of a god, but to his Father… It was clear there’d be no match. You have no clue how you got your hands on it, no idea as to how you even managed a successful hit, but the next thing you know, a triangular shard of magic mirror is impaled in Great Lord Dracula’s back, put there by your very hand.

Too terrified to even breathe, the only sound you can hear beyond your racing pulse is a wet, gory squelch as Dracula retracts his claws from Adrian’s body. You hear the spray of blood before you see it, a rush of bright red blood gushes onto the marble floor between Dracula and his son.

Standing at his impressive full height, Dracula turns ever so slowly, ever so menacingly, to face you. His pupils are that of a blood moon, his sclera so bloodshot they practically look as black as night. In that second, you know you’ve fucked up.

You cower as Dracula raises one hand to you, instinctively shielding your neck from his nasty bloodied talons. With surprisingly repressed strength, Dracula backhands you, the force sending you flying backward, smashing into the base of one of the curved bookshelves lining the walls of his summoning room.

With his focus still on you, Dracula stalks toward you. Knowing it’s now or never, you scream at Adrian to flee. “Run!” The words rip out of your raw throat, sounding like an eleventh commandment.

You see Adrian, previously stunned by his Father’s disregard for his life, holding together the gaping wound across his chest. He has no time to even spare you, his beloved, a last look before evaporating into clouds, his cloud of bloodied mist bolting for the door, fleeing as fast as his injured state would allow him.

Dracula only turns to watch as his son, his very possibly fatally wounded son, flees the confines of his castle. For a moment it is silent— only the sound of both yours and Dracula’s heaving breaths echo across the chamber.

Clenching his clawed fingers into a fist, Dracula says nothing as he too makes his way to the castle doors, leaving your bruised and broken body alone in the dark.

━━━━━ ❍ ━━━━━

The After — Part Two:

Somehow, Christ only knows, you find your way to one of Lisa’s old labs and do a half-assed job of patching yourself up. You find your burns and dislocated shoulder to be the most painful of injuries.

Thankfully, Lisa had taught you enough about setting a patient’s shoulder that you managed to smash it into an adjacent wall, popping your joint back in yourself. The burns you wrap in honey and milk-soaked linen gauze, wincing every time the bandages brush against your skin. It’s awful work, slow work too, but you must have managed it alright because you find yourself patched up and passed out in one of the castle’s kitchens a few hours (or days? had it been days?) after that.

You eat raw vegetables and berries— nothing that requires cooking. Lord knows you couldn't prepare anything successfully now even if you were to try. Eating your foraged meal in silence you debate your next steps. Do you go back home? Would your family even welcome you home after your long and unexplained absence? And if they, along with all the humans in Wallachia were ultimately to be driven from the land, did it matter anyway?

‘Oh god,’ you think. You have to warn them, have to make them flee before a year is up. But where would you go? Where could you go? Greater Styria was a possibility, although it was not by any means an easy journey, and the climate there was much colder than your folks were used to here. You shakily rise to your feet and set out to find a map within one of the Castle’s many libraries.

After a good night’s rest, you find your mindset with a newfound determination: you will go home. You were going to get your family on the move and then… Then, you’d come back here.

You knew, in all likelihood, that returning to Dracula’s castle after the fact entailed certain death. But you also knew, things would get worse if he were to be left alone.

Dracula may not have ever loved you for a daughter-in-law. Hell, he may not have ever loved anyone aside from Mrs. Tepes, but you promised her while huddling together that first night in those dingy cells that no matter what happened, should either of you get out alive, you would not leave Adrian and Vlad. “They need humans, (Y/N),” Lisa coughed into your ear. “And most importantly, humanity needs them.”

Dracula would resent your company, he would want to be rid of you. But you could not be rid of him, not after what Lisa had asked of you.

‘Besides,’ you thought, ‘Nobody should have to grieve alone.’

The journey back home to your parents is majorly uneventful. Sure, it was touch and go for a while, your body was exhausted after the ordeal you endured, and your wounds had gotten infected once or twice. Thankfully, you had the mind to pack with you any potential treatments you might need.

It felt good to be home, to be amongst family again. You couldn’t stop crying and hugging everyone when you first arrived. You kept the details to a minimum but made it clear they needed to be the hell out of Wallachia before a year. You told them you had found an apprenticeship, that the woman was kind to you, but while in Targoviste, you saw the burning of a witch, and soon after the face of Satan himself appeared in flames, threatening the crowd. It caused a panic, you see, and you had gotten trampled in the process.

You didn’t bother to explain that the woman you were learning under was this so-called witch and that this Satanic figure was her husband. Nor did you tell them of your half-inhuman partner. You knew had you told the family the whole truth, they might have cast you out as a devil worshiper and a liar and choose not to heed your words.

Your warnings spread through your extended family like how ivy creeps up a stone wall. A fair part of your relatives in the country believed you enough to agree to uproot their lives and settle outside of Wallachia: some settled on Syria, others had decided on Greece, Egypt, or Rome. The more skeptical ones who hemmed and hawed over the validity of your claims agreed to move into the countryside, a decent distance from any major Wallachian city or village.

When you were certain they’d heed your words, you told them you could not stay with them, your Mother wept for three straight days and your Father could do little to console her. As much as it broke your family’s heart, you knew that your need to return to Castlevania was larger than yours. You weren't just doing it for your family, you were doing it for every family across the land. You couldn't be selfish. Mrs. Tepes was the most selfless woman you had met, and she taught you well. If you meant what you said to her when you first met, that you wanted to help people, you would need to buck up and accept the consequences of that.

Your journey back to the castle was much more melancholy than your journey home. You could almost feel the whispers of the tortured souls Dracula had slain before blowing cold air into your ears, begging you to turn back. Nevertheless, you continued. You entered Castlevania to find you were alone, however, that would not be the case for long.

Months later you had fallen into somewhat of a predictable routine within the castle and its new occupants. Dracula had recruited two humans to serve as his war planners— men by the names of Hector and Isaac, respectively. You appreciate the levity Hector, and his undead pets bring, and you admire the intelligence and loyalty Isaac has. You just wish they weren’t going along with Dracula’s plan.

You tread carefully as you find the time to express to each of his Generals that you wish they wouldn’t go through with this plan. You explain humans are not the kind of species to give in to subjugation, they will revolt eventually. You suggest the vampires come up with some sort of tit-for-tat system with the humans instead like, for example, promised blood servants would equal vampiric protection for that territory.

It’s safe to say no one is impressed with your centrist ideals, so eventually stop taking part in the conversation. You silently hang around Hector, and just listen with a sorrowful expression, satisfied with knowing that if you can’t change the Generals' minds, you can, at the very least, make them somewhat uncomfortable.

When Carmilla arrives, you’re immediately put off by her little display of insolence. Unlike yours, her dissent doesn’t seem to come from a place of concern. You make a mental note to keep an eye on her.

It’s during the General's next argument that you receive a ray of hope: “We are quite certain that Alucard sleeps at Gresit.”

You feel your body grow lighter.

“So, that means,” you speak aloud to yourself more so to anyone else, “Adrian is alive?”

You’re met with a handful of annoyed glares from the other vampires as Isaac continues: “And that there was recently a Belmont there.”

Upon hearing Carmilla berate the others for not sending night creatures to the ancestral Belmont home, your smile falls and your improved mood falters. These Belmonts were famous monster hunters, famous enough to frighten your current vampire company. That means, if there was a Belmont in Gresit, at the same time as Adrian, as Alucard, whatever the hell he’s going by these days, it could prove disastrous for your love. For all you know, he’s still recovering from the wounds dealt to him by his Father. And if this Belmont, this monster hunter strikes first and asks questions later, he may accidentally kill the only living vampire in existence who stands against the very nature of this war.

‘How ironic,’ you think solemnly. Just as fast as the universe gives you hope, it rips it away once more.

You excuse yourself, and make your way towards Hector’s forge, aiming to distract your distraught mind with some cute reanimated pets.

Shortly thereafter, Hector joins you. He asks if you truly did not know Dracula’s son was still alive. You shake your head ‘no’, telling him how you had prayed every past night to any God who would listen, that they would send their holy armies and angels to guard him, but no, you had mostly just feared he was dead.

You spend the rest of the night talking to Hector about Alucard, Adrian as you knew him. How smart he was, how much the two of you used to laugh, and how much he looked just like his Mother.

“Perhaps that’s why,” Hector supposes, “Dracula could no longer bear to see him.”

You say perchance he’s right, conveniently leaving out the part where the Father and Son duo almost fought to the death right in front of you.

The conversation with Hector reignites something within you. You feel as if you had been praying all this time for an answer, and this was it. Alucard was alive, and so was Belmont. You understand now what needs to be done.

Your lover must once again fight his Father, and this time, he must win.

Your silent observations allow you to learn of Carmilla’s scheme fairly early on, as well as Godbrand’s demise at the hands of Isaac, yet all that time, you say nothing. You keep your mouth shut and your eyes down. If Carmilla divides Dracula’s army and court, she will inevitably make it easier for Alucard and Belmont to destroy him.

The Generals, and even Dracula himself, believe you are mourning the loss of your love for the second time, as his demise will be inevitable the moment he meets his Father and his armies— or at least, that’s what they assume.

When Carmilla has Hector send special night creatures to the remains of the Belmont home, you attach a letter around one of the creature's necks, hoping your love will notice it, and if he doesn’t, you pray he instinctively outwits the traps that await for him within his Father’s castle.

━━━━━ ❂ ━━━━━

Beginning Again:

The night Dracula chooses to move the Castle to Braila, you manage to speak with him one last time.

You bring him some tea, even though you know he won’t drink it, and you tell him, for what must be the hundredth time, how sorry you are about all that’s happened. You apologize for not being able to do more to save his wife. You tell him that if you could do it all over again if you were given a choice between who they should burn first, you’d demand it be you.

Dracula turns away from the fire to look at you upon hearing those words.

“She was fond of you, you know.” He says, sounding far away as if lost in a distant memory. “She was overjoyed at the thought of gaining a daughter”

You nodded along a hurt smile on your face. “It was my honor.” Gathering your courage you continued: “Even though it didn’t work out, I want you to know I loved your wife very much… And,” you kept going. “I love your son very much.”

Dracula said nothing. He simply turned his attention back to the flames within his study’s fireplace.

“It’s not too late, you know,” you prod gently. “If Adrian is alive, he could still come back, we could still be a family-”

“No!” Dracula’s low growl sent shivers down your spine.

For a moment you feared he would rise to attack you or perhaps berate you further, but no such action came. Instead, the former Great Lord Dracula’s shoulders deflated back to their hunched position, as he fell silent once again.

Quietly, you made your way back to your room, shutting and locking the door behind you. If you had any tears left at all, you would have shed them throughout the night. Instead, you merely lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if there would even be a tomorrow to awaken to.

Pleased to still be alive at this point, but feeling increasingly suffocated by this overwhelming sense of doom, you spend the next day cooped up in your room, on your knees, the rosary in your hand, whispering prayers of safety for your loved one. You couldn't explain it, but at the time, you felt compelled to recite prayer after prayer and reveal all the fears and worries in your heart.

You speak out to Death, to God, to all the angels and saints, and beg them to grant Adrian safe passage as he completes his task of saving humanity— it’s something his Mother would have wanted after all.

Amidst your fervent prayers, you feel the Castle shake and creak, but you soon realize something is off: it keeps jerking from side to side, several times, way too many to be a case of a single relocation. Your heart races, and in the pit of your gut, you know this is it:

The Alucard has come.

Your love has come back for you.

You scramble behind the door, poised with a wooden stake in hand (just in case, you never know), and wait.

And wait.

Following a crescendo of metallic crashes and screaming, you hear more crashes, this time lesser in intensity and they’re accompanied by the distinct scent of fire, sulfur, and burnt flesh.

It terrifies you, bringing such horrible memories of your almost demise to the surface. You look down at the burn scars on your arms and feel physically ill. Every time you shut your eyes to blink, you see the corpse of Ms. Tepes, burning alive right before you as if no time has passed at all, as if you’re trapped in the permanent hell of that memory.

The overwhelming ornery atmosphere in the castle only grows, seeming to suddenly flood your nostrils and every pore.

You watch in shock and horror as thousands of soot-colored transparent ghouls burst through your doorway, the shock of the impact sending you reeling into the bed. Tortured faces of all shapes and sizes circle you menacingly, before bursting through your room’s glass window, vanishing just as fast as they came.

Within an instant you feel… lighter, freer almost. It’s as if something major has changed, but you don’t know what.

Timidly, stake still in hand, you make your way down the castle corridors. Unfortunately, you have to take several detours, your regular route being cut off by giant holes in the architecture. A good portion of the castle looks like it had been hit with cannon fire.

You sincerely hope that whatever caused that damage is no longer rampaging around these halls, lest you stumble upon them yourself.

By the time you reach the throne room, the sun is just peeking out from behind the horizon. The sight of it flowing freely into the castle interior lifts your spirits with hope. Sunlight means no vampires. No vampires means…

You follow the originating path of the sun’s beams, finding three figures illustrated against the sunrise. One of them is a burly-looking man, with a large frame and broad shoulders. Another is a woman, at least, you’re fairly certain they’re a woman, with curly hair, dressed in flowing blue robes. And the third is….

You don’t even need a second glance to know who the third person is.

Crying out his name, you run towards your long-lost lover, almost losing your footing over all the debris covering the floor. But just as he would before, and just as he always would, your lover, Adrian, catches you before you can fall.

The two of you cling to each other for dear life, just silently sobbing, feeling grateful to be in one another’s embrace. You’re not sure how long the two of you stay intertwined like that, you just know however long it was, it could never be enough to make up for how much you missed him this past year.

“Adrian,” you clutch his coat, “I thought you were dead! I thought he had killed you! I was so worried.”

“He almost did,” the strange broad-shoulder man reveals in a teasing fashion. You watch as the robed woman elbows him in the gut.

“Alucard,” Adrian says, regaining your attention as he grasps your hands in his. “I am Alucard now.”

You look into his golden eyes, sensing while this is still very much the body of the man you loved, this Alucard before you, is not the same person that your Adrian was. After all this time, it feels like quite the loss, and yet, you cannot fault him for it. You are unaware of the journey he’s been on, of the sacrifices he’s had to make. God knows your character must have changed as well, living amongst a vampire court and necromancers for just under a year.

You back away from your love, temporarily ignoring his concerned expression.

“Hello Alucard,” you say, extending a hand, “My name is (Y/N). And I’d very much like to share a drink with you if you’d let me.”

“Don’ know about Alucard,” the broad man mumbles, gripping his side in pain, “But I’d very much like a drink. Or five.”

“Trevor!” The robed woman scolds.

“What?”

You smile at the three of them, feeling beyond blessed that your love has found such wonderful new friends.

When you had first fallen for Adrian, you assumed your family would consist solely of him, his mother, and his father, that you’d spend the rest of your days learning medicine in a little cottage nestled in Lupu. That simple life was to be yours. But now, it’s all changed. And Alucard is all that remains of that family you once loved.

You gaze out into the forest beyond the castle grounds, closing your eyes and sighing as you feel the morning’s sun on your face.

Yes, it was true Mrs. and Mr. Tepes were gone.

It was true that the old Adrian could never come back.

But if you had to choose a new life, a life here amongst a gorgeous castle, with your former lover and his two new friends, well… you doubted you could pick a better one than that.

A/N 2.0: WHY DID THIS TAKE ME SO LOOOONG? Who knows? Anyway, it’s here now. And hey— did you pay close attention to the symbols in the dividers? Go ahead and look back if you didn’t, just a silly little fun symbolism storytelling. Oh, also, I will finally be updating The Queue List to reflect all the asks I’ve since answered and posted to not confuse people checking on the status of their ask/new readers.

If you liked reading this, please REBLOG! Likes are great but reblogs spread my work much further.

If you really, really liked reading this, Consider Buying Me a Coffee <3.

#adrian tepes x reader #alucard castlevania #alucard x reader #alucard x you #alucard imagine #adrian fahrenheit tepes #adrian tepes #alucard #castlevania imagine #castlevania x reader

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illbegottenfaith · 2 months ago

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lucky pt 2 - theo nott x reader

after the Felix Felicis incident, your relationship with theo has dramatically changed, for better and for worse

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

a/n - by popular demand! rip my title tho the best alternative I could come up with was ‘feminine ass-kicking’ but idk if that’s too out there. also I’ve started part 3 too! (which should be the final part) this was kind of inspired by gilmore girls season 6 :)

tropes/warnings - academic rivals to lovers, angst, slow burn, miscommunication

word count - 2.1k

The Felix Felicis incident had given the both of you much to think about. Outwardly, you maintained the appearance that nothing had changed between the two of you, taking snipes at each other every now and then. But every night, before you’d fall asleep, your mind would wander back to that evening at the Astronomy Tower, the sight of Theo and the harsh contours of his face softened by the forgiving setting sun. Every night, he asks if you have anything else to say. Every night, you shake your head.

And as much as you’d like to pretend otherwise, things had changed between you. Theo became more reserved, somehow, less determined to spar with you. Your fights didn’t hold anywhere near the spark they once did. And you hated it. You hated that it bothered you, you hated that it upset you, you hated that it was all you could think about every time you were in the same classroom as him. It just wasn’t fair.

What also wasn’t fair was your entire group falling sick the day before an extremely crucial Potions project was due. They were all more than apologetic, but it didn’t change the fact that months worth of work to complete in one night if you wanted even a semblance of a chance at passing.

Which was how Theodore Nott found you in the library late one night, pouring over five gnarly tomes on Potions from the Medieval era, writing what looked like three essays at once. You flinched when you heard a noise near the bookshelves, and your mood wasn’t much improved when you saw who it was.

“Trying to read every book in one night, L/N?”

You wanted to roll your eyes. After weeks of stunted conversation, now that it was just the two of them, he was suddenly feeling chatty?

“I'm busy. Buzz off.”

Ignoring you, Theo crept closer, tilting his head to read what you were haphazardly scribbling.

“The Potions project? But we started that months ago. And it’s due tomorrow.”

You swept the papers up out of his sight. You were already in a testy mood to begin with and you were in no mood to have him crow over your bad luck.

“What part of ‘buzz off’ don’t you get?”

“Where are your groupmates?”

“Sick.”

“Sick?”

“They all went on some Hogsmeade trip together, the whole lot of them. They all caught it from each other and they’re supposed to be stupidly contagious.”

“But their reports should be fine.”

“They were, until Madam Pomfrey declared them a biohazard.” Your head was beginning to hurt from the bottled-up frustration. You knew it wasn’t their fault for falling sick, but now you had to pull an all-nighter just so you wouldn’t fail. You stood and walked past him to the shelves, pulling out any and every book that remotely looked like it might help.

You glanced at the clock, mentally calculating how much time you’d need. There was no way you could get it all done by 9 am. Feeling quite proud of yourself for successfully giving Theo the same cold shoulder he had been giving you the past couple of weeks, you walked to the library telephone and started dialing the number to Slughorn’s office. One of the only people who could help you now was Jeeves, Slughorn’s teaching assistant, provided he was in a good enough mood.

“Jeeves, hi. Yes, I know it’s late, but I was wondering if you could delay the Potions project submission by just an hour? I’m sure Slughorn wouldn’t mind. It’s just my entire team fell sick all at once, and Madam Pomfrey threw out everything they’ve touched in the past three days, including their reports. I know it's due 9 am but couldn’t you bend the rule a little, just this once? For me?”

You rubbed your forehead anxiously, an unpleasant expression on your face as you tried to follow whatever Jeeves was yammering about punctuality. When he moved on to the importance of personal accountability, you felt like you were going to combust if you didn’t shut him up soon.

“Y’know, Jeeves,” you interrupted with a dramatic sigh, dropping your voice, “just the other day I was thinking about that one Quidditch match you had played a couple of years back. Yes, that one game you subbed in for the Chaser? I have to say, you’re no slouch yourself out on the pitch. You sure look like you know your way around a broom. Yes, exactly, way better than those oafs on the team. I always thought it was a shame you didn’t make the cut - one hour. Yes, yes, that’s all I need. Thank you, thank you!”

You hung up, already feeling much more hopeful with the one-hour extension. All that was left to do was slave away for the rest of the night, and by morning you’d have a more than acceptable report ready.

“…what was that?”

You started, having nearly forgotten who was with you. “What was what?” You asked, half-distracted, once again absorbed in rearranging the layout of your Potions project.

“That, with the - ‘you look like you know your way around a broom?’ Really?”

You glanced at Theo, frowning. “Well, how do you get what you want?”

You turned your gaze back to the book splayed out in front of you, missing the brief look of longing that passed over Theo’s face. “Hmm. Bribery, mainly.”

“Right,” you said slowly, a hint of sarcasm in your tone underneath the flurry of activity. “That trust fund isn’t going to spend itself, now is it?”

“My trust fund doesn’t kick in ‘til I’m 25, tesoro.”

You wanted to kick yourself when your heart fluttered over the stupidly endearing pet name. You didn’t realise how much you missed it. “Oh, oh, of course. Mr. Moneybags here is just absolutely rolling in it even without his trust fund. How could I forget?”

“Mr. Moneybags? That’s the best you can come up with?”

You huffed without any real annoyance. You walked over to where Theo was lounging as he lazily watched you spin like a top between the bookshelves. He had the decency to sit up slightly as you approached and dumped the stack of papers into his lap.

“Look, Nott, I’m on a time crunch here. So either help me or get out.”

Theo looked up at you without a trace of mockery in his otherwise teasing blue eyes. You willed yourself to not look away.

“Yes, ma'am.”

You made the mistake of holding his gaze. A beat passed, then two. It seemed that it was surprisingly impossible for either of you to look away. Finally, you snapped out of it, mentally giving yourself a good shake as you hurried out of his magnetic field back to the table. If you didn’t know any better, you’d have thought you were flirting with him.

“Wha -?”

“Toast. From breakfast.”

You glanced around the room bleary-eyed, seizing Theo’s wrist a little harder than necessary as you blinked the sleep out of your eyes. As much as you hated to admit it, last night had gone better than you could have ever hoped. It helped to have another pair of hands and a brain that was almost as good as yours. Unfortunately, you must have nodded off at some point,

Cursing as you finally made out the time on his watch, you peeled off the piece of parchment stuck to your face and continued writing, even as every muscle in your palm protested. Theo rolled his eyes and stuck the toast in your mouth, which you mindlessly nibbled on for the next hour or so.

When you were finally done, you stuck your group’s names on the cover page and the two of you hurried down to Slughorn’s office a little before 10 o clock. Jeeves, good man that he was, was still in. But your relief was short-lived.

Jeeves did an insufferably exaggerated impression of reading the time as you walked in. “It’s 2 past 10. I’m afraid I can’t accept your submission.”

This was it. You reached your limit. You weren’t running on what was at most 2 hours of sleep just for some self-important dimwit of a teaching assistant to refuse your submission.

You grabbed the collar of Jeeves’ shirt, manhandling him with hours' worth of frustration. “Listen here, Jeeves. You will accept my group’s submission if you want to walk out of here with every part of your anatomy intact. You will take these essays I have here and you will accept them graciously, Merlin help you if you don’t.”

“What happened to using your feminine wiles?” asked Theo, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Yeah, well, now I’m more in the mood for a feminine ass-kicking. Jeeves, come on. ”

You only released him when Theo placed a calming hand on your wrist. He reached into his pocket, offering something to a very red-faced and highly affronted Jeeves.

“C’mon, Jeeves. Maybe we could make this more worth your while.”

You hesitated, torn. On the one hand, you were raised better than to bribe people or accept financial aid, especially when you didn’t really need it. On the other hand, this project was worth 40% of your grade and Jeeves was being a little bitch.

Jeeves mulled over the coins in his palm, taking his sweet time appraising them. Just as it looked like he was about to ask for something a little more, you slammed a hand on his desk.

“Alright, fine, hand it over.”

Once you’d finally successfully submitted your project, the two of you walked out of Slughorn’s office in a daze. Without the stress of the impending deadline to act as a buffer between you, a certain awkwardness started to set in. Theo had his hands in his pockets, rubbing at a scuffed patch on the floor with his shoe.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you started, but he waved off your protests. Still, no one pulls an all-nighter for just about anyone.

“So how much did you give him?”

Theo sighed. “L/N.”

But you were already pulling out your coin purse. “It can’t have been more than what I have on me now.”

“Y/N.” You stopped counting out your coins. He was looking at you strangely, like he didn’t understand what he was doing either. “Forget it. Really.”

Reluctantly, you pocketed your coin purse. A hysterical sort of giddiness was starting to set in. “We did it.”

