#but good lord. this course has been humbling

[ouroboobos]

unfortunately the only thing i've learned from my nonfiction writing course is that i suck really really bad at writing nonfiction

[nebulaafterdark]

A Marriage For Love

Summary: When Y/N and Aegon receive news that they cannot wed, they flee King’s Landing for a simple life in Bravvos. Upon returning to visit their families, they find themselves face to face with the consequences of their actions. Cheesy, targcest, idiots in love. Based off this request.

“We mustn’t allow them to carry on like this!”Alicent shouts.

“I agree,” Rhaenyra says, heartily. “Keep your son away from my daughter.”

“Keep your daughter away from my son!” Alicent bites out. “She should begin preparing for her marriage to the Lord of the Riverlands as Aegon should be spending more time with Helaena.”

“Mayhaps there is a simpler solution.” The King sighs, with a hand to his head.

“What is it you suggest, father?” Rhaenyra wonders.

“We might betroth Y/N and Aegon.” He smiles, looking between his daughter and wife.

“You may betroth my firstborn son to her…plain featured daughter when I am cold and in my grave.”

“Alicent!” Viserys roars.

Aegon wastes no more time listening to them quarrel, setting off in search of Y/N. He finds her in the library, as she often is. “Y/N,” he kneels before her chair. Closing the book and using his finger against the binding to hold her place.

Y/N looks up at him. “What is it?”

“There is something I must tell you.” From the time they were small, Y/N has been the one to hold his secrets.

“Speak it,” she squeezes his wrist.

“Only moments ago my father offered to betroth us, our mothers rejected the proposal. They want your hand for some River Lord and mine for Helaena.”

“No.”

Aegon cups her face in his hand. “Come away with me. We can build a new life, together. It may not be as lush, but it will be ours. You will still have your cakes as they please you, I swear it.”

“You would do that for me?”

“I would do more for you and worse.” Aegon smirks.

“Well…what shall I bring?” Y/N asks, ignoring the pang of guilt in her chest.

“Pack sparingly, a change of clothes or two. We’ll need gold and jewelry to trade; enough to get us started.”

“Where will we go?”

“One of the free cities,” he decides, “no one will be looking for us there. And it does not have to be forever, long enough for us to get married. If we’ve a child, they’ll have no choice but to honor our union.”

“Alright,” Y/N swallows.

“Go now,” he presses his lips to her forehead. “Meet me at the dragon pit in one hour’s time.”

The princess nods, nuzzling against him for just a moment before they break apart.

By the time anyone comes looking for them, Y/N and Aegon are long gone. Leaving behind only a note.

‘If you will not allow us to marry for love, we will do so elsewhere.’

King Viserys is so distraught at the news, he passes with the shock of it.

Rhaenyra takes her place as Queen, refusing to rename her heir.

————————————————————————

Life is different in Braavos, no maids, dragon keepers nor castle. Aegon cuts his hair up to his chin on the day of their wedding, freeing himself from the memories it holds.

There are rumors of course, about the town baker and his wife, the tailor, who may or may not be the long lost prince and princess. Their dragons do nothing to disprove these whispers, however they do stop them from reaching the Red Keep.

Years pass, news breaks that Y/N is with child, growing rounder by the day.

After a long day’s work, Aegon is exhausted, shucking off his boots near the door of their humble abode and bringing his wife an offering of sweets.

Y/N smells Aegon before she sees him, calling out from the kitchen, “what have you brought me today, husband?”

“What if it were for me, spoiled thing?” Aegon chuckles, lying his offering on the counter to wrap his arms around her. Their babe kicking at his palms.

Y/N reaches back, cupping his cheek. “Best turn about and fetch mine then.”

He smiles, pressing kisses to her shoulder. “How is our little dragon treating you?”

“Well enough,” Y/N sighs, stirring the broth. “I have not wretched this day.”

“That is good.” He pats her belly. “I brought you cake.”

“What kind?”

“Dinner first, my heart.” Aegon insists.

“Or I could have cake for dinner.”

Aegon sighs, as she leans into him.

“Please?”

“Very well.”

Y/N turns to face him, abandoning her cooking in favor of his kiss. “Thank you.”

————————————————————————

Bringing their love into the world is a long and grueling task, Aegon keeps her spirits up as best he can. Unfortunately there is only so much a man can do for a laboring wife.

Y/N is exhausted by the time she delivers the afterbirth, fighting sleep as she nurses their newborn daughters. A task she deems horribly painful in itself.

Aegon strokes her hair, whispering words of love and encouragement until the babes are satisfied. “You rest now, I will bathe them.”

His wife does not protest, allowing her heavy eyes to close.

Neither of the twins cry, until gods forbid he sets them down. “Shh,” Aegon hushes them, taking one in each arm. “Papa put you down for only a moment, surely you cannot be held at all times.”

The babe on the left yawns, stretching out her little arms. The babe on the right merely blinks at him.

Until they learn to crawl, Dahlia and Visera are indeed held at all times.

————————————————————————

By the time their sons are born, Y/N often tells stories of her family back in King’s Landing. Her mother especially, who she wishes to meet them.

Aegon returns from the dragon’s nest with two new eggs, one for each of their boys. “Stormborn and Sunfyre are thoughtful, they deliver us clutches in pairs.”

Y/N smiles, from their dragons came an egg for each of their children. “Let’s see.” She waves her husband over.

Their eldest son, Laenor, toddles toward him, pointing to the bright golden egg, “mine.”

“Ah, ah, hold on just a moment now.” Aegon says.

“Please?” The two year old pouts.

“Yes, alright.” Aegon sets the dark blue egg down beside his wife and youngest son. “We must be careful with it now, sit in Papa’s lap. We’ll hold it together, hmm?”

Laenor claps his little hands together, reaching up for his father.

Aegon backs up to the arm chair, holding the egg above his head, “climb up.”

Laenor furrows his brow, crawling into his father’s lap.

“There we are, my boy.” Aegon holds the egg infront of him, allowing Laenor to touch the egg’s scales.

“Look, Papa.” He points.

“I see, my love. Soon it will be a little dragon, just for you.”

Laenor squeals in delight, “Mama, look.”

“I see it, sweet boy. That is a lovely egg.” Y/N grins.

Dahlia and Visera play happily on the floor with their own dragons, still small enough to tote about.

At all of six months old, Aegon the fourth has no understanding of the word gentle, he slaps at the egg like a drum.

“Aegon!” Y/N can’t help but laugh, moving him away. “You must be kind to your dragon.”

“Him fly!” Laenor tells his brother, who merely stares back at him with a toothy grin.

“Yes, he will fly.” Aegon smooths down the curls at the back of his son’s head.

“When your uncle Joffrey, was born Ser Harwin took Jace, Luce and I down to the dragon pit to find the perfect egg.” Y/N recounts, with a far off look in her eyes. “He must be a man grown now.”

Aegon clears his throat, praying he does not live to regret what he murmurs next. “What if we went to visit your mother?”

“Well…” Y/N sighs, patting her son’s legs as he climbs over her. “We couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Aegon challenges, “it’s a short trip on dragon back.”

Y/N stares down at her hands, “my mother must be very angry at me.”

“My mother was never anything but angry with me.” Aegon chortles, “Rhaenyra will get over it.”

“Are you certain?” Y/N frowns, “I know how you detest court.”

Aegon nods, “for you, the world.”

————————————————————————

Word spreads through the streets of King’s Landing like wildfire. Princess Y/N and Prince Aegon have returned to them.

Daemon is the first of their family members to cross their path, all but dragging Y/N to his wife in the throne room.

“You wait here,” he barks at Aegon. Leaving him outside with the children. “Princess Y/N Velaryon,” Daemon calls upon their entrance.

Rhaenyra moves to stand.

The king consort leaves them to it.

“Your grace, I would first like to apologize for my long absence.” Y/N says, as her mother stalks toward her; expression unreadable.

Rhaenyra pulls her daughter into her arms, cradling the back of her head. “You must never do that to me again.”

“Mother,” Y/N cries, clinging to her like a child. “I am so terribly sorry.”

“Shhh,” Rhaenyra sways her. “We can still make this right.”

“I should like that very much.”

“You need only say the word and I will have your marriage annulled.”

“What?” Y/N withdraws, “no. You cannot annul our marriage, it’s been consummated…several times over. We’ve children.”

“Children?” Rhaenyra sucks in a breath.

“Two daughters and two sons.”

“Might I see my grandchildren?”

“Of course,” Y/N holds up a finger, dashing over to the throne room doors and inviting her family inside.

The children scamper in as Rhaenyra’s eyes well with tears.

Dahlia stares at her grandmother in wonder, while Visera clings to Aegon’s leg.

“This is my mummy,” Y/N tells her children, “remember how I told you?”

Laenor moves toward her first, waving his hands.

“Well hello, my prince,” Rhaenyra bends down to greet him. “Who might you be?”

He smiles, “up.”

Rhaenyra huffs a laugh, taking him into her arms. “That’s quite a name, Prince Up.”

“It’s Laenor,” Y/N says, bringing Dahlia closer, with their hands clasped together. “This is Dahlia.”

“Good morrow,” Dahlia smiles.

“Good morrow, Dahlia. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Rhaenyra beams, “if you could put in a good word for me with your sister, it would be much appreciated.”

“Visera is shy.” Dahlia whispers, “but she will come round.”

Aegon the fourth kicks his chubby legs, squirming about in his father’s arms as they approach the Queen.

“My goodness.” Rhaenyra turns to him, “what a warm welcome.”

The little boy squeals, as Y/N takes him from Aegon, freeing his arms for Visera, who hides her face in his shoulder.

“And this is Aegon, the fourth.” Y/N smiles, presenting him to her mother.

Rhaenyra grins, “hello, sweet boy.”

He covers both eyes, with his little hands, babbling loudly.

“You are a delight.” Rhaenyra reaches a hand out, tickling his belly. “I should like you all to join us in the grand hall for supper tonight. We will feast, in your honor.”

“Mother, we did not prepare clothes for a feast.” Y/N tells her. “But if you’ve material, I will make do. In these past years, I have learned to stitch quite well.”

“And I could assist in the kitchens.” Aegon offers.

Y/N’s eyes light up, “you must taste his baking, mother. It is divine.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. Not sparing a glance at her half brother, “you are my guests. I will have gowns and robes sent to your rooms. You will find everything as you left it.”

Y/N smiles, “we’ll see you for dinner then.”

The Queen nods, excusing them.

Y/N and Aegon lead the children away from the throne room, up the stairs toward Y/N’s old apartments. Meeting her younger brother and his heavily pregnant wife on the stairs.

“Sister?” Jacaerys blinks at her.

“Jace!”

“My love, might you find Luce and Joffrey?” Jacaerys asks of his wife. “Tell them our sister is here.”

“Of course, husband.” Baela leans in as his lips brush her cheek.

“You’re going to be a father?” Y/N grabs for his arm.

“I am a father.” Jace grins, “this will be our third.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Some seven years, sister.” Jacaerys looks to the children behind her. “And you,” he laughs, “have more to show for it than I do.”

Again Aegon is left standing off to the side as Y/N’s family fuss over her and their children. He is glad for it, surely. This is her dream, not his.

“Aegon?” Alicent gasps at the sight of him.

He turns to her slowly, “Mother?”

The Dowager Queen grimaces, “a word?”

“But of course.” Aegon steals one last glance at his wife and children before following his mother down the corridor. For a moment he thinks she might embrace him, until she grabs his face harshly between her fingers.

“What were you thinking?” Alicent seethes, “taking off like that? Putting your father in such a state of distress; his illness took him not even a day after receiving word that you stole his only granddaughter and heir to the throne.”

“Stole her?” Aegon huffs a laugh, “I did not steal her.”

“Did you not think for one second of the shame it would bring on your siblings, or me?”

“As you thought of my wants when you promised me to Helaena?” Aegon spits back.

“It was expected of you,” Alicent seethes.

“Only my supposed wrongdoings are ever clear to you.” Aegon scoffs, “so strike me for it, as you always do and let us be done with it. How dare I desire to marry the one person in the world who loved me?”

Alicent recoils as though he’s slapped her.

“Aegon?” Y/N calls for him, “where’ve you run off to?”

“I’m just here, darling girl.” Aegon replies, striding away from his mother.

“Is everything alright?” Y/N asks, holding a hand out to him.

“All is well, my dearest love.”

————————————————————————

Dinners at the Red Keep have not been this tense in years. Namely because the Blacks and Greens rarely break bread together.

Jacaerys’ and Baela’s children dance with their cousins as the quartet plays merrily, the six of them becoming fast friends.

Y/N laughs, pointing toward their eldest son. “Look, my love.”

Aegon leans his head closer to hers peering around his brother. Laenor spins round in circles until he is dizzy enough to fall over. When he is able to stand, he goes straight back to it. Aegon chuckles, “we’ll need to keep an eye on that one.”

“Without doubt.” Y/N remarks, bouncing Aegon the fourth in her lap. He grabs a fistful of her mashed potatoes.

“Oh my,” Aegon grabs his hand, wiping it clean with his napkin.

“You’d like dinner too, wouldn’t you?” Y/N says, turning the boy toward her.

Little Aegon coos at her.

Aegon presses a kiss to his son’s cheek.

“Won’t you excuse me for a moment,” Y/N addresses the table, “I need to feed him.”

“We’ve nurses,” Daemon offers. “You’re welcome to finish your meal.”

“That’s quite alright,” Y/N says, pushing away from the table. “We’ve survived without nurses thus far.”

Aegon catches her hand, “will you return or shall I bring the children up when they are through?”

“I will return, shortly.” Y/N squeezes his fingers before moving down the row of chairs into the hall.

Aegon clears his throat, as other occupants of the table eye him, warily. “Lovely meal.”

“Indeed,” Otto agrees.

————————————————————————-

Y/N wakes the next morn to rays of sun shining through the large window of her childhood bedchamber.

Aegon feels her begin to stir, tightening his hold around her waist.

“What did your mother say to you yesterday?”

“It is far too early to raise this matter, my heart.” He grumbles.

Y/N huffs, toying with his fingers. “She was awful to you, wasn’t she?”

Aegon presses his lips to her shoulder, “it matters not.”

“It matters to me.”

Days pass, Y/N does not press the subject. Though she does exercise every opportunity to glare at her mother by law.

They spend afternoons in the courtyard garden, with their children. Picking flowers to make crowns, finding shapes in the clouds.

“Just there I see a rabbit.” Visera tells her mother and father.

“Where?” Aegon cocks his head to the side.

“There’s the ears and there’s its tail.”

“Oh, I see.” Aegon spots it, “that’s quite a coat of fur on him, hmm?”

Aegon the fourth plucks petals from the wildflowers Dahlia weaves together, sighing as she does.

“What troubles you, my love?” Y/N asks, passing a hand over her silver waves.

“Everyone has been so kind and happy to receive us…though no one seems happy to receive father.” Dahlia says, taking one of the flowers and tucking it behind her Papa’s ear.

“That is the way of things, my darling.” Aegon smiles, sadly.

“We are happy to receive him.” Y/N insists. “Give father a big hug.”

Laenor sees the pile of bodies, throwing himself on top of his elder sisters.

“Squeeze him as tightly as you can and say ‘I love you, father.’”

“I love you, father!” Even Aegon the fourth chimes in, with a loud approving babble.

“I love you too.” Aegon tells his children, wrapping his arms around them.

“I think if no one is kind to you, we ought to go back home.” Visera whispers to him. “It needn’t be the way of things.”

“Too right you are, my darling.” Y/N breathes.

“Y/N, might I have a word with you?” Rhaenyra calls out to the courtyard.

“Of course, your grace,” she smiles, looking to her children. “Keep father company for me. I’ll return shortly.”

Rhaenyra leads her farther into the gardens. “When you were a girl, your grandsire and I would bring you here to watch the changing of the leaves.”

“I remember.” Y/N says, wistfully.

“I owe you an apology,” Rhaenyra takes her hands. “For many years, I thought Aegon stole you away from me. I blamed him, for the death of our father.”

“It was not his fault, mother.” Y/N insists, “I wanted a marriage for love.”

“I see that now.” Rhaenyra assures her. “He is a fine husband to you and a good father to your children. I should not have pushed so relentlessly to end your union.”

Y/N shakes her head, “all is forgiven.”

“Even in our years apart, you have remained my heir. As I believe you would be a great ruling Queen, if that is what you desire. I will provide your children places of high status in court. For Aegon, a seat at the small council.” Rhaenyra offers, “and of course, my sincere apology for the way I have acted.”

“You wish for us to stay?”

Rhaenyra cups her cheek, “very much so.”

Y/N looks down at her wedding ring. “I know Alicent has been unkind to him. I will not stay in a place where he’s treated poorly.”

“I will speak with her.”

“And…I fear Aegon holds little interest in the small council.” Y/N admits, “I hope that too is negotiable.”

“All things are,” Rhaenyra assures her.

Taglist: @donalesaa @spacexdrago @shadowrose13-blog1 @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @niyahnotnia @oh-you-mean-me @lycaonpictusphotography

[allfearstofallto]

Maids, maids…and even more maids

Being the Maid at a Yandere's Estate

FT: Kamisato Ayato, Childe, Diluc, and Scaramouche

Master Kamisato Ayato is quite the funny man. That's what you'll tell the other maids in quick bits of gossip. He has a surprisingly good type of humor that just falls from his mouth and a very very soft laugh, but of course, you can barely gossip as long as you want to. A ringing of a bell signifies that the master has called for you again, something he's been doing regularly these past few months.

“You're the only one I can trust to clean my quarters,” he told you once before. His quarters being his office and his bedroom. Even though he says that, he never leaves the room while you're cleaning. Rather he's there, pretending to be doing other tasks as you dust his shelves and sweep the floors. You wonder if he thinks that you can't feel his eyes on you? The second you look down, he's looking right at you, practically burning a hole through you with his gaze. It wasn't noticeable at first, but it grew worse the more that he insisted that only you could clean for him personally.

Your daily cleaning for him ends with him patting you on the back, his arms lingering around your waist for a little too long.

“You did incredible, as usual,” he'll praise you, “But don't be shy to come and see me outside of work hours.”

Master Ajax, or Childe as he's referred to by others, is rarely home. You wonder if that humble manor he has in Snezhnaya is just for show. Of course, you seldom get to see it too.

Whispers amongst your fellow coworkers told you that before you were hired, Childe didn't bring anyone with him on his trips. It made you question why you needed to pack your bags every time he was taking a trip to another city, as he insisted that you would come with him and be his personal maid for the duration of it.

He never treated you poorly and never took you anywhere dangerous. You were usually the one just holding down the fort and tidying at whatever inn he decided to stay at. But even you acknowledged the fact that you felt like you were a little too close to your employer. He'd take you out with him, you'd try to trail behind, but he'd make you walk closely at his side. And never once did he correct people when they assumed you were his wife. Actually, if you looked at his face after someone made the mistake, you'd see a smirk forming.

“What's wrong with being married to me?” He would joke, although his smile wasn't reaching his eyes, “I think I'm a pretty good catch. Don't you?”

Master Diluc doesn't leave his office often. The other maids talk in hushed whispers about how they worry that he may be working too much. Seeing him roaming the halls is like seeing a ghost. This also means that he partakes in most of his meals at that desk as well.

He invites you to sit with him one day, saying that he doesn't enjoy eating his meals alone and seeing as he is your boss, you agree. One day turns into nearly every day of your work week, and when asking your coworkers about it, they seem surprised.

“Master Diluc barely speaks to me when I deliver his meals,” one girl says and the other's agree shortly after.

It seems strange to you as you also slowly eat your food across from him. You'd taken to eating your meal as well, even though it wasn't you designated meal time. He assured you that you were still being paid for the moments you sat with him. When you question why you're the only maid that he shares his meals with, a slight grimace crosses his face.

“Does it matter?” He asks you, almost a little too harshly for the gentle Diluc you know, “I'm paying you to spend time with me. Only you.”

Lord Scaramouche who only needs a couple maids. He's rarely home anyways and when he is he doesn't leave his room often, doesn't take to meals, and doesn't call for anything more than a cup of tea. Although even you're surprised when less and less maids show up for their shifts, until it's only you that resides within the walls.

It's rather lonesome when you realize that your only company is now the quiet lord Scaramouche, who barely meets your eyes most days, and when he does speak, he says some form of insult. It's only when you're out for a grocery run that you run into a previous maid of the manor, chatting happily with the first person who'll talk to you.

When asked why they all decided to quit, she tilts her head in complete confusion, “We didn't quit. We were fired, all of us.”

It's a short sentence that confuses you even more. And your walk back to the manor is filled with thoughts. Bringing lord Scaramouche his meal that night, you decided to ask why you were the only help left in his lonesome abode. Assuring him that you're not complaining and that the job isn't too difficult.

“Must you always ask stupid questions?” He spits the words out, “Your presence doesn't bother me like the others so you get to stay. Don't take it for granted.”

[igotanidea]

Just right: Anthony Bridgerton x reader

part 1 to too much

part 2 : not enough

part 3 : almost there

part 4: Stuck

A/N: I am NOT sorry for all the possible spellings and punctuation mistakes there. It's been almost 2 months since "Stuck" and I am FREAKING OUT posting this while crying because it's over. Enjoy and thank you <3

Warnings: end of series, 4082 words (!!)

***

He felt like a fool.

Reverting to his old ways instead of showing all the emotions coursing through his veins.

Turning around and walking away, leaving her alone, when all he wanted was to fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness.

But how would the viscount Bridgerton look, while doing so, observed by all the ton, including the two biggest gossipers in the person of lady Featherington and lady Danburry?

Seemed like whatever he would choose to do, he would end up being a dolt.

“Anthony!”

He didn’t even flinch hearing someone calling him, nor recognize the voice. Too stubborn to stop he only continued his marching pace, hoping for the love of god that whoever dared to try and approach him in this furibund mood would get discouraged.

Not very gentlemanly of him.

“Anthony!”

He quickened his pace.

“Anthony Bridgerton!”

“What?” he almost spat spinning around on his heel, leaving a dent in the ground, taking on his most stern expression. If his obvious ignorance of the caller was not a deterrent perhaps the frown and fiery eyes would.

Supposedly it might have worked on anyone else, but soon enough Anthony transformed from the head of a family and the viscount into a little child, upon noticing that it was his mother, exhorting him to the halt.

“Mother…” he muttered looking at the ground, having only confirmed his previous theory of his role in this entire disarray.

“Let us take a walk.” Violet smiled brightly taking her eldest’s arm and imposing a walking rather than soldierly pace. “What did you Anthony?” the gentle expression never left her face even when she was scoffing her unmanageable child.

“Why would you think it was me that--?” the viscount took the last resort to protect his own pride, but the tightening grip on his forearm betrayed the fact that Violet knew the entire backstory, behind the marital disagreement.

“I raised you. I daresay it gives me enough knowledge to not answer your question. “

“If you let me –"

“Don’t, Anthony. Y/N has been nothing less but charming since the beginning.. "

"That's the way to describe her--" the man muttered

"Strong-willed and persuasive, surely, you wouldn’t take anything but, but charming nonetheless. So do tell me so we could remedy the damage before it arises further.”

“Shall you mistake me for Daphne and ask about my feelings—”

“Anthony Bridgerton!”

“I am a man, mother. A head of the family.”

“Clearly said head has been missing guidance in the right direction.”

“Mother!”

“Do not raise your voice on me son.”

“Apologies…”

“Good.” Violet beamed serenely “Do you think me so little knowledgeable to ask your emotions? I do not. I’m merely asking for facts, which you clearly have such a strong inclination to.”

Anthony mumbled something once more.

“do you wish you lose your wife, viscount?”

“What?” such possibility never crossed his mind. Y/N’s anger, her hurt, pain and merciless avoidance – yes. Abandonment and lack of her presence nearby? No. She would never… She could never. Lord above, who was she thinking she was? A woman married into a noble family wanting to cause a scandal by resenting her husband?

And once again, while his heart should have been shattered and humble enough to clarify the turmoil, the sudden blood rush turned into clenched fists and ire. All because he could not bare the thought of losing her for good, however hiding behind all the negativity was easier. It was something he was used to for years.

Nevertheless it was impossible to deny the facts further. It was her influence that caused the improbable openness in his soul was the exact same reason of his spirit bleeding.

And he needed her back.

Each minute without her was a minute lost. A minute less in the so very limited time they were given as a miracle on earth.

“What do I do?” he raised gaze at his mother, now truly looking like a lost man. Man in love, who was probably not the most romantic and gentle one with words, but still deeply infatuated with the woman who gave her whole life to him.

“Do not fret my dear. We shall alleviate the situation immediately.”

***

Y/N’s feelings were beyond anything possible to describe with words.

There she was, with her feet rooted to the ground, wishing for – and willing to accept – apologies but met with the harsh reality of the stone wall of Anthony’s behavior.

Accompanied by Eloise, smirking like the know-it-all she was, and Benedict with the compassion written all over his face.

Presumably, shall they not be there, the young lady viscountess Bridgerton would abandon all the pretenses of a woman of her position and begun blubbering in the middle of the promenade. However, the most mischievous of Bridgerton siblings acted with wit and sense, involving their dear sister-in-law in a challenging conversation, capably hauling her away from prying eyes and gossipmongers, preventing any possible rumors about incongruousness.

***

For unmistakable reasons she was not in the mood to see their ludicrous older brother and with the sudden disappearance of Violet, Benedict and Eloise took the privilege to invite Y/N back to the Bridgerton’s family house and extend the invitation for indefinite period of time. After all, Anthony might have been the head of the family as he proudly announced to anyone who was willing to disobey his wished and/or not listen, but Benedict was the oldest bachelor of the house and was more than willing to make a few decisions of his own to finally be seen as something more than merely second son and waiting for his time. 

***

Violet returned home few hours later and accepted the presence of her daughter-in-law with a mysterious smile and not a single word of objection. As amazing and uplifting as such approach might have been, it was also highly surprising. Viscountess Bridgerton was well known for her mitigating skills and tendency to scotch conflicts almost immediately, especially in her own family.

And it raised a lot of questions and secrets that Y/N and Eloise tried to uncover spending the night in the former’s bedchambers, talking for hours, creating conspiracy theories and preparing for whatever may have been coming.

Cause the fact that Violet was going to help her oldest son in winning back his wife’s attention was more than conspicuous.

Only that Y/N, who was forgiving and accepting at the begging was slowly turning cold at the fact that her husband could not simply apologize but rather resorted to some intricate ways of regaining her favor.

After a year of marriage, should he not know her enough for independent ideas and not seek his mother's avail?

***

First thing happening in the very early morning, was Y/N’s most trusted servant humbly asking for her lady’s time, which was bizarre and – as any other family may have deemed – inadequate and even shaming.

Moreover, any other house would quickly discard the commoner showing at the mighty's doorstep but Bridgertons were prone to discarding rules in private and with those who earned their trust. Be it servants or nobles. And Y/N was no exception to the rule, welcoming her maid with a smile upon seeing the person from her own household.

“My lady.” The girl bowed so low, she almost touched the floor with her nose.

“My dear Laura, please stand up, there is really no need for that-“ Y/N grabbed her hands and forced the girl up. “I assure you that-“

“But Lady Violet and Miss Bridgerton –“

“I assure you that they do not expect you to kiss the ground they walk on.” Y/n almost laughed at Laura’s discombobulation. Poor one was doing everything in her power to not make her lady embarrassed and act like a good and obedient servant, almost expecting Violet or Eloise to be cruel and judgmental.

“Dear Y/N, did you give your helpers the idea that we are some sort of tyrants?” Violet send her daughter-in-law a honest smile, which immediately got Laura’s reaction in the form of blushing.

“Lady Bridgerton I apologies if my appearance is the dishonor on-”

She didn’t even finish the sentence, met with Y/N, Violet’s and Eloise’s laugh and a polite look from more balanced Francesca sitting on the chaise longue.

“Do not fret, my girl, we are more than happy to welcome you in our household.”

“Tha-thank you my lady…”

‘Now I assume you came to talk to your lady, so we shall give you some privacy. Come girls, make haste for the matter to cover is of utmost delicacy.”

“And how shall you know it mamma?” Hyacinth almost twitched her ears, not really understanding much of why Y/N was with them rather than with Antony, but curious as a young girl could be.

“Precisely mamma, how shall you know?” Eloise, immediately picked up her sister’s question, only not so susceptible to extenuations.

“Eloise Bridgerton, I shall expect you to practice the bowing before your incoming debut in front of the queen. Daphne made quite an impression and –“

“Daphne was deemed diamond of the season and such title is below my ambition.”

“Regardless, you do not want to trip or slip do you?”

Eloise (and everyone else) obviously remembered what happened to Featherington’s sisters and the embarrassment so with a heavy, exaggerated sigh and one quick, sharp, bright look at Y/N Eloise left the room, followed by her mother and sisters.

And once the lady and her trusted eyes and ears of the house were alone, who could stop the two of turning a lot more unmindful of societal norms?

“My lady, the lord has been quite annoyed since the quarrel you lordships have had. He even refused to eat his favorite meal.” Laura confessed with blushing cheeks

“Are you to tell me that Prescott prepared the roasted pork for Anthony after he was so unjust towards the lady of the house? I shall have a word about a loyalty with him upon my return.” Y/N satirized wholeheartedly.

“When shall you return my lady? Seeing as that viscount is not the one to have a change of heart and admit his wrongdoing easily?”

“He will Laura. One way or another I am fairly convinced my husband may take a long way to do so and take the aid of his mother whilst deciding. It’s just I am not fully convinced if the apology made with cheating are worth accepting.”

“Oh! You took the lower route here my lady forgive the audacity.”

“Just the route of a woman who expect honesty from her man.”

“Fair enough I suppose. But shall you be agitated my lady I take it you do not wish to accept the viscount bestowment?”

“Bestowment?” Y/N frowned a little in confusion “and what shall that be?”

“I do not know, my lady. I am merely a messenger—”

“I believed you to be on my side Laura.”

“And I am, my lady! But one do not object the command of the lord, that is clearly ready to vent his anger on the first soul that happen to be unfortunate enough to be around.”

“My god, you are a prattler!” Y/N laughed “where is that gift in question? Cause since it is mine either way we might as well get a little curious, shall we? Would be such a shame to put it to waste.”

Laura stood up from her chair and started heading to the corridor, but Hyacynth was first to barge into the room carrying some parcel that was almost bigger than her.

“Y/N! Is this that gift from Anthony!?” clearly she was eavesdropping  “Can we take a look, please? It’s so big I wonder what it is? Come on, open it up! Open it up!”

“Curiosity killed the cat.” Eloise muttered but there was no denying she was equally curious as her sister.

Y/N only rolled  her eyes, inviting all the girls over and opening the box. Fishing out the most beautiful and definitely expensive new dress. The color was perfectly matching Y/N’s complexion and the material delicate yet durable – Anthony knew his wife and her adventurous tendencies.

“It’s so beautiful and elegant” Francesca whispered touching the dress with delight.

“So what, he think he can just buy her the garment and she will forgive him?” Eloise scoffed “Men are so simple minded and belittling of women!”

“Try it on, Y/N!” Hyacinth encouraged, almost jumping from excitement

“Do not try it on! This would be relenting!” Eloise objected.

“He made a gesture!”

“It’s not a gesture! It’s an attempt of buying her forgiveness!”

“Y/N!”

“Y/N?!”

“Quiet!” Y/N finally managed to break through the noise of two sisters. ““No offence girls, but this is my marriage and my decision. One I have to make by myself. So thank you “ she smiled brightly but with a hint of annoyance “for your positions on things, but I am perfectly capable of weighting the significance of the gift, on my conviction to forgive or not forgive him.”

“Uhm. My lady” Laura cleared her throat “I’d like to elaborate that the viscount also made an invitation to one special place….”

“Do not go Y/N!”

“Stop interfering Eloise! Y/N you have to go!”

“For heaven’s sake, Violet is truly a saint for surviving you two!” “Uhm. My lady” Laura cleared her throat “I’d like to elaborate that the viscount also made an invitation to one special place….”

“Do not go Y/N!”

“Stop interfering Eloise! Y/N you have to go!”

“For heaven’s sake, Violet is truly a saint for surviving you two!”

***

Anthony was waiting for her in the garden outside some estate she had no idea existed. After all, Y/N has spent her entire life in London, rarely being invited to the cottage. And in this case it could have been used a leverage, not that he was aiming for measuring forces and cold calculation.

No.

He was walking back and forth, almost trampling a path in the ground in a place where it should never be. Nervous enough to anxiously fiddle with his fingers like a lady before her debut entering the society. Hoping she would come. Wishing for any entity in heaven might want to listen that she would take this dress he send her as an expression of humility rather than boosting like a rooster. Praying that Eloise wasn’t there with her sharp tongue and unrestrained thoughts to discourage his beloved from accepting both the gift and the invitation.

The minutes turned to hours and even his father’s pocket watch refused to work with Anthony in this important moment. Having no regard to the poor flowers any other plants standing no chances against his heavy riding boots, the time seemed to stand still.

For whatever it was worth it, Anthony Bridgerton swore to himself that he would rather turn into a sack of boned waiting in this desolate place than walk away while there was still a glimmer of hope she might appear. He was done and fatigued with missed opportunities, poorly chosen and ill-spoken words.

It was never his intention to said all those atrocious words to her.

Too much.

Dear Lord.

Now that he was thinking about it, his heart was capering in a way that filled him with self-hatred. After all the pain he might have caused her during that little hurtful exchange while she did nothing more than be there for him. Even if he not exactly wished for it. Even if he himself didn’t know that her presence in his life was the best thing that happened since his father’s death. If not since forever.

Anthony wasn’t the one to believe in signs or any spiritual influence on earth, but the more he was dwelling on his own misery, the more deliberative of their first meeting he was becoming.

It was late lord Bridgerton’s death anniversary and as any other year – he separated himself from the rest of the family. To show how adamant his heart and mind was and to underline that this was nothing more than just another day in a line of any other similar ones. But the truth was, he wanted to visit his father’s grave alone without any possible disturbances or havoc that his younger siblings could have caused. None of them really knew Edmund Bridgerton the way Anothony did. The first born son, the heir to the title, deprived of his father’s guidance and presence and forced to take responsibility for the family in way too young age.

He needed to be by himself, cause god forbid anyone seeing him showing any signs of humanity and indulging in grief.

And his family knew and accepted it.

She didn’t.

Just a stranger, strolling by herself in the area, looking like a commoner, having no regards to the sanctity of the moment nor the place she found herself in.

And worse for her – spotting Anthony in the never-seen moment of vulnerability written all over his face.

“Lord Bridgerton” she bowed in a way that showed that the savage, Anthony took her for, actually had manners. And that he knew him, but this was not so unexpected.

He only grunted in response to annoyed by an unfortunate set of circumstances that worked against her. The viscount himself was not going to bow to a girl that was clearly a servant, with messy hair and in a dress that was far from anything a woman, even of lower position should be seen in.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be, girl?” he muttered under his nose, throwing daggers with his eyes.

“I’m sorry my lord but-“

“You should be sorry. I am convinced your lady nor your lord will be pleased with the fact that their service wanders alone in an area that does not belong to them!”

“Service?” Y/N smirked looking at him with amusement and twinkling eyes. And Anthony with his youthful energy and virility could not miss the fact that she was actually pretty.

“Yes, service.” He hissed at her “now get out of here girl, before you get yourself in far more trouble from me and end up on the street!”

“I shall-“ she obviously was not going to let anyone maltreat her like that, but her acuity wore up that very moment. She noticed the weariness in viscount’s eyes, noticed the monument nearby, and realized what day of the month it was.

“Forgive me, my lord.” She bowed in respect “I shall be on my way. And I shall not mention this meeting to anyone, hopefully wishing for you to forget my impertinence.”

She was gone as fast as she appeared, and Anthony thought to never see her again.

Until the next rout Daphne was attending, where he actually did.

Immediately realizing the scope of his previous mistake, upon learning that the service girl was in fact Miss Y/L/N, the youngest daughter of Lord Y/L/N. And met with another look of those glistening eyes and amused face expression. Forced to accompany her for the evening, since apparently Lady Bridgerton and Lady Y/L/N has made some arrangements for the future.

He was thinking it was all just a coincidence back then, but now he came to conclusion that it must have been his father who send this girl into his life. Knowing better than him that she would turn his ways around, challenge him, test him patience mercilessly and yet – that she would be the one to love him unconditionally and whom he would love with all his broken and unperfect self.

And the burden of possibility of ruining it all for them was even more overwhelming.

He clasped his hands behind his back, walking shorter and shorter distances, turning back more and more often, stuck in his belief that he would stay here as long as she didn't show up, even if -

“Anthony.”

Viscount spun around so abruptly it almost caused him falling to the ground.

She came.

She truly came.

It was like meeting her all over again, back in time, back next to his father’s grave.

Only she wasn’t looking like a servant girl now.

She was wearing the dress he sent her, looking not only like a viscountess, but like a queen herself. His queen. His wife. His love. His everything.

Her skin was radiant due to the color of the material (just like Violet predicted), cheeks flushed, hair done in perfect curls surrounding her face, bright like a sun.

“Y/N….”

“It was so unwise on your part viscount to call upon me and invite me into a wild place a woman like me should never step foot on.” She said sternly, but the everlasting and never changing glistening of her eyes betrayed her true intention “and perilous, may I say? Far from the city? Lady travelling alone? So many hazards awaiting me on the way.”

“Benedict and Colin were following your post chaise.”

“Oh I knew I heard someone laughing on the way. But my coachman brushed my concerns off!”

“Did you really believed I would send my greatest treasure into the wild without proper security?” Anthony took a few steps forwards, reaching for her hands and placing gentle kiss on her knuckles.

“Your brothers?” Y/N let him show the courtesy, but raised eyes in skepticism of the words.

“Believe me my lady, you should never underestimate the man of the Bridgerton house.”

“In what aspect my lord?”

“In every aspect, dear.” He looked deep into her eyes.

“Why did you ask me to meet you here?” Y/N quickly averted her eyes, because Anthony’s gaze were so full of passion, love and genuine remorse and apology she found herself falling into his charms. And this couldn’t have been so easy for him. “You sister discounselled me on coming here.”

“And yet, you came my lady.” Anthony reached for her chin and slowly, gently and with tenderness turned her face towards him so that their eyes had to meet again.

“Anthony I –“

“My love, I am sorry.”

“this is not—”

“Let me speak” he hushed her, not breaking eye contact. “I asked you here, because this is the very place where my father asked for my mother’s hand. Where he pledged her his undying love, support and loyalty. And you, out of all people in the world, learned how much I cherish my father’s memory and his legacy.

“Anthony-“

“Therefore, here I am. Standing in front of you, expressing my deepest condolences-“

“Oh, dear lord, Tony!” she cried out in frustration “stop using the words you would say to me if Lady Whistledown were nearby! Tell me how you feel!”

How he felt was not with words.

How he felt was expressed by the way he grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to his chest, capturing her lips in the searing but gentle kiss that conveyed more than any noble and dignified words of a lord could.

I love you.

By his strong arms encompassing her like a shelter from the storm.

I won’t ever let go of you.

By tender caress of her hair and back.

I will always cherish you.

By the way his lips were moving against her, whispering silent words understood only by two souls forevermore yearning for each other.

I am sorry.

She was the first one to pull back for air, reluctantly so.

“My love. My beloved.”

She smiled at him, connecting their foreheads, allowing his arms to tighten around her waist and waiting for what was coming next to assess the truth behind his words.

“Am I too much now?” she whispered

“You are always too much. To much for me to keep. To much for me to even wish and pray for. Too much of a blessing in my life. Too much in the best possible sense and—”

This time It was her who cut him off by a kiss, silencing anything else that might come from his lips. He was honest and sincere. And if he was trying to apologize by saying anything else and backing out on what he said back there she probably would not forgive him sensing manipulation. But this?

“I forgive you.” She whispered against his lips.

“Thank God.”

“Is this cottage inhabited or--?”

“No. It’s not. And I intend on taking advantage of it right this moment.” He grabbed her and carried inside bridal style, ready to not get back to London for at least a couple days.

(spoiler alert below)

I got a request for a fluff pregnancy fic.... <3

@pietrawebster @chrissisheadisinclouds @fuzzym4m4 @gloomysel @urfavnoirette @dd122004dd @milkbummm @bevstofu @taniasethi @syraxnyra @christinabae @pandoraneverland @bevstofu @topguncultleader @jana-jaeynneee @myaa21212121 @ziarah @cat-lockwood @leaf-rose-thorn @elissanatok @lily3450 @nervousmumbling @budugu @frickin-bats @sillyfreakfanparty @amberpanda99 @nycthophiliaa @myaa21212121 @bananaadeleigate @everybodystaycalm @fmhcatt @sankareatheundead @cat-lockwood @1potato2rulethemall @bloommart @lorinevv @taylorswars @jessiegerl @glocuseguardian3rd @angiieguevara @laurasdrey @jholiday @smailaway @some-random-stranger-007 @beckahhope @bookishtheaterlover7 @eclecticcollectioncloud @thingfromlove @dutifullyannoyingfox @kitkat14sblog @dancingandreadingwithv @heyits-zedo @superhighschoollevelnerd-blog1 @ben-has-arrived @kindaslightlyacidic @espressopatronum454 @miluiel1 @powellssaturn @jess4rush @krismdavis @yourgirlypop

[yearning-for-autumn]

So, here is my humble request 👀:

Reader is afab Illyrian, got her wings clipped (because we hate this tradition that’s why and because I am too much into enemies to lovers) and the Bat Boys consider her something close to a little sister.

When Eris was making a deal with the NC to get their help to kill Beron and that shit, his bond snapped with reader.

Obviously problematic for him because he has been insulting Illyrians since his mom popped him out about 500+ years ago.

So…bonus points for: smut obvs.- go as filthy as you like, Lucien absolutely mocking Eris for FUMBLING desperately to get his charm going, reader being oblivious.

I hope this sparks some ideas and creativity 🥰🤞🏻

Would That I -- Part 1

A/n: This was too good not to make into a multi-part fic, so expect more soon. Smut will be coming!

Pairing: Eris X Illyrian!Reader

Warnings: Allusions to smut, pining, mentions of mental health

Word Count: 3,638

Summary: You hate him. You hate the very thought of him. And yet he's your mate. The Mother has a cruel sense of humour.

Part 2 Part 3

Fury rippled through your body like a forest fire. You were livid. And Cassian had the nerve to laugh at you. Well, stifle a laugh. Rhysand was watching him with a worried look as he tried to give him a silent warning to stop. This progressed to warning him mind to mind when you got up from the sofa, flinging a pillow so far it almost landed into the fireplace. Azriel flinched.

“Him!?” You seethed, finally breaking the silence you had kept since your return from that damned High Lord meeting. Cassian snorted softly and you rounded on him with a deathly calm. Rhys made a small noise in the back of his throat.

“Is this funny to you, brother? I’m shackled to that evil, pompous, ginger-haired freak and you’re laughing?” His smile had dropped and a look of fear was quickly overcoming his rugged features. You stepped closer to him, your finger in his face. “Don’t sleep too deeply tonight.”

Rhysand cleared his throat.

“Look, this doesn’t have to be the end of the world. You don’t have to accept the bond. We can make sure you never see him again.” The bond snarled through you at that and you growled.

“Sure Rhys, because you were so calm when you found out Feyre was your mate.”

His brow furrowed.

“So you want to be with Eris?” The name seemed to physically disgust him. Azriel scoffed, abruptly rising from the sofa and marching out of the room. Cassian eyed the doorway in his wake. You turned to Rhys.

“No!” You groaned in frustration, pacing up and down on the carpet like a caged animal. Cassian’s eyes darted between Rhys and you. Finally deciding to break things up he manhandled you into a hug. You fought it for a few moments, before giving up and collapsing into your brothers embrace, hot angry sobs wrenching through you. Rhys took this as his cue to leave, and winnowed—probably to his office—out of the room. Cassian rubbed soothing circles on your back, careful to avoid your wings that were ever more sensitive after the clipping.

You were clipped at thirteen, which is how you had come to live with the three brothers. In Windhaven, they clipped your wings the day you started your cycle. Once grounded there was no escaping your duties, nor any chance to leave the camp. Unless, of course, you had grown close with the High Lord’s son, who had a mother with a habit of collecting strays.

You were there through all of it, the highs, the lows, and Morrigan’s tumultuous relationship with one Eris Vanserra. The male you were now mated to.

---

In the Forest House, Eris was pacing. His throat was still sore from the memory of Azriel’s scarred hand, and his cheek burned from the slap that had earned him from his father. But all of that had been overshadowed. He knew as soon as he saw you. His heart had lurched in his chest so hard he had thought he might throw up. You were the most beautiful female he had ever laid his eyes on. And of course, you were from the Night Court. The Mother truly did have a cruel sense of humour.

You had walked in, looking as arrogant as the rest of them, sharing a secret smile with the shadowsinger before sitting down next to the High Lord. Eris, next to his mother, couldn’t rip his eyes from you. Your doe eyes, sharp and intelligent captured his attention first. He wanted nothing more than to get lost in them, to find out everything about you: What you liked to read, your favourite food, how best to pleasure you and have you screaming his name. He was pulled from his fantasies by your wings. Cauldron, your magnificent wings. Their beauty stole breath from his lungs as they unfurled, getting comfortable on the chair. You had smiled at Feyre, warm and supportive, and Eris knew he was utterly lost.

He finally stopped his pacing, locked inside his room, and sat down on the edge of his bed. He sat there, holding his head in his hands until he heard the scratch of claws at the door. Getting up with a weary sigh, he opened it only to be knocked to the ground by his oldest and most loyal smokehound.

“Cheddar.” He chided as she licked his face excitedly. “Cheddar Biscuit.” He said, sternly, and she leapt off of him, waiting by the door expectantly.

“Yes alright, I suppose it’s time for a walk.” Cheddars tail thumped faster against the door frame and Eris couldn’t help the smile that grew. “Go and fetch your brothers and sisters then.” He said, grabbing the leashes off the wall. A walk was one way to clear his mind.

---

As you had predicted, Rhys was holed up in his office when you went looking for him. He barely looked up at you as you entered.

Rhysand’s office was always meticulously organised, but as you came up behind his chair you noticed how messy his desk had become. Letters and notes were piled on every inch of space, his childhood stuffed bat sitting atop one pile as a makeshift paperweight.

He loosed a breath.

“We are going to war, Y/n.” He said quietly, and any thoughts of Eris Vanserra eddied from your mind. Rhys looked up at you with bloodshot eyes. Guilt coursed through you for ever caring about something as trivial as a mating bond when you and your brothers were set for battle. You had only just got Rhys back from under the mountain, only to potentially lose him again.

“Is it certain?” You asked, leaning down to rest your head on his shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Is Cass--?”

“Leaving for Windhaven by first light.” He answered.

“Ok.”

Rhys turned, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He knew what you were thinking, though you wished you weren’t.

“Eris is an awful male, Y/n. You know I could never support the bond between you. Azriel is...well, I’m sure you already know.”

You did. The moment he had stormed out of the room you had known this was the beginning of a negative spiral for Az. Not to mention the upcoming war. You stood up straight.

“That being said.” Rhys continued. “Eris is ensuring Autumn allies with us against Hybern. There is a certain political advantage to the match.”

You scoff.

“Like there was with Mor?” Rhys turned green. “What did Eris bargain for in return for Autumn’s support? What did you trade away, Rhys?”

Rhysand looked every bit five centuries old when he turned to you.

“Our support in his bid for the throne. Whenever that may be.”

Hatred for the male burst anew in your gut, fiercer still now that you were mated to him.

“That power hungry bastard.” You spat.

Rhysand sighed.

“He could never deserve you, starlight. I will make sure that he never sees you again. I will not lose another sister.”

---

It wasn’t until midnight that you saw Azriel. The last of your brothers to approach you. He let himself into your room, waking you, tattered blanket draped around his shoulders. Rhys’ mother had sewn it for him years ago, before you had come to live with them. It had helped him through many hard nights. So much so that it was threadbare and faded. Rhys had enchanted it not to break further as a solstice gift one year.

You sat up worried.

“Az? Are you ok? You didn’t—”

“No,” He assured, and you relaxed against the pillows, “I’m ok.”

You shuffled over in your bed to make space for him, and he laid next to you, blanket over the both of you.

“I hate him.” He said into the darkness. “I hate what he did to Mor. I hate everything he stands for. I will not let him have you.” He declared.

You snuggled up to your eldest brother.

“I don’t know why you all seem convinced I’m going to somehow fall for this prick.” You said, and he snorted. “I hate him as much as you do.”

Azriel tucked you under his arm.

“I know.” You smiled tiredly, somehow understanding the words Azriel left unsaid. The words Rhys had been able to express. Azriel’s shadows settled over your heart, confirming, and the two of you fell asleep.

---

Months later, Eris sat in a tent, head between his legs to stop from throwing up. Thousands were dead. Thousands more were surely destined to die. Two of his brothers, and his mate, fought on the battlefield.

He only had a moments warning before he was violently sick into a bucket.

Asher, his youngest brother before Lucien, chose this moment to enter his tent unannounced, scowling at the sight of Eris hunched over and retching.

“Can’t handle the bloodshed, brother?” He teased, though he sat next to Eris and put a warm hand on his shoulder. The gaping wound on his neck was healing quickly, as it should with the High Lords power coursing through his veins, but the sight of it set Eris off again. He heaved into the bucket, choosing to ignore the gagging sound Asher made.