“You did it.”

Maybe it was the long night of endless writing or your grumbling stomach. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you now, with a smile so sincere like he was genuinely so proud of you. Whatever it was, you took a step towards him, and then another before throwing your arms around his neck.

It was a little less dignified than you would have hoped, what with you trembling with barely any sleep and the vestiges of caffeine-induced adrenaline and him having the audacity of being a whole head taller than you since sixth year. But he steadied you before you could tip back, his arms resting around your waist. You had never shaken hands, much less hugged each other, but something about it felt so warm, comforting, familiar. The feel of his solid body pressed against yours didn’t feel so terrible.

But as you pulled apart, you caught sight of his expression, and your face fell. He wasn’t smiling like you, not anymore.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted out, immediately feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. He still wasn’t smiling, but he didn’t look angry either. He looked - you couldn’t tell how he looked. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear almost regretfully, before turning to leave.

“Don’t.”

Theo paused. He didn’t turn to face you.

“Don’t do this, Nott. Don’t be cold. Don’t be distant.”

He adjusted the shoulder strap of his satchel. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous. “I have Charms to get to.” He turned his head slightly but not enough to meet your gaze. “You should get a proper breakfast.”

And then he left, as if he had no idea what you were talking about. As if the last twelve hours hadn’t occurred. As if he hadn’t felt the void festering between you the past couple of weeks.

As if he didn’t care about you.

Part 3

#theo nott x reader #theo nott #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott angst

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 9 months ago

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the ravenous rupture

fused with the foe, chapter five

a/n: and that's it for fused with the foe! but don't you worry, our wonderful king and queen will return in both of the next instalments of the series ♡ (the release date for the next one is already up on the masterlist)

summary: “I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.”

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, smut, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, love confession, crying, kissing, loss of virginity, semi-public sex, manhandling, size kink, belly bulge, dirty talk, oral, fingering, handjob, pussyjob, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, aftercare

word count: 3895

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Raising yourself up onto your tip toes, your fingertip still didn’t even manage to graze the spine of the tome you were trying to reach, only the tall shelf it stood on.

But just then, before you could turn to get a chair to balance on, an inked hand came into view and grasped the book for you.

“The Biology of Soil: A Farmer’s Comprehensive Study of Dirt,” Barnes dryly read the title out loud, “sounds absolutely riveting.”

“Don’t mock,” you snatched the leatherbound tome out of the knight’s hand, “it is interesting!”

“Of course, it is, your majesty,” he bit down a chuckle, “my apologies.”

A soft laugh couldn’t help but bubble out of you as you exited the library, “you know, you remind me a lot of my brothers.”

Walking at your side, he shot you a squint, “is that a compliment?”

“Well, I meant it as so, but I guess it could also be interpreted as an insult, all depending on which brother.”

Sinking further back into the plush armchair, your eyes danced from star to star as they glinted back at you through the big library window.

The full moon was so bright that you hadn’t needed to light a candle in order to make out the sentences in the open book that rested in your lap.

But suddenly, the creak of the heavy double doors to the chamber found your ears and when you twisted your head to discover who it was, your frame immediately sprung up from your comfortable seat. The forgotten tome tumbled to the floor with a dull thump as the embroidered dressing gown you wore over your ivory chemise fluttered around your legs as you swiftly stood.

“Your majesty–, Steve, I mean, Steve,” you clumsily corrected yourself, “hi, hello.”

“Evening,” he simply smiled, slowing his stride as he watched you bend down to pick the hardback off the floor.

Hugging the book to your chest, you blew out a breath, “what–, uh…” you eyed the loose linen shirt he had sloppily tugged into his trousers, “what are you doing here?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged, “thought a boring novel might do the trick,” letting his fingertips kiss the ends of each bookcase as he neared you by the window, “what about you?”

“Yeah, I can’t sleep either,” a soft sigh flowed from your lips, “my mind just doesn’t seem to wanna settle down these days…”

A gentle furrow appeared to Steve’s brow, “what’s troubling you?”

“Ah, it’s nothing,” you placed the book down on the round side table by the armchair.

“If it’s keeping you up then it’s not nothing,” gripping the tall back of the chair, he rested against it as he gazed at your visage in the moonlight, “come on, you can talk to me.”

The knot in your chest tightened, “no, I can’t,” and you averted your gaze to the stone floor, “I really can’t…”

“Why?”

“Because–…” clenching your jaw in an effort to keep tears at bay, you briefly shot him a glare as you snapped, “because I just can’t, alright?” squeezing your eyes shut, you quietly muttered just beneath your breath, “gods… how long will I have to wait…”

Having apparently had better hearing than you’d thought, Steve then queried, “wait for what?”

Fluttering your eyes back open, you met his gaze and uttered sombrely, “…for it to pass…” feeling your heart thump painfully in your chest just from the mere sight of him.

A low sigh slowly seeped out of his lungs before his unwavering gaze averted to the upholstery of the chair, “…I hope you know that I’ve grown to care for you a great deal. You’re a very dear friend,” he uttered with the utmost sincerity, “and as a dear friend, I wish for you nothing but the purest of happiness. I want you to experience all of the great and wonderful things that life has to offer,” his ocean eyes then drifted back up to catch yours, “don’t let our union hold you back for any of that.”

Sucking in a breath, you asked, “what do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to think we have to have a conventional marriage, gods know we haven’t so far,” he added with a tilt of his head, “so, I just wanted to convey to you that if you ever want to be with someone else, at any degree, then you have my full support to do so.”

Averting your gaze, “…is that what you want?” you dug your nails into your opposite palm, “for us both to openly be with other people?”

“I don’t want you to be lonely and depressed,” fragments of desperation resonated in his tone, “you’ve already experienced more than one lifetime of hardships and I really don’t want this to be another one. So, when you fall in love, please don’t hesitate. You of all people deserve to experience that.”

“…I–…” a shaky breath escaped you, “I can’t–…”

“…you can’t?” he echoed in nearly a whisper.

“I can’t because–…” lifting your gaze, the library around you grew more blurry by the second, “because I can’t stop thinking about you,” you revealed, “from the moment that I wake to even the dreams that possess me at night. I can not shake you from my thoughts no matter how hard I try,” as you blinked, a tear escaped and rolled down your cheek, “Steve, I wish for you to experience those very joys you speak of just as fiercely. I just want you to be happy even if I’m not the source.”

Looking as if he was scarcely breathing at all, his gaze stayed fixed upon you as he uttered, “dove, why do you think I wish that for you?” your eyes grew wide at his confession, “I don’t wanna be with someone else when you are the one I want by my side,” his fingers faltered from the grip they had on the back of the armchair as his slow steps began to carry him closer to where you stood, “not just as my queen, but as my friend, as my conscience, as my judgement, as my heart,” his eyes glistened as he then declared, “I am yours, Y/n. I didn’t plan for it, I don’t even know when it happened or how, but I do know that it’s true.”

Closing the short distance that remained, you walked up and pulled him down as you began to rise up to your tip toes. As you crashed your lips against his, it didn’t take long before you felt his broad hands glide over your waist.

Breaking the kiss, you retracted just enough to catch the beguiling look in his eye. The corners of his lips drew up dreamily just as yours did right before you dove back in.

As your fingers weaved in his beard, so did his tongue as it danced against your own, making you lightheaded as your feet began to shuffle back, though you didn’t realise that you’d even been moving till your spine crashed against a sturdy bookcase.

Parting momentarily at the impact, a soft giggle swiftly followed your initial squeak the collision conjured. As his gentle chuckle echoed your own, Steve’s palm caressed down your features before he captured your lips once more.

When the fire inside of you crackled and burned too hot for you to ignore, you pulled back, a glossy string of saliva still kept you connected a moment before you gasped, “Steve, I–… I–…”

Resting his palms over yours as they clutched the top of his tunic, he tilted his chin back further, “what?” creating enough of a distance between you to truly check in.

But how you were going to ask of him what you desired remained a mystery, no matter how hard you scrambled your fuzzy mind. So instead, you wrapped your fingers around one of his wrists and slowly guided it lower.

“Dove…” he sucked in a breath as his gaze shadowed the journey you were taking his touch on, “do you wanna–…” finding your eye, he asked you softly, “you sure you know what it is you’re asking for?”

“Yes,” swiftly flowed out of you as you nodded dizzily, “I–… I know. I read the books, I read all of them, I know how it all works,” your rushed words conjured a lovely little chuckle from the royal, “I just–… please?” your hot breathed fanned across his features as he leaned back in close, “I–… I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you…” with your fingers still enveloped around his wrist, his touch slowly began to take over and to move on its own, “fantasising about what you might be like…” unhurriedly ghosting up and down the curve of your waist, “about what your touch must feel like…” each time creeping closer and closer to where you wished for him to caress, “how it differs compared to my own…” till his teasing touch ended each fluttering swoop with feather-light grazes at both the swell of your tits, as well as the lower part of your abdomen, just before he actually reached anything real, through still leaving you utterly dazed.

Leaning a forearm against the shelf behind you, he smirked, “…you think about me?”

“Every night,” you dug your fingers in the fabric of your chemise and pleadingly began to hike it up, “sometimes the sun doesn’t even manage to set before I need a moment alone… all because of you.”

As he then captured your lips in a fierce kiss, his wandering hand dipped under your thin shift before you’d even raised the hem completely. When his touch found your buzzing pearl, a whimper slipped from your lungs and vibrated against his tongue as your grip on the fabric faltered and it dropped to hang around his wrist like a curtain.

“Is this how you dreamed about me touching you?” he gazed down at you, smiling at the way you struggled to keep your eyes open.

Mind melting to ooze, you bubbled, “yes–, but also–, oh!” your brows knit together as he switched to circle your clit harder, “a-also–”

“Also how?” you could hear your want reverberate off the palace walls as he touched you, “did you dream about me kissing you down here?” holding your gaze, Steve then sank to his knees before you.

Your breaths came in ragged as you blinked down at him, “y-yes,” watching intently as he dipped his head under your gathered-up skirts. The sloppy pecks he then lavishly began to plant over your glistening petals felt like nothing you’d ever imagined, “oh, that’s–,” you let out a broken moan, “don’t stop, please don’t stop!”

Throwing your head back against the bookcase, Steve’s grip buried in your crumbled clothes as his soft tongue dragged through your desperation.

Letting go of your chemise with one hand, it drifted down your hip. Enclosing his lips around your throbbing clit, he sucked down hard as his fingers joined to sweep through your mess, only parting from you for a breath, “gods, you taste so fucking good,” before he eased one digit inside your clenching cunt.

You barely noticed that it was falling before the robe you wore slipped off your frame and tumbled to a puddle on the floor, leaving you with only the thin shift and the king’s hot kisses for warmth in the cold night.

“I can’t believe this is actually happening,” you whimpered, reaching down to thread your fingers in his honied hair as a second finger sneaked in beside the other, fucking you gently with them.

You nearly wiggled out of his grasp when his luscious laps unravelled you completely, but somehow the monarch managed to follow your every squirm till he softened his efforts and replaced them with a few soft pecks over your sensitive clit that made your whole form twitch.

Fluttering your eyes open, you met his gaze as he raised the back of his hand to wipe some of your juices from his beard.

Breathlessly, you uttered, “get up,” and as he did, you didn’t waste any time before your eyes drifted from his tender stare, “take your shirt off.”

With one hand, he reached back and tugged the tunic off of his head, swiftly letting it drop to the floor and join the fabric puddle already at your feet.

For a moment, he didn’t give in on his urge to close the short distance between you, simply stood there and let your stare study him, learn the galaxy of his flesh, every little mark and scar that told the story of his past.

With your eyes still glued to the burliness of his fuzzy chest, you uttered, “tell me again,” before lifting your gaze up to meet his, “tell me again so that I know this is real.”

Reaching out to grasp your right hand, he said, “it’s real,” stepping closer as he placed your ceremonially scarred palm over his heart, “I’m real, this is real,” his fingers on his own marked hand, which clasped over yours, gently brushed over your knuckles as he spoke, “I am yours,” he shifted again and closed the small gap between you, “I will always be yours till my dying breath.”

Sucking in a shaky breath, you watched as the moonlight glinted in the blue of his eyes, making them look like the sea on a stormy night.

“I think my heart has belonged to you ever since the dragon attack,” you professed, “though it took me a while longer before I realised what it was, why you made me feel the way that you do,” you parted your fingers against his chest, “Steve,” and let his weave in with your own, “I love you.”

Using his hold as an advantage, Steve yanked you to him till your lips crashed against his. Letting your free hand wander across his warm skin, it swiftly came down to cup the palpable tent in his trousers.

“Fuck…” he groaned lowly as you offered him a light pet.

As you shifted to fiddle after the buttons on the side of his breeches, even the aid of your other hand didn’t yield any success in undoing more than one of them. Swiftly coming to your rescue, you swore it only took him three seconds before they hung loose enough around his hips for his cock to spring free.

You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you glanced down at length which stood so proud it poked you in the stomach. If only you had the proper context to truly know how intimidated you should have been at the discovery of his fat girth.

Hesitantly inching your fingers closer as you stared, you asked, “can I–…?”

“Mhm,” he hummed as he slowly brought your hand the rest of the way down, engulfing his own grasp around yours and gently showing you how to touch him.

As a sinful curse flowed from Steve’s lips, his free hand drifted up to weave itself into your hair.

“Will it hurt?” you watched how your fingers failed to meet on the other side of his girth.

“I don’t know, I hope not,” his forehead rested against your own, “but if it does, then we just stop and figure something else out, okay?”

“Okay…” you hazily nodded.

Feeling his fingers flex around your own, you saw precum glint at the bulbous tip.

“It’s all for you, dove,” you felt him throb at your touch, “all because of you,” a desperate growl then seeped out of his lungs as he seized your lips in a fervent kiss, and the next thing you knew, the whole world fell out from under you as he scooped you up into his arms. When a shrill yelp escaped you, Steve simply readjusted his grip on you and said, “don’t worry, I’ve got you,” nipping gently at your neck, “I won’t let you fall.”

With your fingers still grasping his girth, the new position now had your pussy pressed dangerously close to it, so close that you couldn’t help but sweep the head of his cock through your soppy folds and drench him. Tapping your clit a few times, the instinctual drive of his hips triggered you to simply cup his length near and let him part your pretty petals and lather himself in your needy nectar. Each desperate thrust ended in an electric nudge at your pearl, rendering you to whimper shakily into the night.

But then suddenly, in the fog of it all, the very tip of him caught your entrance and slipped inside, purely because of just how wet and ready you were.

“O-oh, fuck!” everything froze as you reeled at the staggering sensation, breathlessly digging your nails into his broad shoulders and leaving crescent-shaped marks in their wake.

“Sorry,” he hastily panted, “you okay?”

“Uh–… uh-huh,” you nodded fuzzily, shutting your eyes a moment as you caught your breath.

But then as your gaze fluttered open once more, you caught his stare and offered him a short, affirming nod, holding his eye as he slowly began to move.

Your mouth hung agape as he shallowly fucked you, barely even giving you anything but still turning you into goo in his grasp.

“Y-you’re so beautiful,” you whispered as you fluttered around him.

Gliding you’re your palm up to his cheek, moans tumbled out of you both as he gently began to offer you more. Your legs couldn’t help but twitch in his grasp as he practically split you in half with the way he eased you down on his fat cock.

“You’re doing so well,” his face crumbled up in a silent moan as you felt every detail of him slowly stretch you out, “gods, you’re so wet…”

And the next thing you knew, it wasn’t so slow and steady any longer, as the bookcase your spine was pressed against rattled at his efforts.

You thought before that just the bulbous head of him was overwhelming, but to have that tip kiss desperately against the deepest part of you was something else entirely. You couldn’t speak, you couldn't think, you could barely even breathe, just go slack in his firm hold and feel him, not just right there, but fucking everywhere, that’s how stuffed you were.

Steve’s strength wasn’t that novel to you these days, but to have him lift you up and sink you down on his cock, like you were just a leaf on the wind, still managed to amaze you.

“F-fuck,” you blubbered as you tumbled over the edge once more, “oh, fuck!” accidentally knocking a few books down as one of your arms flailed for purchase.

You barely registered the loud thud the crashing books emanated as your frame melted down into his hold. Your face buried itself in the crook of his neck as he breathlessly came to a halt, still embedded deep inside of your clenching cunt.

The sound of his breaths directly in your ear helped to soothe your tingling senses as he rested his cheek against the crown of your head.

Shifting his feet, Steve carried you the short distance over to the comfortable armchair you’d inhabited earlier. Carefully sitting down in it and keeping you in his lap, his arms silkily slid up your back and hugged you close.

After persuading you to curl out of your hiding spot by planting soft pecks all over your face, you blinked down at him, bathed in the moonlight that gushed in from the tall window beside where you sat.

Gliding a hand around to your front, Steve gently tugged on the thin string at your neckline, undoing the bow, before he pulled the shoulders down your arms till you slid out of the sleeves and the top of the undergarment crumbled to gather at your waist with the rest of the fabric.

As he pressed his lips to the peak of your tits, one of his palms accompanied the kisses. A soft whine flowed out of you as your hand slid down to where your bodies were still joined and played with your puffy pearl.

Casting a glance down, he groaned, “yeah, rub that little clit for me,” and your hips intuitively began to rock gently.

As you touched yourself, something else caught your attention as you slowly began to ride him. At the lower part of your stomach, you felt the dull bulge of his staggering size poke your palm steadily to the rhythm of your gentle efforts.

Letting your pebbly nipple escape from his lips with a pop, his gravelly timbre washed over you as you slowly rocked, “that’s it, fuck–,” his grip slid down to be firm on your ass, “that’s my girl.”

Abruptly, as if snapping out of a trance, you notice just how loud you both were being.

“Wait,” you shushed him though didn’t halt your hips motions, “we’re in the library, someone could hear us!”

“Then fucking let them hear us,” his fingers dug into your ass as he desperately took over and bounced you in his lap, manhandling you as he slammed you down on his cock hard enough for you to lose your breath, “no one would dare bother us, trust me.”

And before you knew it, your cunt clamped down one last time around his cock, hard enough to halt his efforts and milk him of all of his worth.

Weakly letting his dick slip out, your skin was practically glued to his as you plastered yourselves to each other and you sensed his hot load slowly leaked out of your sensitive hole.

As you listened to his heartbeat slowly return to normal and your heavy lids fought to stay open, a thought entered your mind.

“Hey, Steve?”

Shifting his arms around you, his soft hum washed over you, “hm?”

Keeping your voice low, you shared, “I don’t wanna sleep alone tonight…” but to your surprise, a gentle chuckle then rumbled in his chest, “what?” you lifted your head and blinked up at him, “why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just–,” he smiled, gazing down at you as if Zondür himself had divinely created you especially for him, “you really think I’d let you skip off to your room alone after all of that, like it never even happened?”

Huffing out a short giggle, you lowered your glance, “well, when you put it like that…”

“Yes,” he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, “if you want me to sleep beside you, I will,” rising from his comfortable seat, he readjusted his grip on you, twisting you to him as he hooked an arm behind your knees and at your back. As he carried you close, he began to lumber out of the library and down the hallway, concurring the short distance to where your chambers lied, “my queen, I would love nothing more for the rest of my days than to fall asleep with your head on my chest and wake up to your softness arching against me…”

Flexing your fingers around his neck, you raised yourself up enough to capture his lips in a tender kiss one last time just as he kicked your bedroom door shut behind you both.

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pursuitseternal · 8 months ago

Text

“Release Me:” ⛓️ Chains and feral smut ⛓️ for “The Rogue You Were”

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader |E| 2K

“Chains” prompt for Ascended Astarion Week

Summary: After weeks of captivity and starvation, you finally rescue your love from his enemies. But the beast chained in the cell barely knows himself or you… until you’ve satisfied all his hungers.

CW: Blood kink (I just wanted a reason to have them fuck covered in blood), Feral/primal play, desperate sex, long nailed AA, prison sex, bondage/mild BDSM

Ao3 link | Astarion Fic Masterlist

⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥⛓️⛓️‍💥

Musty, dark, dead. The bowels of the Red Wizard’s tower are worse than a dungeon. Not a speck of light, no slight hint of breeze. It is a tomb. A coffin. And inside somewhere is your love.

You can feel him, his blood calling to you, even as his mind has unraveled these long weeks of capture. You get fleeting images of his senses: the wide-eyed fear in his chest to be imprisoned in the dark. Away from his beloved sun. The racing pant of his breath to be so enclosed, not unlike that year he never speaks of under Cazador’s torment. Locked away. You feel the stinging of silver chains gnawing at his flesh, burning just enough to sap his strength, but not so strong as to kill him.

This was meant for pain, constructed for punishment, to hold him until his enemies would kill him. Your beloved. Your lord and king and master, overthrown by his foolish need for more power. You told him not to go alone to seek the remnants of the Red Wizards of Thay… you warned him they would want their tome returned and would punish him for knowledge of it.

Even the decrepit remnants of a failed cult can win from time to time.

Your chest burns as you try to catch your breath, your skin and armor slick with the blood of your enemies. But your feet propel forward regardless, pulled by the tether of your bond to Astarion.

You heave a sigh of relief to finally find the cells, thick black doors almost indecipherable in the darkness. A little daylight spell, and your eyes adjust to find a dozen doors carved from the bedrock of this damnable tower. The rattling of metal links, the rough snarls of breath grows louder as you close your eyes and follow the ragged beat of his ascended heart.

Hand shaking, you pull out a Knock spell scroll, a sigh of relief that your own Wizard companion of old had prepared you to take on these foes. Even as your fingers stick to the parchment, hands soaked in blood, you recite the word, and the edge of the cell door glows bright white for a moment.

Resonant, it creaks open on its ancient hinges, revealing a pair of glowing red eyes and the crescendo of dry-throated breath. His body drags across the floor towards your daylight, and your heart bursts with ache to finally see him again. Tears sting your eyes.

Paperwhite and beyond deathly pale, his gaunt face leers at you from the darkness. Lines of red, of raw flesh cross his neck and bare arms and legs where he has been chained.

Chained naked.

Your bile rises in your stomach as you curse his captors souls, glad you have already put those Wizards to a bloody, eviscerating death. You’d do it all again, just to punish them for how they’ve tortured your love. Breathing his name, you enter his cell, the walls of black stone absorbing the light of your spell, it seems. But it gives off enough for you to see every line of his hollowed face, every crest of his bony frame.

Astarion twists against his chains, his mind a pulsing mess of feelings and words, too feral to even speak yet. But one word comes across clearly.

Blood.

His nostrils flare, his tongue dangling over his fangs as he scans your spattered armor. A predator with the scent of prey in his nose.

There’s blood in the air…

He’s too hungry, too starved for blood and for you to be safe. Not with they way his eyes are wild and his tongue laps at his jaw. “Astarion,” you speak, making his black-blown eyes focus on you. “I’m here my love,” you reach a hand out to caress his silver hair, but he just snaps his fangs at you once you're in reach. Those silver chains holding him just shy of disaster.

“Naughty,” you try to chide him, but the humor is lost on his hungry body and soul. Mind racing, your feet race faster, hands finding the closest fallen enemy to drag it back after you down the hall. Then you leave it, ignoring the muffled grunts and growls and slurps he makes as he drains the corpse completely.

When you glance back inside, he looks at you, steadier, calmer, and covered in blood. He still crouches on the ground, hands and feet and neck bound, but now he croaks your name. “Darling,” his voice pains you with recognition, “I knew you’d come.”

You hurry to his side, kicking that light, bloodless corpse to the side. The silver chains at his ankles sting you, but it’s nothing compared to the pain of separation you have endured for weeks. You pull the silver apart in your hands, freeing his legs so he can stretch them out at long last.

A deep grunt of relief sounds from his chest. Your hands work up and down one leg, then the other, trying to soothe the tension and numbness and blood flow.

As you reach the top of his thighs, you withdraw in surprise. His cock achingly hard, juts against his belly, twitching and pink and… happy to see you too.

“I have missed you,” his voice caresses your ear and rushes down your spine, the chains at his neck clinking their high-pitched music as he leans against you. Nose buried in your hair, he inhales your scent like a drowning man gasps for air. “I can’t wait another moment, my love.” His voice unearthly, barely more than a growl, his hands chained near his belly reach into your armor.

You notice his nails, literally clawing for you, seeking your flesh. Nails, so long unkempt, have taken on their wild form, the razor sharp talons of a vampire lord. “I was so worried…. I missed you, my love,” you sigh, an edge of fear in your belly as you long to kiss those bloodstained lips with your own. Ignoring the sting, you grab the silver chain, a little yank to tug at him, making a playful, aroused smirk turn his dripping, scarlet lips as his body draws closer.