“Eris you need to pull yourself together. Father is only a tent over.”

Eris rolled his eyes.

“Just show me your plans, Ash.”

“I don’t know, maybe I’m better off keeping them to myself, seeing as you’re battlesick.” Asher grimaced when Eris finally sat up and pushed the bucket away from him.

“Asher.” Eris’ voice held all the command of General, and eldest brother. Asher groaned petulantly as he handed over the plans.

In Eris’ opinion, not that Beron took any heed, Asher should never have taken on as much responsibility in this war. After Ceres had died, Ash had taken over as Eris’ right hand. Ceres had been more naturally suited to the role, Beron’s bloodlust had run as deep as his bones, and he had a sharp mind for strategy. Eris still mourned the boy he had raised—a quick witted, chess loving, boisterous child—but he had to accept, he had lost Ceres long before he had died. And Eris wasn’t keen on losing anyone else. Asher wasn’t comfortable with a sword, the gash in his neck clear evidence, and he had a wife and child that weakened his resolve. This is what Eris had to work with. And he had a job to do.

He let Asher discuss his plans, though he was unable to rip his mind from providing a hundred different ways that he could die, that Ash or Lucien could die, that you could die.

It took every ounce of training ingrained in him not to falter in his attack the moment he had caught sight of you, fighting your way through the onslaught, Mor by your side. Cauldron, you were ethereal. Your silken wings were spread as if they could carry you into the air, though he had long since guessed that they could not. You cut through your enemies with a frightening ease. Catching his eye, you hesitated just a second, then your face had turned to rage and the next Hybern soldier to cross your path had been beheaded so brutally that even he had to avert his gaze.

When he had looked back up, you were gone, lost in the chaos.

Asher sighed,

“You’re not listening.” He said, and Eris had the decency to feel bad. He looked at Ash wearily.

“Come back in the morning. I’ll be more attentive.” Ash just peered at him over his notes.

“It’s her isn’t it. It’s Y/n.”

“Yes.” Eris said, lacking the energy to lie.

“She’s Night Court. She’s not one of us. One day you’ll find a nice Autumn girl to marry and when you’re High Lord she can pop out a few Autumn court babies.”

“She is my mate.” Eris growled.

“Mate’s aren’t always meant to be Eris. It’s only a biological match, not a political one. When you find an Autumn Court lady you’ll wonder why you ever spent time worrying over some Night Court harlot.” Eris snarled, despite himself. His brothers words were wrenched straight from Beron’s throat and he wouldn’t stand for it. Not from Asher. Not from his kind, loving Ash.

“Get out.” He said. Asher looked surprised, and—Eris was pleased to see—ashamed. He made no moves to leave, so Eris repeated himself, sharper this time.

“Get out.” He snapped, “Come back in the morning with more sense.”

Asher, chastised, fled from the tent, and Eris buried his head in his hands. What use was there protecting you from his brothers when it was certain your own said the same about him. There was no denying the cruel twist of fate the Mother had pulled on the both of you, destined to crash and burn. He imagined you in your own tent, laughing at the thought of him speared on another males sword. Mor sat next to you whispering all the terrible things he had done that day, terrible things to twist your mind and poison the very notion of him. He was too late, he was nothing but soot in the deep pit of your heart, choking the both of you.

He felt blindly for the bond, and found it, rotten.

---

The war was over, but the scars it had left were red raw and bleeding. Rhys had died. Your brother. The one who had sheltered you, loved you, given you a home and a family for a few agonising minutes had been gone. Gone. And yet that Cauldron damned bond had been chafing in the back of your mind. You sat in your bedroom riddled with guilt as it plagued your mind. Eris. Eris. Eris. He infested your mind, your senses, you were consumed by the very thought of him.

Walking through the streets of Velaris had started to feel claustrophobic, being around anyone beginning to suffocate you. You felt safer on your own. Recently you had taken to sheltering in your room, only emerging to eat. Your brothers eyed you with poorly concealed worry every time you walked, ghostlike, through the house, shuffling to the kitchen to fix a plate of leftovers then retreat hastily to your safe space.

Nesta was struggling too, after the war. It had left its scars in all of you. You could feel Cassian’s heart breaking the day Rhys sent her away with him, but all you could think about was whether your brother would do that to you. You thought you knew the looks he gave you.

Disgust.

What use was a flightless Illyrian female, who couldn’t train, couldn’t talk, couldn’t think. He was dead. Rhys was dead. And then he wasn’t. Why were Seren and your mother not afforded the same luxury. You grieved, and cried, and screamed. It truly was a sick thing, to use to the miracle of Rhys’ living to guilt yourself into believing there was hope for them. But then, everything in your mind had twisted of late.

Nesta began training. Nesta began healing. And you were stuck in your room.

Every morning without fail, Azriel came to check on you. He stroked your hair until you woke up, then retreated when you once again rejected his invitations to join them. The Valkyries, they were calling themselves. You would have been proud of Nesta if you could feel anything anymore.

Occasionally, you could feel a light tug on the bond, on the shackles that kept you bound to Eris. The first few times you had thrown up. Now it was little more than an annoyance. You were his dog, disobediently pulling your leash as you fell further and further into nothingness. His face in your mind was as cold as it had been on the battlefield as he yanked you back, choking you. You spluttered. Standing weakly, you made your way down to the kitchen, setting water on the stove to boil.

“Sister.” Cassian’s voice rang out behind you and you flinched, dropping your teaspoon. He bent to pick it up and set it down on the counter. “Azriel says you’ve been ignoring him. You’ve been ignoring all of us.”

You shrugged, the familiar pang of guilt squeezing your chest, making it difficult to breath. You braced both hands on the counter top, taking a ragged breath. Cassian was beside you in a heartbeat, holding you in his arms.

“Y/n, I’m worried about you. We all are.” He squeezed you closer to him, closer than you had allowed anyone in months. “Come and stay with Nes and I. Az is a terrible chaperone, and I need to see you. You could be wasting away down here and I wouldn’t know until it was too late.”

You shook your head, though you no longer knew why you resisted him. Your body melted against him, muscle memory taking over as he enveloped you in his wings. You swore you heard him sniffling as you hugged him back.

“Please, y/n.” He said, voice shaking. It didn’t take much more convincing.

A few days later, Rhys was helping you unpack your bags in your new room in the House of Wind. You took the room next to Azriel, who—Cassian had explained—was falling into bad habits again: Not eating, not sleeping, waking up in a cold sweat when he did finally drop off. Cassian wasn’t doing as well as he wanted you to believe, either. Twice in the following week you woke up to find him taking things from your room. And once, when you had floated downstairs in a miserable haze, you found him throwing up in the kitchen sink, an empty plate that had once held a batch of Elain’s cookies sitting on the table.

Nesta had dragged you to Valkyrie training a few times, and whilst you were beyond their current skill level, it had taken your mind off of things. Cassian’s eyes gleamed with pride everytime Nesta mastered an attack or a block. He touched her affectionately, he teased her, he lingered as she passed to breath in her scent. Watching them together was as painful as it was sweet. How simple love could be.

Would that you could be half as lucky.

Slowly you were emerging from your shell. You could smile again. Nesta invited you to read with her and the Valkyries, and in the silence you found firm friendship. Emerie was a gift from the Mother herself. You bonded instantly, both of you clipped, grounded, but neither broken. Many late nights were spent talking, about books, your brothers, or about Eris. Nesta, Emerie and Gwyn knew little of the Autumn prince, but you appreciated their outside perspective on the bond. It was still a bitter taste in your mouth, but it was becoming more bearable with each passing week.

---

There was a ball approaching in the Hewn City and Rhys had asked Nesta to attend. Not long after, she asked you to join her.

“I can’t do this alone, Y/n, please.” She said one night, sitting at the end of your bed. You bit your lip, unsure.

“Eris will be there.” You said.

“I’ll be the one dancing with him. Rhys wants him falling madly in love with me. He won’t look your way, I promise.” Nesta said. You knew she meant well by that. You had never wanted him anywhere near you before. But something about her oath left a sting. You frowned, which she took to mean you were still unconvinced.

“Please, Y/n. My sisters will be there, Rhys will be there. I’m not ready to face them all on my own, not yet.”

And so you found yourself stood atop the stairs the following week, draped in a black dress with a slit so high up one side your whole leg was practically exposed. The back scooped so low the dimples at the bottom of your spine peeked over top. You were devastating. Death in midnight silk. Rhys’ smile was that of pure brotherly pride as you walked down the steps, your hair pinned in braids and curls.

Nesta stole your breath away as she appeared in the hallway, but it wasn’t your gaze she sought out. You looked towards Cassian and could have sworn he was drooling. Eris would be blind-sided by her, of that you had no doubt.

In the Hewn City, they danced like lovers. Nesta as dangerous in the ballroom as she had become on the training grounds. Every move was calculated, every parting of her lips a dance of the mind, designed to ensnare Eris in her dastardly web. Eris was caught. And you burned.

Standing next to Azriel, heat rolled off you in waves. He took a step towards you, perhaps to offer you a drink, but found something in your eyes to make him change his mind. You hadn’t taken your eyes off of Eris all night. He was sinful. A courtier and a Prince. His hair pooled over his shoulders, one strand to the front neatly braided. You reminded yourself that this was the male that left your cousin for dead at his Court border. Biting your lip, your mind wandered to see yourself lying prone beneath him as he stood, smile widening, cock hardening in his—

“Get me a drink.” You ordered Az. He raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the magic word.”

“Azriel.” You growled, and he turned on his heel. Your eyes stayed pinned on Eris as he led Nesta across the dancefloor in a tantalizing waltz. His gaze finally met yours, and you saw a fraction of surprise before his emerald eyes darkened. He licked his lips, eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, and pressed a kiss to Nesta’s neck.

A/N: I have to thank @fandomsmultiverse for talking to me and giving me about 100 ideas to flesh this story out, I really hope you like it! There will be a part 2 coming soon! I wouldn't just leave you on a cliffhanger like that. We will see more of Eris and Reader interacting, and maybe.....some smut...

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Capital (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: You think you married the plainest woman on earth, and you look away for one second and suddenly she is not. Typical. At least, for Daemon.

Warnings: Mature language, sexual thoughts, canon typical violence.

Requested: Yes! But since I am particular about my aesthetic, I didn't answer there. Jealousy + arranged marriage. Brought to you by the seven deadly sins.

Gluttony /ˈɡlʌtəni/

​the habit of eating and drinking too much.

Claw Island is as good as getting vanished from the court. You know it. Your Lord husband knows it. Even the tenants know it. Why else would the King order your marriage to Daemon Targaryen?

It was not as much of a punishment as the King had hoped. The Celtigars are a prestigious family, one of the few left with Valyrian blood. While not ones to flaunt their riches or seek for great power, you led a luxurious lifestyle.

The finest wines. Myrish rugs. The newest books. And of course, the riches from the surrounding sea. Beautiful pearls, a fleet that, while small, sailed with speed. The best foods.

The small island was your perfect little world, sequestered away from the troubles of the mainland. What else could a person long for, when they lived in a paradise? Claw Island had it all. Miles and miles of tempestuous sea, soft sands and gorgeous wildlife not seen anywhere else. Humble, but good people. Natural riches enough to last a lifetime.

But as of late, your breathtaking lands did nothing to bring you peace. Sometimes, in truth, as you walked along the shoreline, you wished for a tremendous sea wave to swallow you whole.

It would be better than this. Among the crabs, the sea life and wreckage of old ships, you would feel at ease. At home, even. And finally, finally untroubled. But things were not as you wanted them to be. With your Lord Father at court, someone had to mind the island. And no one knew the lands as you did.

You shuddered to think of something happening to you. In that case, the island, and its people, would go to your husband. Considering how much he hated it here, Prince Daemon would make a poor ruler.

You glare. He glares right back. Remembering your manners, you serve him a cut of spider crab seared in butter. The meal is rich and decadent, a show of the best Claw Island has to offer.

“Crab, Lady Wife?” Daemon raises both eyebrows. “Again?”

“What else does the Prince wish to eat?” You do your best effort at keeping your tone even. You try hard to not raise your voice at him, remembering the rumors about what happened to his last wife. So far, it seems to be working. Despite being older than you, the man behaves as a child. You have found he benefits from being managed as one, too.

Ever since you got married, he has been desperately trying to rile you up. The Prince always seemed to deflate when you refused to engage. He was clearly itching for a fight, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“You seem too willing to indulge in cannibalism for my tastes.” Daemon, in what he surely believed to be the absolute demonstration of cutting wit, smirks. You smile at him, sedate. You have heard enough remarks about crabs to last a lifetime. “It’s worrying.”

You could answer him. Perhaps make a mockery of his inability to perform in bed and the behavior of the female praying mantis. You do not. Instead, you force yourself to give him a tight smile.

“Don’t worry. I will ask the servants to bring you fish.” You took your napkin out of your lap and placed it on the table. Dutifully, you rang the bell to call for a servant.

“Again?” Daemon complained, sounding much like a petulant child. You smiled and went back to your seat. Your crab was getting cold, and it would most likely be by the time your husband’s fish was served. But good manners dictated you could not start eating without him. You resigned yourself to another night of eating a cold dinner.

“You should write to the King, my Prince. I would serve you venison, were it not for the fact that your dragon has nearly extincted the population here.” While you were by no means poor, feeding a dragon was an expense you didn’t care for, especially one so picky as Daemon’s was showing to be.

While a dragon was a marvelous creature, and having one guarding your lands was a great perk, it was also hard. Caraxes ate the same as five grown men in a day, if not more. He didn’t eat just anything you served him, either. Much like his owner, he was picky. He had come with dragon keepers, and needed to be built a shelter.

You had hoped that his serpentine appearance would mean that he would eat a lot in one sitting, then hibernate, but no such luck. Your island couldn’t keep up, no matter how hard you tried. Animals didn’t reproduce at the pace required.

“Of course, my Lady. Of course.” Daemon says, in a dismissive tone. It’s then, when a servant comes in with his fish.

Your crab is cold. Again. Daemon is not pleased with the fish, but seems wary of extending dinner even more. For once, he doesn’t complain.

Dinner is eaten silently. In your head, you make plans for tomorrow's meals. Perhaps oysters, served cold, will withstand the wait better. You finish dinner and settle down to read some before bed.

When the time comes for it, you close your book. Daemon departs with a cold kiss to your cheek. You go to your bed, just as cold and empty as the kiss was, and fall asleep.

It’s around the witch's hour when he comes back to you, getting into the bed next to you. He stinks of cheap perfumes and oils. As he pulls you closer, to be able to hide his face on your neck, you can feel the smell of sex and alcohol induced sweat. It comes from the clothes Daemon hasn’t even bothered to shed before getting in bed with you.

You don’t like him drunk. He gets sloppy. You do better when he hides his indiscretions, the proofs of your failure as a woman. As a wife. He seeks his pleasure from other bodies, never yours. With you, he is unable to perform to completion.

Perhaps the same happens to him with others, on nights like these. That thought soothes you, and it’s the only reason why you allow Daemon to seek comfort in your arms. Sometimes, he has nightmares. It’s expected then, too, that you are the one to soothe him back to sleep.

Shifting in his grip, you rub his back, gently. You card your other hand through the matted strands of blonde hair, as a mother would do to his child. In many ways, you guess he is one. You pity him, your husband. A man with a void so deep, not even all the vices in the world could fill it.

You are unable to fall back asleep. You lay there for hours, staring at the ceiling. When you hear the rooster’s first crow, you roll out of bed. Sleep is not coming for you. Daemon, unperturbed in his slumber, only sprawls more. You tuck him in.

When you get to your vanity, you catch the servants leaving the correspondence for the day on it. She giggles when you point at the bed and the mess of clothes, gesturing for silence. It makes you feel better, that they think your husband comes from the pleasure houses straight into your arms for more than just cuddles.

One of the letters catches your eye. It’s written in the strange alphabet used for High Valyrian, bearing both the royal seal and the King’s name. You don’t mean to pry. In fact, you open it because you are worried your husband has upset his brother even more.

Marriage is like being tied to a ship. When the tides are good and the ship strong, you soar above the sea. But no one wants to be tied to a sinking ship. It’s that fear what leads you to heating a knife on your candle’s flame and lifting the seal.

You read as you brush your hair, unrushed. You know Daemon won’t be awake for at least six more hours. But the more you advance, skipping polite greeting, the more your stomach sinks, and you jump from sentence to sentence.

“And while I understand your dislike of Claw Island, it is a less harsh punishment than you deserve. Much you complained of wanting a Valyrian bride, and now the opportunity presents itself, ripe for the taking. Yet, you do not seem keen on it. Is it, again, the lack of a throne you find off-putting? Perhaps, the lack of a child bride you can manipulate? Your Lady Wife might not have purple eyes or silver hair, as you mention, but she is a maiden in the bloom of youth. Tales of her beauty have graced the court, shared among the eager mouths of her family and previous suitors. Both Lord Velaryon and Lord Mooton agree that the woman is a delight, well-mannered and easy on the eyes. She has impeccable breeding and education. I will not grant you the annulment. I will not allow you to go back to your whore.”

There is a coppery taste in your mouth. Blood, you realize. From biting your tongue so hard to avoid letting out a scream of rage. It feels like being stabbed, countless times. In your back, and in your heart. Betrayal and deep, hurtful sorrow.

What have you done to deserve this? To be blindsided so? You have stood firm through all the humiliations your husband puts you through. Never once reproaching the way he goes out after dinner and does not come back until sunrise. Never complaining of his audacity to search comfort in your arms when he is drunk and stinking of whores. Never once raising your voice at the insults to your people, your home, your family.

But for Daemon Targaryen, it wasn’t enough. You would never be enough. Childishly, when you had first heard of your betrothal to him, you had hoped for companionship, if not love. At least, you thought, you would have a friend. But you hadn’t been enough of a woman to keep him in your bed, you had not been enough of the blood of Old Valyria for him to give you children, and you had not been enough for him to stay married to you.

He took from you, and took from your island and from your family, and not once was he satisfied. Not once, he was sated. And now, Daemon has done the unspeakable. Not satisfied with making a mockery out of you, with his constant unfaithfulness, he seeks to ruin you further. It’s only King Viserys who protects you and your family from further embarrassment.

You have underestimated him, pitying him while he planned your demise. The ruin of your house. You have been sharing your bed with the enemy. The thought frightens you and fills you with anger at equal parts. What will happen, when the King dies and the awful Princess with whom your husband was so taken ascends? Will you be put to the sword, accused of an imaginary crime to get you out of the way? Treason, perhaps? Hands shaking in anger, you fold the letter and reseal it as carefully as you can.

That is the day you decide you will retreat into your shell, like any good crab. You will close yourself over, put up walls and keep him as far away as you can. And you will wait for the day to stab at his heels until his physique reflects exactly the useless kind of man he is inside.

One day, this man might kill you. You will have to make sure he does not get away with it.

Envy /ˈenvi/

​the feeling of wanting to be in the same situation as somebody else; the feeling of wanting something that somebody else has.

It’s not often you are summoned to the court. But your father is about to be named Keeper of the Keys, a prestigious position often held by members of your house before being promoted to Master of Coin. The implication is clear. Soon, another Celtigar will be handling the finances of the Kingdom. It’s a ploy, to intertwine you further with the Royal Family. As soon as King Viserys dies, it will be your father who serves on Princess Rhaenyra’s council.

Hence, the need for a celebration. Traveling from Claw Island to King’s Landing is exhausting, especially considering that you do the journey by ship while your husband does so in his dragon. He seems overjoyed about it, but you can only think of how much the separate travel is costing your purses.

Daemon arrives early, because of course he does. Meanwhile, you spend your time preparing to put on the play of your life. You must be the most dutiful wife in the Seven Kingdoms, or else he might find a reason to get rid of you. Setting apart your most fashionable dresses, preparing gifts for the King and Queen and otherwise looking radiant.

Knowing Daemon, he is already whispering poison in his brother’s ear. You need to dazzle the King and the whole court, convince them you are not only an adequate wife but a perfect one. No stain must be perceived in your reputation.

You arrive punctually, just in time to prepare for the feast. It’s inside the Hall where you meet Daemon, and greet him with a kiss on the cheek. Chaste, but affectionate, performed under the King’s approving look. You are radiant in your house’s colors, with subtle references to Targaryen’s ones.

The feast is torture. Viserys, Daemon and Rhaenyra are all seated at the same table. They get along wondrously, while you, Queen Alicent and Ser Laenor are ignored despite being next to them.

The only thing that calms your heart is watching your father, sitting at the table of the Master of Coin.

“My Queen.” You say to her, hoping to curry favor. The Gods knew you needed as many allies as you could. “I brought you this.”

You take out a beautifully engraved rendition of the Prayers Book. It’s a gorgeous edition, with a gold finish. You hope that at least, if she doesn’t like it, she would think it is a gift to the babe she carries. It’s a thoughtful gift, the kind of thing you excel at.

“Oh, Lady Targaryen!” The Queen says, and takes it, admiring it in the light. Fortunately, she seems truly charmed by it. “It is the most wonderful thing!”

“I have one myself.” You tell her, as if you had not purchased it for exactly this moment. “When I heard you were from Oldtown, I couldn’t think of a better thing to bring.”

“It’s lovely.” Alicent says, as your husbands ignore both of you. Viserys and Daemon are too busy having their fun to care about what women are doing. “Will you join me in prayer tomorrow?”

“I would be delighted to.” It’s the first genuine smile you wear since your arrival. And it’s the first time that someone from the royal family smiles back.

You do attempts towards Rhaenyra and Laenor. They both ignore you, and so, you decide to keep strictly to conversing with Alicent. You decide to leave Viserys out of it, despite your gratitude to him because you would rather not look like much of a sycophant.

Your happiness at finally making a friend between your in-laws makes you oblivious to Daemon’s silence. During the whole dinner, he barely taunts you. None of the crab-based insults he so favors are present, either. That should have warned you. If you have learned something about your husband is that there is never a time when he is quiet.

He bides his time. The desserts are already served when Daemon delivers his greatest insult up to date. Some couples are even swaying to the rhythm of the music already, no matter if the tables have yet to be cleared.

“I wish to dance, I think.” Daemon says, getting up from his seat. You start to get up too, knowing you cannot refuse him, but he turns towards Rhaenyra. “A dance, niece?”

Rhaenyra preens under the attention and takes his hand. For a second, you stay frozen, hand falling uselessly by your side just when you were about to reach for him. You feel like you are being stabbed. Again.

The humiliation is so great you wish for some great disaster, perhaps one of the couples bumping against a table and overturning it, just to get the attention away from you. Half the hall has now seen you get rejected by your husband. In a celebration meant to honor your father, nonetheless.

You struggle to keep your face emotionless, curved into a polite little smile. You have made a fool of yourself. Hot tears gather in your eyes, threatening to spill.

Noticing your despair, Alicent places a hand on your arm, softly.

“Thank you, Lady Targaryen.” She exclaims, loudly. “With the babe getting bigger and bigger every day, I find it harder to stand. You are very thoughtful.”

Her rescue, as she stands and walks down the dais, helps you save face. Your smile turns more genuine.

“It’s but good breeding, my Queen.” You answer, just as loud. “What kind of noble could see a Lady of your station and not aid her?”

Alicent smiles, and she cradles her stomach.

“Indeed. Only a savage, I would think.” Her glance at her own husband is unmistakable. But Viserys is too busy watching Rhaenyra and Daemon dance to help his pregnant wife. His eyes never leave his brother and daughter, his expression twisted into one of annoyance.

Alicent makes her way towards a table where a few knights sit. Most of them are from Oldtown, and you cannot help but smile at her doing the rounds her husband so neglects. But her rescue, and quick exit, leave you in an uncomfortable position. King Viserys and Ser Laenor are engaged in conversation, including you only when they remember your presence, which means once every half an hour.

Without Queen Alicent, you have no conversation partner. The only thing you can do is watch. Daemon twirls around the room as if he were not a married man, taking every eligible bachelorette in the room for at least one dance. He is enchanting, pulling blushes left and right. He dances twice with Rhaenyra and Laena Velaryon.

You play your part to perfection. Each time he glances your way, you give him an indulgent smile or a sweet tilt of your head. Even when he dances again with Rhaenyra, your expressions don't shift. Instead, you lift your cup to them and even find it in yourself to give a small clap.

It’s torture. It’s exhausting, having to play the devoted but never jealous wife, when he is doing his best to embarrass you. Finally, the King retires, but orders that the celebrations do not stop. You consider making your way towards your father, uncaring if leaving Laenor sitting on his own is rude.

Just as you are getting up, a knight, dressed in a fine green gambeson, steps in front of you. You look up at him, wondering what he could possibly want.

His voice is soft and eloquent, with the barest hint of an accent. His voice reminds you of someone, but you cannot quite place who.

“Lady Targaryen. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.” You answer him, politely. Is he about to ask you for a dance? Is this a ploy for your husband to embarrass you further?

The knight smiles. He is tall and slender, very different from your husband, yet handsome just the same.

“If I had a wife as pretty as you, she wouldn’t be sitting here.” He compliments, and startles a laugh out of you. It has been months since the last time a man complimented you so. Before marrying, you had quite the suitors, but no one dared practice courtly love with the Rogue Prince’s wife. And your husband never once spoke to you kindly.

It’s a thrill, to feel wanted and appreciated again. You love having his eyes on you. It fills you with a forgotten kind of confidence. As the daughter of the man whose star in court is rising, as a beautiful woman and as the wife of a Prince, you deserve to be admired. It’s not your fault your husband can’t see it, you are desirable. People should be currying for your favor. You shouldn’t be begging for the scraps of a man whose only interest is his niece.

“Would she be on the dance floor?” You tease the knight, falling back into the practiced flirtations that had made you so popular before. You feel like you are glowing again.

The knight shakes his head, a hint of mischief appearing in his brown eyes.

“I would forbid her from leaving my chambers.”

At that, you laugh again, blushing. Despite how charming he is, you are still a married woman. You cannot give anyone reason to suspect or judge you, else Daemon might have basis to rid himself of you.

“I am not your wife.” You say, politely. The knight gasps, as if wounded, making you laugh again. You do not realize someone is glaring daggers at you, entranced as you are by him. “But perhaps a dance might suffice?”

The knight gives you a cheeky grin. He takes your hand and pulls you to your feet, gently.

As he leads you towards the dance floor, you barely notice Daemon looking disgruntled on the edge of it. You look over and see Rhenyra dancing with some tall and broad knight. He is probably jealous of him.

“You must give me your favor, for tomorrow's tournament. We are, after all, celebrating your family.” The knight says, making you focus back on him. His eyes are brown and kind, so soft. They remind you of someone, but once again, you can’t tell who.

“Ah, I see you are a tough negotiator.” You tease, your tone turning slightly more girlish. This time, it is the knight who laughs.

“What can I say? It’s in my blood.” The man winks, as he starts to twirl you around.

“I think, my lord, you have yourself a deal.” You grin.

It’s only when a Hightower knight approaches the stands the next day and offers you his lanze, you realize the mistake you have made.

Wrath /ræθ/

​extreme anger.

Daemon can’t believe his ears. Out of nowhere, a sweet sound reaches him. It’s the sound of a Lady’s laughter, but something about it makes him turn his head.

Perhaps, the fact that the sound has managed to catch his attention at all, despite the loud music, chatter and other laughs. Perhaps it is that the sound is familiar to him. He doesn’t know what it is, but as the piece finishes, he steps aside and tries searching for the source.

It’s then he sees you. His wife. Glowing and laughing on that Hightower cunt’s arm. And no, it’s not Alicent he is referring to. Otto’s spawn seems to have a proclivity for you because this is the other one. The elder.

Gwayne. His hands all over you, a gentle touch to your lower back to guide you forward. And are your eyes brightening? For him? As you pass by Daemon, you barely spare him a glance. He manages to hear a piece of the conversation.

“Your favor, for tomorrow's tournament…” The man has the gall to ask, as if he could win you the flower crown! The nerve of that Hightower pup, to think himself able to win. It’s clear he doesn’t remember the last time he faced Daemon, and while he was already planning on entering, now he knows with absolute certainty he is competing. Gwayne Hightower seems to have forgotten his lesson. He needs to remember his place.

“… Tough negotiator…” Your cheerful voice answers. Probably telling him he has to win if you do so because you are Valyrian and proud like him. Surely, the idea of getting crowned Queen of Love and Beauty appeals to you. You want a flower crown? Daemon will get you the damn thing.

When he was no more than a boy, his father used to have a particularly overzealous hound. Daemon had taken great delight in setting him free just when ladies were visiting. The dog loved sniffing beneath the ladies' skirts and humping their legs. The whole scene often ended up with Daemon getting yelled at, either by the ladies or their husbands. Now, as he looked at the proverbial dog humping his wife, Daemon understood why the ladies' husbands were so enraged.

He should cut his hands. Hightowers. No sense of shame at all, with their whorish ways. They were all the same. There went Alicent, throwing herself at Viserys when poor Aemma was not even in her pyre. There went Gwayne Hightower, placing his paws all over you and trying to charm you when Daemon was still in the room.

Couldn’t he tell you are his? It’s not that Daemon likes you, but it’s an affront to his honor. You are the wife of a Prince. The mere fact that a measly knight thought he could compare it’s outrageous. And the fact that he dared touch you! The nerve!

It’s Daemon who shares your bed, back in Claw Island. It’s Daemon you hold during the night, who pays for your silly little dresses. It’s for him you have clearly gotten all pretty today. How dare he, that Hightower fool.

He can’t have you. Gwayne Hightower is not allowed to just swoop in and try to steal his woman. You are meant to sleep by his side, be his solace. You are not the kind of woman for whom a simple knight would be enough. Just like him, you love the lush life. Could Gwayne Hightower buy you a dress like that? Could he use a dragon to protect your little island?

Daemon clutches at his cup so hard, he thinks he might bend the metal. You are his bride. He is the only one allowed to have you. If he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to, but it doesn’t mean someone else can.

Rhaenyra approaches him again, no doubt wanting another dance. But not even her allure, which is usually so hypnotizing to him, manages to get him out of his bad mood. He hates when other people touch what is his.

Daemon decides to retire for the night, before she can reach him. He needs to think. How he longs for your shared rooms back at Claw Island. At least that way, he wouldn’t spend the night tossing and turning, wondering if the Hightower cunt escorted you back to your rooms, and if so, at which hour.

Strange, isn’t it? Such a small act can cause such a big shift in perspective. So many months, he had spent thinking of Claw Island a prison, longing to be able to come back to court. Now, he sees it as it was. A shell made to protect the most valuable pearl the sea had produced.

Had Daemon known men at court would try to steal his bride, he would have never authorized this trip. Your father could have been named Hand, but you would have never stepped foot outside your castle if Daemon had known. You would not be taken with Gwayne Hightower if he had a say in it.

He had a plan. The knight would make a fool out of himself. Daemon just had to encourage him in the right direction.

Daemon is up and about as soon as the sun is. He strolls towards the space prepared for the tournament, armor in hand. He changes slowly, giving plenty of time for Gwayne Hightower to arrive.

The foolish knight does. So do you, sitting next to your father in the stands, all pretty and glowy under the sun. You wear a red gown that compliments not only your skin tone, but pays homage to both of your houses. After all, both House Targaryen and Celtigar have red on their coats of arms. A clear show that you were meant to be his, and his alone. What would you even look like, if you were married to a Hightower fool? Red and green would look hideous in a dress.

As the highest-ranking competitor, Daemon gets to make the first challenge. To no one’s surprise, he picks Gwayne Hightower.

Daemon waits with bated breath, already seated on his horse. Does the man dare? Oh, he dares! The Hightower cunt gallops towards the stands. You don’t rise, looking towards the Hightower whore. It’s then he realizes you must be truly innocent. You are either doubting the boldness of the man or are not aware of his house, and do not recognize him under the armor.

But as Gwayne Hightower reaches the stand, Daemon close on his heels, he takes off his helmet. You gasp.

The Hightower whore makes a move as if to get up. Her brother’s voice cuts her off.

“I was hoping to get a sign of your favor, my Lady.” The man says to you, and your eyes widen. You stand, shakily. You look at Daemon, then at the cunt, then at him, then back at the cunt. Daemon arches an eyebrow, visor lifted. “For you have already struck me with your beauty, and the fact that you cannot be mine. Allow me the consolation of placing a crown of flowers upon you, and soothe my wounded heart.”

You gasp at the bold declaration. Daemon has to admit it, the cunt has some nerve. Not only has he praised you in ways that are too bold even for a couple courting, but he has slighted Daemon in front of the whole court. He has made explicit mention of your marriage to him.

Viserys eyes him warily. Daemon scoffs. The distrust is unnecessary. Why would he slaughter the Hightower now, when he has the chance to plummet him into the ground without consequences in just a few minutes? Besides, it would be in bad taste, slaughtering the brother of his sister-in-law.

Your father urges you forward, with a forced laugh. You grasp one of the favors from your box, which has only two, and place it upon the Hightower’s lanze. The pretty ribbons sway in the wind. White and red from House Celtigar proudly displayed.

Daemon clears his throat, and presents his own lanze.

“How touching.”

You ignore him, as Rhaenyra approaches. Surely thinking how he will want to wear her favor, after his rejection of last night. Curse him, Daemon thinks. He should have danced with you. If he had known that up jumped son of a rat was going to try his luck, you would have not left Daemon’s arms the whole night.

“Thank you, niece. But today I fancy wearing my wife’s favor. For it would be a shame for her to be lacking her crown once her champion undoubtedly disappoints.” He loudly declares, uncaring if his niece’s face falls. Rhaenyra will get over it. But this has turned into a manhood competition. He can’t let Gwayne Hightower, of all people, win.

“Can I do that?” Daemon hears you whisper towards Viserys and his whore. “Can I have two champions fighting each other?”

Viserys, as if this is the most fun he has had in a while, answers cheerfully.

“Of course, my dear girl.” It probably is the most fun he has had in a while. Really. It must be very amusing to him, after hearing Daemon complain about you for months. Who would have known he would have to fight some Hightower for your attention? Laughable, really. A Prince groveling. “Double the chances for you to get the flower crown, is it not?”

“Of course.” Your father jumps in, clearly trying to prevent a scandal. “Go on, love. Give the other one to your husband. If more are needed, we will get more ribbons.”

You approach Daemon, pretty little favor on your delicate hands. You smile at him, pleasantly. But this close, he can tell you are shaken by the power play happening right in front of your eyes.

Daemon lowers his lanze as you stretch to place your ribbons. You give him a confused and hurt look. He stretches closer.

“Save that one.” Daemon says, as he places a hand on your hair and pulls out the red ribbon that holds it back. “I’m your husband, I get some privileges.”

His gesture makes you laugh. Daemon feels on top of the world. He gives a superior glance to the Hightower cunt, as if saying: Look at me, I do not need half your effort and get double the results.

Daemon is not so deluded as to think the laugh is more than half nervousness and half playing the part of the dutiful wife you are, but to Daemon is still a win. He can see why the other lords want you. With your hair loose, smiling and with your skin glowing from the sun, you are actually quite pretty.

He ties the ribbon around the pommel of the lanze.

“A kiss, for good luck?” Daemon knows he is pushing, but cannot help but be smug. His pretty wife gave him her hair ribbon to tie around his chosen weapon, for all the court to see. Smugness radiates out of his pores.

Without any expectation, the sweet peck you give him is even more of a delight. Even more sweet is the disgruntled look on Gwayne Hightower's face.

Safe to say, the man gets unseated so fast, it has to be the quickest defeat ever registered. The crunch he makes as he falls from his horse it’s the most satisfying sound Daemon has ever heard. The crowd gasps and cheers. The man does not get up.

That will teach him, he decides. Gwayne Higtwoer will never again even look your way. Daemon turns his horse back around, ready to face his next opponent, but it’s stopped by the pages.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower has requested to continue with the sword.” At that, his blood boils. He nearly jumps off his horse, discarding the lanze and unsheathing Dark Sister.

“What will it be, boy? First blood?” He saunters towards the man, and the sight of him this close only serves to anger him more. He shares Otto’s slender build, tall and slight. In Hightower armor, he even looks like him. Daemon is going to enjoy this.

“Why stop there?” The knight asks, hatefully. “Until one of us yields.”

“As you wish.” Daemon charges, forgoing his shield. He is just too angered for politeness. This is not jousting anymore, it’s his hate for Higtowers, and the fact that this man has tried to take something that’s his. He should have never looked your way. Never. And if it’s up to Daemon, perhaps he will leave the arena without the ability to repeat the feat.

The fight is quick and dirty, but even when he has disarmed and cornered him, Gwayne Higtower refuses to yield.

“What are you..?” Daemon asks, utterly confused because the little savage is grabbing Dark Sister with gauntled hands and pulling.

“Just as marriage is not an excuse for not loving…” He grins, teeth bared in a feral little grin, and Daemon lets go of his sword in surprise at the boldness of the fool. “No weapon is no excuse for yielding.”

He loses it, then. Later, he will only remember red. Daemon throws himself at him and starts punching him, until the asshole goes limp on his arms and has to be pulled away from him.

Only the fact that the Hightower fought back is what allows him to keep participating in the tournament, instead of being exiled again. The split lip and bleeding eyebrow do serve to build a case in his favor.

He wins the tournament without any opposition. With bloody hands, he places the flower crown on your head. Your horrified look is not as satisfactory as he would have thought.

Pride /praɪd/

the feeling that you are better or more important than other people.

Daemon manages to get a hold of you before you vacate the stands. You are trying to avoid the crowds, waiting patiently in your seat. He doesn’t allow it, urging you towards his chambers with a firm grip on your wrist.

Some other ladies titter and giggle, pointing towards the two of you. No doubt, they think he is about to ravish you. They are not wrong.

It’s not often Daemon feels desire for you. In truth, while you have a pretty mouth and a soft body, you do little for him. But today, you are enchanting. The flower crown still sits atop of your windswept hair, making you look like a forest nymph. There are a few red stains along your temple, left there by Daemon’s hands when he placed the crown on top of your hair.

Never has there been a woman more deserving of the title of Queen of Love and Beauty. As you walk with him down the halls, he feels a smug sort of satisfaction. Here is the woman half the court wants, Daemon wants to scream. Here is my wife.

The feeling is not unfamiliar to him, but it is in relation to you. His possessive nature so far has only extended towards members of his house. The lust is new, too. Daemon has experimented it many times, but never towards whom he should.

As soon the door closes after you, he kisses you forcefully, only for you to shove him away.

“What are you doing?” You ask, as you spit out some of his blood. You are remarkably strong, having been able to push him while still in armor. But what shocks him the most is the fact that you did it at all. Months of marriage and you have done nothing but smile, regardless of what Daemon does.

“Shh, Lady Wife. Nothing unusual, I assure you.” He pulls you back in, kissing along your neck. This time, you push him even harder.

Daemon stumbles and blinks, hard. Are you rejecting him? He sits down on the bed and takes off his helmet. He has beaten the Hightower fool half to death and won you the silly flower crown. Why would you reject him?

“You prefer him, don't you?” That has to be the answer, surely. You must be having an affair with the cunt. Why else would you reject him? It’s not allowed. While Daemon is not particularly keen on forcing you, you are his wife. He has a right to your body, and you shouldn’t deny him. You know it. Never before have you refused him, due to the same reason. So this must be something else.

“What nonsense are you on, now?” You barely lift your eyes from your work, busy with pouring some water in a bowl and taking out clean linens. Efficiently, as if a seasoned healer, and not a soft lady from Claw Island, you rip them apart.

“Don’t play daft, wife.” Daemon reproaches, scowling. Your innocent act is starting to tire him. You can’t possibly believe him so dumb. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“If this is about Ser Gwayne…” You start and he feels the urge to scream. He can’t help but cut you off.

“Of course it is! Of course it is about that fucking Hightower.” Daemon’s voice goes high-pitched, imitating yours. “Ser, Ser.” He rolls his eyes. “How easily they hand titles now. Is every scum in this realm a knight?”

Your face doesn’t even twitch. That is one of the things about you that drive him to insanity. No matter what Daemon says, he never seems to get a reaction. It’s infuriating. You are all manners and dimples, even in the face of the most vile insults he throws your way. You either have no honor, letting him stomp all over you, or you think him right. Pathetic. Even the Bronze Bitch bit back.

His nostrils flare. Softly, you step between his parted legs and dab at the cut on his brow with a soaked linen. Ever dutiful.

“You do know adultery is a crime.” Daemon says, in a low, threatening tone. You give him a pleasant smile, squeezing water out of the cloth. It runs red and fast down your wrist.

“So is incest.” Your voice is far too cheerful for someone who just got accused of a crime that’s punishable by death if he so chooses. And not only that, but you have the nerve to threaten him.

“I am a Targaryen.” Daemon practically growls. You glare at him. He should be angry, but instead, his loins seem to heat up. Who can fault him? Any man would feel the urge to take you over and over, when faced with those eyes and those lashes.

Surely, after it, you would understand you were his and not Gwayne Hightower’s. It was not such an ambitious plan. Perhaps a lesser man would have trouble with it, but not Daemon. Give him ten minutes between your legs and you would be singing his praises.

“And I am a Celtigar.” His pause has allowed you enough time to form a retort. You press down on the cut on his brow with a viciousness that startles him. Daemon winces in pain. No getting distracted, he notes. Less you murder him when he is not paying attention. “To stifle the blood flow.” You explain, but Daemon can see the bloodlust in your eyes. You want him to hurt. The past few months have not gone in vain, it appears.

“Mine, you are mine.” He replies, gruffly.

You let go of the cloth, hands on your hips. Your mouth opens and closes, astonished.

“You don’t have any right to speak those words to me.” How he longs to grab you and show you exactly who is in charge. There you are, screaming! You! The woman who Daemon doubted knew how to make sounds louder than polite conversation. “Am I not the bride you never wanted? Your chain? Well then, sail free. Go!” You scream, and Daemon needs to pick his jaw off the floor because never has he seen you this angry.

Are you screaming at him? He feels the urge to pinch himself, to see if he is dreaming. But the way you are pointing your finger towards the door seems very real. Still a bit confused by the sudden personality change, Daemon does not obey.

It feels like a dream. Like stepping into a parallel world. The words that come out of his mouth are spoken by a stranger, and he can only watch as you turn more and more furious.

“No. Come here.” Daemon grabs at your gown, trying to pull you into him. He doesn’t really know what he is going to do if you budge. Place you in his lap and placate you with a kiss? He doesn’t get to find out. Grabbing you has clearly been the wrong move.

You slip out of his grip with a harsh jerk. Daemon is not as young as he used to be, but the sight makes his lust bubble up. You are alluring when angry, all passionate lines, and bloody temples. Valyrian, in a way you had never been before, with your darker coloring and soft manners. Yet, when mad? You are a conqueror goddess made flesh.

“No! I will not. I am not yours. We might be married but I will…” You stomp your foot at him, all angry little crab. For the first time, he sees fire in you.

Such a shame this is the moment you chose to grow a spine. He couldn’t understand where you had been all this time. So many months wasted with the meek little wife, when he could have had you instead.

Why had you decided to show you had a personality now, of all times? It was not fair, if it was for that Hightower cunt.

“Why Gwayne Hightower? Out of all the men on earth?” Daemon mutters, clearly not low enough because you answer him.

“This is not about Gwayne Hightower.” You glare, crown of flowers balancing precariously on top of your head. As you move, a few petals fall down. Angry little dryad that you are, you bat them away.

“If not, what is it about?”

“You!” You scream at him. It’s hateful, it's rage filled, it’s everything you are usually not. A true Valyrian goddess, letting mere mortals feel her might. Daemon would have enjoyed the display more if he wasn’t the mortal in question. “I forgot what it felt like to be wanted. To be looked at as someone who was desirable. Do you know how I have felt? Begging for scraps of attention, trying to make this work?”

“Wife…” He pleads because now there are tears in your eyes, and while Daemon doesn’t do begging, he doesn’t do comforting either.

“Do not call me that! Didn’t you petition for an annulment?” And how had you found out about that? While he had not been exactly secretive with his correspondence, he didn’t believe you to be proficient in High Valyrian. He has no time to ponder on it because you intend to go further. “Well, you are in luck! I will make my own request!”

“Viserys will not allow it.” Even if Daemon has to go beg him on his knees to not grant it, you are not annulling this marriage. Not when he is just starting to see the real you.

“Fine! Then I am going back to Claw Island. Stay here.” You scream, and you look so determined it scares him. For a second, he actually thinks you have the power to ban him from the island and force him to stay, giving you plenty of time to receive visitors. Male visitors, all surrounding you, courting you, as if he were already dead and not just exiled.

“Look. I’m sorry. Can we start over?” Daemon offers, in his most pleading tone. He has not apologized since… Gods. He barely remembers how to do it.

“You made me forget I deserved more than scraps.” You laugh at him, as his first apology to someone in more than ten years is the funniest joke existing. Then, enraged. “It will be a cold day in the Seven Hells, when I give you another chance.”

Hurt. He realizes, as you throw the flower crown at his feet and slam the door. Hurt. You are hurt, not angry. He has done the worst thing a man can do to a woman. Damage her pride.

Lust lʌst/

very strong sexual desire, especially when love is not involved.

Much to your dismay, every time you try to speak alone to the King, you are swiftly intercepted. If it’s not Corlys Velaryon asking you to help him pick a book in the library, it’s your Lord Father summoning you to his chambers. It seems like the whole palace is in it because even Princess Rhaenys asks you to stroll with her through the gardens when you lurk too close to Viserys’s chambers.

Daemon was smarter than you thought. He had taken to using your own weapons against you. The need to be polite kept you from rejecting all these new invitations, and so, you often ended up stuck an entire afternoon with nonsensical plans.

As time passes, your rage starts to subside. Much to your disgust, it morphs into shame. You cannot believe how you lost control in front of Daemon. Everything you have worked so hard on could vanish for a single afternoon pf foolishness.

You would rather not be his enemy. When the time comes for the two of you to go back to Claw Island, Gwayne Hightower is still bedridden, despite it already being days. Daemon is a dangerous man to cross.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t seem angry, or even resentful. In fact, your husband has never been more attentive. With the talent of existing just at the right moment, Daemon appears at your side each time there is a door to be opened or a chair to be pulled.

“No one has ever seen him like this.” Queen Alicent marvels, as he watches him go fetch you a blanket in case the room is too cold for your liking. “Whatever you did to him…”

“Nothing, I assure you.” You answer, sternly. You don’t want her getting funny ideas, like that you are dabbling in witchery or the Seven knows what. It’s not something you can afford. Already balancing on a tightrope after the fight, any accusation could be your ruin. You do not trust Daemon’s change of heart. He is probably just biding his time.

Noticing something is amiss, Daemon comes back with the blanket, wrapping it around you. Alicent falls quiet.

Daemon stares at you, his hands lingering on your back more than necessary. He seems to be taking you in. His eyes fixate on your bosom a tad too long before you realize what he is doing, and you cover yourself more with the blanket.

Your cheeks heat up. You cough. Alicent’s brows raise.

“You are so beautiful, wife.” Daemon says, a bit dumbly.

“And you are a fool.” Your response is heated, and stupid, too. But you feel too embarrassed to care. Alicent is still sitting there, with a scandalized look on her face. Anyone would be ashamed to be the object of such obvious ogling, much less when they have never been exposed to it.

You are unused to this side of your husband. At most, when trying to consummate, Daemon would glance at you with disdain and proclaim it was all your fault. His eyes would never watch the heaving of your chest as you breathed, or the sway of your skirts when you walked. Were you superstitious, you would have thought him a man possessed.

Daemon laughs, either at your comment or your expression. It’s good, you suppose. At least he has not taken offense. You would have thought he would be angered, never one to suffer affronts to his pride without reacting.

“Your fool.” He leans down and places a kiss on your forehead, before walking away.

You stare at him. Alicent stares at you. Neither says anything. You are not sure what to make of it. It’s strange. It’s him now, who serves you dinner. The choicest cuts of meat, the sweetest of wines and meads, never asking for anything in exchange.

He has gotten unusually affectionate. Or possessive. Whatever it’s going through his mind, you don’t know. Daemon has never been open about his thoughts and feelings with you, unless they stem from displeasure.

Perhaps it’s a burst of boastfulness. He flaunts you, a hand on your waist, lower arm, whatever he can get away with. He is suddenly interested in the dresses you wear, commenting on them and gifting you new ones just because he thinks they would suit you. You do not miss the fact that the dresses are always in his house’s colors or styles he personally favors, with intricate needlework and embroidery.

It’s interesting. Once again, his testing of boundaries seems to come back. His hands are always playing with the curls at the nape of your neck, or the folds of your skirt. You have even caught him toying with the buttons of your bodice. It borders on the inappropriate.

“You are pushing it.” You say to him when his hands curls around yours as you dance. He is supposed to keep his hand extended for this step. He doesn’t seem to care. The other guests give him amused looks. No one is about to chide a Prince for his lovesick behavior towards his wife. Especially in a goodbye feast for the couple.

In truth, you are starting to think most of the fathers at court are relieved. If the Rogue Prince is chasing after his wife, then he is not chasing their daughters.

“Holding your hand is pushing it?” Daemon holds your hand more securely, as he makes you spin. This is another new and unexpected development. Now, he only dances with you. No heated looks at Rhaenyra, no longing glances towards Laena. You are not sure how you feel about it.