“I am master of myself once more,” his brows cant rakishly, even in the dark. “I won’t bite unless you ask very… very… nicely,” he croons straining against your leash.

“Oh, I think you're asking for more than a nibble,” you tease to release some of the fear that still lingers in your veins. Never have you been separated from him since you turned, and never, not even during the Rite of Ascension and your fight against his old master have you feared his death more than these past weeks. Floodgates break, your need to touch him and taste him overpowering all logic and fear.

Your fingers work quickly, unlatching your breastplate and cuisses, eyes locked into his as he watches your every move, tongue licking the blood from the corner of his mouth absentmindedly. You let the metal clang to the floor. Those two restrained hands extend for you, making the chains around his arms hiss as the magic sears more into his flesh anew.

“Hold still,” you order, crouching to grab the chains and tug them free from his flesh, his wounds instantly closing up now that he is well-fed once more.

For all the pain that must be lancing through his body, he just holds your stare with his own, sultry and feral and commanding. “Now, where were we?” he purrs, hands trembling to finally touch your body. Even with sapped strength, he pulls you flush against him, bringing you close. Slotting you in your place against his body. Those blood-caked claws dig into the supple cover of your leathers, tearing through it at your hips and down the seams as though they are paper. You’ll worry about decency later, for now you’re of one mind, unable to think until you’ve joined again.

You sink your body onto his cock, and he sinks his fangs into your blood-spattered neck. Your groans bounce off the pitch black walls, a roar of bliss and relief and release. No more fear or danger, aside from the fear of coming too quickly and the danger of spending hours fucking once more, covered in the drying gore of your foes.

The thought tickles from your mind to his, and he laughs as he thrusts up into you. “Just like old times,” he rasps between swallows from your neck.

Like old times, like every time, your body follows its instincts, finally filled with what you have most craved. His cock stretches you, a nearly unfamiliar pressure once more, but you hardly notice, not with how dripping wet you’ve become just to feel his breath on your neck and savor his muscled frame thrusting into you.

Tears prick at your eyes but you won’t let them wash that blood from your cheeks. No, you just grip into his hair, pulling his mouth from the puncture wounds in your neck to your own waiting lips. The copper tang of your blood floods your mouth as his tongue sweeps inside, the familiar taste of your own blood mixing with the nasty pollution of your enemies’ he drained earlier.

It sours your stomach, the taste, but you’re too lost in the way his breath warms you, inside and out. Those long, feral nails score into your back, wandering quickly between your writhing bodies. With low, rumbling growls into your mouth, he grips your waist, moving you and holding you in place as he fucks harder. More erratic. More hellsbent on that release he needs.

His voice fills your ear, “My Consort, my love, my pet, my saviour,” he pours your beloved epithets over you, breath ragged and out of synch with his roughly snapping hips. One hand lies splayed on the stone behind him, that extra leverage driving him deeper with abandon. He’s thickening inside you, so hot and too quickly.

“Don’t get carried away,” you chide, yanking at the chain around his neck, making his crimson eyes stare at you with lust-blown pupils. “You haven’t even given me a reward yet for my daring bravery, my love.” You make him hiss, his slack mouth baring his fangs in pleasure-ridden pain. “And you haven’t even granted me an apology for running headlong into this… foolishness,” you cock your chin and tug his chain-leash again. “Promise me, no more ludicrous missions without me.”

He growls but nods, hands digging at your ass, not one hint of resistance.

“Then I’m satisfied, well…” you wriggle, clenching your walls on his throbbing cock inside you, “soon to be satisfied.” A laugh shared on both your panting lips, you ride his lap, bringing him back under a steady rhythm, drawing out his pleasure until you’ve had yours as well. He pulls against his last remaining chain, and you tut your tongue. One of your hands brings his fingers into the apex of your thighs, coaxing his finger to circle your clit with every buck. Your other hand releases that leash, freeing it from his flesh at last so you can grab his chin. Then you lick… long and cleansing, tasting the remnants of your blood, and your enemies’, and faint traces of his own.

That warm tip of his tongue laps at the corner of his lips, his breath heavy as he feels your walls fluttering around his cock. Spine arching, hips canting fervently, you scream for him, tears in your throat and down your face at last, as if you didn’t believe you’d ever be brought to orgasm by him again. Sharp nails score into the sensitive flesh of your folds, hips slamming into your last waves of pleasure as he spills inside you, spurt after spurt of his seed filling you and leaking to the prison floor beneath you both.

Crimson eyes glance up at you, wild and sated, hungry and happy all at once. “Get me home, my Consort,” he whispers. “You’ll be coming on my cock in our bed next.”

You smirk, breathless, pulling out a scroll to open a portal to your palace. As you stand, you kick the chains at your feet with your boot, thankful he’s released into your care once more.

⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️⛓️

💞 to @marimosalad and @nyx-knox

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blue-sadie · 1 year ago

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Lust Filled Touches

Astarion x Reader x Halsin

Summary: based off of this post

Warning: lust spell, double penetration, breeding, standing sex

Yn/3rd person pov

They noticed your whole group noticed your change in behavior after the ambush, a group of weak mages came out of nowhere and hit you with a spell before they were beaten to a pulp by your companions.

Your friends all kept an eye on you especially astarion and halsin which only made the spell take more effect on you, you clench your thighs together as soon as your body felt their gaze on it.

You shivered every time they layed a comforting hand on your shoulder but shit it got worse when they spoke to you when they would bend to meet your gaze it only drove you more insane.

"My tav are you sure your alright" I had to hold myself back from letting out a pitiful whine as astarion crouched infront of me "you can tell me anything" he grabbed my hands and held them tightly in his "I'm here for you" his eyes held a pleadingness in them.

I shook my head and pulling my hands away from his "i-im gonna hurt you" I choked out loudly looking anywhere but him, he stood up slowly and reached out to touch my face but I flinch away.

My skin burning at his close proximity I heard him gulp and slowly caressed my face with his finger tips, I leaned into his touch relaxing against him closing my eyes "astarion" I moaned making him freeze.

My heart clenched as I realized what I had just done I slowly let my eyes flutter open cringing into myself as I saw his shocked expression "I'm I'm sorry" I squeaked and took off running away in embarrassment.

Tears started to roll down my face as I ran this stupid spell was making everything worse, I collapsed at the nearby creak crying out as my skin started burning from where he touched me.

Astarion pov

I stood there frozen few a seconds the sound of her moaning my name repeating in my mind "astarion where is tav" halsin asked as he and gale approached me I opened and closed my mouth my brows frowning in confusion.

"She just left" I murmured letting my eyes move to them and slowly letting my hand fall from its position "gale here might know what's wrong with her" halsin said smiling confidently and gestured for gale to speak.

He cleared his throat and glanced at both me and halsin nervously "spit it out" I muttered wanting to get to the bottom of this "a lust spell" he murmured making mine and halsins eyes widen "what" halsin asked confusion laced in his voice.

"Don't ask but I was looking through the mages belongs and found a tome with one of the pages mark so I opened it and there it was a lust spell" he grinned like he just accomplished something great I rolled my eyes "how do you know for certain" I asked as I folded my arms.

"Well the obvious sighs" he chuckled I snarled at him as a warning making him shut up "what sighs" halsin murmured as he put a hand on my shoulder keeping me from lunging at gale.

"Well not being able to be still under your gaze, shivering everytime you touch her not being able to focus when you speak" he spoke as if we should already noticed we just watched as he waited for a response from us.

"Guys come on its obvious you guys are her only hope at getting back to normal" he groaned rubbing his face "what makes you think that" I snapped getting irritable.

"If you guys don't see her very obvious feelings towards you, you need to get glasses or the fact you guys already act as a fucking couple" gale stuffed his laughter behind his hands and a few of the other nosey companions did they same.

Halsin and I felt flushed as we glanced at eachother "shell we go and find her" halsin asked me gesturing to the woods "after you" I grinned and we slowly made our way in leaving the camp behind.

Yn/3rd person pov

I cried out as I failed once again to make myself climax "fuck fuck fuck" I yelled knocking my head back against the tree I was sitting up against it felt as if it was hours from the incident, the burning of where astarion grazed his finger tips as subsided.

"Astarion halsin" I cried out praying that they would come to my rescue, it was starting to hurt every where, my breathing was becoming uneven and rigid and my eyes started to blur.

"Aww look halsin it already looks like we fucked her" my body shivered as I heard his voice and his nearing footsteps "astarion" I whined grabbing ahold of his shirt and pulling myself into him snuggling deeply into him.

He stroked my hair cooing at me I peered over his shoulder at halsin who was looking everywhere but me since I long discarded my clothes on the floor "halsin" I whined out causing his ears to flicker.

"Come on halsin stop being such a tease tav here is ready to be fucked stupid by the both of us" astarion grinned seductively as he turned me so I was standing full view of halsin who gradually turned his gaze to me.

"She already dripping" astarion trailed his hands slowly down my body as he spoke teasing my skin with his nails my eyes trained to halsins as he watched me carefully "ready for her needy hole to be filled" I let out a sharp gasped as astarion stuck one of his fingers inside me slowly thrusting it in and out.

Halsins chest rumbled as he let out a deep growl before he started nearing us only stopping a few inches away "h-halsin" I pleaded looking deeply into his eyes "please" and as that word left my lips his calm demeanor snapped.

His large hand grabbed hold of my neck as he crashed his lips against my in a possessive kiss "fuck" astarion cursed into my ear as he too wanted to join in on our fun, astarions lips attached to my neck using his fangs to tease my skin.

"Do you think she can take both of us" halsin asked as he pulled away from my lips causing me to whine astarion chuckled against my skin "my sweet halsin in this state she can take 10 of us can't you baby" he nipped at my earlobe making my body shivered "yes I can" I moaned out making them both chuckle.

"I guess we'll have to test that out" halsin said as they moved away from me to strip off their clothes I marveled at they body's and huge cocks my mouth started to water just st the sight.

"Fuck she looks so good" halsin growled as they returned to their positions they both leaned down attaching themselves to each side of my neck kissing and nipping on my skin.

I let out soft whines and whimpers "s-stop teasing" I murmured they grinned against my skin and that's when I felt it "fuck" I screamed out loudly as they both pushed in, I could feel myself split into two.

They gritted their teeth cursing as they held themselves back waiting for me to adjust I moaned out as got comfortable "your brilliant my tav" astarion praised as they started thrusting.

Their grunts and growls drowning out the sound of my cries of pleasure halsin pressed his lips to mine in a soft kiss making my mind go wild he pulled back and did they same with astarion "I truly love they both of you" he groaned out admittedly.

The burning sensation increasing at his words "I love you too" I moaned out making astarion nip at my neck "don't forget about me to my darling" he grunted I turned my head to the side and captured his lips with him.

"I love you" I whispered, something in his eyes changed from pure lust to love and his thrusts became harder as he looked at halsin before speaking "how about we cum inside to show the world she's ours".

I clenched myself around as halsin growled out 'fuck yes' I could sense we were all close to cumming "please cum inside me" I begged, my moans heightening as I felt them both pulse inside me.

"Fuck" we scream out loud enough I'm sure the camp heard us, I cried out as I felt them feel me up with their cum my eyes widening as I noticed my stomach bulging at the amount their released inside me.

"Your ours tav" astarion growled as they gently guided us to lay on the ground they spoke kinds words to me as their fingers gently traced patterns onto my skin making me become tired quite quickly "goodnight darling".

The next morning I already felt better the spell must have worn off but when I opened my eyes I as stared up at the two boy and their lust filled gazes I slightly shifted and gasped as I felt their hard cocks pushed up against me I gulped nervously as astarion leaned down to whisper in my ear.

"Now now tav its only fair since we helped you out its only fair if you return the favor"

Tag.List

@bloodlessbhaalbabe @sweetirilly @lonelyhumanoid @neteyamyawne @greekgods15

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rafayelsbelovedbride · 2 months ago

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Lemurians and the Sea God

As the new branch revealed that Rafayel borrowed the Sea God's powers rather than being the Sea God himself, I want to discuss why the Lemurians needed this power in the first place.

So let's start by summarizing what we know so far, and what these things can imply.

First, Rafayel accepted the Sea God's powers with a price.

Rafayel accepted the Sea God's powers from the tome which had an aether core embedded in it. This implies unlike what was mentioned in the Forgotten Sea, Rafayel is not a god but a vessel for the Sea God's powers. And, he has to pay a price and obey the Sea God's will (the prophecies of tome of the Sea God) for using these powers.

I wonder why there was an aether core fragment in the tome. Did Rafayel receive the power through this aether core? And, was Rafayel drawn to that because he also possesses fragments in his heart, just like MC? Is that why he is the vessel? Can this also explain the strength of their bond that can bring Rafayel back when he was possessed by these powers? Can MC differentiate the frequency of Rafayel's heart and the Sea God's heart when she resonates? Does that mean there is a little difference between all the aether core fragments?

Rafayel and the Sea God are different entities as Rafayel can lose his control to the Sea God.

I think there is a reason why Rafeyel described the tome of the Sea God as the island's cornerstone that bore the weight of Lemuria's past and future. I think the original Sea God (maybe the first Sea God) was the core of the planet. The same core that was described to be empty and had long been exhausted in the Shooting Stars myth, which probably belongs to a timeline after Rafayel's and the last Sea God's death.

I think the Lemurians used the Sea God's power as a supply for the earth's core the same way the king of Philos wanted to use the aether core of MC.

Maybe many years ago, this whole thing started with Lemurians asking for a god's help when they faced with the fact that the earth's core was dying. And, the god accepted their prayers and made a vessel so that it could come down to earth and use its powers to keep the planet alive a little while longer.

This power is described as a great "flame" that has burned in Whalefall City's temple for thousands of years. And without it, the Lemurians are said to transform into hideous beasts. (wanderers?)

Also, I wonder if the vessels were created by the god from an aether core fragment. And to be able to inherit the Sea God's powers, their aether core needed to have a certain level of strength that could carry the Sea God, otherwise, the vessel would shatter when it was filled with its powers. And that's what the prophecy refers to. The vessels must increase their strength before they can fully inherit the Sea God's powers.

Rafayel was born in flames and he needs his most devoted follower's heart to gain strength. Also, when MC first met him, Rafayel said "You awakened me."

In Rafayel's case, he has to do it by getting MC's heart. I think the prophecy is a little misleading here. I think MC does not have to give her heart because she is the most devoted follower. Instead, I think she has to do that because the vessel needs the aether core's energy, that MC already possesses, to carry the Sea God's power. Prophecy refers to MC like that because that's just something that describes who MC is. There could have been no other devoted follower of the Sea God.

In addition to that, he then gave his own heart to MC, increasing the power of MC's aether core when he's supposed to do the opposite. And that's why, when they look at the tome in Sea of Golden Sand, the prophecy changes to "to take back what he's lost the God of the Sea must kill his beloved".

Also, I find it interesting that Rafayel said you awakened me when they first met. As Rafayel was said to be trapped in a place with very strong currents just like the blue hole where the tome of the Sea God resides, I think we can assume that this is the place where MC first found him. So, I wonder if Rafayel was awakened because he felt the power from MC's heart, the same heart that he needs to enhance his strength to become the Sea God in the future. I also wonder if MC found Rafayel that day because she was also drawn to his aether core by her heart.

Rafayel rewrote the tome of the Sea God and choose to burn away.

But Rafayel has never taken MC's heart. So he never fully inherited the Sea God's power to keep the flame alight and the earth's core stable. Instead, he rewrote the tome and gave away his life to keep the core intact for a while longer. And that is why he is the last Sea God. And when the energy he gave to the earth's core was exhausted at some point, the heart of Philos remained empty after him.

The heart of Philos is empty and hungry for energy. This energy can be supplied by ordinary human life or by the MC's aether core.

And that's how I connect Lemuria and Philos. I think in the beginning, Lemurians were the ones being fed into the planet's core and turn into wanderers until they found a way to inherit the Sea God's powers and use the aether core for the same purpose. But then Rafayel broke this deal with the Sea God and left the earth's core empty again until the core started to feed on people of Philos. To prevent this, the king of Philos decided to use MC and her aether core again.

So, in the end, even though Rafayel sacrificed his life to take MC's place, his sacrifice was not enough to keep her safe. And this is a very sad story.

#love and deepspace #lads #lads rafayel #rafayel #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #lads xavier #xavier #xavier love and deepspace #love and deepspace xavier #lads headcanons #lads mc

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moon-lit-petal · 3 months ago

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From Chaos to Comfort Pt1

George Weasley x Fem!Hufflepuff!Reader

Summery: George becomes acutely awear that sometimes, people aren't the biggest fans of his and Freds pranks.

Warning: enemies to lovers(?) George fell hard and fast. I tried to do a slow burn but you can tell I gave up lol. Also, Y/N is a little mean to George Ngl

Word count: 2.5k

Notes: I have almost 12k words written already xD But after my 5k Neville fic, I figured I'd take this one a little slower and give myself time to proofread and make adjustments, for now? Chapter One!!also georges face in this Gif omfg

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

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The quiet halls of Hogwarts were where Y/N felt most at ease—especially in the dimly lit corners of the library or the serene grounds at night, where the only sounds were the wind rustling through the trees or the occasional hoot of an owl. As a reserved Hufflepuff, she preferred these moments of tranquility, keeping out of the spotlight and far from the bustling excitement that so often dominated the school.

Unfortunately for her, Fred and George Weasley didn’t share her preference for peace and quiet. In fact, their favorite hobby seemed to be drawing attention to those who tried to hide from it—particularly Y/N.

On this particular evening, Y/N had settled down in the library with a stack of books, hoping to get some quiet reading done before the day ended. The library had a hushed atmosphere, with only the occasional whisper or the soft turning of pages to disturb the stillness.

But that all changed in an instant.

One by one, the books she had carefully chosen began to glow faintly before bursting into song—loud, off-key, and echoing through the entire library. It started with the first book in her stack, a thick volume of Transfiguration spells, which suddenly belted out a shrill tune:

"♬ I’m a magical tome, filled with spells and rhymes, cast a charm on me, and I'll sing for all times! ♬"

The next book joined in, followed by another, until her entire pile of books formed a chorus. Y/N could feel the eyes of everyone in the library turning toward her as the cacophony grew louder and louder. Laughter rippled through the students around her, and even Madam Pince, the strict librarian, seemed too flustered to immediately react.

Y/N's face flushed a deep red as she frantically tried to shut the books, but they wouldn't stop singing no matter how many times she slammed them shut. The laughter and whispers grew louder with each failed attempt. Her humiliation only deepened when she spotted the identical grins of Fred and George Weasley from across the library, clearly enjoying their handiwork.

That was the last straw. Furiously shoving the singing books into her bag, Y/N stormed out of the library, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She could still hear the faint echoes of the enchanted books singing behind her as she hurried through the corridors, ignoring the amused glances and hushed snickers from passing students.

"I swear, I’m never speaking to either of them again," she muttered to herself, her fists clenched in anger. She couldn't even tell Fred and George apart half the time, which only made it worse. It was easier to avoid them both altogether, and that's exactly what she intended to do.

But deep down, a part of her wondered if it would be that simple. After all, it was Fred and George Weasley—masters of mischief. Avoiding them might prove to be an impossible task.

----------

In the days following the library prank, George couldn’t shake the memory of Y/N’s reaction. While Fred had laughed it off, pleased with how the prank had turned out, George had noticed something different—something that stuck with him more than he expected. He had seen the hurt flash across Y/N’s face, the way her cheeks flushed, not just with anger, but with humiliation.

At first, he tried to brush it off. Pranks were what he and Fred did. They brought laughter, lightened the mood, and sometimes, yes, embarrassed a few people in the process. It was all in good fun, wasn’t it? But George couldn't quite convince himself this time. For some reason, the image of Y/N storming out of the library, her fists clenched in frustration, kept playing in his mind.

Fred, on the other hand, barely gave it another thought, moving on to plotting their next grand joke. George, though, found himself paying more attention to Y/N in the days that followed. It wasn’t something he did consciously at first. He’d catch a glimpse of her in the corridors, her head down, her pace quick, always avoiding eye contact with others. In the Great Hall, she often sat at the very edge of the Hufflepuff table, picking at her food while quietly observing the lively chatter around her, as if she were a part of the scene but always apart from it.

The more George noticed her, the more his curiosity grew. Why did she keep to herself so much? Why did she seem to go out of her way to avoid people—even more so after their prank in the library? And why, of all things, did her quietness intrigue him?

During one particular afternoon in the library, George found himself sitting a few tables away from Y/N. She was engrossed in a thick book, her brows furrowed in concentration. He watched as she absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair around her finger, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading. There was something peaceful about her in those moments—a calmness that contrasted sharply with the chaos of his own life.

Fred, of course, remained blissfully unaware of George's growing fascination. He saw Y/N as just another target for their pranks, and to him, the twins’ antics were a way of livening up the mundane routines of school life. But George found himself torn. The more he observed Y/N, the more he realized that there was something about her that went beyond the surface—something he admired. She didn’t seek attention, didn’t thrive in the spotlight like so many others did. She seemed content in her own little world, even if that world often seemed lonely.

But Y/N, still furious about the library prank, had no interest in any of the Weasleys—least of all George, who she still couldn’t distinguish from Fred. As far as she was concerned, the twins were a package deal of trouble and mischief, and the less time she spent around them, the better. Whenever she caught sight of George, she would quickly turn the other way or disappear down a different corridor, determined to avoid them both at all costs.

George, however, wasn’t ready to give up just yet. The more Y/N distanced herself from him, the more he found himself wanting to understand her, to know what lay beneath that quiet exterior. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was curiosity, or maybe—just maybe—it was something more.

----------

The days at Hogwarts had grown increasingly tense for Y/N. No matter how hard she tried, it seemed impossible to escape the pranks that followed her like a shadow—pranks she was certain came from both Weasley twins. Whether it was her quill turning into a puff of glitter mid-essay or her robes suddenly sprouting a cascade of flowers, Y/N felt like a constant target. Every laugh that echoed in the hallways after a prank only deepened her frustration.

And George, always nearby—watching her, noticing her—was no exception in her mind. She never saw him without assuming he was plotting alongside Fred. Every time he appeared, she would tense up, bracing for whatever prank they’d cooked up next. To Y/N, they were the same—partners in crime who found amusement in humiliating others, especially her.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, George had slowly started pulling away from the pranks, his growing guilt making it harder to join in on Fred’s antics. He had tried to distance himself, letting Fred take the lead while he hung back, watching Y/N more than participating in the mischief. But to Y/N, it didn’t matter. She saw him as guilty by association, and every time she spotted him, her resentment flared.

The tension between them simmered under the surface, waiting to boil over. That moment came one afternoon when Y/N, in a hurry to get to her next class, rounded a corner and collided with someone—George.

The impact was sudden, and Y/N’s heart leapt into her throat. Her body tensed, and she flinched instinctively, taking a step back as if expecting an explosion of fireworks or an instant prank to follow. Her breath caught in her chest as she braced for whatever humiliation would come next.

But nothing happened.

George, equally surprised by the sudden collision, raised his hands in apology. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see—”

Before he could finish, he saw it—the way Y/N had recoiled at his touch, the way her eyes flickered with distrust, her whole body stiffening as if she were preparing for yet another prank. His stomach dropped at the realization.

“Y/N, I—” George began, but the words faltered. He could see the wariness in her expression, the way she avoided his gaze, the way her shoulders remained rigid, ready for disappointment. His chest tightened with a pang of guilt. She saw him as no different from Fred, no different from the pranks that had made her the center of unwanted attention.

Y/N didn’t give him a chance to explain. Without a word, she brushed past him, her shoulder grazing his as she hurried away, her head down.

George stood there for a moment, frozen in place, watching her retreating figure disappear down the corridor. Her reaction stung more than he’d expected. He hadn’t meant to scare her, hadn’t meant to make her feel like this. But how could he undo all the pranks that had come before, all the times she had flinched at the mere sight of him?

Fred’s voice echoed in his mind—“Come on, George, it’s all in good fun!”—but it no longer felt like fun to George. Not when he saw how deeply it had affected her. He clenched his fists, determined to show Y/N that he was different, that he wasn’t what she thought he was.

But for now, the tension between them lingered, thick and unspoken, a rift caused by misunderstandings and misidentification—one that George desperately wanted to bridge, even if Y/N wasn’t ready to see the difference yet.