“It is. You are inconveniencing everyone.” You say, as he spins you again with a flourish. Despite wanting so badly to keep being cross with him, you cannot help but laugh with childish delight. What girl doesn’t want to be twirled around and made to feel special? “You are supposed to exchange partners.”

The balance of the dance has been thrown off by his refusal to let go of you. Any time there needs to be a switch, the couples flounder around the two of you. It’s childish on his part, but he seems unwilling to let you dance with another man.

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pushing it yet.” Daemon laughs, and pulls you in until your body is flush against his. It’s improper and probably not allowed. Scandalous, even. Yet again, no one is about to say anything.

Much less you, suddenly realizing that being pressed so close to Daemon is quite enjoyable. He smells surprisingly clean this evening. No trace of alcohol on his skin, or other women’s perfumes. Instead, he smells of the soap he usually favors and some sort of aromatic oil.

“Will you push further, then?” You raise your brows. It’s sort of amusing that Daemon is trying so hard. You would have not taken him for the seducing type, not when he had been so keen on dissolving your marriage.

“I will.” Daemon leans in, to whisper in your ear. His voice is low, thick with desire. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “I want you. I burn for you. I need you in my bed, on top of me, under me, any way you will let me have you.”

You give a scandalized little gasp, softly hitting his shoulder. Daemon grins, pulling you in even more. The two of you are so close, you imagine you can feel his heart beating against yours.

“I’m not done.” He chuckles, leaning in to kiss your jaw. Daemon’s lips trail kisses towards your ear, teasingly blowing some air against it. “I want to spend the nights feasting between your thighs, on the valley of your breasts…”

“Stop it! We are in public.” You squeak, yet you look up at him like a flower searching for the sun. The attention he bestows on you is flattering, and you can't help but want to hear more.

“Do you want to hear a secret, wife? Every time you walk, I find myself lost in the sway of your hips. I want to drown on it. Drown on you. Until no trace of another remains, until the taste of your lips is the only thing I know.”

By this point, your skin feels so hot you worry you are about to combust. You gape at him. Not only has he dared to make a bold declaration, but he has done so in a room full of people.

You take a moment to gather yourself. Daemon could be bluffing for all you know, and so, you decide to match him. You brush your thumb against his cheekbone, feather-light.

“Then do it. No one is stopping you. Come to bed. Drown on me. Drink me, take me, ravish me.” You are trembling, and you only realize it when Daemon holds you tighter against him. You feel feverish, voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “Give me Valyrian sons, to hold my island when we are both gone.”

“No. No.” He says, against the curve of your neck, embraced much closer than the dance requires, making a spectacle. “I want them to have your smile and your eyes, and that infuriating curve of your shoulder. Give me daughters with your smart mouth, and your even temper. I want them to be proof of the love I had for you.”

You tremble more. Love. He really said… Oh, by the Seven.

“You are shaking.” Daemon kisses your brow. “Don’t. Unless it is from pleasure.”

Laughter rings in your ears. It's yours, but it feels foreign. You are too stunned to think clearly. Daemon tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“Are you still there, Lady Wife?” He taps at your lower lip with his thumb. There is a teasing tilt to his smile, but his eyes are nervous. Vulnerable. Daemon was clearly not planning on confessing tonight. “Or have I broken you?”

“Prove it.” You say, still caught up on the love part. His declaration has sent your mind reeling, and shown you all of your latest interactions in a new light. You don’t know if Daemon knows what he is doing. He is a deeply passionate creature, much like his house’s sigil. Daemon doesn’t do infatuations, nor does he do dislikes. He loves or hates, and there is no in between.

“I will.” He promises, playing with a stray piece of hair that has fallen out of your up do. “Our whole lives. But perhaps I can start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” You frown, puzzled. You even pull back from his embrace to be able to look at his face. What an odd thing to say. Despite it, you admire the utter shamelessness he has about it. Were it you the one accidentally confessing, you would be a bundle of nerves.

Daemon doesn’t even blush. Of course, there is the small fact that he believes himself to be the Seven’s gift to humankind. You suppose if you believed yourself to be irresistible, you wouldn’t be nervous either. Cockiness wasn’t something you thought did it for you, but it seemed like you were learning new things every day.

“You will see.” Daemon smiles. You let him keep his secret, figuring it can’t be anything that bad.

You discover what he means when you arrive at Claw Island. A dragon egg waits for you, the fireplace clearly modified in a hurry, judging by the new stones and bricks that were added to the hearth.

“Even if it never hatches, I want you to have it. For you are as Valyrian as we are, and I was a fool not to see it sooner. You are worthy. It should have been on your cradle as a child.”

Greed /ɡriːd/

​a strong desire for more wealth, possessions, power, etc. than a person needs.

The way his eyes trail after you now, it’s quite unfamiliar. Not lust, nor disdain. Something entirely new. Heavier.

Your afternoons have been filled with new entertainment. You coo at the egg, holding it over the fire. Sometimes, Daemon kneels beside you and helps you hold it, making a game of it. How long before either of you gets burned? How long can you endure, hands so close to the fire, before you are yelping and giving it to him?

When you think he is not looking, you speak to it in High Valyrian, whispering soft promises of how loved him or her will be once it hatches. There is no doubt in your mind it will. Perhaps not in weeks, or even months. Yet, your heart tells you there will be a dragon before your life ends.

Every night, you place the egg in the bed next to you. On your side, you curl around it, trying to share your warmth. Daemon reaches forward, sometimes. When he thinks you are asleep, his hand will curl over your waist and touch the egg, pressing it more against your stomach. You wonder what he means by it.

Does he know what he is doing? The low lullabies he half sings, half mutters under his breath indicate a yes. The way his lips curl into a soft smile against your nape show a longing that’s very much not subconscious.

Just as a pot of boiling water, the egg hatches a night no one it’s looking at it. Both Daemon and you are curled in a love seat, engrossed in a book. He is reading something about the doom of Valyria, your legs over his lap. You are submerged in a text about a man’s travels around the Free Cities.

One of his hands is wrapped around your ankle, in the sweetest of chains. Each time he flips a page, he will brush it with his thumb, softly. While not unwelcome, it’s strange. You are not used to being comforted in the same way you did for him during the first months of marriage. While Daemon doesn’t expect any kind of retribution, you find yourself granting it anyway.

The domesticity is quickly broken, however, when a strange noise fills the halls of your home. At first, you are unable to hear it through the background noise, but if you strain your ears, you can just make it out. It’s a shrill cross between a bird’s chirps and someone crying.

“Daemon?” You close your book and stare at him. Unable to help it, you get a little sidetracked, watching his face. His mouth is pursed in concentration, the candlelight giving his features a golden glow. Despite him being several years older than you, you cannot help but find him terribly handsome. Age has only turned him more distinguished. You betted he was dashing when younger, but unlike his brother, he has aged like a fine wine.

Sensing your eyes on him, he gives you a lazy smile.

“Little wife.” His voice comes out in a pleased rumble at having caught you looking. Your face heats up. Daemon's eyes shift from yours, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You squirm under his gaze, trying to focus.

“Do you hear that?” You force yourself to utter.

“Hear what?” Daemon leans more towards you, his hand squeezing your knee. You give a small, delighted shiver. Good gods, what is it about him that gets you to turn into a puddle of want with the simplest touch?

“Some sort of animal crying.”

Daemon frowns. He tilts his head to the side, as if to listen better. You keep quiet, hoping to aid him. Then, his face breaks out in the biggest grin.

“It hatched! You amazing, wonderful woman.” He praises, pulling you into him. The hug is awkward, but it doesn’t last because you are too eager to see the baby dragon. Your dragon. You squirm out of his hold and rush out of the room, not even bothering to put on shoes, Daemon hot on your heels.

When you open the door to your chambers, you find the cutest thing ever. A baby dragon, slimy and confused, sits in the middle of his egg in the fireplace. It’s all big, dark eyes and long limbs, much like a baby horse. Unable to resist the temptation, you reach towards them.

“I do not…” Daemon tries to stop you, but the baby dragon climbs right up into your arms, curling close to your chest. Eager to touch it, you let it climb over your shoulder and nuzzle you, even if the sudden weight makes you stagger a little.

“That was really dangerous.” Your husband reprimands, trying to lift it away from you. The baby dragon snorts towards his direction, as if attempting to breathe fire. It only manages to give a cute little sneeze. Daemon glares.

“Aw, you are just like a baby.” You coo at the dragon, petting its head. Daemon looks even more disgruntled.

“Your dragon tried to burn me.” He complains.

“It’s a baby, husband. They don’t know any better.” You rub the scales on its back, soothingly. Unwilling to let go, you find yourself looking around your bedroom. “Let it stay here? Just for tonight.”

Daemon glares. You give him your biggest, most pleading eyes. He relents.

“Fine. But it’s not sleeping on the bed with us. And only for tonight.”

“Only for tonight.”

A month after, and the baby dragon is still sleeping in your bed. He has taken to laying between Daemon and you, leeching off your warmth. Daemon complains of having to sleep on the edge of the bed and his back being sore, but despite it, never once asks you to send the dragon outside with Caraxes.

The trouble starts, how not, with a trip to King’s Landing. This time, you ride with him, as a passenger to Caraxes, while the baby dragon follows. When Daemon lands, the dragon keepers fret around your baby, unsure of what to do with the unexpected visitor.

You command him to stay by your side, despite the protests of the dragon keepers. You are arguing and complaining and shielding your baby while Daemon only watches, amused.

Perhaps the commotion attracts more people, or someone calls for them, but you end up cornered as King Viserys makes his way to the dragon pit.

“What do we have here?” He asks, smiling at you. You give him a nervous look. Your dragon has gotten bigger, and so, you can not pick him up gracefully, but you usher him behind you regardless.

“Nothing, your grace.” You say, lacking your usual charm. You feel nervous about leaving the baby dragon on his own in the dragon pit. What if the other dragons don’t like him? What if he gets lonely?

With one hand, you reach for Daemon. His fingers meet yours halfway, squeezing reassuringly. More often than not, being a woman, your orders were not taken seriously. But if your husband gave an order, people would rush to obey. You hope he intercedes in your favor.

“Daemon, please.” You say, under your breath. “Don’t let them send him away. He will behave.”

“What do I gain, little wife?” He asks, interlocking your fingers together. Daemon gives his most charming grin to his brother, before pulling you into him. You go willingly, body lax and pliant for him. “A kiss, perhaps?”

“Please.” You turn to look at him, hoping to move him. This close, once again, you feel slightly distracted. Your husband smells so nice, and his hands feel so good around your waist, it’s no hardship at all. You press a kiss to his cheek.

“Must you always arrive with such a ruckus?” Viserys frowns. Daemon gives him a small smile.

“You know me.” Slowly, he starts to lead you towards the Red Keep, a hand placed protectively on your lower back. The message is clear. Daemon wants you to make your dragon follow you. You don’t even need to order it because your baby, smart as it is, is already following. The dragon keepers step back, muttering unhappily.

“Is it going inside?” Viserys point at your dragon. Foolishly, you had been hoping he didn’t notice, and so, your stomach drops. But Daemon doesn’t falter, strolling confidently inside as if he owned the place.

“He will behave. As long as no one touches her.” Normally, you despise when people talk about you as if you are not there. Currently, though, you can only feel relief that your dragon is not getting sent to sleep outside in the cold. He is just too little for it.

Viserys walks you towards his private dining room. A blonde child runs around, playing. The Princess and Ser Laenor are already there. And Alicent is even more heavily pregnant than before.

“How have you been?” You ask Alicent, sitting next to her. You half expect to be left out of the conversation as you were a few months before, and so, choose to sit next to someone who has been kind to you. The baby dragon hops on your lap when you take your seat.

Alicent looks absolutely horrified.

“Good enough.” She speaks, blinking slowly. It’s clear she cannot believe her eyes. She stares at the dragon in a mix of awe and fear.

“He is harmless.” You explain, petting it as if it were a small dog and not a baby dragon. “Do you want to pet him?”

Alicent reaches forward with a trembling hand. The dragon sniffs her, and curls to sleep again.

“… And I was thinking of changing the layout of the hall, to make sure he fits…” You hear Daemon complain, and your ears immediately perk up. Is he talking about your baby?

“So you keep it inside?” Viserys asks, sounding disbelieving.

“I have never seen such a close bond.” Daemon boasts. He sounds as if he is proud of you, you realize. It makes something warm flutter in your stomach. No longer are you the wife he never wanted and tried to get rid of. “Damn thing sleeps on the bed with us. It’s better trained than a dog, seriously. We should have given Celtigars dragons a long time away.”

“Why not leave it outside?” From where you are seated, you can’t see his face, but you imagine by his tone, Viserys is smiling.

“She will riot. She loves him as her own son.” Daemon explains. You keep your eyes trained on the nervous Alicent, who has managed to lay her hand on top of your dragon’s head. She looks about to bolt.

“Isn’t he the nicest thing?” You say to Alicent, excited. “He thinks I am his mom, or something. Isn’t it great?”

Alicent does not look as impressed as you hoped for, but she gives you a kind smile. She seems willing to tolerate your eccentricities if for the sake of not having to make conversation with Rhaenyra.

“Very nice.” She compliments. “Pretty colors. Prince Daemon was very kind, giving it to you.”

“He is.” You smile, softly. “Although he complains all the time.”

Alicent shrugs. This time, both of you tune in the conversation between Daemon and Viserys.

“Perhaps, as you build him something outside, you can distract her with an actual baby.” Viserys says. Alicent looks torn at the comment, and you can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed by the topic.

It’s not something you had thought about before. Well, you had. Never with him, though. As a girl, you dreamed of being a mother, and as a woman, Daemon and you had discussed the issue of heirs already. You had spoken about it during your last goodbye feast, in this same castle. But those words had been spoken in the height of passion, and neither of you had done anything about it.

“Trust me. Next time she holds a babe, it will be a proper human one.” Daemon says, and his hand finds yours over the table. You look up at him, meeting his purple eyes. He looks hungry. Starved, even.

You lower your eyes demurely. Viserys laughs. And Daemon, greedy as he is, lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

Sloth /sləʊθ/

the bad habit of being lazy and unwilling to work.

The light filters in through the open curtains, giving the room a soft glow. Daemon’s face scrunches up, bothered by the sunlight in his eyes. He has tried to convince you to sleep with them drawn, but you are unwilling. To you, the best way to wake up is slowly, with the sun. Or so you say. He is not very convinced.

Daemon stretches. You reach for him in your sleep. He gives himself a moment to savor it, the fact that he can finally pull you closer. The dragon is finally gone from his bed, although he is no way near distracting you with a babe.

Dragons are not pets. Daemon had been taught that since the cradle, even before he had a dragon of his own. Their control over them was only an illusion, and so, they should be trusted but feared. He had lived by that rule, never once questioning it. Until you.

Watching you raise yours as if it were your own child had proven interesting. You lacked his education about them, but you made up for it by sheer enthusiasm. The fact that your dragon had not bitten your hand off yet or burned you to a crisp could only mean two things: You were some sort of forest nymph, or they were mistaken about their approach to dragons. He knew which one he thought was true.

How much was nature, and how much was nurture in their relationship with dragons? Trying to answer that question would occupy his entire lifetime. Daemon hoped that watching you gave him some insight. Even if he ended up discovering you were a nymph in disguise or some sort of goddess of the hunt. He wouldn’t regret it, fascinating as you were.

No matter how much food for thought you gave him, Daemon had been enjoying the joys of marriage. Perhaps, a little too much. Seeing you with the baby dragon had awoken some unexpected feelings. Targaryens were dragons, after all. When the time came, you would make a good mother. Not only were your instincts well-developed, but you seemed to thrive on having something to nurture.

Ah, the joys of domesticity. Daemon loves that you trust him enough now to allow him to witness you at your most fragile. Asleep and wearing a soft white night shift, you are deliciously innocent. Giving, too. You do not complain when his hands find your hips or when he pulls you flush against him. Nor do you move away when his face hides in your lovely locks, mussed with sleep.

Your expression is open and vulnerable in ways you are never when truly awake. Your eyes open just the tiniest sliver, before you hide your face on your pillow, rubbing against it like the sweetest kitten.

He adores you like this. Worships you, even. Obsessed with the curve of your hip, or the soft flesh above your womb. Daemon can’t help but rub it, hoping to manifest a child into existence without actually fucking you.

If he believed in such a thing, as so many fools in this realm did, Daemon would say this was the Seven Heavens. But he knew the truth. Just like you, who worshiped the Old Gods of Valyria, Daemon did too. How could he not when he had a tiny goddess sharing his bed?

Your nose scrunches up. You twitch. Worshiping a little nymph, now that was hard work. Especially when the nymph in question does her best to escape his personal worshiping time.

If Daemon could spend all day in bed, just like this, he would. He would trace your features with his mouth, peppering your face with soft kisses. He would feast on the soft curve of your neck, drink up all your sweet little noises. Trace a path down your soft limbs, draw nonsensical patterns on your stomach. But you are an energetic little thing, always jumping out of bed, no matter the pleasure he tempts you with.

Convincing you to stay is hard, but Daemon likes to think it’s an art he has perfected. It’s not a ritual, by any means. Each morning goes differently. Sometimes, you need to be kissed silly. Sometimes, you need to be gently worshiped and coaxed back to sleep. But his favorite mornings are the ones that go like this.

“I have to go check on the tenants, down by the shore. The rain season just started.” You complain, as he noses along your hairline. Suddenly, Daemon’s arms are empty. He opens his eyes to find you sitting up and pulling your robe over your night shift.

You look delectable in red. He should buy you more robes like that one. Especially because he is about to ruin it.

“Did you say at what hour you are going?” Daemon sits up as well, toying with the edge of your robe. You bat his hands away, playfully.

“No.” You are hurriedly standing up, perhaps knowing what comes next. Daemon grabs your robe, and pulls you back in, using all his strength.

No matter how much you try to keep your feet planted on the floor, you end up tumbling back into bed. You give a girlish shriek, a smile already forming on your face. You struggle, kicking the blankets off the bed.

“Come back here, you little minx.” He tugs you by the ankle, making you laugh. Your hair is sticking up in all directions and your chest heaves up and down with the exertion of putting up a fight.

Daemon secretly loves it. He would never tell you because you would be outraged, but he enjoys the idea of overpowering you. Perhaps, once you fully trust him, he could ask you to play like that. But for now, he takes what he can get.

“Or else what Lord husband?” You tease, still trying to escape him. More blankets and furs are sent flying off the bed. You give a mean little tug to his hair.

“That was it!” Daemon complains, and starts tickling you. The night shift rides tantalizingly up your hips, giving him an unintentional show. He feels his blood warming, arousal turning into a dull throb in his loins. Your legs kick wildly, you squirm on the bed, and your eyes fill with tears from laughing so much.

It’s only when your poor body can’t take it anymore, and you are crying from laughter that he stops. He thinks of how it would feel, to overwhelm you in a different context, make your body take and take until tears ran freely down your temples. A different sort of crown for his forest nymph, one made from her own silver tears. The visual is too much for him to take without giving himself away.

Daemon lies on top of you, smothering you with his weight. He licks a few stray drops of sweat from your neck, making you flay once again. There will be a day when play wrestling will turn into something much less sweet. That day, though, it’s not today.

“Get off!” You complain. “That’s disgusting.”

“I could eat you up.” He teases, nuzzling into your neck. It's the truth. Daemon loves the taste of your skin and your smell. If he thought he could get away with it, he would crawl between your thighs and feast on you. “You are delicious, wife.”

“Daemon.” You push lightly at him, trying to get up. Again. But your words lack their previous conviction. Daemon can tell he is getting to you. “It’s getting late.”

“The tenants can wait. Let us hide from the world a little longer.” He pleads, clinging to you. Under him, exhausted after the play wrestling, you go limp. He knows he has won then.

You spend the whole day in bed. The tenants end up being visited closer to sundown. Daemon does not regret it one bit.

[writeroutoftime]

precious secret

pairing: eris vanserra x fem!reader

summary: eris has kept you - his mate - a secret for years, not wanting any harm to come to you. but when his hands are tied, he must turn to an unlikely ally to offer you protection

warnings: minor mentions of violence against reader (split lip, not graphic description), beron - enough said

words: 1.5k

a/n: alright, I am in love with eris - at least the fanon version of him lol. and I'm such a sucker for stories where he tries to protect his mate from his father, so I humbly offer this as my submission. please enjoy and it'd be great if you let me know what you think! have a great day everyone!

oOoOo

A sense of fear palpated through Eris' heart with every purposeful stride his took down the halls of Forest House. His palms were sweaty, and his skin felt flushed, a stark contrast to the cool and collected exterior he normally presented.

The moment his trusted guard had let him know of your situation, his mind could think only of the worst possible scenarios. The worst images his mind could mangle before his eyes flooded his senses, and he knew the only remedy would be to see, hear, and touch you.

Upon reaching your room, he slammed open the door and immediately rushed to your side. His hands automatically reached to cup your cheeks, eyes frantically scanning for blood, bruises, anything that could cause you pain. It didn't take long for his eyes to zero in on the blood that ran along your lips.

Hands shaking, Eris reached out to gently wipe the blood away with his thumb. Your instinctive flinch caused a pain to wash over his body. He never wanted to be the cause of your pain. You sent a wave of reassurance down the golden bond, but it did little to assure him.

"It's worse than it looks." you tried, grasping his wrist, holding his palm against your cheek.

Eris growled, eyes hardening as though his mind had not registered your words. "What happened?

There was a moment of hesitation from your side, but with a soft sigh you let your mate in the morning's events. "Word got out to Beron that there had been sightings of us together. He let me off with a warning for lesser fae such as myself to stay away from the likes of you."

"This can't go on." he spoke, scoffing at his father's words.

Now it was your turn to panic. "W-what do you mean?" 

"It's not safe for you to stay here any longer." he clarified, gaze softening ever so slightly.

"I'm not leaving you." you demanded, holding your ground.

"Love, we thought we were being careful and look what happened. What am I to do if this becomes a regular occurrence. It will ease my mind to know you are safe and out of harm's way." 

"Away from you." you argued, nuzzling your head into his neck as you tried to stop the tears that burned against your eyes. 

"Just for a little while." he promised. "Just until I know it's safe to bring you back." softly pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. 

"I don't know where I shall go." you admitted. 

It pained you to think of leaving the Autumn Court - your home. Yes, Beron was a horrible, cruel ruler, but there was still so much good to be found outside of his clutches. The breathtaking scenery, your family, and, of course, all the beautiful moments you and your mate created together. If you left would you ever see any of it again?

"I'll take care of it." Eris said, drifting off into silence as he savored the last night he had to hold you for the time being.

oOoOo

Eris strolled through the halls of River House, trademark smirk upon his features as he came into view of his reluctant allies. Rhysand and Feyre draped themselves across two chairs at their grand table, looking warily at the heir to the Autumn Court. 

"High Lord, High Lady, a pleasure as always." Eris greeted, bowing slightly to the rulers of the Night Court. Though, it didn't escape his notice the close eye that the rest of the Inner Circle kept on him.

"Eris," Rhysand acknowledged, trying to be diplomatic. "to what do we owe this unexpected visit?" 

There was a long pause in which Eris took a deep breath and pushed aside the snarky comments, the masked facade, and allowed the Night Court to see him in his true form. "I am here to ask you to provide sanctuary for a member of the Autumn Court." he spoke, choosing his words carefully. 

Feyre cocked her head to the side, as if trying to decipher a hidden cipher in Eris' words. "And why do you presume we have any obligation to help someone associated with you?"

Eris' palms burned with a heat that threatened to burst free and wreak havoc. A reaction that had become more common after solidifying the mating bond with you all those years ago. But he tamped down said flames, knowing anger wouldn't get him anywhere. So, the red-headed swallowed his pride and tried another approach.

"I know I have no room to ask such a request, but please." Eris pled, bending to bow before the Night Court on one knee. "If not for my sake, then do it for the sake of - of my mate. For the innocent female who has had the misfortune of falling in love with me." he confessed, revealing his most precious card.

All eyes of the Inner Circle widened in surprise, and Feyre couldn't contain her gasp at Eris' words. None of them had ever had any inkling there was someone tied to Eris in that way, but from the shake in his voice, to the bowing of his head, they knew he spoke only the truth. 

"I still need time to take control of Autumn from my father, and it is no longer safe for her there." he continued. "But once I am High Lord, she will be able to return to me. Until then, this is the safest place I know of for her. Name your price, and I swear it will be done." 

Rhys and Feyre shared a look, silently conversing. Even the powerful High Lord was taken aback by the confession and felt a small pang in his own heart. His mind shifted to Feyre and the lengths he had gone to protect and everything he would continue to do if necessary -what he would do, what he would promise, what he would give up. All just to know she was safe, regardless of his own well-being. He saw those same feelings reflected in Eris' eyes. No longer was he an arrogant heir before them, but a male in love and desperate. 

"That is a bold offer to make." Rhys spoke, his voice commanding always one with a flair for dramatics. He saw the way Eris flinched in worry, so he quickly put the male out of his misery. "But we accept."

The relief Eris felt washed over him instantaneously, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Thank you." he whispered, so overcome with emotion, he didn't know how else to emote his gratitude. "I am at your disposal to the best of my ability when you call in your favor" he spoke, standing up. 

The thought of Rhysand now having a favor to dangle over his head sent a small chill down his spine. But he would offer a thousand favors to the male if it would guarantee your safety. It should have scared him, but Eris knew that wasn't anything in this world (or the next) he wouldn't do to keep you protected. 

"No favor necessary." Feyre spoke gently, after sparing a quick glance in Rhys' direction. "We know the sanctity of the mating bond, and we will do our best to keep your mate safe." she vowed, seeing a new light to the male before her.

With another round of thanks, Eris bowed his head a final time before winnowing away and back to spend one last night with you.

oOoOo

The next day, under the cover of night, Eris stood with you in his arms, at the entrance to Velaris. Tears pulled in both of your eyes as your foreheads rest against each other's. Feelings of both love and despair were shot down the bond, leaving you feeling breathless.

"Please, we can figure this out." you tried one last time, not caring if the tears on your cheeks belonged to you and Eris. We don't have to separate."

"Trust me," Eris whispered, knowing that Rhys and Feyre stood only a few feet away. "I would wish for nothing more than to be selfish and keep you by your side. But this is the only way I can ensure you’re safe."

"What about you?"

Eris pulled back slightly to take in your form, sighing softly at your stubbornness. He gently cupped your cheek, pressing soft kisses to your skin. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine, and we'll be back together before you know it, alright?" he asked, content with your reluctant nod.

One last time, Eris leaned in and captured your lips with his. You gripped the lapels of his jacket, pulling your mate as close to your chest as was possible. The kiss was soft, but desperate and full of languish. Though you both wished the moment could last forever, you eventually pulled away, whispering words of love to each other.

"Until we see each other again, love." Eris vowed, watching your figure retreat into the safety of Velaris until you he could see you no more.

part two

[endless-ineffabilities]

sapphire-hearted (part two)

Aemond Targaryen x f!reader

After his betrayal, the reader is determined to forget about Aemond. But her attempts at entertaining a potential suitor seem to be thwarted at every turn, by none other than... who else?

themes/warnings: jealous!Aemond, angst, third (and fourth) parties involved but not really

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

a/n: the title changed, yes! Also, can you believe I actually thought this would remain a mere oneshot? But no, I got hungry for more angst and jealousy and all the good stuff. Much love to all my fellow angst lovers for breathing new life into this fic!

When the whispers started, you knew they would eventually reach Aemond.

You were rumoured to be entertaining Lord Ramsay Beesbury, the youngest son of the late Lord Lyman Beesbury.

His older brother, Braxton, was your initial suitor many moons ago. But you refused him, of course. For a certain one-eyed prince.

Lord Braxton had been the one who became Lord of Honeyholt after his father and he has just recently taken a wife. Unlike his father, however, he opted to side with the Greens and to back Aegon's claim.

Ramsay began to seek you out himself, not long after finding out that you are now more receptive to marriage proposals.

Everyone knew. Well, it seems that way, at least. It is common knowledge that you and Aemond were closer than to be expected of mere friends. Any Lord who might ask for your hand knew not to expect to be met with warmth and eagerness. They tried anyway, and failed.

Because each time, and without even needing to say so, they knew that you were choosing Aemond.

"I don't know why you would think that," you lie with a sweet smile, when Ramsay presents his concern about you and Aemond. "Prince Aemond and I are acquaintances, and that is all there is to it."

"Oh." Ramsay smiles, evidently pleased with your response. "My lady, I am glad to be spending this afternoon with you here in the gardens. After some time, I would hope that we can join our Houses, as humble as mine might be." He averts his eyes shyly. Ramsay is surely a gentle lad, as far as you have seen.

"You need not be concerned, my lord. My House is just as humble. But we make do, don't we? At the very least, we do not have to busy ourselves with all the politicking the more nobler Houses seem to get into."

"That is true, my lady." He grins, and you notice lines burst around his eyes, though he is merely five and twenty. Ramsay has spent a life imparting and partaking in laughter.

Unlike a certain sullen, brooding Targaryen. Could you get used to Ramsay? Surely. Could you love him? Perhaps so.

"So what shall we do on the morrow?" Ramsay closes the distance between the two of you on the bench, and his knees brush against yours under your skirts. He takes your hands in his, "I propose - "

He stops, his head whipping to the side, looking toward the treeline.

"What is it, my lord?" you ask, looking in the same direction. But you see nothing.

"I thought I heard something." He whispers, then looks again to you. "Where were we - "

"Fine weather we're having." You nearly jump out of your skin in surprise, as Ramsay is interrupted yet again. Aemond stands about a foot away from your bench, hands clasped behind him in usual commanding stance.

"My prince." Ramsay stiffens, your hands still held in his. You see that Aemond's attention has been drawn to this, his lips curling in distaste.

You both rise from the bench. Ramsay is no longer touching you, but still stands close.

Closer than Aemond would like. His hand clenches into a fist behind his back. He muses about whether it is unbecoming for a Targaryen prince to sock a young Lord in the jaw unprovoked.

He does not much care either way.

"It is, indeed," Ramsay says. "Which is why I thought to take the Lady out for a walk in the gardens."

"And a fine idea it was," you add, purposefully looping your arm around Ramsay's. "It's best that Lord Ramsay and I get to know each other well, if we are to wed soon."

Aemond decides not to punch the young Lord Beesbury. Not just yet. Clearly you're provoking him and he is not going to give you the satisfaction.

"A wedding in the middle of war?" Aemond hums. "Do you not think such a union foreshadows plenty of discontent and strife, my lady?"

You scoff, "Oh, what does it matter? When will we ever not be in a war, in some form or another? That should not stop us from marrying whom we please. From loving whom we please."

Loving. Love. Aemond's heart sinks. You mention love in front of him, when you have yourself wrapped around another man. One whom you plan to wed.

How can you speak of love, when you are planning to sacrifice it? Aemond might transgress with Alys, but at least he is doing it for the realm. For you.

Is he not? Then why does it seem like he is losing you?

Ramsay beams to Aemond, "My lady is truly clever, is she not, my prince?"

"She is." Aemond genuinely agrees. He only has eyes on you, running over the planes of your face which he has committed to memory, all those nights of watching you sleep next to him. He looks upon you with longing.

With love.

For a moment, everything feels right. You and your love gaze upon each other, all else forgotten. Your arm slides down from Ramsay's in your brief reverie.

Then Ramsay clears his throat. "What are you doing here, Prince Aemond? Can we help you with anything?"

"Oh, I don't think you can," Aemond says pointedly, clearly pleased with himself.

"P-pardon me?"

You interrupt the exchange, your voice icy, "Not busy today, my prince? No plans of battle to discuss? Grand spells to concoct?"

"No." Aemond merely shakes his head. "I've no use for those at the moment."

"What a surprise," you sneer.

Ramsay glazes over your mention of spells, thinking he misheard things. He then addresses Aemond, "It seems that the tides have turned toward our favour, my prince. The Greens' favour. I can only hope that the aid my House provides has played a part, albeit small."

Aemond does not mince his words, disdain clear in his voice when he says, "Surely the barrels of honeyed wine that your great House provides has been crucial in advancing our cause, my Lord. If you yourself possessed any mettle, then you would be out there in the battlefield. Instead you sit here in the gardens, wasting your days trying to covet something of mine. "

Unbelievable. Your mouth nearly falls open in shock at his demeanour. "Aemond..."

"I need to speak with you, my lady."

"I am occupied at the moment, my prince." You respond through gritted teeth.

"It's alright," Ramsay nods to you, clearly disheartened. But he holds his ground, and bravely takes your hand in his. Completely aware that Aemond watches, he leans down and plants a kiss on the back of your hand, eyes on yours the entire time.

Aemond feels his restraint dissipating, hanging on by the flimsiest of threads.

"Come with me," Aemond takes your hand, the very same which Ramsay just kissed, and begins pulling you away and walking towards the tall hedges.

You can feel his thumb brushing against your knuckles, as if trying to eliminate any trace of Lord Ramsay.

"Stop - " you say, but to no avail.

When Ramsay is no longer in your line of sight, you pull your hand from Aemond's grip. "What is wrong with you? Ramsay did nothing to deserve that."

"Ramsay," Aemond rolls his eye. His shoulders are stiff, and you can easily tell he is angry.

"I should go find him, and apologize for your behaviour. Clearly you will not."

"I do not need to apologize for anything to that weak-willed, little - "

"Then apologize to me," you interject, voice breaking.

"Whatever for?" He reaches for you, but you stand still. Doing nothing as his hand cradles your face.

"For everything... for being with someone else... for not choosing me."

"But I choose you. I always - "

"You chose Alys."

His face scrunches at that. Aemond thinks that he did not choose Alys, he merely chose to use her powers for his gain. But it will never be her over you.

"Just apologize to me," you shrug. "Or don't. It does not change anything. We can soon set all of this behind us."

You watch him intently, drinking in every slight change in his expression. The curve of his lips. The way his eyelashes brush against his skin when he looks down.

If you have to let him go, you will always want to remember him. To remember everything.

He says nothing for the longest time, just holding your face in his hands.

Until you step away. His arms fall to his sides.

"I have to choose Ramsay, Aemond. I have to do this for myself," you say.

Still, nothing. His gaze is trained downward, and he feels helpless as he can feel you slipping away from him.

You finally muster up the strength to say goodbye, "I'll be seeing you, my love."

Your feet feel heavy as you walk away, crunching against the small rocks on the path.

"What if we were to wed? What then, hmm?" He suddenly says, making you stop in your tracks.

He continues, "Will you choose me?"

Will Aemond finally give up Alys? Will he marry the reader even if it will be frowned upon and seen as an unfit union? *shrugs* you tell me

Will Aegon make an appearance in part three? *nods* yes. Yes, he will.

In my mind, Ramsay is played by Callum Turner or Jonah Hauer-King. Just a thought. Aemond's got some competition *laughs evilly*

I hope I managed to include everyone in the taglist!! If not, just let me know 🖤

taglist: @immyowndefender @bellameshipper @aemondswifeisme @bash1018 @fuck-the-reaper @shessthunderstoms @aemondsbabygirl @melsunshine @youtoldalie @snh96 @noxytopy @ellooo0ooo @brianochka @not-a-glad-gladiator @mac95650 @whitejuliana1204 @midnightmystic @saminalloxo @oh-no-tia @magnificentsapphiresoul @clara-geekhime @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

[bluberryfields]

"David is very easy to fall in love with." - Michael Sheen

Hi. How are you? Good, I hope. Okay, so can we talk about just how fucking beautiful David Tennant is? And by “we” I mean “I” and by “talk” I mean “babble incoherently into the void”? Great! I’ll attempt to impose a bit of organization on this just to satisfy my pathological need to inflict structure on words (thanks college/job/brain), but I can’t promise much. Also, there will be A LOT of pictures and gifs. (you’re welcome?)

And this isn’t just because I am deep in the bottomless well of Good Omens fandom and that Crowley is basically the most breathtaking creature that has ever existed. Well, not just because of that.

*cue Aziraphale's "good lord" from 1793*

ANYWAY, like a lot of people, I became a fan of (i.e., fell deeply and irrevocably in love with) DT during his run as the 10th Doctor. He was young and bright and full of just about everything – joy, sorrow, wit – making him incredibly watchable. His look was also so charming: big bouncy rooster comb of hair, absurdly cheeky smile, expressive-as-fuck eyes and eyebrows, and a tall, lanky form that seemed to be made of rubber and the kind of granulated sugar that could only be found in candy from the 90s that are now banned in all first- and second-world countries.

So yeah, I was super into him and his Doctor’s adventures. And I continued to watch him in other projects and still swoon (looking at you, slutty Hamlet)

even at characters where that was not the desired reaction (fuck you, Kilgrave, you delicious monster).

I would also always become a bit (a lot) weak in the knees at his voice regardless of which accent he took on, though always preferring him doing any Scottish brogue because of fucking course.

Roll that tongue, you sexy beast.

But what I want to get into today is just how incredible he looks in the year of 2023.

He’s 52 years old and I am somehow even more attracted to him. Maybe it’s because I am myself older, and my tastes have matured alongside? I certainly do enjoy gray hair way more than I did 10 years ago.

He’s aged incredibly well, probably a combination of good genes and good health, and he’s clearly not clinging to the Hollywood idea of “youth”.

(insert obligatory grumble about the double standards of men being praised for aging and women being demonized…the potentially problematic nature of the term “aging well” in general…acknowledge this with my enlightened brain but ignore this with my slutty heart…fuck the patriarchy, etc. etc.)

He’s still tall and skinny, even gangly at times, all long arms and legs that can move in impossible directions with unfathomable grace.

His face is leaner, that incredible bone structure creating sharper edges that draw the eye. Speaking of the face, he’s got these creases on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes and mouth that are evidence of time spent well: smiling, laughing, living. Makes you want to trace your fingertips along each one.

Oh god that smile? Good lord. It’s weapons grade charm that can also be quite intimidating. Sweet, humble, silly, scary…full spectrum of options here! His shark smile is the definition of “irresistible” in my Dictionary of Delicious Dudes.

I am both proud of and grossed out by my own word choice.

Continuing with that face...the hawkish nose, the dimples you want to drown in, the big eyes, those motherfucking eyebrows...

I could seriously write a whole essay about those eyebrows, but I already give my therapist enough to worry about.

Oh those eyes. “Piercing” is a term usually reserved for blue eyes, but I would argue it applies to DT’s bottomless chocolate pools in that they slice through my heart every damn time.

Honorable mention does go to those Crowley snake eyes because they could have been distracting and diminishing to his overall look, but they absolutely are not.

Such a pretty shade of yellow.

Random tangent to swoon about his hands. For whatever reason, I like checking out a man’s hands, and DT’s got a set that drives me wild. I can’t even really explain why, but I just really like the way he articulates with them. Crowley is a perfect example, what with the miracle snaps, caressing globes, and holding whisky glasses. Yum.

Delicious demon digits

Fresh tangent: How does this fucker look good clean shaven, with stubble, and a goddamn beard? How is that allowed?

He's got a face that makes me wanna take up sculpting

Further, how is his fucking neck so hot? Like, seriously, show me the math. I can’t stop staring at it. And when it’s cloaked in a turtleneck? Please, sir, may I have some more?

Fuuuuuuuck

With no segue whatsoever, I am absolutely obsessed with his hair, across all contexts. Big, bold, blood-red Crowley coifs (especially in Season 2)? Check.

Proper gentleman side part? Check.

Side shave with cartoonishy springy 14th Doctor shock? Check.

Lockdown locks with and without headband? Check!

It’s a goddamn buffet of delicious options.

Oh damn speaking of that 14th Doctor look? Good fucking Christ on a buttery Ritz cracker. The whole DT collection is on display: the hair, the eyes, the bone structure, the smile, the clothes, and even the glasses!

To quote Pam on Archer, “I swear to god, you could drown a toddler in my panties right now! I mean, not that you would.”

Now that you (I) mention the clothes, I never cease to marvel at how he can wear pretty much anything and look amazing. Stripes, patterns, wild colors, etc. He just always looks…not exactly comfortable, but sort of at ease like the clothes were created with him in mind. And this goes across the spectrum of Casual to Costume to Promotional (e.g., interviews and premieres).

They are almost illegally cute together

We all know by now how ridiculously tight those Crowley pants are and how it influenced his signature serpentine swagger (thank you, Costume department, you’re the real heroes). That said, he and those slinky hips still looks so incredibly natural in them like they came from his actual closet.

Stupid sexy snek

And he pulls off the look of more ridiculous stuff like full Shakespearean costumes or that sad gray-hoodie-black-shorts-and-Wellington-boots combo from the first season of Staged. He somehow gives off the air of “whatever, they’re just clothes, man” while also looking like a damn model.

Georgia is a very lucky woman

Final thoughts: I know DT dislikes talking about how people think he’s so attractive because I’m sure it feels a bit icky if you just want to live your life and do your job. But my guy also clearly understands that he’s not some ghoul who has succeeded on incredible personality and acting chops alone. So, that said, maybe he'll forgive me for posting such a long, rambling, ode to him?

[queerstake]

Good morning, Queerstake! Thank you to everyone joining us for our community fast and letter writing campaign in response to the 2024 Church Handbook update with regards to transgender people. The policy update has shaken all of us. It is exclusionary and degrading. But we will find strength in each other as a community and courage in our efforts to effect change in this church that belongs not only to the General Authorities who authorized this policy update but also to all of us. Change in the Church happens from the ground up. Harmful policies have been issued and redacted before in our own lifetimes! We deserve to be treated with respect.

Today, we will fast together as a community that the Lord softens the hearts of the First Presidency. We will also write and send letters expressing our grief. Please don’t be quiet about your feelings today. Share your heartbreak with as many of your fellow ward and Queerstake members as you feel comfortable doing. Please post your feelings as well so we can inspire and uplift each other as we write our letters. It’s important that our grievances are heard.

Please send physical letters to:

The Office of the First Presidency

47 East South Temple Street

Salt Lake City, UT 84150

If you are unable to send a paper letter to Salt Lake, because I was not able to find an appropriate email, please instead email your letters to me at QUEERSTAKEONTUMBLR@GMAIL.COM. I’ll print and mail them myself.

Edit: @nerdygaymormon found an email address! Please feel free to send email to lgbt@churchofjesuschrist.org. However, you are still more than welcome to send them to me to print. In fact, why not do both!

A quick word of caution: Of course, no one can guarantee the type of responses we might receive for these letters. In fact, I urge you to consider using a pseudonym in order to avoid potential church discipline. Please take care to note what legal name or return address might be associated with your membership records. I don’t want to scare anyone, especially because we’re doing nothing wrong, but it’s always good to be very aware of what might make it back to your bishop.

Thank you again to everyone for joining. I’ve always felt so supported and uplifted by Queerstake. I know that our Heavenly Parents love us just as we are and that they don’t want us excluded and humiliated in our wards. We have unique and valuable testimonies to share. We don’t go unheard by our Heavenly Parents.

I’ve included a few sample letters and templates below the cut for people who might need a shortcut for one reason or another. You are welcome to send them verbatim or modify them.

#1

Dear First Presidency,

I'm writing to express my grief and concern over the 2024 handbook policy update on transgender people.

I believe that Christ invites all to come unto him and that as Christ's church, we have a responsibility to embrace people from all walks of life. No other demographic within the church is being treated with such severity as our transgender siblings under this new policy. I fear our transgender siblings in Christ will feel excluded and degraded, and we will lose many great members.

I believe it's of the utmost importance that we express Christlike love and charity even to people we don't understand. There is no excuse for asking transgender youth to leave activities with their peers as though they are a danger. There is no excuse for not allowing transgender people to work with children or humiliating them in our bathrooms. This is a demographic of people who have suffered in our society and Christ would want us to reach out to them with open arms. I humbly and respectfully ask that you reconsider these policy changes with regards to the doctrine of unconditional love that the church espouses. I beg you to consider the church experience of our transgender siblings in Christ and to prioritize their feelings over the feelings of people that wish to hurt them.

Thank you for your time.

#2

Dear First Presidency,

I feel deeply grieved by the Handbook update on transgender people. As a transgender member myself, I am doing everything I can to remain in the church and exclusionary policies like these make me feel deeply unwanted and deeply unloved.

I understand very well the church's position on gender, but I hope that despite that position that I might still be able to feel Christ's love at church. Our Heavenly Parents put me on this or Earth as a transgender person. I am not a danger to children and I am not a predator in bathrooms. I am your sibling in Christ. I want to serve in church. I want to serve in teaching positions. I want to serve the youth. I believe that we attend church with the purpose of uplifting each other and studying our religion together as a ward family. I want to be edified and I want to edify.

President Hinckley said every member needs a calling, a friend, and the word of God, and if I'm treated this way at church, I'm not receiving any of those things. If I can't have a real role to play within my ward, then I have no responsibility. If I am treated as an outsider and an enemy and a predator by policy and by my fellow church members, then I don't have a friend. If I can't also receive Christ's gospel through the love of the people around me, then I'm not receiving the real word of the Lord.

I seriously urge you to reconsider this policy update. I beg you on behalf of myself and my transgender siblings in the church to not hate us and to not exclude us.

Thank you for your time.

#3

Dear First Presidency,

I felt ______ when I heard about the new policy update to the handbook about transgender individuals. I believe we should treat our transgender members with the love and respect they deserve as our siblings in Christ.

I urge you to reconsider this policy update because ______

Thank you for your time.

#4

Dear Leadership of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints,

I'm writing to express my grief and concern over the 2024 handbook policy update on transgender people, which I have been made aware of due to the negative impact it is having on my [friend(s)/family/loved ones].

The reputation of love, kindness, and family values that your church fosters with its programs, teachings, and community outreach is undermined by your continued exclusion of LGBT+ members and specifically with this policy change of your transgender members.

My [friend(s)/family/loved ones] have expressed _____ in regards to the August 19, 2024 changes to the handbook that relegate transgender members of your church to second-class citizens within the organization, and deny them the full capacity of worship and belonging within your church; all because of something so insignificant to their capacity to worship and belong to a community as their gender being different than the gender that they were assigned at birth. This decision _____ me/ negatively impacts my view of your church.

Thank you for your time.

I believe that there is no excuse for asking transgender youth to leave activities with their peers as though they are a danger. There is no excuse for not allowing transgender people to work with children or humiliating them in your bathrooms. This is a demographic of people who have suffered in our society and I believe that every person needs to reach out to them with open arms. I respectfully ask that you reconsider these policy changes with regards to the doctrine of unconditional love that the church espouses. I beg you to consider the church experience of your transgender members and to prioritize their feelings over the feelings of people that wish to hurt them.

[febuary30thday]

Flora, Fauna

Okay, but I'm imagining a demon reader, who uses chlorokinesis as her BDA. But the catch is that she seems so comforting and warm with no ill intention until it's too late.

She is the New Upper Moon Six as a replacement for Daki and Gyutaro, and very often interacts with the Uppermoons so they happen to go yandere for her.

This man is powerful, and he very often makes it known.

He's a cold, terrifying demon who cares very little about human emotions.

He's ruthless and strict, so he bottles up his heart

So, when he meets his....match? He's not letting go.

When you were first introduced as an Upper Moon, he didn't think much of it

He just acknowledged your presence and that was it

That changed when he stumbled upon you devouring an entire village of people, still looking elegant and poised

That surprised him slightly, normally all the demons all crazy when it comes to battle, and let themselves go

He is humble, and you ask him to join you in your feeding session.

With that elegant smile on your face, how can he say no?

You are quiet and he finds himself enjoying your presence more and more

You carry yourself in a very elegant way, and over time, he falls in love.

But then things get dark from there.

He doesn't want you to leave him, always accompanying you when you hunt for humans, using his position against you, and not allowing you to interact with the other Uppermoons, and his threats are not empty promises.

"Kokushibo, I need to leave, I'm going to go hunt."

"I'm coming with you."

"There is no need. I insist I can go by myself. I'm not going to die."

"That wasn't up for discussion."

Good luck with him.

(He is so daddy. I'm sorry, but he is)

Muzan isn't loving, he never has been

He believes he is the perfect being, and that you are an extension of his perfection

Anything you do, connects back to him

He can read your thoughts and read your emotions and actions very well, so he can basically read you like an open book

This man sees potential in you, so you receive much more blood from him, and are promoted to the status of an Uppermoon.

He's seen your blood demon art before, but can't find it important enough to remember what it is

All he remembers is your carnage and chaos he had stumbled upon as you killed the last human in the village

He didn't bother caring about you

Until once again, he stumbled upon your chaos, only this time, he got to observe it, firsthand

He watched as you danced calmly in the streets, your voice ringing a strangely sweet sound in his ears

As people came out of their homes and watched, listened to you, enraptured by your voice

It was annoying watching you, so he went to leave until he heard a scream

It ended just as abruptly as it began.

He wasn't mesmerized, but he did enjoy your rather fast and efficient way of killing, but then he watched in surprise as you placed a hand on the ground and a red spider lily bloomed

He calls you over.

"My Lord! Forgive me for not noticing your presence earlier."

My darling, please tell me, what it was that you just did.

"Please forgive me, My Lord! I didn't mean to..."

"Answer me."

"Do you mean when I bloomed the spider lily? Did that inconvenience you, My Lord?"

"Tell me, what other flowers can you bloom?"

"Anything I wish, My Lord! I just need to know what it looks like and then I can make it!"

"No matter how rare?"

"No matter how rare, Muzan-sama!"

"My dear, you've done well. I have one simple task for you, if you can complete it, I'll be extremely proud of you."