----------

It was another dreary Monday morning in Potions, and the last thing Y/N wanted was to be paired with any of the Weasley twins. But, as fate would have it, Professor Snape announced the pairings, and her heart sank when she heard George’s name called alongside hers.

Y/N shot a glance at George, her lips pressed into a thin line. He walked over to her, offering a tentative smile. "Guess we're partners, huh?"

Y/N barely looked at him, focusing on gathering the ingredients from the shelf. "Looks that way."

George rubbed the back of his neck, sensing her reluctance. "Listen, I know you probably think I’m going to mess this up somehow, but I promise I’ll be serious about this. No pranks."

She finally turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be reassuring?”

George chuckled, trying to ease the tension. “Well, considering my track record, yes. I really do want to help.”

Y/N sighed and handed him a few ingredients. “Just don’t blow anything up, and we’ll be fine.”

As they started brewing, the conversation remained minimal, but George kept trying to break the silence.

“You know,” he said, stirring the cauldron, “I’m actually pretty good at Potions. Don’t tell Fred, though. He’ll never let me live it down.”

Y/N gave him a sidelong glance, clearly skeptical. “Right.”

“Seriously,” George said, trying to sound casual. “You’d be surprised.”

Y/N couldn’t help the small smirk that tugged at her lips, though she quickly hid it. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

As the potion bubbled away, George continued to sneak glances at her, noticing the small expressions she tried to hide. There was more to her than her quiet demeanor, and it only fueled his curiosity.

“I’m not as bad as you think,” he said after a while, his tone more sincere this time.

Y/N didn’t respond immediately, focusing on measuring the next ingredient. “You still think this is all a game, don’t you? Even now.”

George’s smile faded, and for a moment, he looked unsure. “No,” he said quietly. “I really don’t.”

Y/N paused at his words, glancing at him again, this time with a hint of surprise. But before she could say anything more, the potion bubbled over, and they both scrambled to fix it, their brief moment of connection slipping away in the chaos.

----------

Later that week, Y/N was sitting in the library, trying to concentrate on her studies. The library was her refuge, a place where she could escape the noise and chaos of the school—and, more importantly, avoid the Weasley twins.

But just as she was getting lost in the words on the page, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Mind if I sit here?”

She looked up, annoyed to see George standing there with an uncertain smile. “The library’s big enough,” she replied coolly. “I’m sure you can find another seat.”

George hesitated, but instead of leaving, he sat down across from her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d talk to me after Potions.”

Y/N scowled, clearly frustrated. “Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to talk to you?”

“I figured as much,” George admitted, leaning back in his chair. “But I also figured it wouldn’t hurt to try.”

She huffed, focusing on her book again, though she wasn’t really reading. George’s presence was too distracting. He wasn’t like Fred. There was something quieter about him, something that made her defenses waver ever so slightly, though she hated admitting it.

After a few moments of silence, George spoke again. “I’m sorry for everything. I know Fred and I have caused a lot of trouble for you, and...well, you’re probably sick of hearing it, but I really didn’t mean to make things so awful.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered up to him, and she could tell from his expression that he was being sincere. But she wasn’t ready to forgive so easily.

“You think an apology will fix everything?” she asked, her voice sharp. “You and Fred don’t get it. You don’t care how it affects people, do you?”

George frowned, sitting up straighter. “That’s not true. I do care. Fred… well, he doesn’t think before he acts, but I see what it does to you. And I don’t like it.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes, skeptical but slightly softened by his words. “Then why haven’t you done anything to stop him?”

George hesitated, looking away for a moment. “I guess I didn’t realize how bad it was for you until recently. But I’m trying now. I’m not like that, I dont mean to be. I want to be better.”

Y/N’s expression softened, if only slightly, as she studied him. She could see the sincerity in his eyes, but she wasn’t ready to let her guard down yet.

“Then prove it,” she said, her voice quieter now. “Stop making excuses and prove you’re different.”

George met her gaze, determination flickering in his eyes. “I will.”

They sat there in silence for a few more moments, the tension between them palpable. Y/N finally returned to her book, and George didn’t push the conversation any further. But something had shifted between them—a tiny crack in the wall Y/N had built around herself, and George had noticed it too.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

#fanfic #harry potter #hogwarts #george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #George #harry potter fanfiction #george weasley fanfiction #hp #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #harry potter fanfic #hp fandom #Puff's Writing #x reader #x y/n #x you

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madamabelladonna · 10 days ago

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𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐧 𝐈𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐲

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Young Lady Dayne knew survival in the Red Keep required more than caution—it demanded influence. After keeping her distance from Jacaerys, she finally accepted his apology, truly forgiving him. But as he left, she realized it might be long before she saw him again. In his place, a prince in green awaited. 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: Rumors, Blood, Fighting, Doubt, Childbirth, Abuse (from Alicent) 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Red Keep had grown colder with every passing day, as though the very stone absorbed the chill in the air. Each morning, you found yourself adding another layer to your attire, cloaking yourself in wool and velvet, though it did little to chase away the creeping frost.

Soon, winter would truly set in, and you wondered if snow would come to Kingslanding. You had never seen it before. The maesters described it in books as being soft and delicate, like sand, but cold—bitingly cold.

You sat perched on the windowsill, a heavy tome balanced on your knees, its worn pages brittle beneath your fingers. Outside, the sky was a dull grey, the sea of clouds casting a pale light into your chamber. The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, its warmth failing to reach the stone walls.

Isla entered quietly, her footsteps barely a whisper on the cold floor. “I’ve informed Prince Jacaerys that you were not feeling well,” Her words stirred the stillness of the room. You hadn’t spoken to Jacaerys since his eighth name day. Not out of anger, not even resentment, though there was a heaviness to it all.

Ever since that day, you had distanced yourself from him and his family—not because of Jacaerys, nor Rhaenyra, nor the persistent whispers of a potential marriage between you and the prince. It wasn’t even the fact that he had donned House Dayne’s colors at the feast, a gesture meant to honor you, but one that felt like a chain tightening around your neck.

No, what bothered you was the feeling of being maneuvered like a piece on a cyvasse board. Rhaenyra had planted Sienna, to watch over you, to report back every detail of your life. You knew it. Everyone knew it. And that knowledge gnawed at you, made your every step feel heavy, your every action scrutinized.

You had no doubt that by the next feast, both you and Merek would be dressed in purple. You were a pawn, and the nobles were watching, eyes glinting with judgment, already speculating which side you favored—Black or Green.

But you were not here to choose sides. You were an emissary of Dorne. You were here to maintain neutrality, to ensure that Dorne did not get caught in the bloody conflict to come.

The Seven Kingdoms may burn in the fires of civil war, but Dorne would not.

Peering over the edge of the book, you gave Isla a curt nod. “Thank you.” This wasn’t done out of anger, but out of necessity. You had to remain detached.

“May I get you anything else, my lady?” Isla asked, her tone laced with quiet concern. You glanced at her, noting the pity in her eyes, a softness you had once appreciated but now found suffocating. She had been in your service since your birth, but even she could see the change in you.

The Red Keep had already begun to erode the warmth of the Lady Dayne she once knew, leaving in its place someone colder, someone more guarded. You sighed. “Yes, you can start by wiping that expression off your face.” The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a bitter edge that caught you by surprise.

You hadn’t meant to be cruel, but you could not bear the pity—not from Isla, not from anyone. Isla lowered her head quickly, bowing once again. “Of course, my lady.” She moved to stand at her usual post, silent but ready, should you change your mind.

The fire cracked again, spitting sparks, but its warmth felt distant, as did everything else in this cold, foreign place.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

You stared at the word, etched in bold on the worn page of the book, fingers gripping the spine tightly as if holding on to some hidden truth. The furrow in your brow deepened, teeth gnawing at your lower gum as you tried to comprehend what you had always known deep down.

It was a simple word, but in the Red Keep, it meant everything. Influence was the key to survival here. Without it, you were nothing.

Outside, the wind howled against the thick walls, rattling the iron window frames. The cold air seeped in despite the heavy drapes, reminding you of how vulnerable you truly were in this place. You pulled the book closer to your chest as if it could shield you from the political storm swirling around you.

The Red Keep was a battlefield in its own right, but not the kind fought with swords and shields. Men may dominate the courts and council chambers for now, but you knew the winds were changing. Soon, Princess Rhaenyra would ascend the throne and challenge the patriarchal grip on power. But standing in her way was Queen Alicent Hightower and her Green faction, poised and ready to strike.

The true power in the realm rested between these two women. Rhaenyra, the heir, and Alicent, the Queen Consort, both wielding influence over the men who fancied themselves rulers.

While the lords squabbled over titles and fought bloody wars, the real battle was being waged in the subtle smiles, the whispered promises, and the veiled threats exchanged between the highborn women. The weapons here weren’t made of steel but of charm and cunning.

You were young, far younger than most in this court, but you understood one thing clearly: if you were to survive, you needed influence. You couldn’t afford to be seen as a pawn to be played by either the Greens or the Blacks. Neutrality was your goal, but neutrality without power was a dangerous stance.

And so, your mind raced. How could you, a mere emissary of Dorne, so young and inexperienced, gain what these women had in abundance? You could ally yourself with another neutral house, but the reality of the Red Keep hit hard—there were no neutral houses left. Everyone had picked a side, whether openly or in whispers, and trust was a rare currency here.

No, you needed to do something bold, something that would force the hand of those in power to notice you. You needed to carve your own path in this treacherous court, and soon enough, the opportunity would come.

It was only a few days later when fate, as if hearing your silent plea, knocked at your door.

Literally.

The sound of knuckles rapping on the wood startled you from your reverie. It had been a week since you last spoke to Jacaerys or helped Lucerys with his studies, and the silence had been blissful. In that time, you and Merek had kept mostly to yourselves, enjoying quiet moments of respite amidst the storm.

This afternoon, the two of you were seated by the fire, a tray of freshly baked sweets between you. The warm scent of pastries filled the room, mingling with the faint smell of the crackling firewood. You savored the strawberry tart, its sweetness melting on your tongue, the perfect balance to the delicate white tea you sipped slowly.

Merek sat across from you, smirking as he picked at a slice of fruit pie. “Careful, sister. Should you keep at it, you’ll lose a tooth,” he teased, his blue eyes glinting with amusement.

You shot him a pointed look, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “Not before another knight plants a facer on you,” you retorted with a sly grin, recalling the last brawl he had found himself in. Your words hung between you like a challenge, but the warmth in the room softened the edge of your banter.

Before he could reply, the knock at the door came again, louder this time, and both of you turned your heads toward the sound. Merek raised an eyebrow, a question forming on his lips, but you were already rising from your seat, curiosity pulling you forward.

The door creaked open, revealing a messenger, his breath clouding in the cold air. He bowed, not meeting your gaze, as he handed you a sealed parchment.

You glanced at Merek, a silent understanding passing between you, “What brings you here?” inquired Merek, he held a scrutinizing gaze at the messenger. The man, likely intimidated by Merek's standing tensed for a brief moment, “There is a visitor for the Lady Dayne…”

Believing it to be Jacaerys or Lucerys, “If it is either one of the princes, please do tell them that I’m feeling unwell.” you instructed, but the man shook his head. He rose up, “It is neither the princes, my lady. But rather a…” he trailed off looking back at the door.

“A woman of… peculiar standing…” he finished.

You frowned, already scrutinizing his choice of words. It couldn’t be Rhaenyra; those who might describe her as peculiar—Alicent, or perhaps Ser Criston—would have chosen sharper words, laced with venom, not this tepid uncertainty.

“Send her in,” you ordered.

Merek’s brow furrowed in disbelief. “Sister, are you certain?” he asked, his voice edged with concern. He’d seen you fooled before, seen you lower your guard, and it had cost you. The scars of that lesson were as much his burden as yours.

You met his gaze with a firm nod. “I am.” Still doubtful, he hesitated, then gave a resigned sigh. Stepping aside, he gestured to the guards. The heavy door groaned on its hinges, letting in a gust of cool air—and a figure cloaked in twilight hues.

The woman entered with a deliberate stride, her auburn hair streaked with gray and her face weathered but commanding. She paused just within the threshold, brushing the dust from her travel-worn cloak and straightening her skirts. Her hands, you noticed, bore the marks of labor—calluses and scars hidden beneath jeweled rings.

Merek’s hand hovered near Dawn’s pommel, the greatsword resting against his chair. Its polished edge caught the light, a subtle warning. The woman’s sharp eyes darted toward the blade, her lips twitching in acknowledgment.

“Lady Dayne,” she greeted, her voice a curious blend of cheer and steel. She stepped forward, only for Merek to rise, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. His grip on Dawn tightened.

The woman stopped, palms raised in mock surrender. “Peace, ser. I come unarmed.” Her smile, thin, turned to you. “Lady Dayne, I thank you for this audience.”

You studied her closely. The lines of her face, the way she held herself—this was a woman shaped by survival. She had the look of someone who bartered in shadows, dealing truths and lies in equal measure.

“What brings a woman of your ilk here?” you asked, your voice cool and unyielding.

The woman’s smile deepened, her eyes gleaming with something almost playful. “Ah, straight to the heart of it. I admire that.” She clasped her hands before her, the motion practiced, almost theatrical.

“I am but a humble tailor from the Westerlands,” she began, her tone light, almost flippant. “Entrusted by the Lannisters themselves to craft their finest garments.”

At the mention of Lannisters, your jaw tightened. The West’s intrigues were an unending web, and you had no desire to tangle yourself in them.

“It was at Prince Jacaerys’ nameday,” she continued, her voice gaining momentum, “amidst the grandeur and gilded halls, that I beheld your dress. Her gaze grew fervent, her words charged with reverence.

“A work of art, my lady. The fabric, the cut, the embroidery— Inspirational!”

You said nothing, letting her reveal her true aim. “Speak plainly,” you said at last. “What is it you truly want?”

She stopped short, blinking, then nodded hastily. “Of course, my lady. Forgive my ramblings. I’ve come to offer my services.” She covered her mouth to stifle a cough, then cleared her throat. “Never have I seen such silks, and I dare say none in the Seven Kingdoms could rival them.”

Her voice grew more impassioned, her gestures sweeping. “With your beauty and my craft, we could create garments to rival the stars themselves. I have a roof of girls—nimble fingers and eager minds—ready to bring our vision to life. Dornish fabrics, embroidery fit for queens. Imagine the court, my lady, whispering your name—not for your lineage, but your radiance.”

The room fell silent, her words hanging heavy in the still air. Merek’s stance stiffened beside you, his grip firm on Dawn’s hilt. His eyes spoke the warning he didn’t voice: A trap? A scheme? The woman’s fervor could be genuine, but deception often wore the mask of sincerity.

You leaned forward slightly, “And what would you ask in return?” fingers steepling beneath your chin.

“That you become my muse!”

She declared, the words bursting from her like a caged bird set free.

Both you and Merek exchanged startled glances, caught off-guard by the audacity of her proposition. She pressed on before either of you could respond.

“All I ask is that you consider my offer, my lady,” she said, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Should you agree, my greatest works—my life’s masterpiece—shall be yours and yours alone.”

Merek’s grimace deepened, his skepticism evident. “How are we to trust the word of a seamstress who serves the Lannisters?” His tone was sharp, probing for weakness.

The woman turned to face him fully, her posture unfaltering despite the blade’s looming presence. “Because,” she said, her voice cool but edged with a peculiar fire, “for all the riches the Lannisters possess, for all their gold and splendor, their hair gleaming like the veins of their mines, they fail in one regard.”

She turned back to you, her eyes bright and unyielding, her words deliberate. “They fail to inspire the greatest of flames.”

The room seemed to darken, the shadows lengthening with the weight of her statement. Her gaze locked with yours, her meaning sharp as a dagger. The challenge she posed was clear: to light a fire so brilliant it could blind even the lions of Casterly Rock.

‘Influence: the capacity to have an effect on the character, development, or behavior of someone or something, or the effect itself.’

In Kingslanding, influence was not merely a tool; it was the lifeblood of survival, the unseen force driving every whisper, every subtle nod, and every blade thrust in the dark. To endure the unrelenting tug-of-war between Green and Black, you would need it in abundance.

As an emissary of Dorne and the daughter of Lord Julius Dayne, you could not afford to openly align yourself with either faction—at least, not yet. The sands of time had to shift before that decision could be made.

Here, neutrality was an illusion. No house stood untouched by the tides of war. Yet, who was to say that influence could only flow from the highborn?

The common folk were a vast and often overlooked reservoir of power. Their whispers could build legends or tear them apart. If you accepted this woman’s offer, you could weave a web of connections that stretched far beyond the halls of the Red Keep.

You might be eight, but even a child could recognize the value of a golden goose flying within reach. Dorne’s legacy rested on your small shoulders, and if this woman could aid you in building something greater, why not seize the opportunity?

“What name shall I call my partner?” you asked, your voice calm yet commanding. She hadn’t introduced herself, skipping straight to her breathless ramblings about that fateful night and the dress your father had sent.

The woman paused, then dipped into a bow so deep her shoulder nearly met the height of your head. “Alora,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering.

“Just Alora.”

You turned the hair comb over in your hands, its delicate craftsmanship catching the light. Alora had chosen silver inlaid with small, polished stones of varying hues—amber, onyx, and a pale blue that reminded you of the Dornish skies before a storm.

Her note accompanying it had been brief, as always, but the message was clear: For the Lady Dayne, a star that outshines the rest.

Alora had returned to the Westerlands to gather her girls and materials, promising to establish her work in King’s Landing within a moon’s turn. True to her word, she sent a stream of accessories—hairpins, necklaces, even small embroidered ribbons—to expand your already burgeoning wardrobe.

To call it growth was an understatement; your collection had transformed into a display of opulence rivaling that of the Queen herself. Each piece was another string added to the web of influence you quietly wove.

The plan was simple, if ambitious: Alora would come to the capital, her girls in tow, and set up a boutique. Yet her insistence on working within the city walls puzzled you. It wasn’t as though Kingslanding held any particular charm beyond its political gravity.

The reek of unwashed bodies, rotting refuse, and stagnant water greeted all who approached long before the city gates came into view. For a seat of power, the stench was almost a warning—a reminder of what rot often festered beneath Red Keep’s facades.

You placed the comb on the polished surface of your vanity and rose, stepping to the window. The midday sun bathed the city in a harsh, revealing light. Smoke curled lazily from countless chimneys, mingling with the haze of life below.

Somewhere out there, Alora and her caravan would arrive, bringing with them not just fabrics and needles, but the means to shift your standing in a court fraught with deadly alliances and dangerous ambitions.

You didn’t fully trust her, of course. Trust was a luxury few could afford in King’s Landing. But you didn’t need trust to see the value of what she offered. Influence was sewn into every stitch of silk she brought, every jewel she set into gold.

Perhaps one day you would come to trust her fully. Alora had already proven herself a visionary in ways few could understand. She had made her own mark, and in time, she might do the same for you.

To guide you in this, you sought counsel from Rupert, who had been your mentor since your arrival in King's Landing. Though he was far away, in Starfall, the letters exchanged between you were frequent and full of wisdom.

Every word he sent was calculated, advising patience, caution, and occasionally urging you to strike when the moment felt right. And despite the distance, he was always watching, always providing direction, a guiding hand from afar.

You had also written to your father, requesting not only his advice but his support—funds for Alora and her girls to secure a place in the capital swiftly. House Dayne may not have possessed the deep coffers of the Yronwoods, but that did not mean the coffers on your island were shallow.

The Dayne wealth, though less public, ran deep, and your father, ever proud of your initiative, had sent you more gold than you had actually requested. His reply had been quick, with a note of approval tucked between the coins.

He was pleased that his daughter had taken the initiative to reach out, considering you rarely wrote to him compared to your mother and Rupert—especially after sending you and Merek off to the capital.

And then there was Merek. His silent support had been invaluable. He had kept his watch over you, allowing Alora to come and go without interference, though he or Ser Cassian had never been far.

Merek, ever the shadow to your light, understood the ways of protection. He knew, as well as anyone, that not all shields were made of steel. If this was your way of safeguarding yourself, he would stand by it.

The thought of your brother, your father, and your own careful maneuvering brought a sharp sense of pride—and yet, a deeper understanding of the politics you were now wading through. King’s Landing was a city of wolves, and you were learning to dance among them.

You handed the bejeweled hair comb to Isla, watching as her face lit up with the sight of the intricate piece. "Could you please put this in my hair?" you requested.

She nodded, her smile soft and respectful. "Of course, my lady." She guided you to the stool before her, and you sat down, feeling the cool touch of her hands as she worked over your tresses.

Isla was gentle but skilled, each movement precise as she set the comb delicately in place, arranging your hair in a way that both highlighted the beauty of the comb and kept the look dignified.

The comb gleamed against your locks, the jewels catching the light, a reminder of the alliances you were carefully nurturing. You studied your reflection in the mirror, seeing not just the girl you were, but the woman you were becoming.

You still weren’t speaking to Jace or Luke, and their attempts to reconnect with you had dwindled to near nothing. The strain between you and them felt like an aching wound you couldn't quite heal.

You missed them, truly, but after Jacaerys’ nameday—the implied marriage—it had all become too much to bear. The casual gestures of friendship from them now seemed tainted by something darker, something that made every interaction feel suffocating.

You had noticed how both Queen Alicent and Princess Rhaenyra regarded you, their eyes sharper when you danced with the former’s sons, the smiles forced or thin-lipped. It wasn’t subtle—the undercurrent of tension, the unspoken judgment in their glances.

You were aware of the game being played, and though you weren’t about to start a war, you certainly weren’t going to make it any easier for them. This was not your fight—not yet.

With your avoidance of Rhaenyra’s sons, your presence in the capital had become increasingly solitary. The walls of your chambers felt more like a prison than a place of rest, and it was growing more difficult to find solace in the same monotonous routine.

Days bled into nights, and the only thing that changed was the flicker of candlelight. You could no longer ignore the dull ache of confinement.

‘A visit to the royal library.’ you thought. There, you could lose yourself in texts, perhaps find a distraction—anything to escape the growing sense of stagnation. It was a place of knowledge, where words could silence the rest of the world, if only for a while.

Once Isla had finished pinning the comb into your hair—her fingers gentle and steady, the delicate ornament resting in place as though it had always belonged there—you stood, shaking off the lingering weariness that seemed to settle in your bones.

You had no time to waste on it. You needed a change of scenery, even if it meant facing the sprawling halls of the Red Keep once more.

With a nod to Isla, who followed dutifully behind you, you exited your chambers. The cool stone floors beneath your feet were familiar, but today they felt different—less confining, more like a path leading you away from the staleness of your isolation.

As you walked through the corridors, your mind continued to whirl with the thought of the royal library, an oasis of knowledge that might offer you a brief respite from the tension that had settled over the capital.

You needed a moment to breathe, to think outside the confines of your chambers and the invisible walls of the court's incessant drama. The library, you told yourself, would be the perfect escape—away from the watchful eyes and the heavy silence that clung to your every move.

But the world had other plans.

As you moved through the grand hall, something shifted in the air. The usual murmur of court chatter began to fade, and the people around you seemed to press themselves against the stone walls, creating a narrow path down the middle of the corridor. The movement was subtle, but unmistakable.

“My lady–.”

Isla’s hands were suddenly on your shoulders, pulling you back, snapping you out of your reverie. You stumbled, the interruption jarring as you looked up, confusion clouding your expression.

A trail of blood lay ahead, dark and stark against the pale stone. Your gaze followed it, heart quickening as you realized it led up the stairs.

Staggering with difficulty, Rhaenyra ascended, her breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. Ser Laenor was at her side, his arm around her waist, helping her move with hesitant steps.

But it was the blood—rich, crimson—that stole your breath. It pooled at her feet and trickled down beneath her dress, the fabric stained, telling a story you didn’t yet understand. A story that made your stomach tighten with unease.

You took a step back, your instincts pulling you closer to Isla, your protector in this sea of uncertainty. “Isla… w-what’s happening?” Your voice barely rose above a whisper, a soft tremor betraying your youth.

Isla’s grip on your shoulders softened, her fingers beginning to rub small, soothing circles against the tense muscles there. Her eyes, filled with an empathy that was almost too deep for someone so young, met yours.

She didn’t offer answers, only understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of your confusion. “We women have our own battles to endure.” Her words were heavy, pregnant with meaning.

You didn’t fully understand them yet, but there was a knowing in her voice, a wisdom borne from experience. The bloodied trail that led to Rhaenyra spoke of something that you could not name, not yet, but something that every woman in the room recognized instinctively.

Childbirth, some say it is the greatest joy and the greatest loss. You were still too young to know the full depth of what Isla meant, but the reality of what you had just witnessed began to sink in.

A woman’s worth in the eyes of the world, of the court, was often determined by her ability to bear children. A working womb was a currency in the marriage market, and yet, it was also a battleground—one where victory could bring joy, but defeat could claim everything.

You took a shaky breath, the lingering tension from what you had just witnessed still prickling at the back of your mind.

Isla’s hands, gentle and reassuring, massaged the tightness from your shoulders, but it wasn’t enough to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “Let us make haste.” It was time to get away, to think—to regain some semblance of control.

Turning on your heel, you decided to take the longer route. Perhaps it would give you more time to collect your thoughts, to sort through the whirlwind of guilt, confusion, and fear that had crept into your chest.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

As you moved through the corridor, your heart skipped a beat. Ahead of you, walking with casual ease, were the very two princes you had been avoiding for weeks: Jacaerys and Lucerys.

They were talking animatedly, one of them holding a dragon egg in hand, its delicate shell gleaming in the light. Ser Harwin, ever the vigilant protector, accompanied them.

Lucerys, the younger of the two, reached out eagerly toward the egg. “Let me hold it, Jace!” His hands made a grabbing motion, the excitement clear on his face.

Jacaerys, ever the responsible elder brother, shook his head, clutching the egg closer to his chest. “No! You’ll drop it,” he replied with a teasing but firm tone.

He had already allowed Lucerys the honor of choosing the egg for their younger brother, but the responsibility of holding it seemed to remain with him.

Then, just as you were trying to gather your composure, Jacaerys’ gaze shifted from his younger brother and landed squarely on you. His steps faltered.

The quiet stillness between you seemed to stretch for an eternity, the air thick with unspoken words. Lucerys and Ser Harwin halted behind him, both sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.

It had been weeks since Jacaerys had last seen you, and now, in the empty corridor, the world seemed to pause around the two of you. Ser Harwin stood motionless by their side, his gaze flicking between you and Jacaerys with a knowing look, though he said nothing.

Lucerys, always quick to react, followed his brother’s gaze. When his eyes landed on you, they lit up with recognition, and his face brightened with a childlike excitement.

“Wren!” he exclaimed, the name falling from his lips with such warmth that it made your chest tighten. His desire to hold the dragon egg seemed to vanish in an instant as he turned toward you, eager to close the distance.

You froze, panic surging through you. Your heart raced as you heard the unmistakable sound of Lucerys’ footsteps starting toward you.

‘No,’ you thought desperately, your mind screaming at you to escape, to turn away. ‘I can’t look at them.’

Not after what you had seen—after witnessing their mother in such a fragile state, bleeding and broken, a reminder of the pain that came with bearing children, with being a woman in a world that demanded so much of you.

You could not bear the thought of facing them now, of seeing their faces after your silence, after the distance you had placed between yourself and them.

You gulped audibly, your breath catching in your throat. It felt like you were suffocating in that moment, the weight of guilt pressing down on your chest.

The distance you had put between yourself and them—was it right?

You had been avoiding them, avoiding this connection, but for what?

For your own safety?

For your peace of mind?

Or had it been something more selfish?

Just as Lucerys was about to rush forward, his eyes wide with hope, you took a small, deliberate step back. Your heart ached as you looked at him, and then at Jacaerys, who stood frozen, staring at you with a mixture of longing and confusion in his gaze.

You felt torn in that instant—torn between the desire to turn toward them and the overwhelming urge to run, to escape the uncertainty and pain of reconnecting. But you could not allow yourself to be swept away by emotions now.

Not yet.

Without a word, you turned abruptly, forcing yourself to push forward. Your steps quickened as you distanced yourself from them, your mind spinning with guilt and frustration. You couldn’t bring yourself to face them—not like this. Not after what had happened.

And yet, in the silence that followed your hasty retreat, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something inside you had broken just a little more.

You turned the corner without thinking, your steps quickening into a near-run, driven by the frantic need to escape, to outrun the ghosts of what you had just left behind.

Isla’s voice called out behind you, “M-My Lady?” but you didn’t slow down. The sound of her footsteps grew fainter as you pushed forward, focusing only on putting distance between you and the princes who had been chasing you down.

But then, just as you thought you might have lost them, you heard it—the unmistakable pounding of feet from the hall behind. Jacaerys and Lucerys were running after you, their voices just audible above the noise of your pulse thundering in your ears.

They weren’t giving up. You could feel the dread crawling under your skin, making it impossible to move with any sort of calm.

What would you do if they caught up to you? What could you say? Your throat tightened, and you forced yourself to push harder.

Your thoughts became a blur, consumed by guilt, fear, and confusion, until suddenly, you collided with someone.

“Oof!”

You both stumbled, the impact shocking your body and forcing you to steady yourself. You blinked in a daze, your breath coming quick as your eyes tried to focus on the person before you. When they cleared, your gaze was met with cold violet eyes.

Prince Aemond.

Of course it had to be him.

Aemond’s posture remained stiff, his presence like a wall in the narrow corridor. His expression was unreadable, a carefully composed mask, but there was something in the way his violet eyes softened just enough to cut through the fog of your panic.

It was an odd mixture of frustration and something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

His silver hair, so much like his siblings', was neatly slicked back, his sharp features accentuated by the tension that clung to him. For a moment, his gaze held steady on you, but then it flickered briefly toward the hall from which you’d come.

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he took in the sight of Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Ser Harwin still standing just behind you and your maid. The princes were closing in, and Aemond noticed it—perhaps more keenly than anyone else.

The brief silence that followed was heavy, but Aemond was the first to break it, his voice cutting through the stillness with a quiet, almost bored tone. “Off to go to the library?” his gaze shifting back to you with an odd sort of intensity.

You didn’t respond with words, only offering him a small, quick nod. It was enough. He didn’t need to hear your voice, for it was clear that you were attempting to flee the very strain that had hung in the air for too long. Your movement was telling him everything he needed to know.

Aemond seemed satisfied with the silence between you both, a subtle tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded once. "Good," his words clipped but steady. "I was just heading there as well."

It was odd to hear that, coming from him. Aemond, had been visiting the library frequently—though, in truth, it was less about books and more about finding you, about catching a glimpse of you.

Since Jacaerys' nameday, you had become something of a shadow in the halls, evading both the princes and the whispers that followed you like a second skin.

His mother had mentioned something in passing, a careless remark about Rhaenyra's actions, and how your retreat was tied to that infamous day—the one where Jacaerys had dared to wear your house colors in front of the lords and ladies of Westeros, a blatant challenge to the status quo.

Rhaenyra’s brazen display of defiance hadn’t helped matters, and perhaps it had scared you off, just as his mother had suspected.

Aemond shot a smug glance over his shoulder at his nephews, his lips twitching into a barely-there smirk as he subtly asserted his presence. He had seen his mother use this particular tactic when she wanted something—a mix of charm and cold politeness that was as smooth as it was calculated.

He extended his arm toward you with a hint of courteousness, his voice carrying an air of unexpected warmth. “Let’s go together?” he offered, a polite suggestion, his manner like a polished blade, sharp but dressed in velvet.

You hesitated only a heartbeat, then accepted his offer with a stiff nod. “Thank you, Prince Aemond,” You placed your hand on his arm. You didn’t look back, not once, at Jacaerys or Lucerys, though you could feel their gazes on your back.

Aemond glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching Jacaerys’ fiery gaze. There was a darkness in it, a simmering intensity that made it clear this was no idle glance—it was a challenge.

The storm in Jacaerys' eyes was something raw, something dangerous, and it set Aemond's lips curling in satisfaction. Jacaerys' expression revealed everything—a storm of confusion, frustration, and hurt.

Unlike a Velaryon, unlike a Targaryen, his gaze was deep and brooding, as if his heart had been cracked open and left exposed to the world. It wasn’t the look of someone who had simply been ignored; it was the look of someone whose very soul had been put to the test, and failed.

As you walked away, Aemond’s gaze lingered on the princes for a moment longer, relishing in the silent tension that had built between you and them. He could almost hear Jacaerys’ thoughts—a cacophony of silent pleas to explain, to make sense of your sudden coldness.

The boy didn't understand, and perhaps he never would.

Jacaerys, still rooted to the spot, clenched his fists at his sides. All he wanted was to talk to you, to ask why, to beg you to tell him what had happened. He wasn’t the one who had betrayed you, wasn’t the one who had caused you to shut him out.

He couldn’t understand what had changed between the two of you, “Wren… why are you doing this?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would make the entire thing too real to bear. He thought back to that night—the night of Jacaerys' nameday, when everything seemed so clear.

What had he done wrong?

Had something happened between you and Aemond when they had danced?

Was that the moment you had decided to turn away from him?

No, he told himself. This wasn't supposed to be how things ended. You two were supposed to be friends.

Lucerys, who had been watching his brother with growing concern, tugged at Jacaerys' sleeve, his small frown deepening. “Is Wren mad at us?” he asked innocently, the nickname he had given you rolling off his tongue with childlike confusion.

“No…”

Aemond sat across from you in the quiet expanse of the royal library, his long fingers wrapped around the spine of a thick tome. The silence between you was broken only by the occasional rustle of parchment as he turned a page.

His eye scanned the High Valyrian text before him with ease, a faint frown of concentration etched onto his sharp features. The brazier at the far corner of the room cast flickering shadows across the carved wooden shelves, the dim light making the spines of the books glimmer faintly.

You, on the other hand, had been painstakingly working your way through a slim Dothraki text. Your brow furrowed as you traced a finger along the lines of unfamiliar script, quietly murmuring phrases to yourself.

Though your grasp of the language was progressing, your teacher had repeatedly urged you to slow down, to let each word settle before moving on.

Aemond had dismissed Isla earlier with a curt wave, a decision that still grated on you. “She doesn’t have permission to be here,” Aemond had said, leaving no room for protest.

Isla had hesitated, glancing at you for guidance, but you could do nothing but nod, Aemond’s status dwarfed your own. Reluctantly, she had left, her concern evident in the way her steps lingered before the heavy doors closed behind her.

Now, as you adjusted your seating on the cushioned bench, you couldn’t help but glance at Aemond from time to time. He seemed entirely absorbed in his book, but you knew better.

His stillness wasn’t a sign of distraction—it was a calculated presence, deliberate and ever-watchful. His eyes often flicked to you when he thought you weren’t looking.

“Dothraki is an interesting choice,” Aemond said suddenly, breaking the silence.

He didn’t look up from his book, “A tongue of raiders and savages, some would say. What drew you to it?” his tone measured as if commenting on the weather.

You paused, setting the text aside. “It’s not just the language of savages,” meeting his gaze briefly before looking away. “The Dothraki have their own poetry, their own songs. Their way of life is different, yes, but not without meaning.”

You gestured lightly to the book in front of you. “Understanding them means understanding another part of this world.”

Aemond closed his book with a quiet thud, leaning back slightly as he studied you. “Most in Kingslanding wouldn’t bother,” he said. “They see only what they wish to see—barbarians on horseback. But you… you look beyond that.” He tilted his head, his expression inscrutable.

“Interesting.”

The compliment, if it could be called that, made you shift uncomfortably. “It’s just a language,” you muttered, returning your focus to the text.

But you couldn’t help the warmth creeping up your neck at the intensity of his regard. “Prince Aemond—”

“Aemond,” he interrupted, his eye fixed on yours.

There was no hesitation in his tone, no trace of formality. The sharpness that usually laced his words seemed softened, almost inviting.

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Please,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his hand resting atop yours on the table. His grip was light, yet firm enough to keep your attention. “Just call me Aemond.”

This wasn’t the first time a prince had asked you to dispense with titles. Jacaerys had said the same, not long after your arrival at court, his boyish grin making the request seem harmless. Lucerys had followed suit shortly after.

But Aemond was different. There was no playfulness in his request, no jesting smirk. His expression was serious, almost vulnerable, as though he were pleading for you to address him just as familiarly you did with his nephews.

You hesitated, studying his face. His features were sharp, his jaw set. And yet, there was a flicker of something in his gaze—a longing, a need for connection that you hadn’t expected.

It was a look you had seen before, fleetingly. Aemond, for all his icy composure, wore that same look now.

“Aemond,” you said, testing the name.

It felt strange on your tongue, like trying on a new garment, but you saw the way his posture eased, how a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

He nodded, “Better.” satisfied.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but rather heavy. Aemond didn’t remove his hand from yours immediately, and you didn’t pull away. The touch, fleeting as it was, seemed to seal an unspoken understanding between you.

“You must be lonely,” you said quietly, breaking the stillness. Your words caught him off guard. His grip on your hand tensed momentarily, but he didn’t pull away.

Lonely.

Aemond had no doubt you saw right through him. He was surrounded by his family yet isolated by their indifference or outright hostility.

His older brother, Aegon, was a disgrace—lacking both the discipline and the intelligence to wield power effectively. Aegon could barely string together a full sentence in High Valyrian, let alone inspire loyalty or fear.

Helaena, his sister, was sweet but distant, lost in her own world of dreams and murmured madness. And Daeron, the youngest, had been sent to Oldtown before Aemond even had the chance to know him.

He scoffed softly. “What gave me away?”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “The way you watch,” you said. “You observe everything, but you rarely speak unless it’s necessary. People who are content don’t do that.”

Aemond allowed himself a bitter smile. “Contentment is a luxury in this castle.” His eye flicked down to where your hands still touched. “Especially for second sons.” You saw a flicker of something deeper in him then—a yearning not for power but for recognition.

If only he had been born first. He would’ve been the ideal heir, the perfect prince to carry the weight of the crown. Instead, he was overshadowed by a sister he barely knew and a father who looked past him as though he didn’t exist.

He didn’t even have a dragon.

He was intelligent, disciplined, and watchful, traits honed not through indulgence but through necessity. In the Red Keep, survival was a game of shadows, and Aemond had mastered the art of moving unseen, his every word and action carefully thought out.

Much like his mother and grandfather, Otto Hightower, Aemond’s quiet demeanor masked a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of purpose.

The Hightowers were a family who preferred subtlety to brute force, preferring whispered plans over open conflict. They understood that power was best wielded from the shadows, where it could be neither anticipated nor countered.

And if there was one truth about a quiet Hightower, it was this: silence did not mean weakness. It meant calculation. It meant patience.

And, above all, it meant danger.

When Aemond first saw you stumble into the library, he was struck by a curiosity that bordered on fascination. You moved with a grace unfamiliar to him, your presence like a whisper of desert winds in a castle of cold stone.

You were Dornish, a rarity in the Red Keep, and in every way different from the rigid courtiers who filled its halls. While most moved like stiff wooden boards, you and your brother flowed like swaying curtains in a gentle breeze—fluid, unguarded, and, to Aemond’s eyes, utterly captivating.

He had watched you from the shadows at first, observing the way you poured over ancient tomes with a furrowed brow, your lips moving silently as you traced unfamiliar words.

There was a hunger for knowledge in you, a spark of inspiration that reminded him of his own long nights spent mastering High Valyrian or deciphering the histories of old Valyria.

But there was also a warmth, an openness, that he found foreign and intriguing. Unlike the courtiers who flattered and schemed, your intentions seemed unclouded.

You sought neither his favor nor his downfall. You were simply… you. And that, Aemond realized, was a rarity in the Red Keep—a place where even a child could wield a dagger with a smile.

You leaned back in your chair, a soft hum escaping your lips as you turned the page. Your eyes lingered on the words, but your mind was elsewhere, on the figure seated across from you.

There was something about Aemond, something deeper than the silvery sheen of his hair or the sharpness in his gaze.

"I suppose I’m quite lucky then," you mused, your voice low as you continued to study your book, though your thoughts were elsewhere. "I got to notice you before you become something great."

You didn’t look up immediately, but you could feel Aemond’s gaze shift towards you. His silence was telling, he had not anticipated such a response—no one ever had.

People saw him for his lineage, his title, his lack of dragon. But you? You saw something else, something he was still trying to decipher.

The room around you felt suddenly small, as if the weight of his presence was growing, expanding in the space between you. He leaned forward slightly, the soft rustle of pages the only sound breaking the stillness.

His fingers twitched at the edge of the book he was reading, but he didn’t turn it back. Instead, he regarded you, as though searching for any trace of jest, any hint of irony in your words.

But you were not smiling, not mocking him. Your words were simple, almost tender, and it unsettled him. How could someone like you—so young, so full of life—see anything in him?

He, who had spent his years buried in the shadows of his siblings, in the quiet corners of this vast, cold castle. He, who had no true allies, only enemies veiled in silken smiles.

Aemond’s hand lingered on the edge of his book, his fingers curling ever so slightly, and for the briefest of moments, the distance between you and him seemed to shrink. He could almost hear the thrum of his heartbeat in his chest, heavy and steady like the distant sound of war drums.

His eyes flickered to yours, a sharpness behind them that seemed to pierce through the layers of the conversation. "You have a strange way of looking at people.” Aemond murmured, though his words were not unkind.

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze directly. There was something different in the way he watched you now—something more than the distant prince, something that might have resembled… curiosity?

"Perhaps," you said with a slight tilt of your head. "Or perhaps I just see what others refuse to." Your voice softened.

Aemond said nothing at first, his lips pressed into a thin line. He wanted to argue, to dismiss the notion with a cold retort, but something in the air—something in the way you held his gaze—made him reconsider.

For a moment, he felt as though the very air around him had thickened, and he could not find a way to breathe through it. The words that once came easily to him now seemed distant, trapped somewhere deep in his chest.

Instead, he let out a small sigh and leaned back in his chair, looking away for the first time since your conversation began. His fingers drummed lightly against the surface of the table, as if trying to find some rhythm to settle his racing thoughts.

"You have a gift," he said after a long pause.

"To see things so clearly." He wasn’t sure what prompted the admission—whether it was the anomaly that was you or something else—but it slipped out before he could stop it.

You raised an eyebrow, "A gift? I thought that’s what you were going to say," a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. "I suppose you’ll be the one to teach me how to use it, then?"

Aemond didn’t respond immediately, but the slight shift in his posture—his body relaxing, just a touch—spoke volumes. He didn’t have the answers, but there was something in you that intrigued him, something that felt both familiar and foreign, like an old riddle begging to be solved.

The silence between you two was no longer heavy, but rather companionable, as if each of you had made some unspoken agreement to just be in that moment.

No titles. No expectations. Just two children, alone in a room, sharing a space for reasons neither fully understood.

Aemond's brow arched, a flicker of curiosity crossing his sharp features. "Are you suggesting a friendship?" His voice held a hint of amusement.

You leaned back in your chair, a light giggle escaping your lips as you looked at him with something akin to fondness. “If you are seeking for a friend,” you replied, your words teasing but not without a measure of truth. "I could certainly offer you one."

“Very well then.”

You hadn’t quite understood what had compelled you to extend that offer of friendship to Aemond, but somehow, it felt right.

Aemond, the second son, sharp-eyed and distant, had a way about him that made the walls around him feel thicker, yet at the same time, he wore an almost imperceptible loneliness.

Friendship, with him? It had been an impulse—an instinct. And, perhaps, deep down, you knew he needed it.

Days passed, and what had begun as a small, uncertain conversation in the library turned into something more. You found yourself seeking the quiet comfort of the library with greater frequency, long after your lessons had ended.

Aemond was there, as he had been before, engrossed in his books, though now he was waiting for you too. In some strange way, the days seemed to slow when he was there, the two of you quietly reading or discussing matters in the peace of the rows upon rows of dusty tomes.

And, of course, there was Dothraki. Your lessons with your mentor had progressed steadily, much to your satisfaction. Conversations with your mentor now seemed like something natural, effortless even, as though you’d been speaking Dothraki for years.

Aemond had been intrigued when you first mentioned the progress you’d made. He had, without hesitation, offered his own assistance, his interest piqued by your desire to learn languages that spanned beyond the borders of Westeros.

He insisted that once you had fully mastered Dothraki, he would teach you High Valyrian. Aemond had shown you a few words already, though they were nothing too difficult—a few basic terms, such as Muña, Kepa, Hontes.

One day your lessons had ended early, leaving you with a few hours of unexpected freedom. As you gathered your things, Aemond approached you.

He didn’t waste time with pleasantries, instead simply extending an invitation. "Would you like to watch me train with Aegon and Ser Criston?" he asked, his tone casua.

You hesitated. The idea of seeing him wield a sword was new to you. Swordsmanship, after all, was a world that belonged to others—your brothers, men of honor and skill—but not you.

And not Aemond, not like this. Yet there was something about the invitation, the way he worded it, that made you pause.

"I don’t know..." You shifted on your feet, eyes flickering towards the window. "You train with Jacaerys and Lucerys, don’t you?" You were apprehensive at first, the thought of stepping into the training yard where Aemond, Jacaerys, and Lucerys practiced was daunting.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "They do. But today, I wanted to invite you to watch. Aegon and I are sparring, and Ser Criston is overseeing."

There was an underlying tension in his words, something you didn’t quite understand. Perhaps it was a challenge—an invitation to see something personal, something only the few close to him would witness.

The clashing swords, the gruff commands of Criston Cole, and the intensity of their movements seemed worlds apart from the more tranquil, controlled environment you were accustomed to back in Starfall.

Still, Aemond had insisted, his quiet insistence leaving little room for argument. Perhaps it was his unspoken need for your company, or perhaps it was the thought of Merek that finally convinced you.

Merek would be there, sparring with Ser Cassian. He could neve go without sharpening his skill with the sword.

Back home in Starfall, you were no stranger to the sounds of the training grounds. You had grown up with the constant clink of swords, the clash of metal against metal, and the shouts of warriors practicing their craft.

But it had always been your brother, Merek, leading the charge. He was the Sword of the Morning, and you had often visited him on the training fields, watching as he sparred with his men.

You'd bring refreshments for the weary fighters, serving them cool water or wine after their training sessions. Those moments had been a quiet comfort, a reprieve from the often tense atmosphere of the castle.

When you finally arrived at the training yard, your eyes immediately scanned the area. Aemond was already there, sword in hand, his gaze focused and intense. His brother Aegon leaning against a training dummy, clearly intoxicated.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, stood a few paces away, the younger ones already sparring under the watchful eye of Ser Criston. You took a seat on one of the balconies overlooking the yard, the height offering you a perfect view of the scene below.

A small table had been set beside you, with tea and biscuits neatly arranged, though you found little interest in them now. Isla stood behind you, her watchful eyes scanning the yard with a quiet, almost maternal air.

It didn’t take long for Aemond to notice you. His gaze flicked toward the balcony, his eyes narrowing slightly as if appraising your presence.

Jacaerys, too, seemed to notice you almost immediately. He paused mid-strike, his wooden sword hanging loosely in his grip as his eyes sought yours.

For a brief moment, you saw the soft expression that had once been so familiar between you two—a connection that, in the last few weeks, had frayed at the edges.

Lucerys, followed his brother’s gaze and found you sitting on the balcony. He smiled, the warmth of his expression breaking through the intensity of the training.

"Look," Lucerys said, nudging Jacaerys with a grin. "It’s Wren."

Jacaerys blinked, and though he didn’t smile, his eyes softened. He hadn’t seen you in weeks, not since that fateful day. The distance between you was clear, yet the connection remained.

You didn’t move, your hands folded quietly in your lap. You could have waved back, smiled, or even called out to them, but something held you in place.

A part of you longed to reach out, to break through the walls that had been built between you, but you knew it was too late for that. Too much had changed since the day you were whisked away to King’s Landing, since the day your path had diverged from theirs.

And so you watched, silent and still, as the brothers continued their sparring. Aemond was focused, his every movement calculated and precise. There was an intensity in his demeanor, a stark contrast to the brashness of Aegon or younger two.

Yet, even in his calm, there was something unsettled about him—something that you had come to understand in the time you had spent together.

The training session continued, the sound of wood striking wood filling the air. You couldn’t help but notice how the focus seemed to shift. While Criston watched over Aemond and Aegon, his attention seemed to wane as it came to Jacaerys and Lucerys.

It wasn’t that their training lacked skill—it was just that it was clear they weren’t the ones being groomed for the throne. The unspoken favoritism was hard to ignore, and though you didn’t show it, it left a sour taste in your mouth.

Jacaerys, ever the eager student, practiced diligently. You could tell he was trying harder than ever to prove himself, though it was clear that the lack of attention from Criston stung.

Lucerys, more playful than his older brother, tried to match Jacaerys’s pace, but the lightheartedness in his movements belied the strain that simmered beneath.

Aemond, on the other hand, was a study in focus. His strikes were deliberate, each one calculated and sharp, and you could see in the way he moved that he was already thinking beyond the training grounds.