"Anything!"

"Can you make me a blue Spider Lily?"

"Yes! Of course Muzan-sama!"

Out of simple excitement, you made quite an abundance of them, and he scooped you up and the flowers with one hand an all-to-knowing smile on his face.

"Good job, my perfect darling."

You are never leaving his grasp again.

"I wonder when Muzan-sama is going to let me leave." You thought, a puzzled expression on your face.

There was a smirk on his face as he studied the flower, not truly believing that this was real, and that it was all a fever dream.

"You don't get to leave, my darling. Stay in here and be a good girl, and I'll reward you with more of my blood."

This man can't feel a thing, so when he meets you and his heart skips a beat, he is instantly intrigued

You catch his attention pretty quickly, with how humble and elegant you are in comparison to him.

This man is flashy and sort of gaudy

He follows you around like a lost puppy

So much so, that Kokushibo has started to get annoyed with Douma following around his beloved

Even if Douma was assigned by Muzan to make sure you didn't step foot outside the Infinity Castle, that doesn't mean he could be obnoxious about it

Douma is very affectionate, so expect plenty of hugs and cuddling and stuff

He is forceful in his affections but you'll just have to learn to accept that!

What? What do you mean you need to leave and go hunt?

Muzna assigned him to make sure you stay alive and healthy and never leave

Don't be stubborn now!

He also occasionally leaves kisses on your cheeks, arms, and hands

Just because he's obsessed doesn't mean he's possessive, right?

Wrong.

He is clinging to you like a baby and legitimately feels discouraged when you aren't around

He guilt-trips you a lot

Fake crying, begging, the like, he has even ripped out his heart to offer it to you

You can use his vulnerability to your advantage, like crying as well, pouting, sulking

He hates seeing you sad, and when you are sad, he does his best to reassure you, even if it means he has to leave to get you food to bring back

He showers you in affection and makes his followers worship you too, proclaiming you a goddess because of how beautiful he thinks you are

He buys you everything and anything

He offers up his prey to you so you can eat together, thinks of it as a date

He loves spoiling you, so just don't leave him, alright?

"You don't get to leave, snowflake! I have all sorts of things planned for us today! Behave, okay?"

[cowpokeomens]

absolution

Pairing: Pastor!Joakim "Jolly" Karlsson x fem!reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI!!!!!!!!! A looot of references to religion (it all takes place in a church, so), smut smut smut (p-in-v) I'm including dubcon bc consent is weird with power dynamics, age gaps (10 yr) (everyone is of legal age though!!), some body horror stuff, power imbalance, I think that's all but if you come across something that I missed please reach out so I can tag accordingly!!! Love u bye!!!

A/N: This was really cathartic to write lmao I have a sprinkling of Religious Trauma and this helped me work through some of those feelings in my own weird horny way. It is porn, please don't start expecting me to be some kinda respectable writer with plotlines or whatever. PLEASE HEED THE TAGS. Okay enjoy!!!!

The guilt of it is eating you alive. 

The pressure between your legs- the raw, empty ache that plagues you day in and day out. Sitting on your pew, you are once again swept away by long, glossy hair and inked knuckles, turning sacred pages of a holy book that can do nothing to hold your attention at this moment.

What an impression of Christ he makes, you think to yourself, sounding hypnotized even in your internal monologue. 

He arrived when you were 19, to your small town, to your even smaller church. The rest of the folks in town think your congregation is too… fanatical. You can’t imagine a world in which someone could be over-zealous for the word of God, and even so, Pastor Karlsson had done a lot to level the congregation out. 

He was a divorcee, not by his choice, he has said. He was only 29 when he first rolled into town, funny accent and even funnier sounding name causing immediate distrust in your tight-knit community.

But God, did he have a testimony. Sex, drugs, rock ‘n roll, the tattoos adorning his body told you the story better than those gaudy stained glass windows in the snobby Catholic churches ever could. A lecherous lifestyle with a woman who didn’t love him, not really - not the way you do. He had humbled himself to you all, and you gladly let him in. He was made a pillar in your community - he became a leader to the congregation.

Which is why you always suppressed your feelings, putting them in a locked sarcophagus and hurling it to the far recesses of your mind. You will not be the thing that tries to come between him and the Lord.

You look up at him as he speaks, standing at the pulpit and wielding the word of God like the Archangel Michael who so valiantly struck down Satan. He who is made in God’s image; Had it not been for your utter devotion to the Lord, you would have wondered if he could sin at all.

But you knew better. Everyone carried their own sins. You had heard stories of husbands and wives who idolized each other so much that they left the church altogether. Your heart broke at the thought of leaving God’s light to worship something as sinful as human flesh, couldn’t imagine risking an eternity of paradise for what would one day be dust. 

Not that you’d know, of course. You’d never felt the touch of a man outside of when Pastor Karlsson baptized you the day before your 21st birthday. It had been fuel for weeks, his gentle hand on your back, guiding you underneath the water of the river that ran out behind the church. You had stuffed yourself full of your own fingers that night, stuffed your mouth full of bed linens so that no one would hear how you came undone at the mere thought of him. 

Perhaps you are the lecherous one, after all. Though you can’t help but think that God has given you Pastor Karlsson on purpose, as a test of your faith. A test that you believed you were passing, for the most part. You haven’t missed a Sunday sermon since you caught the flu in 2021, and even so, you watched the livestreams on Facebook. You keep your nose in your Bible, and ignore the clench in your gut when he tells you good morning. 

This morning is different. 

This morning is worse. 

You just come off of your period- disgusting and uncomfortable as it was, you are thankful it was over and you can enjoy the rest of your June in peace. But it lingers under your skin, an itch that can’t be scratched. Your emotions are raw, and you burst into tears twice this week, unprompted. Worst of all is the ache. 

You didn’t know you could feel so empty. It claws at your insides like a caged beast, mockingly calling in the voice of Moloch himself, “Fill me up, fill me up.”

You threw yourself headfirst into your studies; you reviewed Ecclesiastes as a way to ground yourself, to remind yourself that this was a temporary feeling, and would pale in comparison to the absolution of Heaven. 

Still, sitting in your pew, you felt the hunger gnashing at you, gnawing at your throat. It was overwhelming, all-consuming. You stutter through your hymnal, barely reading half the words. Your mother keeps giving you concerned looks, your father aloof as ever. Halfway through the sermon, she hisses in your ear, “What is the matter with you?” 

You blink up at her, wide-eyed, and stammer out a “I - I don’t know. I feel… weird.” 

She purses her lips, but says nothing, turning back to Pastor Karlsson in the pulpit. 

You pass the time in silence, feeling itchy and hot, until the sermon concludes, and everyone makes a mass exodus to the dirt lot where their cars are parked.

“Hold on.” Your mother stops you as you begin exiting your pew. 

She walks over and, to your utter horror, greets Pastor Karlsson, pulling him aside and speaking to him in hushed tones. He nods once, glancing at you, then nods again as she steps away. She looks grateful, patting his shoulder in that way that mothers do. 

He looks at you then, and his full attention is enough to make you combust. Suddenly your dress is too tight on your chest, your breasts straining with every breath against the linen that encases you. Your bones itch, but your hands stay resolutely tucked into your sides, your Bible held against your chest.

You’re so busy focusing on breathing that you don’t realize he’s walking towards you until he’s right in front of you, smiling warmly while greeting you by name. Your mother is by his side, looking at you in such a way that tells you she had something to do with this interaction. 

“Darling, Pastor Karlsson here wants a word with you. He even said he’d give you a ride back to the house! I’ll set aside a plate for you at home, you two take your time here.” She was smiling in a way that made all of her teeth visible, like a snarling animal. A lead brick settles in your stomach at the expression as you look up at Pastor Karlsson.

He was so tall, you think as you peer up at him. Dark eyes meet yours, making your gaze flicker away to something else- anything else to avoid the intensity you find there. Looking directly into his eyes was like looking into the maw of a starving beast- you weren’t brave enough to even consider it.

Your mother departs with a final “Wonderful sermon, Joakim, thank you!” Flashing one of her pageant smiles at him - one she’s never given your father - as she goes. 

He nods politely, murmuring a quiet, “All the glory to God.” before turning back to you. He gives you a thoughtful look before he speaks again.

“Your mother is concerned about you.” His tone was not accusatory or pointed, just repeating facts. 

You inhale shakily. “Yeah, I feel kind of weird today.” Admitting to such a thing is not a lie - you do feel weird today. 

He nods, as if understanding. Then, “Would you like to speak in my office? I have to pick up a few things, then we can head out.”

The thought of being in an enclosed space with him made you almost pass out, but you persevere, giving a meek nod as you follow him out of the sanctuary.

It was a short walk from the sanctuary to his office, your church is small, even among small churches. You love its modesty; It is a far cry from the towering spires and flying buttresses you saw in your history books back in school, but it has a self-effacing quality that makes it approachable to people from all walks of life. 

The walls are painted white, though slightly yellowed with age. Dark wood lines the floor, blue carpet cushioning your steps as you walk. There aren’t many windows - it was built for insulation, not sight-seeing, after all. Crosses hang sporadically throughout the hallways, some wooden, carved by members, others purchased at a discount at the craft stores a few towns over. 

His office is a glorified coat closet, something the elders threw together haphazardly when God called him to serve. It fit a desk, a desktop computer that was older than dirt, and two chairs, one on either side of the desk. The carpet is green, the walls beige, and you have always thought it is an entirely unbecoming space for such a Godly man. It’s a good thing he was humble; God opposes the proud but shows favor to the humble, you think, almost bitterly, as he sits down in the chair by the computer. You make a mental note to work on your own humility as you sit down in the chair opposite him. 

“So, what’s got you feeling weird?” He asks with a small smile, putting his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers together. His hair falls over his shoulders with the movement, cascading down in a curtain of silk. You remind yourself to breathe. 

Stammering, you try to explain yourself. “I’m- I’m not sure, Pastor Karlsson-”

“Joakim.” He interrupts you gently. 

You blink at him, confusion evident in your face. He must find something about the expression amusing, because he’s smiling softly and continuing, “You can call me Joakim. We’re both grown-ups here.”

You swallow loudly, the sound all but ricochets in the stillness of the room. “R-right. I’m not really sure why I feel so weird. I just had a really hard time focusing today.” You suddenly realize what you’ve said, correcting yourself quickly. “Not that the sermon wasn’t good! Your sermons are always wonderful, Pastor Karls - Joakim.” 

He’s smiling broadly now, clearly entertained by your flailing. “It’s okay, käresta, I understand what you mean." A pause, then he lowers his hands. "Is there something on your mind specifically? Something that’s preventing you from focusing?”

You go still, scared to breathe too fully, lest it give you away. Your eyes slide to the ground, teeth coming out to gnaw at your lip. You can feel your heart racing in your throat- the throbbing sensation makes you wonder if you’ll actually vomit from anxiety. You freeze further when Joakim places a hand on your arm, gently.

His voice is barely audible when he whispers, “Hey, it’s okay. We all have our sins, and sin is sin -”

“- Is sin.” You finish for him, sounding unconvinced. You take a deep breath, then redirect your gaze back to him. His eyes are soft with concern, mouth pulled into the faintest frown. Hating to imagine you’re the reason he’s so upset, you blurt out before you can even process your words.

“I’ve been having lustful thoughts about a man in the congregation.” Once the words have been said, you fight the urge to grab them clean out of the air and stuff them back into your mouth. 

The hand on your arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes again. “Okay.” He begins calmly, pulling his hand back to the table. You resist the urge to whimper at the loss of contact. “I can see where your concern is coming from. Is this man married?”

There were only so many unmarried men in the congregation; it would be an easy elimination if you were truthful. But... You were already coming clean about one sin, no need to add on others, you reasoned. Shaking your head in a negative, you give a meek, “No, he’s not.”

Joakim nods thoughtfully, staying silent for a moment. You can all but see the gears turning in his mind, deducing who it could be. You wonder if he lists himself amongst the unmarried men- or if he is courting some woman, unbeknownst to you all. No, your mind fired at you venomously. He is not the sort of man to slink around in the shadows. 

Finally, he spoke. “While lust is never something to give full rein to, it is understandable, biologically speaking.” Upon seeing your confusion, he offers another soft smile, continuing. “You’re at an age where your body wants you to have children. It is what God made you for, it’s only natural that someone as devoted as you are would respond strongly to His plan. You’re not doing anything wrong, käresta.”

Relief floods your body, making your shoulders sag at the loss of tension. You aren’t doing anything wrong, Joakim even told you so. But that makes you wonder- is there anything you should be doing? You’re about to ask when he speaks again. 

“I’ve been wanting to speak with you privately for a while now.” He huffs a small laugh. “It seems the Lord thought today would be a good time, so it shall be.” 

You straighten your shoulders, sitting up, wanting to make sure he knows he has your full attention. Looking at him fully, you’re not surprised why your body is so responsive to him. He’s so handsome, even with the shadow of dark stubble on his face. You wonder what keeps him up at night, which chapters he gets stuck on for days before clarity dawns on him. It’s no mystery why your body is putting thoughts of lust in your mind; he’s the sort of man who would make a wonderful father. 

You cut off that train of thought, needing to focus on the present moment. He needs your full attention for whatever he’s going to say next. 

“The Lord has been communicating with me for some months now, on the topic of finding a wife.” You both take deep breaths, though for different reasons, you imagine. “You’ve heard my testimony on my previous marriage, so I don’t need to emphasize how much I’ve prayed about this.”

Your heart breaks, shatters, combusts into nothing but ash at his words. The Lord wants him to find a wife, and it sounds like he has someone in mind. You swallow the lump of bile in your throat, trying to listen to his next words as your guts fight the natural inclination to stay in your body.

“I’ve spoken to God a lot, the last few months- even by pastor standards.” The playful smile he gives you feels like a knife twisting in your chest. “And if I’m understanding his message correctly, I believe God wants me to court you.”

You’re so busy wallowing that you don’t understand what he’s said at first. The words sink in slowly, like the drip of an IV into your veins. When you think you understand, you manage a, “What?”

He chuckles, not a degrading sound, rather like he understands your confusion. “I know, it seems sudden, but I’ve been speaking to the Lord about this for many months, and-”

“Oh my goodness.” You interrupt as realization hits you like a freight train. “No - I know. I know. Because God has been speaking to me, too.”

Joakim’s brow furrows at you, and it feels nice to not be the confused one for once. 

You continue, looking up at him shyly. “The… lustful thoughts I’ve been having, they-” You pause, building up your courage. “They’re about you.” 

He’s frozen, mouth slightly agape as he processes your confession. His head tilts to the side slightly, eyes darker than usual as he asks, “You’ve been having lustful thoughts about… me?”

You nod, cheeks tinged pink. “When you’re in the pulpit - I try to focus, I really do, but my mind wanders to… other things.” 

You should be embarrassed, should be ashamed of admitting something so unbecoming. But the comfort of this being God’s plan washes away any ill regards you have about the situation; this is what He has always intended. 

“Other things?” He echoes, eyes focused on you intensely. His voice is hushed, only loud enough for the two of you to hear. “Like what?”

Your blush deepens at his inquiry. “Well, it’s more of a feeling than an exact thought…”

He’s leaning forward now, all but hanging over his desk at your words. He looks hungry, you realize suddenly; Like he’d seen firsthand the famine in Canaan, pupils blown wide, mouth open, breathing slowly. “A feeling?” He prompts.

Nodding, you find yourself leaning forward too, almost desperate to close the gap between you both. You can feel the dust in the air, hear the quiet electric hum of his old desktop computer. Your breath is coming too loudly, it ricochets off the walls around you both. “It feels like an ache.” You explain, sounding hoarse. “It feels like an emptiness.” 

He takes a shaky breath, pushing himself back from his desk in a controlled motion. Standing up, he makes his way around the desk to stand in front of you, one of his calloused hands guiding your chin up to look at him. 

“Do you want me to help you - with the emptiness? The ache?” He questions, eyes boring into yours. 

The thought of it makes your thighs clench together, and the feeling is so delicious that you almost vocalize it. Your mouth is dry, but you feel wetness gathering in your cotton panties already. You almost forget to respond, nodding and breathing out, “Yes, please.”

“Always so well-mannered.” He praises, making you feel warm. You would do just about anything for him to keep going.

The hand on your jaw guides you upward until you’re standing in front of him. You’re not touching, but you can feel the heat emanating from his body, feel the way the air vibrates between you. His eyes travel down to your lips, back up to your eyes, then down to your lips again. 

“Have you ever kissed a boy, lillis?” He asks, eyes half-lidded and voice quiet.

You shake your head, a tiny movement. “No.” You pause, then decide to continue. “I wanted to save myself.”

His inhale is sharp, deep. “Such a good girl.” The words light a fire in your belly, and the familiar gnawing is back, worse than ever before. You shift on your feet, subconsciously searching for any kind of friction. He picks up on the movement. 

“Do you feel empty, now? Are you desolate?” You can feel where his breath hits your face. If you tilted your head right, your lips would meet. The clothes you’re wearing feel itchy - too tight, too rough.  

You can’t speak, so you nod “yes.” His eyes run down your figure, back up again to your lips. 

“Show me where.” Is his only command. You can’t read his expression fully, features arranged into careful neutrality. The spark in his eyes seemed to hint at desperation, though.

Your face is probably the color of a sun-ripened tomato, but you do as he says, grabbing his free hand, guiding it between your legs. His fingers curl up through your skirt, cupping your mound. Your eyelids flutter shut at the contact, hands coming up to rest against his chest to steady yourself. Heartbeat racing, you don’t think there could be anything better than the feeling of what’s happening right now.

“Here? Is this where you feel empty?” His lips move against your cheek, breath fanning across your ear, making you shiver.

You blink several times, trying to clear your head. “Joakim, please.” Is all you can muster, fingers gripping at his shirt. 

You can feel him sag against you as his lips crash into yours. You’re not completely sure of what to do, allowing him to guide your lips open, licking into your mouth. You hear yourself groaning into the kiss, crowding impossibly closer until your bodies are pressed against each other fully. 

He breaks the embrace to place wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck. The feeling is euphoric, making your hips buck into his without conscious decision.

Hands run down your sides, coming up again underneath your dress skirt to grip at the backs of your thighs, yanking you forward with such force that you almost topple over. His left hand is at your back in an instant, holding you steady before unzipping the back of your dress in a swift motion. 

The material pools around your front, hanging loosely until you pry it off, happy to be rid of the too-rough fabric at last. His lips are back on yours in an instant, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other kneads the flesh of your breast through your bra. 

You outright moan at the feeling, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip as your mouth opens to let the sound out. He works a knee between your legs, rubbing the meaty flesh of his thigh against your core in such a way that has you seeing spots in your vision. Fingers curling into claws where they grip onto his shoulders, you grind down onto his leg, an animalistic snarl escaping you as you do so. 

You know this feeling; Though it’s a sin to give into lust, you’ve made yourself climax before, silently, long after everyone had laid down to rest at night. This is so much more, though - you feel as though someone has soaked you in gasoline and laid a lit match to your flesh. Nothing could have torn you from the carnal desire you felt, being entwined with Joakim like this. You want to take turns ripping each other apart, severing limbs and gluing them back together until you have both been remade in His image. You want to bite and gnaw and lick until you taste blood, to soothe the worried skin with soft whispers and softer hands. Dragged to Hell and back, nailed to a cross and left to rot, rising from the dead with such vigor that Lazarus would envy you - you wanted it all, so long as this moment didn’t end.

“Joakim - I, I -” You choke out, eyes focusing on his, foreheads pressed together.

“Good girl, give it to me, everything you’ve got.” He urged you, the hand on your neck coming down against your hip, ushering your pelvis against his thigh. 

Burying your head in his chest, you climax with a wanton moan, body shuddering through the shockwaves of it. Your breathing is labored, vision blurry from clenching your eyes shut so tightly.

He’s gently prying you off his leg then, maneuvering your positions until you find yourself face-down on his desk. Using a knee, he nudges your knees apart until he fits comfortably between them. The new angle has you feeling vulnerable, visible, licentious. 

You don’t have time to dwell on the feeling, because suddenly his fingers are playing with your folds through your ruined panties. Your knees almost buckle at the stimulation, so sensitive it almost hurts. Gripping the other side of the desk to hold yourself upright, you do your very best to stay still as he explores your body. 

Two fingers hook into the side of your panties, moving them to the side. You know he can see everything like this, and while part of you is screaming at the debauchery of it, another, louder part of you hopes he likes what he sees. You’re fighting the urge to sneak a glance at him when the two fingers that moved your panties aside are thrust deep into your core. 

You let out a howl that could rival a rabid dog, nails scraping against the wooden laminate of the desk as your hands clench into fists. He’s curling his fingers inside you slowly, and you can feel every millimeter of it. A string of drool escapes your open mouth, cascading down into a puddle on a stack of prayer requests from this morning’s sermon. 

“That’s it, so good, just take it, lillis.” He murmurs, fingers still unfurling deep inside you. 

You don’t know that you can do anything but take it. His fingers are so much thicker than yours, taking up twice as much space as you’re used to. You feel wonderfully full, the emptiness inside you finally satiated.

But then he’s pulling them out, and you almost sob at the loss of it. You could feel your hole clenching on nothing, throbbing with want; Whether you enjoy it or not, you aren’t even sure. 

You hear a zipper, then the sound of something metallic hitting the carpet. When you turn your neck to see what’s happening, you’re met with the sight of Joakim’s full manhood on display. 

You’ve never seen a man naked before. There were pictures, shown to you unwillingly by the cruel boys who called you a “Bible-thumper” in school, but this is entirely different.

Joakim is… prettier, you think is the right word. His tip is pink, almost red, and wet-looking in the glow of the fluorescent office lights. Veins bulge along the length, throbbing at you angrily as if to mock the throbbing happening within you. It’s big, you realize suddenly. You can’t begin to fathom how it’s going to fit inside you, when his fingers alone made you feel so full already.

A hand is placed at the back of your neck, holding you flat in place. The weight is reassuring, grounding in its pressure as you’re pressed fully against the desk, the cool laminate a welcome reprieve from the fever burning in your skin. You feel him press his tip against your folds, running it through the slickness there, before slowly pushing past your threshold. 

“It hurts.” Is the first thing you whine, legs already trembling. It does hurt - in a sharp way, like stretching to reach your toes first thing in the morning. 

You gasp as he leans over, thrusting further into you as he whispers in your ear. “Shh, I know. It’s the price we must pay for our sin.” His murmur relaxes you a bit, reassures you of what you’re doing. Joakim would not lead you astray; God had spoken to him, given him fortitude in the last months. This was His plan.

The stretch continues as he slowly slides further into you, until your bodies are joined completely. You’re panting, open-mouthed as he fills you entirely. Your toes are barely brushing against the ground from how far he’s pushed you into the desk, corners digging into your hips sharply. 

A soothing hand runs up and down your spine, unraveling the muscles that have been pulled taut with anticipation. Your breathing slows, body easing around the intrusion until only the sensation of fullness remains.

Joakim pulls back then, a slow movement that has you inhaling harshly as he drags along your inner walls. Your mouth goes to ask him what he’s doing, when he slams back into you, cutting off your train of thought in favor of gargling on your breath. 

“Oh my God,” You keen, eyes so wide they might bulge out of your head altogether. 

A jarring slap lands against your backside, stinging skin left in its wake. “Do not take the Lord’s name in vain.” Joakim rasps, sounding as out of breath as you do. 

He pulls back again, only to crash back into you a half-second later. The force of it jolts you, making you wail as your hands reach out for something, anything to hold onto. Documents and envelopes fly onto the floor in your frenzy, looking as haphazard as you feel. 

He continues at an unrelenting pace, hand still firmly gripping the base of your neck from behind. You know you’re being loud; A distant part of you even registers that, given the circumstances, you should probably be much, much quieter. You can’t bring yourself to care, though, an endless chant of Joakim’s name falling from your lips as you do what you can to grind back into him.

The hand leaves your neck, coming down to grab onto your hip while his other hand mirrors the action. Your pelvis is lifted off the desk, thrusts never even pausing as the new angle drives him deeper into you. Tears spring in your eyes from the overstimulation, having climaxed only a few short minutes ago. 

This is absolution, You think. Being tangled together, conjoined like this - There is no fear of sin, no guilt at succumbing to the lust-filled desires of the flesh. As Joakim plunges himself into you, over and over, you find yourself almost dizzy with relief at the weight lifted off your shoulders, the panic of condemnation a distant memory. 

His arm wraps around the front of your hips, holding you in place, as his free hand tangles into your hair, yanking your head towards him. 

“Say the Lord’s prayer.” He groans in your ear, breath hot and sticky. “Beg for His forgiveness. ‘Our Father-’”

“‘-Who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name.” You whimper, the words slipping off your tongue like muscle memory as your body is rocked back and forth by his thrusts. “‘Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth-” Your voice is cut off by your own gasp as he reaches something in you that you’ve never felt before. Knees shaking, you dig your fingers deeper into the mess of papers surrounding you to try and stabilize yourself. 