There was something about him, something that made it impossible to look away. You remained seated, caught in the moment, your mind drifting between the princes.

"My lady." Isla’s voice was a soft murmur, her breath barely making a sound against the backdrop of the clashing swords below.

You blinked in surprise, shifting your gaze toward her as you adjusted the lace of your sleeve. Her eyes were wide with a mix of concern and something else—perhaps an unspoken warning.

When your eyes followed the line of her gaze, you saw the servant standing a few feet away, waiting with the silent patience of someone used to being disregarded.

“The King has requested that you sit with him as you watch the princes,” Isla relayed, her tone still hushed as if speaking too loudly would disrupt the flow of events already in motion.

You hesitated, a slight fluttering in your chest, unease pulling at you like a tightening cord. Your eyes drifted across the training yard, where the princes continued their sparring, their wooden swords ringing out in sharp, staccato beats, only to fall upon the figure of King Viserys, seated at a distance with Lord Lyonel Strong by his side.

The King’s tired, weathered face was lined with years of responsibility, and the shadows of time seemed to burden him more heavily than any of his children could comprehend.

His gaze shifted toward you. A subtle acknowledgment, a soft smile that reached his eyes as he nodded in your direction. The small gesture was enough to remind you that his words were not to be denied.

You straightened, preparing yourself to comply with his request. There was little space left for refusal, and you knew that even if you wanted to, the King’s wishes were not easily ignored. "Very well," the words feeling almost foreign in your mouth.

Isla’s presence behind you was like a tether, her hands brushing over the folds of your gown in a small, comforting motion as you rose to your feet. It was as though her touch steadied you, anchoring you to this place.

You straightened the bodice of your dress and adjusted the fabric, the gown suddenly feeling more constricting than usual, as if the very fabric was aware of the expectations that came with being near royalty.

Taking one last glance over your shoulder at the princes, their blades flashing in the air as they dueled beneath the warm sunlight, you moved toward the King’s spot.

The air felt thicker here, the distance between the lively training grounds and the King’s place of observation laden with unspoken weight. The princes’ movements seemed more labored now, less like playful training and more like carefully controlled performances—no doubt part of the unspoken spectacle for the King’s eyes.

Aemond’s focus never wavered, his strikes sharp and deliberate, while Jacaerys and Lucerys tried their best to keep pace, though there was a strange energy in the air—a shifting current that set them apart, as though some silent tension had crept in.

As for Aegon… we won’t get into much detail about him.

As you neared, the unmistakable feeling of being watched clung to you. It wasn’t just the princes now, but the eyes of the entire courtyard, flicking to you and then just as quickly returning to their business.

King Viserys remained in his seat, the air around him one of reluctant authority, tinged with the exhaustion of a man who had long carried the burden of ruling and, in his heart, and his fractured family.

His frail body seemed as though it might crumble at any moment, but the strength in his eyes—sad, weary, yet still holding onto something precious—refused to bend.

Lyonel Strong stood beside him, his sharp eyes ever watchful, scanning the courtyard with the measured calm of someone who had seen far more than most could fathom. He was a man of integrity, and his presence beside the King spoke volumes.

His gaze turned to you as you neared, softening for just a moment before a nod of respectful acknowledgment followed. The briefest flicker of something—admiration or perhaps simple courtesy—passed between you, but there was a tension in the air even here, one that you couldn't shake.

As you came to stand before the King and Lord Lyonel, your gaze briefly met Viserys’s. His eyes were tired, but they searched yours with a quiet understanding, as if he could see the storm inside you.

For a brief second, the clamor of the training yard and the heavy gaze of the princes faded into the background, and it was just you and the King, the weight of years pressing down on him and a promise of something—perhaps even something close to care—hovering between the two of you.

Dipping into a low, respectful curtsy, you greeted them, "Your Grace, Lord Hand," your words polite, the formality of them hanging in the air with a softness that felt both familiar and distant.

The King’s smile faltered, the edges of his lips twitching in an almost painful motion, a sign of the effort it took for him to form any expression at all. His hands rested on the armrests, knuckles slightly pale from their grip. The shadows beneath his eyes were deeper than you had noticed before, and his breathing seemed a little more labored, though he held himself with the poise expected of a monarch.

"Lady Dayne," he said with a voice that cracked only slightly, "I thank you for humoring this old man with your presence." His gaze lingered on you for a moment, and the warmth that touched his words seemed to almost mask the weight of his sorrow.

It was as though every simple action required a great deal of fortitude on his part, and yet, here he was, attempting to ease the burden in small ways, by offering a kind smile, by speaking with you.

Lord Lyonel Strong gave a curt nod, his manner unchanged. He rarely revealed much of what passed behind his eyes, and today was no different.

His gaze remained firmly fixed on the training yard, observing the sparring princes with the practiced neutrality of a man who had long since learned the art of not letting his emotions govern his actions.

There was no favoritism in his look, no hint of preferential treatment for any of the boys. He was a Hand, first and foremost—dutiful, stoic, unshakable.

You returned the King’s gesture, sitting up a little straighter, feeling the weight of the occasion pressing down on your shoulders. "It is an honor, Your Majesty," your words are sincere but tempered by the soft melancholy that always accompanied moments like these.

Viserys’ gaze shifted to his sons and grandsons, eyes flickering between their movements, watching the way they clashed in the training yard.

His expression softened as he observed them, the line of his mouth tightening momentarily as if battling some private thought, some aching regret.

"How do you find them?" the question carried more than just curiosity. It was as if he were speaking not only to you, but perhaps to himself as well—seeking meaning, or perhaps confirmation, in the small moments, the fleeting displays of skill or rivalry that played out before him.

He spoke with the tiredness of a father who had seen too much, yet held on to whatever small hope remained.

You looked at the princes, the graceful yet brutal choreography of their movements—sword against sword, strength against strength.

Aemond’s precision was undeniable, each strike controlled, but there was a simmering anger behind it that you couldn’t ignore. Jacaerys, in contrast, was more passionate, his strikes less refined but brimming with raw energy.

As you watched, something caught your attention—a subtle bump of shoulders between Aemond and Jacaerys as they passed each other.

Your brows furrowed, uncertainty flashing across your face. ‘Had they had a fight?’

You turned to Viserys, the weight of your thoughts pressing down on you. "They are skilled," but your gaze darted between the princes. You could feel the undercurrent of something deeper, something unsaid, between them. "You must be so proud, Your Majesty."

You spoke carefully, the words laced with respect, but also with the knowledge of the quiet rift that seemed to be growing between the brothers. The King’s eyes softened further as he watched them, though his expression remained carefully neutral.

It was clear he had seen more than you could know. "Very," he replied quietly, his voice holding a weight of its own. It was a simple response, but it carried the sorrow of a man who had seen his family, his legacy, fray at the edges.

"They are my legacy."

There was a pause Viserys shifted slightly in his chair, and his gaze turned distant, as though he were looking back through the years at moments he could never change.

Criston Cole, donned his gloves, he lifted his wooden sword, his stance firm as Aegon and Aemond charged at him.

Neither prince's strikes even seemed to faze him, his reactions swift, his blocks firm. He thwarted their attacks effortlessly, never once breaking a sweat, his eyes sharp and calculating.

The sons of Rhaenyra watched from the sidelines, a mixture of frustration and resentment coloring their expressions. Jacaerys and Lucerys exchanged a look, their brows furrowed in disappointment.

Another training session, another dismissal. They were benched, once again, pushed aside in favor of Aegon and Aemond, who basked in Criston’s praise.

But then, as if the very ground beneath their feet had shifted, a new presence entered the yard. The strong, imposing figure of Ser Harwin Strong, the might of House Strong, strode onto the training ground with purpose.

His broad shoulders were squared, and his every movement exuded a quiet strength. The moment he donned his gloves, the younger princes lit up like fires catching the wind.

There was hope in their eyes—hope that they might finally be taken seriously. “Weapons up, boys,” Harwin instructed with a smirk, his voice filled with a quiet command that the younger princes obeyed without hesitation.

They adjusted their stances, ready to face any challenge, especially when it came from the most respected warrior in the realm. “Give your enemies no quarter.” His words carried an intensity that made them eager to learn, to prove themselves.

Criston Cole, still watching from the sidelines, couldn’t hide the grimace that spread across his face as he saw the two boys come to life under Harwin's watchful eye.

There was a sneer on his lips, a disdain that couldn’t be concealed. With a few strides, he approached the group, his posture stiff and challenging.

His eyes flickered between Harwin and the young princes. “It seems the younger boys could do better with a bit of your attention... Ser Criston,” Harwin’s voice was calm but laden with an underlying challenge.

His gaze met Criston’s. “Perhaps you could share your method of instruction with all your pupils.”

Criston’s lips twitched in amusement, “You question my method of instruction, ser?” his eyes narrowing with disdain. He had no love for Rhaenyra’s children, and certainly none for Harwin.

Harwin shook his head slowly, his expression calm but firm. “Oh, I merely suggest that method be applied to all your pupils,” he said, his words direct and resolute.

There was no mistaking his intent—he was calling Criston out for his lack of professionalism, for his bias. For ignoring the boys who, by blood and birthright, deserved the same attention as their older cousins.

There was a subtle shift in the air, a thickening of the space between them. Harwin wasn’t just standing up for the boys; he was standing up for his own, and everyone knew it.

His secret was an open one—his sons, Jacaerys and Lucerys, were the product of his union with the woman who had once been his lover, and no one dared to speak ill of the Commander of the City Watch and Heir to the Throne without consequences.

Jacaerys stood a little taller, his eyes narrowing in quiet pride. He wasn’t going to let this moment pass without proving himself. He couldn’t afford to be seen as weak, not when his very future was on the line. His gaze flickered toward you, a silent exchange passing between you both.

You sat perched on the balcony, eyes focused on the sparring princes. Your expression, though calm, held a flicker of worry. Jacaerys saw it, the concern in your eyes, and it made something shift within him.

The past weeks seemed to lift, if only slightly, as he caught your gaze. You offered him a slight smile, a small gesture, but to Jacaerys, it was like a lifeline. It was the first real interaction he’d had with you in weeks, and it filled him with hope.

Aemond’s gloating about spending time with you had gnawed at his insides, but now, perhaps, he was starting to believe that you weren’t angry with him. That you might finally forgive him for what had transpired.

But before he could dwell on the thought, his attention was pulled away with a force he hadn’t anticipated. Criston Cole, with a look of impatience, seized Jacaerys by the collar, his fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.

“Jacaerys... come here.” His voice was tight, the command heavy with authority. He dragged the young prince toward the center of the yard, where Aegon awaited.

Aegon’s grin was wide, his eyes gleaming with a mischief that matched Aemond’s. They had no love for each other, but they found great joy in tormenting their nephews, if only for the thrill of seeing their discomfort.

Aegon’s smirk grew wider, a mix of challenge and amusement on his face as he readied his wooden sword. “You’ll spar with Aegon,”

Jacaerys’ heart sank. This wasn’t the fight he had expected, not the kind that would prove his worth. But he had no choice. He couldn’t back down now, not when his pride—and his mother’s legacy—was at stake.

“Eldest son against eldest son.”

The yard fell silent for a moment as he prepared himself, hands gripping the wooden sword. This would be another test of strength, but it wasn’t just about the battle. It was about proving, once and for all, that he could hold his own among the sons of the Queen Consort.

And, perhaps, to prove something to you too.

Harwin’s grunt echoed in the yard as he watched the sparring match with a growing sense of frustration. “It’s hardly a fair match,” he muttered, his voice low but filled with clear disapproval.

He knew better than anyone the kind of fighter Aegon was, despite the prince's lack of form. Aegon fought with a savage brutality that could strip the soul of a man, and Harwin knew that kind of ferocity would not be held back.

Criston Cole, as always, had no patience for Harwin’s objections. He tilted his head with a condescending air, eyes never leaving the sparring princes.

“I know you've never seen true battle, ser,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “but when steel is drawn, a fair match isn’t something anyone should expect.”

His gaze remained fixed on the boys, utterly unconcerned with Harwin’s comments. It was as if the very notion of fairness in combat was beneath him. "Blades up," Criston commanded, the words clipped and firm.

The princes, fueled by their egos and the cruel teachings of their trainer, raised their wooden blades in unison. The air seemed to grow thick with the sound of their footsteps as they charged forward.

Aegon, without hesitation, launched himself at Jacaerys with all the ferocity of a wild animal, attacking with reckless abandon. There was no room for mercy in his strikes, each one a clear message: he would not allow the boy to stand in his way.

Jacaerys struggled beneath Aegon’s relentless assault. He barely managed to block each blow, his arms shaking with the strain. Aegon’s strength was overpowering, and it wasn’t long before Jacaerys was pushed to the ground, unable to defend himself.

For a moment, it seemed as if Aegon might gloat, as if he would bask in his victory. But it was in that arrogance, that moment of carelessness, that Jacaerys found his opening.

Jacaerys rose to his feet, fury and pride fueling him as he struck back. His blows were harsh and precise, a mirror of Aegon’s own savage attacks. For a moment, there was a shift—a balance, however brief, between the two.

But Aegon, never one to accept anything less than dominance, came at him again. This time, he kicked Jacaerys to the ground with an almost practiced cruelty, and Criston Cole did nothing to stop it.

He merely stood to the side, watching, his face impassive as Aegon continued his assault. Jacaerys was pinned once again, struggling beneath Aegon’s weight as the older prince swung down at him with renewed force.

“Stay on the attack!” Criston’s voice rang out, his words dripping with contempt.

You, sitting at the edge of your seat, clenched your fists tightly, the fabric of your dress now feeling like it might tear under the pressure. The helplessness in Jacaerys’ eyes made your heart ache, and you couldn’t help but feel the bile rise in your throat.

Harwin, his patience finally breaking, stormed across the yard, his massive frame cutting through the tension like a ship through a storm. He reached Aegon in an instant, grabbing him roughly by the shoulder and pushing him aside.

Aegon yelped in surprise, stumbling back, his face contorted in indignation. “You dare put hands on me?” Aegon screeched, his voice high and petulant. He was not accustomed to being treated so.

For a moment, it seemed as though his anger might reach a boiling point, but then Viserys’ voice rang out across the yard, causing everyone to pause in their tracks.

“Aegon!” The King’s voice, though weak with age, cut through the tension like a knife.

It was a command, not a suggestion, and it immediately caused Aegon to flinch. The prince fell silent, his chest heaving with the remnants of his tantrum as he glanced up at his father in surprise. The reality of his father’s presence seemed to settle in all at once, and for a brief moment, Aegon’s arrogance faltered.

Criston, ever the defender of the royal blood, stepped forward and shielded Aegon from Harwin’s wrath, his body a barrier between the two men.

“You forget yourself, Strong,” Criston sneered, his eyes narrowing. “That is the Prince.” His words were sharp, an attempt to remind everyone of the hierarchy that had been in place since birth.

Yet, the irony of his claim—coming from the same man who had allowed Aegon to pin his nephew to the ground—was not lost on anyone watching.

Harwin stood tall, his gaze unwavering as he glared at Criston. “This is what you teach, Cole?” He motioned toward the discarded wooden swords that lay forgotten in the dirt.

His voice was like ice as he spoke, filled with a quiet, simmering fury. “Cruelty to the weaker opponent?”

Criston’s eyes flicked over the fallen swords before he rolled his eyes, brushing off Harwin’s challenge as though it were nothing. “Our interest in the princeling’s training is quite unusual, Commander,” he remarked, his tone dripping with condescension.

“Most men would only have that kind of devotion toward a cousin...” His words hung in the air, a challenge in themselves. “Or a brother...” he continued, the smirk never leaving his lips.

“Or a son,”

Harwin surged forward, his hand cracking across Criston’s face with a force that made the crowd flinch. Criston staggered back, the shock of the blow registering on his face for a brief second before the smirk returned, though this time, it was tinged with something darker.

The sound of the slap echoed through the training yard, silencing the movements of the others. Even Aegon, his mouth agape in disbelief, fell still. The crowd stood frozen, their eyes wide, unsure of what to do next.

The chaos in the training yard spun out of control, the brutal violence between Harwin and Criston unfolding in front of your eyes like a scene of madness.

Jacaerys had rushed to his brother's side, wrapping his arms around Lucerys to shield him from the violence. His younger brother’s face was pale, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. The sight of blood streaming from Criston’s face was enough to make your stomach twist in horror.

sla, quick on her feet, reached for you, but you were already rising from your chair. Your breath caught in your throat as the crimson stain of Criston’s blood spread across the stone beneath him.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the horrific scene, and before Isla could protest, you leaned over the stone barrier of the balcony, calling out for your brother in a panic.

“Merek!” Your voice rang out across the training yard, a mixture of panic and urgency.

Merek, who had been sparring on the other side of the yard, heard your voice break through the tension. His head snapped up, eyes searching for you before landing on your frantic gestures.

The horror in your expression was enough to make him drop Dawn, his sword, and race toward the center of the chaos.

The ground trembled under his quick steps, his focus solely on the fight. “Harwin!” Merek shouted as he reached your father’s side, grabbing hold of the furious commander.

Harwin was a force of nature, the rage inside him impossible to tame, but Merek was determined. “Say it again! Say it again!” Harwin roared, throwing himself against Merek’s grip as if he could fight his own fury.

His chest heaved with the strain of his anger, blood still dripping from the bloodied fist he had landed on Criston.

Merek, his voice firm and controlled, tried his best to reason with the man. “Calm yourself, the prick is not worth it!” he said through gritted teeth, his voice barely audible over the noise of the surrounding knights.

The look in Merek’s eyes was one of cold intensity, as though he would not hesitate to take down any who dared cross him. “Step back!” Merek barked at the White Cloaks who had begun to approach.

“If you wish to suffer the same fate as Cole, I suggest you step back!” His words carried the weight of authority, of the Sword of the Morning commanding them to stand down. It was a standoff.

You stood frozen, your hands trembling as you clutched the edge of the balcony. The sight of blood, of the brawl unfolding below, made your stomach churn. You couldn’t stand to watch any longer, yet you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“...Enough... enough!” You turned away, desperate to escape the chaos, only to find your eyes landing on the King, Viserys, sitting hunched over on the stone bench.

His breathing was erratic, his face pale and drawn, and his hands shook with visible strain. Lyonel was beside him, attempting to calm him, but it was clear that the King’s condition was deteriorating rapidly.

Viserys attempted to rise, his body trembling as he tried to stop the madness unfolding below. But he didn’t make it far. With a weak groan, he collapsed back onto the stone.

You quickly sprang into action, rushing toward him, your knees hitting the ground as you knelt beside him. “Your Grace!” you reached for his frail body, helping him sit upright as best you could.

His hand, shaking with age, gripped your wrist desperately, his eyes wide with confusion. His breath was shallow, his words disjointed and incoherent.

Lyonel, kneeling beside him, was just as alarmed. “Your Grace, are you alright?” His voice trembled, but the King did not answer. Instead, only the soft, unintelligible murmurs of his name escaped his lips.

“...Rhaenyra...” Viserys whispered, the name of his firstborn daughter slipping from his lips like a prayer, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lord Hand, we mustn’t let the King lie down until the Maester comes,” you instructed, your words firm despite the panic flooding your chest.

You swiftly shed your coat, draping it over Viserys’ frail shoulders in an attempt to warm him. “The cold has seemed to affect him,” you added, noting how his breathing grew even more erratic.

Lyonel didn’t argue. He simply nodded and helped you keep the King upright, though he was clearly struggling with the weight of the moment.

Viserys continued to murmur incoherently, “Rhaenyra...” over and over again, the name echoing in the air like a painful reminder of everything that had been lost.

“Isla, quickly! Get the Maesters,” you ordered, your voice sharp with urgency. You turned to the guards who had been standing idly by, still watching the scene below, their expressions blank as if none of them had the courage to step forward.

“What are you all doing?!” you shouted at them. “Help your King to his chambers! Now!” Your words were a command, a fierce plea that echoed across the yard.

How you ended up at the bedside of the sickly king was beyond you.

One moment you were watching the princes sparring, the next you found yourself seated on a worn stool beside King Viserys’ bed. His labored breaths filled the dimly lit chamber, each one a reminder of how fragile his body had become.

Now, swathed in thick blankets, he slept soundly, his pale face softened in slumber. Despite his rest, his hand remained tightly clasped around your wrist.

In his delirium, he had mistaken you for Rhaenyra and refused to let you leave. You’d tried to explain, gently whispering that you were not his daughter, but the king’s fevered mind was deaf to reason.

He wouldn’t settle until your presence eased him, and so you stayed, his frail hand never faltering from his grip, even in sleep. You were only meant to remain until the true Princess arrived.

Rhaenyra, no doubt, was occupied with matters of the realm—likely filling her father’s absence in the Small Council, or so her maid had said when she brought word of the delay. You could hardly blame her; ruling even a single kingdom seemed a daunting task, let alone seven.

The room was suffused with the faint scent of medicinal herbs and the lingering warmth of the brazier by the bedside. You glanced around, noting the intricate carvings of the oak bedposts and the faded tapestries depicting scenes of conquest and unity—ironic, given the fractured state of the Targaryen family.

In the center was a miniature hand carved model, so detailed and pristine. A life’s work, one might say. Never in your wildest imaginings had you thought you’d set foot in the chambers of the king.

You’d only seen Viserys from afar in court, his crown gleaming under power and duty. He had conversed with a handful of times, often hinting at a prospect in marriage with Jacaerys.

Now, stripped of his royal regalia, he was just a man—frail, weary, and burdened by years of ruling a kingdom constantly at odds with itself.

Your gaze softened as you watched him shift in his sleep, murmuring unintelligible words that occasionally formed fragments of names. It was impossible not to feel sympathy for the man.

The Iron Throne had withered him, forcing him to bear the impossible burden of uniting a family that seemed destined to fall apart. He was a bridge between two factions, one that seemed ready to collapse under its own strain.

You exhaled softly, your free hand brushing over the linen draped over your lap. ‘What if he dies right now?’ The morbid thought seized you, and your stomach twisted.

If Viserys drew his last breath here, alone with you, the court would surely whisper of poison or treachery. They would say a Dornish snake struck in the dead of night.

The idea was absurd, truly. You were but a child, barely past your eighth nameday. Yet in Westeros, suspicion clung to the Dornish like the desert’s heat to a sunbaked stone. The highborn loved nothing more than tearing down those who stood apart.

And here you were—foreign, far from home, and unprotected by familiar faces. You swallowed hard, glancing at Viserys’ sunken face. His chest rose and fell in shallow but steady breaths, the only sign that life still clung to him.

Surely no one would think a child capable of such a crime. Surely.

And yet, the court was a den of vipers, ever eager to weave tales of betrayal. Your mind conjured the cruel sneers of Lady Redwyne, the cutting remarks of Lord Beesbury, and the veiled disdain of Alicent Hightower.

The Queen would not hesitate to seize upon such a scandal, not when her sons’ claims might be bolstered by it. You shook your head, banishing the thought. It was foolish, paranoid even.

Your mother and father would be deeply disappointed in you for entertaining such nonsense. They had raised you to hold your head high, to carry the honor of House Dayne like a blade at your side.

Still, being a foreigner in this place—a fragile bridge between two worlds—pressed heavily on your chest. Your gaze flicked back to the door, hoping to see the Princess stride in and relieve you of this strange vigil. But the corridor beyond was empty, and the only sound was the crackle of the brazier and the faint murmurs of the sleeping king.

You tightened your grip on the linen, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. You would stay until Rhaenyra came. That was your duty, no matter how uneasy you felt in the presence of the dying dragon.

His pale eyelids fluttered, and his grip on your wrist tightened, fragile but insistent. “Rhaenyra…” Viserys groaned, his voice a rasping whisper in the stillness of the chamber.

You hesitated before placing your free hand over his, a gesture meant to soothe. His skin was cold, paper-thin, the veins beneath a pale map of his frailty. “She’ll be here soon, Your Grace,” it felt as though speaking to a restless child. “Please, you must have patience.”

The old king’s head shifted slightly on the pillow, a faint wince creasing his brow. His breathing came in shallow gasps, but he clung to consciousness, as if his very being refused to surrender to the darkness creeping ever closer.

“Patience,” he murmured, the word barely audible. “A cruel virtue… in this house of strife.”

You frowned, unsure whether he spoke to you or to some phantom of memory. His body was here, but his mind seemed adrift, carried by tides of grief and regret. The Targaryen legacy was etched into his every breath, a heavy burden made heavier still by the fractures within his family.

You wondered if, in his haze, he saw the throne he’d spent a lifetime defending or the ghosts of those who had already been lost to its cruel game.

“She’ll come,” you repeated firmly, as much for yourself as for him. You shifted slightly on the stool, careful not to disturb the frail king. “She loves you, Your Grace. You know she won’t tarry.”

Viserys’ lips trembled with a faint, humorless smile. “Love…” he muttered, his voice trailing into a cough. “A word… bent and broken… under the crowns.”

You glanced nervously at the door again, wishing Rhaenyra would appear and take your place. The room felt suffocating, heavy with the unspoken truths that lingered between the lines of his delirious murmurings.

Yet, for all your unease, you couldn’t help but feel pity for the man before you—a king whose strength had faded long before his time, and a father whose love could not bridge the chasm that divided his blood.

“Rest now,” shifting your hand to smooth the linen over his chest. “Save your strength for her.” Viserys’ breathing slowed, and his grip on your wrist loosened ever so slightly. Though he did not respond, his frail frame seemed to lax, as if your presence offered him some fleeting measure of comfort.

Still, the shadow of death loomed ever near, and you could only hope that Rhaenyra would arrive before the Stranger made his decision.

The doors creaked open, the sound echoing in the quiet chamber. You turned sharply, relief flooding your features as you saw Rhaenyra stride in, her silver hair gleaming even in the dim light.

“Your Highness…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

She crossed the room in a few quick steps, her gaze sharp as it flicked from you to her father’s gaunt form on the bed. “How is he?” One hand rested lightly atop your head, smoothing back stray strands of hair, a gesture so tender it nearly undid you.

You swallowed thickly, trying to steady yourself. “The maester says his grace is stable… The cold has taken a toll on him, and—” Your voice faltered, words choked by the sudden onrush of tears. Your vision began to cloud, and you cursed yourself for their betrayal.

Why were you crying?

You shouldn’t be crying at all.

You were a terrible girl!

Making this about yourself while Jace and Luke—sweet, eager boys—were likely still shaken. You had ignored them, failed them, and yet here you were, wallowing in your own misery.

Ungrateful.

That’s what you were. After all that Rhaenyra had done for you—offering you her hospitality, treating you like family, ensuring you were safe and cared for since your arrival at King’s Landing—you had the audacity to cry?

You didn’t get to be sad.

You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to stop, but the tears kept coming, hot and silent. The ache in your chest grew heavier with each passing second.

It wasn’t just because of guilt; it was the longing, the homesickness, the feeling of being unmoored in a place that wasn’t truly yours. You felt lost, a wayward star drifting far from its constellation.

But the tears refused to be stopped, spilling over and blurring your vision. You tried to blink them away, but they kept falling, a silent betrayal of your emotions.

Rhaenyra crouched to your level, her hands firm but gentle as they settled on your shoulders. “Shh…” she soothed, drawing you into a warm embrace.

“All is well, sweetling.” Her voice was soft, carrying a maternal warmth that felt foreign yet comforting. You clung to her, trembling, the weight of homesickness and fear pressing heavily on your chest.

You wanted to be back at Starfall, where the summers were endless and the stars felt close enough to touch. You wanted your family—your mother, your father, your brothers, Isla.

Rhaenyra held you tighter, as though she could shield you from your turmoil. Her thoughts, however, drifted. She had longed for a daughter, a child she could cherish in ways the world wouldn’t allow for sons.

You buried your head into the crook of her shoulder, clinging to her as though she could shield you from the fears swirling in your chest. “I don’t want his grace to die,” you murmured, your words muffled but heavy with grief.

The tears spilled freely now, soaking into her gown. For all the moments you had spent with King Viserys—the way he smiled through his weariness, how his humor laced even the gravest of conversations—you could never wish such a fate upon him.

Rhaenyra’s hand moved gently over your back, her touch steady as she drew small circles meant to soothe. “Nor do I, sweet girl,” her gaze fixed on her father’s frail form as he lay in his bed, his labored breaths filling the silence between you.

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The fire crackled in its hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room, the only sound to accompany the rhythmic rise and fall of Viserys’ chest.

Rhaenyra’s thoughts, were far from calm. How many times had she watched her father cling to life by the thinnest of threads? How many nights had she braced herself for the inevitable?

You clung to her more tightly, your tears dampening her gown. “He always smiled when he saw me,” you whispered between shaky breaths. “He’s kind, even when he’s in pain.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “That’s his way,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp cheek. “He bears his burdens quietly, so others don’t have to. But it weighs on him, more than he’d ever admit.”

You sniffled, “He is so frail. It feels like he could break.” wiping at your face.

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze flicking to the sleeping king, his labored breaths filling the chamber. “The years have not been kind to him,” she admitted, her tone heavy. “But he is stronger than he seems. He has endured more than most men could bear.”

You followed her gaze, the sight of him stirring a pang of guilt. “I shouldn’t be here,” you mumbled, looking down. “This is your place, not mine.”

Rhaenyra gently tilted your chin up, her violet eyes meeting yours. “You were here when he needed comfort, and for that, I am grateful.” She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “You have done more than most would in your place.”

Her words offered little comfort, but you nodded, “Will he get better?” swallowing the lump in your throat.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips into a thin line. “He will fare just fine,” she replied softly, her thumb brushing against your cheek, wiping away the remnants of your tears.

You sniffled, hurriedly wiping your face. “I’m sorry, your highness. I shouldn’t have acted so crass,” lowering your gaze in shame.

Rhaenyra gently cupped your face, “You’ve done something few in this court could even comprehend,” lifting your chin so your eyes met hers. “You showed compassion. In King’s Landing, that is as rare as rain in the desert.”

Her words caught you off guard. You blinked up at her, unsure of how to respond. The court was a world of sharp smiles and veiled barbs, where vulnerability was a weapon waiting to be exploited.

Yet here she was, offering not rebuke but understanding. “The capital is full of men and women who mistake cruelty for strength,” she continued, her gaze unwavering. “They see kindness as weakness, and ignorance as virtue. But not you. Never you.”

Your lip trembled, but you bit down on it to steady yourself. “I only want to do what’s right,” you whispered.

Rhaenyra smiled, a small, almost wistful curve of her lips. “Then you’re already leagues ahead of most.” She pulled you close again, holding you in a way that reminded you of your mother’s embrace—a rare moment of warmth in a city so cold.

Long after Isla had tucked you into bed, the weight of the day’s events kept you awake, tossing and turning beneath the heavy covers. The chill of the stone beneath the bed crept into your bones, but it wasn’t enough to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind.

The events from earlier felt like a fever dream, spinning out of control, and you couldn’t shake the image of Viserys’s weak, trembling form or the cruel play between the knights.

From Merek, you had heard the news—Ser Lyonel and Ser Harwin had been dismissed from their positions as Hand of the King and Commander of the City Watch, their fates sealed with a return to Harrenhal.

The news struck you like a slap. It was too sudden, too sharp to be real. But that was the nature of this court, wasn’t it? A place where the strongest thrived and the most loyal were discarded without a second thought.

You stared up at the ceiling, the flickering light of the few candles in your room casting fleeting shadows across the stone. Despite the exhaustion, sleep evaded you. Your thoughts was too heavy, too consuming.

You thought of Jacaerys—his quiet gaze, the spark of hope in his eyes when you had caught his look across the training yard. You had wanted to give him the favor, the small token you had kept for him since the tourney.

It had been his wish, despite not being a part of the competition. But now, you were unsure. Had your coldness pushed him away? Your own actions had driven a wedge, hadn’t they? You had chosen silence over reconciliation.

Isla would no doubt scold you for this—if she knew what you planned. But the thought of facing her scolding felt like a trivial concern in comparison to the knot in your chest. With a resigned sigh, you threw off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the bed.

The cold stone beneath your bare feet sent a shiver up your spine as you slowly stood, eyes immediately drawn to the small bundle resting on the edge of your mattress.

The favor—made of purple larkspurs and ribbons, a delicate thing in the dim candlelight.

Without hesitation, you bent down and scooped it up, feeling its weight in your hand, as if it carried the weight of all your unsaid words and unmade decisions.

You slipped on your slippers and grabbed your cloak, the cool fabric swirling around your form as you made your way to the door. The halls of the Red Keep loomed dark and silent around you. The occasional flicker of candlelight from sconces mounted on the walls offered little warmth.

The castle, once familiar, now felt imposing in the quiet darkness. Every sound—every thud of through the stone your feet—seemed louder in the silence of the night. There was an unsettling quality to it all, as if the walls themselves whispered secrets and threats just beyond your reach.

Your steps echoed faintly as you moved through the corridors, careful not to wake anyone. The Red Keep felt like a labyrinth in the dark, twisting and sprawling with hallways that seemed to shift when you weren’t looking.

You passed the royal guard posted at the corners of the hall, their stony expressions unmoved by your passing. No one spoke, no one stirred. It was as if you were moving through a ghostly world of your own making.

Your destination was clear, though your heart beat faster with every step. Would he even want it now? Would he accept it? The question gnawed at you. You could turn back, you could return to your chambers and pretend this was a foolish thought you’d soon forget.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

The sound of your knuckles against the heavy wood echoed in the quiet corridor, too loud for your liking. You glanced behind you again, heart pounding, the shadows of the Red Keep making the space feel smaller and more suffocating with each second that passed.

You could hear the faint shuffle of distant footsteps, and you held your breath, praying they wouldn’t come any closer. "Jace!" Your hand tightened around the fabric of your cloak, the cool night air prickling against your skin.

You needed to see him, to explain, to do something, anything to erase the cold distance that had settled between you two.

After a long moment of silence, the sound of movement came from within the room, followed by the soft creak of the door. You exhaled in relief, though your heart still raced.

As the door swung open, Jacaerys stood in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness.

“Wren?”

You swallowed hard. "I... I needed to see you," the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I couldn’t wait until morning. I couldn’t—"

You stopped yourself, realizing that you had no clear explanation for what had driven you to come to him now, in the middle of the night.

It felt impulsive, reckless, but it was too late to turn back. Jacaerys stepped aside, the door opening wider. "Come in," he muttered, though there was still something in his tone that held him back, a wariness that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated for a heartbeat before stepping over the threshold, your slippered feet quiet on the stone floor. The room felt too large, too filled with silent tension as you moved toward the bed where Jacaerys had been resting not long ago.

He closed the door softly behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You stood there in the center of the room, unsure what to say or where to start.

he favor you had carried so carefully was still hidden within your cloak, clutched tightly in your hand.

Finally, Jacaerys broke the silence, his voice softer now, though his gaze remained steady. "What’s going on, really? Why are you here?" His eyes flicked down to your hand, where the favor was still clenched tightly in your grip.

You glanced down at the favor in your hands, fingers trembling slightly as you loosened your grip. The purple larkspurs and soft ribbons unraveled before his eyes, delicate in their simplicity.

It was small, fragile, but to you, it was everything—a fragile peace offering, a wordless apology. Something to span the gulf between you, a rift that had widened without either of you fully realizing it.

"I—" You stopped again, the words thick on your tongue, reluctant to leave your mouth. "I didn’t mean to shut you out," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"I... I thought maybe you were using me." The confession hit you harder than you expected, a raw, bitter thing, but you couldn’t stop it now. "But I’ve been thinking, and I realized I was wrong. I was so wrong, Jace."

His gaze never wavered. Jacaerys stood unmoving, his eyes boring into you, trying to decipher the truth in your voice, in your every flinch.

Every flicker of your expression seemed to unravel something deep within him. His silence was a thing of its own, a quiet kind of understanding that stilled your breath.

Finally, Jacaerys exhaled, his shoulders sagging slightly, the sharp tension easing. His gaze softened, just enough to show you a sliver of something tender beneath the veneer of caution.

"I didn’t want you to shut me out," stepping forward, his arms coming around you in a tight embrace. "I just wanted... to not feel like you were slipping away."

You closed your eyes at his words, guilt rushing over you like an unforgiving tide, cold and unrelenting. "I didn’t mean to make you feel that way," you whispered into his shoulder, the words tasting like ashes. "The court, the politics, the pressure... I’m not used to this, Jace. I’m just not."

His arms tightened around you, his warmth seeping into your skin. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you, his gaze steady, unwavering. "I understand," But beneath the calm, there was something, a hint of something deeper in his voice. "But shutting me out only makes it worse."

You nodded, a sob rising in your chest, the lump there thick and suffocating. "I know. I’m sorry," you choked out, your voice breaking. The silence stretched between you, thick with all the things you hadn’t said—hadn’t had the courage to voice until now.

Finally, Jacaerys reached out, his hand brushing over yours as he took the favor from your palm, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

His touch was warm, gentle, a silent apology of his own. "It’s a beautiful thing," he murmured, his voice soft as he examined the larkspurs and ribbons. "I thought you might have forgotten about it."

"I never did," you replied, your voice barely audible, as fragile as the flowers in his hands. "I just... didn’t know how to give it to you after everything that happened."

He smiled then, a soft, fleeting thing, a smile that held so much more than it seemed—comfort, reassurance, and a kind of promise. It was the smile that soothed the ache inside you, melting the last of the tension that had gripped your heart. "You don’t have to explain everything all at once," he said quietly.

His words settled over you like a balm, soothing the rawness between you, and for the first time in what felt like ages, you allowed yourself to believe it.

You could almost feel the distance between you shrinking, no longer an insurmountable wall but a gap that could be bridged. It wasn’t gone—no, not yet—but it was smaller now, more manageable.

Jacaerys turned toward the window, his gaze drifting out toward the sea. "Let’s go to the beach," The soft, endless dark of the horizon seemed to call to him, pulling at something deep within.

You frowned, caught off guard by the suggestion. "But it’s still night," you protested, the very thought of leaving the warmth of the room for the cold, dark shore feeling absurd in the stillness of the moment.

Jacaerys’s smile widened, “The night doesn’t stop the waves, Wren," the corners of his lips tugging upward just slightly.

The castle seemed to breathe a quiet sigh as you and Jacaerys slipped through the shadows of the courtyard, the heavy wooden door closing softly behind you.

You moved swiftly, your cloaks drawn tight around you, the chill of the night still hanging in the air as you made your way down the familiar path leading toward Blackwater Bay.

The guards were oblivious, their attention elsewhere as you darted past them, feet light on the cobblestone streets. No words were exchanged between you.

The path to the beach was etched into memory—the same one you had taken when you became friends, the day that felt both like a lifetime ago and just yesterday.

The salt of the sea filled the air, the sound of distant waves crashing softly against the shore mingling with the quiet of the pre-dawn hours. The first light of morning began to creep across the sky, painting it in shades of purple and gold, the sun still just a glimmering promise on the horizon.

As you walked in step with Jacaerys, the cool sand slipping beneath your feet, the silhouettes of a few fishermen dotted the shoreline, their boats gently bobbing in the water.

They paid you no mind, as if two figures cloaked in the night were nothing unusual in these parts. The world seemed still, frozen in time, as though holding its breath in anticipation of the day to come.

"Mother has decided that we leave for Dragonstone," Jacaerys’s voice cut through the silence, soft but steady, as though he were testing the words himself.

You blinked, taken aback by his sudden revelation. The words seemed to reverberate through the quiet of the morning, “You’re leaving?” filling the empty space between you.

Jacaerys didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed ahead, watching the waves as they rolled in and out, each one steady and rhythmic, much like his own thoughts. His expression was guarded, the lines of his face set in a way you couldn’t read.

He nodded—you could feel the distance growing, stretching out like the horizon before you, just as unreachable, just as uncertain. The thought of him leaving, of the absence that would follow, hit you in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you forgot the steady rhythm of your own steps, caught in the sudden shift of the world around you.

“You’ll go?” you asked again, as if the question might somehow change the answer. You hadn’t expected it—hadn't prepared for it, not like this. The words tasted bitter, as though asking them would unravel something inside you.

Jacaerys’s gaze flickered briefly toward you, his eyes a little softer now, though still heavy with something unspoken. “I must,” he replied, his voice firm but laced with something quieter, something more fragile.

"It is what is expected." The words were familiar, the weight of duty pressing down on him with each one. He said nothing more for a long while, the world around you both feeling larger and more distant with every passing second.

You nodded slowly, the thoughts swirling in your mind faster than you could grasp them. Each one tangled with the next, a knot of uncertainty and emotion that refused to unravel.

The shoreline stretched out before you, the vastness of the sea mirroring the distance that would soon lie between you. The cool sand beneath your feet felt oddly grounding, yet you couldn't shake the sense that it would soon slip away, leaving you adrift.

Then, without warning, Jacaerys’s hand brushed against yours, warm and steady, as he came to a halt. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pulling you gently to a stop as well. You looked at him, his gaze meeting yours, serious but soft, as though trying to find some truth within the moment.

He didn’t need to say it, not aloud, but the weight of it hung in the air—the ache of a parting that neither of you had anticipated but both knew was inevitable.

“I’ll miss you,” Jacaerys’ other hand found yours, both of them cupping your palm with a warmth that spoke volumes, a warmth that felt like the last embers of a fire soon to be extinguished.

You swallowed, the lump in your throat growing, and for a fleeting moment, you couldn’t speak. The vulnerability in his eyes, the rawness of his words, left you struggling to find the right ones. “I’ll miss you too,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath, but they held everything.

Jacaerys, needing something—anything—that could tether you both to this moment. "Promise to send ravens?" The words left your lips before you could even think about it, the hope in your voice clear as you looked up at

Jacaerys’s lips curled into a small, teasing smile, and with a quick nod, he replied, “Only if you promise not to ignore them.”

Without missing a beat, you tangled your pinky with his, the simple gesture a pact between the two of you. A way of sealing what might be forgotten in the passing of time, but something you both needed now.

“Promise,”

As if the air between you could no longer contain the tension of unspoken words, you both broke into laughter. It was a sound that felt foreign and real all at once, something pure amid the complications of everything else.

But just as quickly as the laughter came, it seemed, a spark of mischief flickered in Jacaerys’s eyes. In an instant, he was pulling at the ties of your cloak, his hands quick and determined.

Before you could protest, his fingers tugged at your cloak, and with a quick yank, it was gone, leaving you only in your nightgown, the cool night air suddenly sharper against your skin.

The sound of his laughter mixed with yours as he dragged you toward the edge of the water, your feet stumbling against the uneven sand. “Jace? No!” you gasped, caught off guard, but your words were lost in the sudden burst of giggles that followed.

You tried to pull away, but his grip was steady, and in a flash, you were both closer to the sea than you ever thought you would be in the middle of the night.

The waves crashed against the shore with relentless force, their cold touch sending a sharp chill up your spine. Your nightgown, now soaked through with saltwater, clung to your skin, heavy and uncomfortable, but the laughter that bubbled between you and Jacaerys kept you light.

The sound of the waves, the crisp air, and his playful presence filled the space around you like a song. “Come on, Wren!” Jacaerys called, as he released your hand, stepping back just enough to splash you with the frothy sea water.

You squealed, shocked by the sudden coldness, but the surprise melted into laughter as you kicked your own splash back toward him. “Take this!” you shouted, your words barely audible over the crashing waves. His wet nightshirt clung to his skin, clinging to his every movement like a second layer.

Jacaerys grinned, unbothered by the soaked fabric sticking to him, but his playful demeanor faltered just slightly when you noticed something unusual—something you hadn’t seen before. As he turned his back toward you, you caught sight of a scattering of small freckles across his shoulders and down the length of his back.

“You have freckles on your back?” you asked, your voice filled with surprise and amusement, the playful tone in your words only adding to the moment’s warmth.

The small, sun-kissed dots were scattered like stardust, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for them, but they were there, peppered across his skin in a way that made him seem a little less like the prince you knew and more like someone far more familiar, far more human.

Jacaerys stiffened for a brief moment, a flush creeping up his neck before he turned to face you, a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve had them for as long as I can remember,” he said with a teasing glint in his eyes, his voice shifting to one of playful defensiveness. “I didn’t think they were something worth mentioning.”

You grinned, suddenly filled with a new kind of warmth—one that wasn’t just from the laughter, but from the realization that there were so many things about him you still hadn’t fully seen.

Things you hadn’t noticed before, like the way the sunlight caught in his hair, or the way his freckles dotted his skin like little secrets he’d never shared.

“Well,” you teased, stepping closer, “I think they’re cute.”

Jacaerys rolled his eyes dramatically, his smile never fading. It was as if the world had shifted just slightly. As if he had learned something new about himself, something that had quietly taken root within him without him even realizing it.

No matter what the future held, no matter how far away you would be from him, his heart would always yearn for you. Because no matter how long it took for him to see you again.

He was only an island away.

Taglist: (If you want to be added, please click here)

@yohanseyebrowmole @radiantdanvers @accidentpronedork @marvel-mistress-padawan @tabathastan @deltamoon666 @hotdhoe @cosmosnkaz @dragonamongwolves @r-3dlips @ghizlana @boiolay @gardenfaeries @ilymoonie @mellylla @omgsuperstarg @idohknow @beskardroids @buckystevelove @plainxlazy @gwaynehightower @beebeechaos @milksde @saintkittykat @cornbreadwithcheese @pinkb00bsocks @agoldenwoe @moonliightbabes @day2dream @geminizmoonz @smiley-roos @xxxkat3xxx @ninihrtss

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nottswitch · 4 months ago

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hii !! so for the celebration thingy ;

number: 3. character: tom riddle aesthetic (from the wheel) horror academia.

im ok w smut ! :) also have a good day

hey babes! thanks for sending a request, hope you’re having a good whatever time of the day it is for you 🤍 so, at first i wanted to reply and say that it’s me who’s supposed to choose the aesthetic, but i just really wanted to do this one with tom, because it fits so well!! so, your aesthetic is…

— horror academia

(reflects the difficulty and laborious workload of real academia, manifesting in the spooky, grim, dark, and monstrous horror ambience)

» navigation ; masterlist ; tom m.list ; how to request ; 1k celebration

18+ smut

"baby."

tom’s clenched jaw and a small sidelong glare he shoots your way shows that he still very much doesn’t appreciate the pet name. you sigh, and your hands that have been massaging his shoulders move further down his body, over the planes of his chest, making the woolen fabric of his sweater wrinkle under your touch. his body doesn’t relax in the slightest.

"can you please-"

"not tired."

tom’s voice is firm and cold, but you hear the slightest bit of exhaustion there. you know he’s lying; as much as he adores keeping up the facade of being unbreakable, you‘ve known him long enough to see the signs: the shadows under his eyes, barely there, but noticeable under the dreary lighting in his dingy apartment; the way his hand shakes around the quill ever so slightly as he scribbles down some words you don’t understand (and don’t really want to).

you sigh again, somewhat frustrated, because of course he’d never admit to being out of it. slowly, you sink down onto your knees, crawling underneath his desk. he doesn’t even seem to notice, his eyes already in another huge crumbling tome.

your hands travel up his thighs, softly kneading the tense and undoubtedly cramped muscles. that seems to bring him out of his studious daze, and he leans back, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow. you give him a small shrug and tug at the elastic of his cotton pants. he runs his hand over his face, slightly shaking his head.

"not in the mood,” he mutters, but you know he’s lying again. that’s what his hardening cock is telling you, anyway. you shake your head back and still your hand over the bulge that has formed at his front. several long seconds pass before he finally, finally leans against the back of the chair.

you let out a breath of relief and pull his pants down to his knees, met with the sight of his cock springing out against his lower abdomen. kissing up his length, you look up at him through your eyelashes only to see him close his eyes and tilt his head back, his lips parted and letting out short breaths. finally, he relaxes.

your tongue starts swirling around the tip, and you hear a moan from above. it’s quiet and soft, but you know what it means: he’s really, really tired. he barely ever moans, but right now, your tongue seems to be coaxing sounds out of him. feels nice.

when your mouth envelops him completely, tom gasps. when the tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, he lets out a ragged breath. his thighs take up the entirety of the narrow chair seat, so his hands hang slack, twitching every time your tongues makes a particularly firm movement. another moan breaks out of him as he spills down your throat, his whole body going limp above you.

"baby-"

"no."

"okay, tom. let’s go to bed? please?"

"not tired."

playlist

❥ you should see me in a crown by billie eilish

❥ so take this night by black lab

❥ shattered by trading yesterday

❥ born to burn by the neighbourhood

#— witch’s works ☾#— 1k celebration ☾#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle drabble #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle smut

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fullofbees · 7 months ago

Text

😸💚 anon requested: Hello!! Could I possibly ask for Satan with prompt 55? Maybe with fem!MC who is shy and sweet? I cannot stop thinking about the dynamic of opposites interacting with each other!

CW: Fingering (F receiving)

»»----------► F!Reader

Though his room is nothing but a towering maze of books only lit by candlelight, you find it oddly comforting; as long as you manage to not trip on any of his "to read" piles.

You found the tome you were looking for, a hefty treatise on rare herbs and their magical uses. Carefully, you find your way back to Satan, descending the spiral staircase with the book in tow.

"I was worried you had gotten lost," says the demon as you plop down on his bed with a small "oof."

Dust is sent flying to the floor as you wipe your hand across the cracking leather cover, "We should make a map of your room."

Satan crinkles his nose at the idea, "I already have a system in place."

"I know," you say as you open the book in your lap, carefully flipping through the pages until you get to the table of contents, "I'd like to learn your system. I'm a visual learner, so I think a map would help."

The Avatar of Wrath mumbles grumpily, "Fine. I'll draw one later..." Yet he is already reddening, a delicate blush blooming across his cheeks. He buries his face in his book, though he peers at you over its edge, "Are you going back to your room now that you have what you sought?"

"Can I stay with you?" You ask without hesitation. The implication of your question makes you flush with your own embarrassment, so you hold up the tome as defense, "I mean - uh, this book is so old! And I don't want to risk damaging it. Better if I read it here, right?"

Satan, with a knowing smile and demon strength, wraps an arm around your waist and drags you to sit in his lap. He encourages you to lean into him, back pressed firmly to his chest as he makes himself comfortable, "Yes. Stay."

Fire rushes to your face and to your core. His room always smells of books, a blend of fresh ink on virgin paper and the irreplicable vintages of pages older than time itself. Now Satan's scent comes into the fore; notes of amber, rose, and cedar from his cologne, the simple yet clean smell of detergent that clings to his shirt - it's intoxicating.

You shove the insane notion that you're turned on merely by his scent away. Even if arousal is building between your thighs, you try to distract yourself with the reason you came here in the first place. Finding the chapter you need, you begin the harrowing ordeal of reading about shadow saffron.

But you can't settle down; the author's writing is dry, the pulsing need you feel is becoming uncomfortable, leaving you to fidget in Satan's lap.

The arm around your waist tightens, "Stay still."

"I'm sorry, I just need to adjust--," You sheepishly answer, going to stand up.

Satan's hand shifts lower, fingers splayed across your lower stomach as he stops you. Within a second, he pulls you back to his lap and onto his hardening cock that strains against the confines of his jeans.

"Stay. Still." He warns, his hand now caressing your thigh.

Your voice is caught in your throat, brain short-circuiting at how quickly the situation has changed. It is not unwelcome - Satan's hand is warm as he guides your legs apart. Teasing fingers run along your inner thigh, always stopping shy of your core.

The tome is clutched to your chest, your only anchor to the real world as Satan decides to take you on a fantastical adventure.

"The princess whines under the delicate touch of her knight. He's been her faithful servant, her ardent protector, always carefully watching. His love for her has transcended his role; the city could burn down around him; all he needed was her."

His breath tickles your ear as he reads from the book perched in his free hand. Has he been reading Amour Courtois smut this entire time?

Satan's hand undoes the button on your pants, "He always told himself that he would never let it get to this point. No knight could ever marry a lady of her status; it was pointless to want for something so clearly forbidden."

You softly whine when his hand slips past the hem of your panties, gathering your growing wetness on his fingers as he leisurely drags them across your slit.

"Yet here she was, bare on the bed of the inn, proclaiming her own devotion and need for him. As his fingers made quick work of her clit, he began to palm himself through his own pants. Love that borders on possession is as dangerous as it is arousing; it is damning for them both."

Two fingers easily slide into your cunt, and you have to bite your lip to keep your moan from ringing out. Satan presses a reassuring kiss to your temple.

"Still, he can't help the growing need to own her completely like she owns him. Commanding a princess would surely mean his head, but still, it slips off his tongue: "Only I get to touch you like this, okay?"

•••✦ ❤ ✦••• Submit A Request | Read on AO3 •••✦ ❤ ✦•••

A/N: I based Satan's scent off of this cologne that I keep meaning to buy 👀

#fullofbeeswrite #obey me shall we date #obey me nightbringer #obey me satan smut #obey me smut #obey me satan x reader #obey me satan x mc

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secret-smut-sideblog · 7 months ago

Text

Possession

Gale x F! Sorcerer Tav

18+ enemies to lovers (sort of), antagonistic relationships, crossed signals, misunderstanding, physical roughness, rivalry/jealousy, mean domGale, rough sex, manhandling, semi-public sex, consensual voyeurism, light humiliation, masturbation (m!), fingering (f!), oral (f!), face sitting, p-in-v, pulling out

With natural challenge and charge between them and a misstep at connection, an unexpected competitor appears in camp. Things come to a burning head between sorcerer and wizard...

Masterlist

Magic ran through her body. It was deep inside her bones, a force she could not reason with even if she tried. As vital as breath.

So as Gale explained Weave to her, she rested her chin on a curled hand. Giving him a highly bemused smile that he was entirely unaware of.

"The simplicity that Magic of the Weave - An Introduction supplies is quite misleading. Though those unfamiliar must start somewhere, I suppose." He held the small tome up in demonstration, letting it fall flat in his palm to a page he had affixed a colored tab to.

"Like here!"

He began reading aloud a passage, Tav smiling wider at the unconscious raise of his pointed finger.

"While that is accurate," He snapped the book shut, turning to look at her. "To distill the Weave so crudely down to a new student is akin to stealing their capacity for wonder. So much of the power of the Weave is in its limitless beauty, to rend it so small is a disservice."

"Not all spellcasters experience magic in such a profound way as you do." She offered, that bite of jest falling back into her words.

"Ah, I've forgotten." He sighed, leveling her with a withering stare. "I'm speaking to a sorcerer."

She felt her smile widen even further.

"And I'm speaking to a wizard. If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you kiss those books to sleep at night."

His ears filled with blush, pulling the tome off of his lap and setting it with an annoyed thump on an ever growing pile.

"As I've said, no sense of wonder." He sniped.

This was a dance they did. He would talk her through a concept she was already familiar with and, inevitably, get frustrated with her teasing. But he kept coming back, a new topic, a new book, to dissect to her. A dog with a bird in its teeth.

"I really do think it's sweet. Your love for your craft. Maybe you'll be a teacher one day, you clearly have a knack for it." She sighed out her last words in a mock weariness.

"Though I could argue I experience magic just as deeply as you do, wizard. Maybe I should be the one giving you lectures."

His eyes seemed to light at the thought, turning to her expectantly.

"No," she raised her hands. "I'm not going to be the one to break that hopeful glint in your eyes. My relationship with my magic is not nearly as fulfilling."

He stared at her, stubborn. Turning fully towards her, eyes held in unwavering interest.

"You're very irritating." She stated.

He scoffed.

"I'm well aware. But go on, enlighten me."

She gave an exaggerated eye roll, then fell quiet. Bowing her head in concentration, allowing the slow closing of her eyes.

The sound of rustling fabric next to her as he leaned forward.

As she focused in on her power, the sensation, the fluid of it, she felt it rise along her body. Lifting the ends of her hair, air crackling with chill. She leaned her head back, feeling the delicious cold move up her spine.

Speaking in a hushed, vulnerable voice.

"It's ice water in summer. It's the chill of early morning. It's the plunge of a hand into a cool river."

Her eyes slid open, her gaze falling back on her hands. Now alight with glacial magic.

"It's the hunger of winter. It's the icy maw that swallows the unprepared. It's the frigid grip on skin, stealing breath away. Lulling so sweetly into sleep, burning alive."

She stared at the curl of her palm, frost lines traveling in slow pulses down the valleys of her veins.

"What you call Weave I know as blood. Inescapable and as giving as a blizzard. It's not about learning, it's about controlling."

Her eyes finally rose to his and found him scribbling in the front leaf page of Magic of the Weave. Looking up at her expectantly, his hand pausing as she fell quiet.

"Are you... writing this down?" She stared at him in disbelief.

He looked down at his pen, then back up at her, innocent confusion tilting his head. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"By Drizz't's Blades, can you not be an academic for one second?" She huffed, rising to feet.

"Just like a wizard, you bear your wounds and their taking notes. Gods."

He looked at his work again, his own frustration creasing his brows. Opening his mouth to surely argue.

"Save it." She held her hand up flat. "You've got your research. Frigid drow is a compelling footnote in your paper. Goodnight, Gale."

Her feet took her away on frosted grass. Hands clenching at her sides, ice cresting over knuckles. Feeling his eyes following her back.

Turning the corner on the largest crimson tent.

"Karlach! I need thawing!"

"You know he didn't mean it like that."

Karlach's blistering hand rubbed in circles along the ice holding her bare back. Melting it down only to have new sheets bloom behind her hand.

"I dont know that." Tav hissed, the tight hurt in her chest speaking.

"Oh, come on. He's far too sweet on you to be studying you like an experiment."

"He's not."

"He is. Hells, Tav, it's obvious."

Tav rose her legs to her chest, leaning on her knees. Pushing her chin into the curve of her folded forearms. Angry tears spiking her eyes, quickly turning to frozen rain pooling.

"That's just how wizards are, mate. They digest the world through books. If anything, it was a massive compliment that he was taking notes."

She picked at the seam along her knee. Turning her head into the fold of her arms with a shaky sigh. Focusing on Karlach's heat to bring her body back down from the threatening squall.

"I just want to be..."

She tried to gather her words, but an angry lump sat frozen in her throat.

"I know, baby. You want to be understood. But that shit hurts."

Tav nodded, reaching back to squeeze Karlach's knee.

"Thank you." She sighed, ice water slipping down her temple and the curve of her nose.

"Of course, Frost. Elemental bitches gotta stick together."

Tav let out a wet laugh, chill air leaving her in a burst.

Leaving her tent, she gave Karlach's shoulder one more grateful squeeze. Misty eyed again, seeing how happily she pulled a frozen Clive to her chest. Her spell set to last through the night.

Though her ice was often a burden, it was setting up to be a sweltering night. Passing by each tent, she tapped on canvas. Setting the temperature down with an incantation, hearing grateful sighs and soft thank you's from within as she made a loop. Slipping a bottle of cooled blood into crimson canvas, chilled fingers taking it eagerly.

She eyed the deep turquoise tent, soft light still dancing inside. Sighing, she stepped forward on quiet feet. Stopping to kneel down and straighten the piles of books that he had haphazardly left.

Crouched on haunches, she rose her hand. Pressing a cold palm into canvas. Giving him a little extra in silent apology.

Hearing no acknowledgment outside of a pausing of movement, she rose back on feet.

"Goodnight, Gale." She hushed.

Turning back to the lone point of her black tent, at the lowest slope of their small world. Faded with scrubbed away symbols of Lolth. Smiling at Minthara's tent opposite hers.

Her fellow drow laid inside, leaned back on her hammock. Sharpening a dagger with the precision of a practiced war matron.

Giving her an affirming nod as she cooled her tent.

"I'm retiring for the night." Tav spoke in Undercommon, the words sliding out so much more natural. Minthara respoding in kind.

"I'll take watch." Rising from her lounge, she sat her dagger back with a snap. Heading up the slope.

"Rest well, sister."

Finally alone, she entered her tent. Content to wallow in her sharp hurt.

As she settled, lighting a candle, pulling a spidersilk robe around her waist, a new shape revealed beneath her pillow.

She cut her eyes, picking up a tome.

Impractical Magic, Volume 1.

Another sat beneath it.

Book of Poetry.

She flipped through them. A beginner's book, written by a wizard, about the nature of elemental sorcery and a small book of poems. Recognizing her own speech patterns from her attempt at explanation earlier in the prose.

She shot to feet, angry chill rising through her neck. The books gripped in her fist.

Ripping aside turquoise canvas. Casting Private Sanctum on his tent as she stormed inside. Tossing the books at his feet.

"Are you mocking me?"

He glanced at the books, eyes rising to hers. Turning his head in that maddening tilt.

"You have wildly misunderstood my intentions."

Her hands twitched into fists again, breathing hard through the frost.

"Okay, then dumb it down for me since you're so superior. My meager education couldn't possibly rise to the occasion."

He rose to feet, his breathing picking up with hers.

"Why do you keep inferring that I find you lacking? How have I made that impression?"

She nearly screamed, biting her icy tongue. Turning from him to face the tent wall as furious tears rose again.

"Hey, don't turn away. I'm trying to understand!"

His hand pulled on her bicep, and it snapped a fracture in her frozen lake.

Wrenching his wrist, she forced his arm behind his back. Flipping him to the ground, knee pressed into his spine. Taking his hair in a tight bunch, forcing his head into a turn on his pillow.

He gasped, his back arching into her hold. Body so unbearably warm beneath hers.

"Don't touch me." She commanded. Pressing her knee harder.

He tried to nod, but her fist held harder into his hair. A soft moan left him, hips rising into a curl.

"Don't go into my tent again. Or I will do far worse than this."

"Is that a promise?" He gasped.

She raised her lip in a snarl. Lowering her head down to his ear, hissing into the well.

"You're too soft and warm to talk back, wael faern. Or do I need to show you that?"

"I'd love a demonstration, if you don't mind."

She smiled dangerously, pinning his arm under her knee. Hand snapping down on the side of his throat.

He breathed hard under her constricting fingers, eyes fluttering up into lids as her cold tongue drug up the curve of his ear.

She pressed the full freeze of her body into his back, chuckling darkly as he shivered.

"Too cold? I thought so."

Rising off of him with a shove, she twisted her fingers into her magic. Glaring down as he turned to stare flushed at her.

"Enjoy the heat."

With a pull, she removed her chill on the tent. The air filling sweltering again as she ducked out into the night.

"No Gale today?" Astarion clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. Shouldering his pack to accompany her.

"No. I'd rather not see him." She responded in a clipped voice.

"Cold." He lilted. "But I do so enjoy that about you."

Karlach and Minthara met them at the crest of the trail. Blue light still bathing the sleeping world.

"Any reason we're heading out so early, soldier?"

"She's avoiding her kicked puppy."

"Do you want to stay back, Astarion? I'm sure you could use the beauty rest."

"Would you like me to educate the spawn on manners, sister?"

"Gods, I'm going to hate you two together."

Her eyes darted back to the distant point of camp. Seeing a soft light ignite inside his tent.

"Enough talk. Head out."

"Shadowheart! To me!" Tav called.

Rolan moaned out what sounded like 'Where are we?' His eyes rolling loose in sockets as he coughed.

"My camp, we're not close enough to Last Light. Now focus on breathing." She hitched his arm higher over her shoulder.

Minthara took up his other side, face stoic.

"Shadowheart! We have wounded!" Tav called again, eyes tracking around the camp.

She rushed down the hill, hands lit in magic. Potions gathered under her arm.

"Injuries?" She urged, Tav and Minthara laying him on a soft patch of grass. Halsin came up behind Tav, his hand coming to Rolan's forehead. The other braced on her back as he kneeled down.

"Shadow wraiths. The curse almost got him." Karlach gasped, running up to the gathered help.

"He's very near death." Halsin urged, hand lighting along his forehead. "Something's wrong, he's burning up."

Tav leaned back and whipped off her robe, kneeled in her underclothes.

"Lift him." She instructed. Halsin appraising her with an impressed glint.

The druid lifted him easily into a slump.

"What's going on?" Gale's voice rose over their heads.

Tav arched her thigh around Rolan's lap, taking up his weight into her shoulder. Her chest pressed to his, she snaked her hand inside of his robe and untied it at the waist. Letting it fall back as she spread her hands on his bowed back and pressed into him.

Halsin and Shadowheart took up at his sides in front of her. Speaking healing magic into his body.

"Breath, faern." She hushed, pulling him to her.

Rolan's breath filled and emptied shallowly against her neck. Burning into her skin.

"I'm going to get colder now, take a deep breath." She warned in a soft voice.

She focused her temperature down, feeling him try to pull away weakly.

"Good, that's good." Halsin encouraged, spreading a hand between hers. "He's stabilizing."

Rolan whimpered into her shoulder, arms coming up to grip into her back. Body shaking with cold and frustration. Tears hidden in the fall of her hair.

"I know, I know." She hummed, hands running through his long hair. "You're alive. Feel your anger."

Rolan wouldn't leave her side, even after his body had cooled. Leaning his head in exhausted shame.

"We'll head out for Last Light, first thing in the morning." Tav instructed, her gathered companions nodding. The fire burning low between them.

"Return Rolan to his family and secure the whereabouts of Oliver. We should search where we last saw him."

Rolan's head rose, staring down at her.

"Family?"

"Yes, we found your siblings in the prison at Moonrise. They were on their way back to you when we found you."

His eyes filled with tears again.

"You saved them?"

She nodded, then was taken into him.

He pressed a kiss into her lips, hands cupping her face in desperate joy. Pulling away with spilling tears.

"Thank you." He breathed.

She smiled up at him.

"No trouble."

Rolan smiled back, then turned his head. His eyes widened in confusion, then settled into a cold stare.

Tav followed his gaze.

Gale sat across from Rolan, glaring dark under his brow at him. Fingers digging on his thighs.

"Something you'd like to share?" Rolan chided, tilting his head in a slow challenge.

"Oh, not presently. After all, your health is far too important." Gale's voice came out in a low warning.

The air crackled with malice. A silent combat taking place between eyes.

"Gods, you wizards are like fish too close in a pond. Get over yourselves." Shadowheart scoffed, rising to feet.

"I'll set you up in my tent tonight." Tav turned to back to Rolan. "I'll occupy myself elsewhere."

"I'm sure there's enough room for the two of us." Rolan purred, eyes lighting in petty accomplishment as the shadow darkened next to them.

"And I'm sure you'll freeze to death."

"Mmm, I'm still a mite warm, actually."

Gale rose to feet, shoulders hard with effort.

"Tav, a word?"

"My tent is there." She pointed down the slope, rising to feet. "Get some rest. We have a long walk come morning."

Gale came to her side, rushing forward. Caging her body forward with his own. Fast steps forcing her body to a brisk walk.

His hand came up to pull on her wrist, finding her pace not removing them quickly enough.

"I will end you." She promised, his hand falling away with a huff.

"Okay, we're beyond the treeline. I think we're far enough from the wizard I just helped."

She crossed her arms, leveling an unamused stare at him.

"What do you want to say?"

"Why did he just kiss you?" Gale hissed. Ducking his head down low to her.

"Ask him. I haven't detected his thoughts."

"That's not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

He huffed breath hard, chest heaving. Eyes burning.

"You're impossible." He growled.

"I'm a drow. Bitch comes free." She tilted her head up at him. A mean glint in her eyes.

"Why? Are you jealous, wizard?"

His back bristled, eyes widening in contained rage.

"Do you need healing, too? Do you have wounds for me?" She stepped forward in a challenge. "Show me where it hurts, and I'll lick it better."

He held his ground, and she stepped forward again. Egging him on.

"Come on. You're clearly angry with me." She smiled. "Spit your venom."

"I'm not angry with you."

"No?" She stepped into him.

"Then why are you so warm?"

His eyelids lowered into a grimace, panting as she pressed into him.

They breathed into each other's space, his hands arching in hard clenches at his sides.

"Then what are you feeling towards me, Gale?" She hissed, staring into his dark eyes.

He finally snapped, crashing his mouth into hers.

His mouth pushed, desperate and mean. Wide hand gripping into the back of her hair. Breathing hard through nose. Tangling into her in angry pulls. Demanding fingers pulling at her clothes.

She pulled out of her robe, ripping into his ties. Disrobing him with the same aggression. Pressing her body hard into his in rolling waves. His heat battling her rising cold.

"Down." He growled into her swollen lips. Pulling her by the hips roughly to the forest floor.

"I don't take orders from you." She breathed, falling under his body.

"Shut up." He hissed, pulling her bralette down to her ribs in a hard yank.

Mouth diving on a hard peak.

Her back curled up in pleasure, gripping into his hair.

He lapped at the buds, playing mean fast strokes that he pulled up into his lips. Sucking in hard popping pulses.

Her head arched back, panting into the grass. Cunt flooding with slick, hips arching up into the tone of his belly.

He forced his hand between them, cupping her cunt and pushing her hips hard into the earth.

"I'm going to make you regret kissing him." He promised in a dangerous rumble. Eyes glaring up at her in dark slits.

"Do it, then." She breathed, her eyes burning ice.

"I dare you."

He ripped her panties off, eyes smoldering anger. Wrenching under her thighs and lifting her hips high into the air. Forcing her thighs onto his shoulders, holding her up by her ass.

She cried out into her palm when his mouth latched onto her clit. Pulling vicious wet suckles, his arm locking behind her hips as they tried to squirm away. The pleasure near unbearable, his anger leaving her merciless.

Her shoulders writhed on the grass, hips trying to give out. He cracked his hand down on her ass twice, rising her hips back up with a growl.

Her eyes rolled marble in her head as he took her apart, gasping shallow breaths. Already a shameful mess. Delirious with wrenching pleasure.

Frost spread across her belly, orgasm circling dangerously tight. Muffling pleading moans in her throat, coming out as choking whimpers.

He laughed into her cunt, dragging his nails hard down her thigh to get her to gasp her mouth open. Leaving pink scratches in his wake.

Her mouth fell open, the pain pushing her pleasure into an unrelenting high. Gasping out in Undercommon.

"What was that?" He murmured, pulling back to stare down her belly at her.

She glared at him, tightening her thighs around his head in warning.

"No, no, use-" He sucked hard on her clit in hollow pulls of his tongue, her thighs falling back open in a shudder. "-your words."

"Fuck you." She hissed.

"Not what you said." He retorted, pushing two fingers inside her without warning.

She twisted, cunt clenching hard on his fingers. Hooking into punishing slow strikes.

He slapped her ass again. Demanding an answer.

"I said-"

She clamped around his head, twisting him down to the ground. Straddling over his face.

"Rip me apart, wizard."

His eyes lowered into dangerous slits. Grasping her by both hips, forcing her cunt into his mouth again.

She shuddered as he latched back on in near biting pulses. Completely engulfing her clit. Reaching up to pull on her throat, forcing her into an arch forward to push his fingers back inside. Slamming into her beneath, sending jolts up through her pelvis.

She gripped into his hair, face crumpling in desperate pleasure. Hand cupped over her mouth to not shriek.

His eyes cut to the edge of the trees. Pulling her hand down by the forearm and forcing it behind her back.

Her eyes followed, rocking with the force of his fucking.

Rolan stood wide-eyed on the edge a tree, hard cock in his hand.

Gale's hand spread up over her hips and belly in clear petty possession. Cupping her breast, pinching her nipple between his long fingers. Rubbing his nose in it.

Tav couldn't take it anymore, being displayed like this pushing her over the edge. Body buckling as she came hard into his mouth.

He grasped onto her hips, quickly forcing her onto her belly. Cock pushing inside her in a viciously savoring thrust.

She cried out into the dirt, her orgasm still in its throes. Clenching hard onto him, his breath hissing out with his thrusts. Rocking her forward in hard snaps.

"Look at him." He whispered, lifting her head by a pull of her hair. Winding it into his fist.

Her glazed eyes locked with Rolan's. Both of them aghast with shameful pleasure.

"See how much he wants this?" He hissed low into her ear. "Poor thing, he can't touch you. Not like I can."

As if to demonstrate, he circled his fingers hard into her clit.

She curled her head in, hands clawing at the dirt. Choppy begging cries smothered as a second orgasm threatened.

"Gale, I'm-" She pleaded, hips rising higher as it climbed. His hips slamming faster into her backside in response.

It ripped through her, sending her whole torso into shuddering spasms. Back arching down into the dirt as her cum pushed out to drip down his thighs.

Her wrenching contractions forced him to his end. Hand bracing on her shoulder. Pulling out to spill on her lower back, gasping shallow as his pleasure dripped down her spine.

She heard Rolan's muffled release and looked over, seeing his eyes flutter back into his head.

Gale was a preening exhausted shadow behind her. Rolling her ass in his palms in pure accomplished revelry.

She heard Rolan scurry away towards camp. Gale huffing out a righteous laugh.

"Oh, he's going with the others in the morning."

Tav nodded, too fucked out to regain her role as leader. Pliant and loose under his command.

"And you're going to stay with me tonight." He smiled dangerously, clearly enjoying having tamed her.

"Yes, saer." She sighed.

"Oh, do keep talking like that. You're going to be wonderfully obedient, aren't you?"

#whoops i spilled some dark gale on your nice linens 😔#lyrics from: blood sport - sleep token #screenshot by @druizard #gale x tav #gale smut #bg3 smut

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