“Keep going. ‘On Earth, as it is in Heaven.’” He urges, grip tightening on you. 

“‘Give us today our daily bread,’” You continue, moaning pitifully as he drives into that same spot again. “‘And forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who sin against us.’”

Tears stream freely down your cheeks now, a mixture of pleasure and overstimulation driving you mad. Joakim is mouthing at the junction of your neck and shoulder, tongue brushing over a spot that makes you shiver into him. A fire is building in your belly, lapping at the bottom of your throat as you move closer and closer to climax. 

“‘L-lead us not into temp- temptation,’” You stutter, mind hazy with want. “‘But d-deliver us from evil.’”

Joakim’s voice is back in your ear. “‘For thine is the Kingdom,” A harsh thrust, “‘The Power,” Another thrust, “And the Glory forever.’” 

The fire burns so hot that it rips the oxygen straight out of your lungs. Your eyes struggle to stay open, fluttering closed each time he rams into you. A particularly harsh pull of your hair reminds you that he is waiting for your response.

“Amen.” You whisper, vision going white as you climax, body twitching forcefully in his arms. His hips stutter once before he buries himself inside you, spilling his seed into you as he does. 

Whether you lay there for seconds or days, you don’t know. Eventually, Joakim pulls out, a string of his release coming with him, rolling down the inside of your thighs. You whimper at the loss, still too sensitive to move. 

“C’mon, käresta, we need to get you dressed. Your mother will wonder where you are.” His voice is gentle behind you, hand rubbing against your lower back to rouse you. 

Your joints pop in protest as you try to push yourself up off the desk. The room is a mess of papers and scattered writing utensils, your dress nothing more than a rumpled pile of cloth on the ground. 

You slip it over your head gingerly, every muscle in your body somehow sore. Joakim zips up the garment for you, running his hands over your clothed back, as if to smooth the wrinkles. 

Turning to face him, you’re met with a soft pair of lips to your forehead, dark hair brushing against your cheeks. The kiss makes you feel brave as you ask, “Joakim?”

His eyes are warm as he gazes down at you, his fingers coming up to comb through your tangled hair. “Hmm?” Is his response as he works out a particularly knotted strand.

You flutter your eyelashes, a move that feels foreign, but somehow right. Looking up at him demurely, you ask, “Will you be leading tonight’s Bible study?”

[badaspebble]

ah i’m loving your writing~!! i would like to request something where reader is a trainee on a survival show, since swf dancers often become judges, bada being a judge/mentors, and maybe reader gives her secret love letters? or flirts with her off camera because she has a crush. it doesn’t haven’t to be a whole oneshot or something headcanons would be cool too ! ty~

✎ To My Secret Admirer

A/N: Hey babe! Thank you for the compliment and the ask 🫶🏽. I hope you’re doing well. This is like super short and rushed I’m sorry :(

Warnings: Swearing. It’s all just fluff.

Bada Lee x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Who am I?” Those are the first thoughts you had when you saw her. She was beautiful. Absolutely fucking captivating. Her tall stature made her seem unapproachable, but Bada was really just a giant puppy. Who were you? A contestant who was hopelessly in love with this woman. You were somebody that couldn’t have her, right? You pondered on that thought until you were reminded of the way her face would light up when she found your notes towards her. Your notes, not anybody else’s. Of course, she didn’t actually know it was from you, but let’s be honest. You’re way too obvious when you’re around her.

Tripping over nothing? Are you serious? Stuttering when you’re trying to impress her? Lord. Even if she was blind with no sense of anybody taking a liking to her, she would still know it was from you. Might as well write your name on them too. It wasn’t long until you remembered that did actually know.

The little glances towards you, along with the way she’d take any chance to be in contact with you…it made you keep going. You were glad you did, because you started receiving notes too. They weren’t much, but every single word that was written on them really brightened your day.

It would be stuff like “You look so beautiful today,” or funnier ones like “Your hair looks so good! (Please kiss me)” and “Tbh you shouldn’t let others perceive you in my honest, humble opinion that is not biased :)”

You especially loved those ones. Communicating through notes was good at first, but you craved her direct attention. You wanted her eyes on you, wanted her to smile while talking to you.

You’ve been recently feeling very courageous, sending more bold things her way. You’ve even left your lipstick mark on your newest letters. You figured since she basically already knew, might as well go up to her.

Your eyes were glued onto her as you walked up, ignoring the conversation she’s having. Which was a bit rude, but who knows when you’ll be this brave again. You took a deep breath as she turned to you, and swallowed harshly.

“H-“ Your voice cracked, embarrassing you even further. You both just stared at each other after that, with Bada trying not to laugh and you trying not to run away while looking at her blankly.

You didn’t try to speak again, but Bada thankfully spoke up. “Hey..” She smirked, holding in her laugh. Your voice was cute, and it still sounded cute with your voice crack. You were adorable. “How’s your routine going?” She asked, still smiling bright while trying not to laugh.

You swallowed again, threatening whichever higher being that existed to not let you embarrass yourself again. “It’s good…uhm it would’ve been better if you were there to help..” You coughed awkwardly.

Bada looked at you, slowly letting her smile brighten even more, if that was even possible. “Was that your attempt at flirting?” She said with a giggle.

You just looked at her and pursed your lips. “Anyways..” You said, turning your body around and walking away.

You heard Bada’s laughter behind you as it slowly got louder the closer she got. “Don’t run!” More laughter followed. “I thought it was cute, I pinky promise.” She grabbed your arm, turning you around to meet her twinkling eyes. “How about I teach you some stuff later? My studio is just around the corner.”

You looked up at her, letting a shy smile take over your face. “Are you sure that’s even allowed? You’re gonna get me kicked off this thing.” You say jokingly, avoiding her stare.

“I won’t let them. Don’t tell anybody but…you’re my favorite.” She leaned in to whisper jokingly, before she giggled.

Swallowing harshly, you finally met her eyes. “Okay..” You mumbled, still a little bit unsure. You felt her pat your head, subtly messing up your hair and running away as you noticed. “Hey! Bada??” You yell out, hearing her giggles down the hallway.

Sighing, you fixed your hair as you felt your heartbeat increase. Would she actually take the time out of her day to teach you? Are you guys just going to ignore the fact that you’ve been sending letters to each other? You laughed at that, not realizing how weird it sounded out loud.

You sat on the ground next to the set, realizing you don’t have her number nor do you have the location of her studio. “Am I a dumbass?” You laughed at yourself, probably looking crazy as hell. You were about to get up and wallow in your self pity as you walked home until you heard a motorcycle in the distance. It rolled up to you before slowly stopping. You were about to tell them to fuck off before they took their helmet off, revealing Bada.

“Are we in a movie?” Was the first thing you said. “This is the most cliche thing ever.” You continued saying, looking at her in disbelief. Her smile graced her face as she laughed. “Just get on, I promise it’s not that far.”

She handed you a helmet as you looked at her in even more disbelief. “Girl…” You mumbled, putting the helmet on and sitting behind her. She started off going slow before revving her bike and going faster. “How do you even know my head size? That’s very weird of you.” You yelled so she could hear you over the wind.

Silence followed, and you guess she might’ve not heard you. “…Next question.” You finally heard her mumble. You laughed, the arms holding her waist securely started to hug her tighter as you rested your head on her back despite the helmet. It was quiet the rest of the way, both of you just basking in the comfort of each other.

It wasn’t long before you made it to her studio. She was fast as she got off her bike, taking her helmet off before pulling you off too. You giggled despite yourself, loving how unnecessary that entire act was.

Bada played it cool after that. “Yeah I’m like super strong and stuff. I workout occasionally…you know.”

You looked at her. So much for playing it cool. You tried really hard to keep in your laugh, your face turning red and your eyes looking anywhere but her.

“Interesting…” You said while giggling subtly. “Yeah..” Bada said with an awkward cough. “Anyways, let’s go in.” She hurriedly switched the subject, ushering the both of you inside. Once you both settled your stuff, you looked at each other. “Soooo…” You looked around.

Bada looked at you sheepishly, looking kind of guilty. “To be honest, I only did this so I could spend time with you..” She mumbled, looking like a kicked puppy as she looked around.

Smiling, you sat on the floor facing the mirror. You patted the spot next to you. “So let’s get to know each other some more..”

Bada giggled again, looking like she just won a million bucks as she sat next to you. The night went on, as the both of you talked about anything. From favorite colors, to wondering if aliens exist, to theories about the multiverse.

“Do you think we’d meet in every universe?” You questioned. Bada looked at you, her eyes sparkling brightly as she took in you, your soul…your existence in her life. “I would hope so…I think you’re the only one I’d want to meet in every universe.”

She held your hand, interlocking your pinkies together as you guys giggle. “You're actually probably stalking me in every universe” Bada says jokingly.

You look at her with wide eyes and an offended expression. “Way to ruin the moment dummy..”

A/N: Tony Ann is so perfect to listen to whenever I write. Def check him out

[moriartyluver]

Good day, it's me again 😌

Just a little question; how would William, Albert and Louis react to William's wife calling the other two "brother"?

Thank you in advance 💕

A/N: this is such a cute concept! Thank you for your request!!

Characters: William James Moriarty x fem! Reader, platonic louis & Albert x fem! Reader

Format: headcannons & scenario

Prompt: How would Albert and Louis react to William’s wife calling them ‘brother’?

Genre: fluff, comedy

Warnings: Death, murder, mentions of seduction, nsfw themes but nothing too explicit &mentions of poison. Reader is afab/fem, reader has William’s surname, reader and William are married & in an established relationship, William gets jealous but in a funny way, slightly OOC characters but it’s for the shits and giggles.

I think Louis and Albert would have been somewhat wary of you at first, especially Louis, however they trusted William’s judgment that you were indeed a good and kindhearted person more than anything and both learnt through various situations that you were right for their brother.

Whenever William would accidentally fall asleep with no warning throughout the day, it would be you who would first come to his aid before anyone draping a blanket or a shawl you were wearing over him and kissing his forehead as you ran your fingers through his hair.

Louis was often worried that William was neglecting himself and he had tried to confide that in you once. You told him it would be alright and that you would take care of it.

In a few weeks time, William seems to be a lot healthy than usual and he’s forgotten your promise to take care of him until he finds out from William that you have been insisting on sleeping with him due to ‘nightmares’ or that you can never finish a meal because you’d be bored without someone to eat with and your love for picnics out in the sun with lots of healthy food as of recently. That’s when Louis realised you really were his brother’s soulmate.

Albert could trust you a little more than Louis though. If you were a noble, he would have a general idea of your personality and your humble donations to various charities. He would have conversed with you multiple times before he realised you were seeing his brother with the intention of marriage.

Both the brothers didn’t really expect William to fall in love. He had plans to take down the harsh system of aristocracy , and he had no time to fall in love or start a family, so when he introduced you to his only family, they were surprised.

Still, they saw how William’s eyes would light up when he talked about or to you and the small smile on his face whenever you were around, how could his brothers not like you?

One of the disadvantages of being a noble who just so happened to have been married into the prestigious Moriarty family was that attending balls and charity galas frequently was a must. Thankfully, you had been free as of late and so had your husband and in-laws which meant you didn’t have to be the only one attending for the sake of showing up and all four of you could have a genuinely good time.

Of course, being a member of the ‘lords of crime’ organisation meant that crime never slept - and it had just as much energy as you did while at a fun party.

There had been one man in particular that was known to abuse his servants and even other nobles would criticise him on his harsh behaviour along with this, many people could tell of his obvious pining towards you and that only made William hate him more.

He had only recently inherited his fathers fortune and become his head of house in his 30s, so he was still enjoying the remnants of his youth. Thankfully he had stuck to his habit of attending every party and was here at this gala too.

William had gone to check up on both Moran and Fred that were to be used as back up for the plan you had set up alongside William, this time you being the main character.

Your lover was mildly hesitant to have you shoving your own tongue down another man’s mouth in order to transfer poison into his own, but with your reassurance, everything was settled.

“Lady (Last name)! What a pleasure it is to see you here!” Speak of the devil.

“And you too, Count Fenrich.” You smiled to the man who had now approached you while trying not to correct him on his use of your now maiden name rather than your husbands one, and noticing your (terrifying when jealous) husband had disappeared.

“I hope I’m mistaken,” he definitely didn’t hope “but it seems Lord Moriarty is nowhere to be found.”

You could already tell where this was going. That mischievous glint in the man’s eyes was undeniable.

“Oh, he is here, you must’ve seen him earlier. William has vanished into thin air. I can’t seem to find him in this sea of people.” You could see Albert talking to Louis in the corner of your eye, just as you had planned. You turned to meet their gaze and called out to them. “Brother Albert! Brother Louis! Have you seen William around?”

Brother…?

Albert was quick to recover from his and Louis’s shared stunned state. Louis was still flustered and confused though.

“He went to go talk to a few others and freshen up his drink but I think he went through the corridor. He might not be back for a while but I’ll let you know if I see him.” He said, coming closer to you while Louis nodded beside him.

As soon as you had left to a different location with the older male, Albert and Louis finally were able to comprehend what you had called them both.

“Brother Albert…she called us-“

“W-well it’s only normal that she refers to us that way considering we are her brothers in law.” Albert coughed to cover up his embarrassment. He couldn’t deny that both he and his younger brother were internally fangirling and giggling at the thought that you finally were able to consider them one of your own.

William had finally come back from checking in on the others (who were stationed in two separate locations that you had agreed to go into earlier to kill the count. They’d both been ordered that if it went further between you two, they were to kill Count Fenrich immediately.)

“Has she left yet..?-“ William asked before noticing his brothers’ red faces “what’s gotten into you two?”

“She called us her brothers..” Louis whispered

William raised an eyebrow. Surely he had misheard his baby brother “what..?”

“(Name) called us her brothers..!” Albert half-squealed as he grabbed William’s shoulder

William blinked then his lips shifted into a wholesome smile “is that so? I never would have expected this out of either of you..” the blonde chuckled.

Within a few minutes of William trying not to laugh too loud, his lovely wife had returned, shortly before Count Fenrich, who dipped when he saw william, despite being on the brink of death.

“There’s something so thrilling about ridding the world of devils in a crowed space-“ you muttered to yourself as you wiped your mouth with a silk handkerchief “oh? William! You’re back. What’s gotten into these two?”

“I think it’s best if we leave now..” William said, giving a signal to a butler-ified Moran “come along dear” he wrapped his hand around your waist, dragging you along while Albert and Louis followed behind.

“I’m going to have to wash my mouth out with soap when we get home..”

As you walked outside and stepped into the carriage, you could hear a scream ( someone had seen Count Fenrich drop dead lol) beneath the praises and (comical) cries of Albert and Louis telling you they were honoured to have you as their sister-in-law.

One of the advantages of being a noble who just so happened to have married into the Moriarty family was that you not only had the perfect husband, but also amazing brothers(-in-law) aswell.

[onceuponastory]

a true hero - bucky barnes x reader

Plot: When Princess Y/N is taken by a dragon, Bucky Barnes, her best friend and a humble blacksmith, joins the royal guard in their quest to help rescue her. Pairing: Blacksmith!Bucky Barnes x Princess!Reader Warnings: People and horses being killed by a dragon, ableism towards Bucky and his metal arm, injuries (nothing too graphic), classism, John Walker being an asshole, and Bucky doubting himself because of it. As always, if I miss any triggers, please let me know! Notes: This is another piece for @buckybarnesevents Alternate June-iverse Connect Four event! I combined the two squares Mythology and Royalty. This could also fit the Fairytale square, but I have a separate idea planned for that, (wink wink). This is based on a Scottish myth/legend. I just reworked it a little for this fic and gave it a slightly happier ending.

Not beta’d, so any mistakes are my own.

One spring morning, Bucky Barnes is hard at work. Sweat drips from his forehead, both due to the fire and his fast work. His work as the kingdom’s blacksmith keeps him busy, whether it’s making horseshoes for the local farmers, or new swords for the royal guard. He inherited the shop from his father a decade ago, and has since transformed it into a successful business. 

“Hello Bucky.” A familiar, soft voice speaks. Bucky gasps, quickly wiping the sweat from his brow and hoping he doesn’t have any dirt on his face. Not that Princess Y/N would care, though. She’s always been so kind to him, despite the difference in their upbringings and social classes. She’ll make a great Queen someday.

“Your highness.” Bucky murmurs, dropping into a bow. Y/N chuckles.

“Please, Bucky. I’ve told you plenty of times that you don’t need to call me that. After all, you’ve known me for long enough. Y/N is fine.” She’s right. The pair are the same age, and have known each other for most of their lives. Ever since a young Y/N visited Bucky’s father’s workshop with her father, and made a point of introducing herself to him. Since that day, Y/N always visits him whenever she can, either at his workshop or when he delivers weapons to the royal guards. Bucky knows that most people in the kingdom are wondering what a Princess would have in common with a blacksmith… and honestly, sometimes he wonders that too. Surely a well travelled, fancy Lord or Prince is more interesting than spending time with him. But Y/N never seems to have thought that, or judged him for what he does. In fact, he swears he could tell her the entire process of making a sword, and she’d still hang onto his every word.

“W-What are you doing here?” He chuckles, hating how tongue tied he suddenly is. 

“Well, I’m visiting the local library, and I had to come see you, of course. I do enjoy our visits.” She smiles. Bucky enjoys them, too. Although, that may be obvious considering the lovesick grin he has whenever she visits him. He’s been in love with Y/N for as long as he can remember. She’s the first thing he thinks of whenever he wakes up, and the last thing he thinks of when he goes to sleep. He’s never told her, though. Of course not. How could a humble blacksmith like him win a Princess' heart? 

Y/N may treat him with kindness despite their different lives, but few others would. And besides, one of those fancy Lords or Princes could give her so much more than he ever could. Y/N deserves a happy life, with everything she could ever need. And Bucky just can’t provide that. But, If being Y/N’s friend is all he’s destined to be, then that’s alright with him. Yet, he just can’t ignore how much his heart sinks when he thinks those words. “So, what have you been working on?” She asks. And then her eyes widen. “Oh, my goodness! Your arm!”

Bucky chuckles. “I finished working on the new version a few days ago.” He smiles proudly, turning his body to let Y/N see it. A few years ago, Bucky was involved in a carriage accident, and in the ensuing carnage, his left arm became trapped in the wreckage. Once he was free, the wound became infected. As soon as she found out, Y/N sent for the palace doctor, the best in the kingdom, to treat him. He advised that the arm should be removed as soon as possible, and it was. Since then, Bucky has been working on a metal prosthetic for it. His new version is still in the early stages, but he’s managed to get it moving, and it’s helping him a lot with his work.

“It’s beautiful.” She smiles. “You’ve done a wonderful job.” As Y/N gazes at his arm, her mouth dropped open with curiosity, Bucky smiles. And that same feeling he gets deep in his gut whenever he thinks about or sees Y/N returns. She saved his life that day. How could he ever repay that?

“Y/N, I-”

“Princess! Where are you?” A booming voice sounds, and Y/N’s face falls. Yet before either can say anything more, Sir John Walker storms into the workshop. Immediately, the atmosphere shifts. Sir John is one of the royal knights, sworn to protect Y/N at all costs. Although, considering how cruel and snobby he is to people who dare to even look in Y/N’s direction, both Y/N and Bucky think he may have let the role go to his head slightly. “Princess.” He sighs. “It’s not safe to wander around so freely, especially with this monster on the loose.” Sir John warns. And for once, Bucky agrees with him. For months, young women in the kingdom have been vanishing without a trace. Nobody knows who or what is responsible, whether man or beast, and the royal guard has had little to no luck finding it. Because of the threat, young women in the kingdom won't go out on their own, especially not at night. And despite how much he adores her company, Bucky doesn’t want Y/N to be the next victim. 

Although, if he could… Bucky would move heaven and earth, and stay by her side to make sure she’s protected.

“I assure you, Sir John, I am quite safe.” She insists, brushing off his concerns with a wave of her hand.

“You are out here, alone-“

“Bucky is here.” She snaps, her soft voice suddenly laced with anger. Even Bucky is surprised to hear it. “And I trust him.” Her words cause heat to settle on Bucky’s cheeks. Heat not caused by the fire this time. 

“Well Princess, I’d still insist that you don’t wander off from your guards again.” John huffs. And then, his disapproving gaze fixes on Bucky, and his eyes narrow. “After all…who knows what trouble you could encounter?” Bucky’s stomach drops, and he tries to ignore John’s words. Yet, it’s difficult. When he said most people in the kingdom must wonder what he and Y/N could have in common… John is absolutely that sort of person. “Now, come on. Your father requests your presence at the library.”

“Sorry.” Y/N whispers, bidding Bucky goodbye with a small wave of her hand. Bucky nods, returning the wave. Yet, after Y/N leaves, John stays for a moment, continuing to walk around Bucky’s workshop in silence.

“Is there an issue, Sir John?” Bucky asks, both to break the awkward silence, and in the hopes it pushes him to leave. Scoffing, John steps closer. As his body turns, he almost flexes the royal crest on his shoulder, reminding Bucky of the power imbalance between them. 

“Princess Y/N may be too kind to say it, but I am not. If I were you…I’d take some time to remember my place.” He whispers, spitting out the last word like it’s venom. 

“I’ve known her since we were young, John. If she wants to see me, she has every right to.” Bucky replies, clenching his jaw. He stands tall and defensive, to show John he doesn’t care about his words. But all he’s doing is reinforcing the same things Bucky tells himself all the time.

He doesn’t fit in. 

Y/N’s only being kind, and doesn’t really care about him.

The second she finds someone new, someone worthy of her status, she’ll forget about him.

“Don’t let him get to you.” He thinks. “He’s just a horrible person. Y/N cares about you, you know she does. That’s all that matters.”

“You’re just a lowly blacksmith. You don’t fit into this world.” John hisses. “The sooner you learn that, and stay away from her, the better.” And with that, he stalks out of the workshop, back to Y/N. As soon as he’s gone, Bucky sighs, his rigid, defensive posture collapsing. He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“Dammit.” He hisses, leaning against the wall as he feels tears springing to his eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few weeks later, Bucky lays asleep. The early morning sun streams in, lightly warming his face as his chest slowly rises and falls, and as he hangs on to his dream world for a little while longer. For a while, everything is quiet and at peace. Until a loud shout cuts through the morning, accompanied by the sound of hooves.

“Citizens! We have an urgent message from your King. Please come to the main square as soon as possible!” The noise immediately awakens Bucky. Moaning softly to himself, he clambers out of bed and pulls on some clothes. Still half asleep, he makes his way outside and joins the crowd of people gathering in the square. Whispers fill the air about what this emergency declaration could be, whether it’s new taxes or a war with some neighbouring kingdom. 

A member of the royal guard steps forward. Bucky recognises him. His name is Steve Rogers, and he’s a lot kinder to him than John ever was. Most notably, he treats him with respect, and like a human being, rather than looking at him like he’s muck on the bottom of his boot. As Steve approaches the crowd, the whispers about what this could be intensify. But in all honesty, Bucky doesn’t care. He just wants to go back to bed as soon as possible. 

That is, however, until he hears the announcement.

“Last night, the beast struck again. Someone spotted it, meaning we finally have visual confirmation of what it is. It’s a dragon.” Immediately, the whispers turn into a furore. Bucky raises a brow. He had heard stories of dragons as a child, but thought they were just a myth. A cautionary tale told to remind him to behave, lest he be left outside for the dragon to find him. But Steve has more to say. “And….” He takes a breath. “It’s taken Princess Y/N.” Bucky’s heart almost stops, and his mouth drops open. For a moment, he swears he could collapse from the shock. Please, god, let this be a horrible nightmare. Please let him wake up. Why didn’t he try harder, tell her to be safer, or promise to come find him if she needed help? His chest tightens, and he gasps, trying to breathe but feeling his chest constricting. All he ever wanted to do is protect her, and he failed. “We have lived in fear for long enough. We believe we know where its cave could be, and we are sending out an army to track it down. Our mission is to rescue as many people as possible. Including the Princess.” Steve explains. “But we need more support. Are there any volunteers?”

Without another thought, Bucky steps forward. “I would like to help.” Steve smiles.

“Excellent, Mister Barnes.” And then, an all too familiar voice sounds.

“And please, tell me how you, a lowly blacksmith, intend to help the royal guard?” Sir John sneers, laughing. “Do you even have any experience with swordsmanship?” Instantly, Bucky is transported back to his workshop the last time John was there, and the embarrassment he felt at how John looked at and spoke to him creeps in once more. Now, though, it’s tenfold. Of course, Bucky isn’t stupid. He knows how this must look. He’s not a knight, much less one whose sole purpose is to keep Y/N safe. And John’s right, he’s got hardly any experience in using weapons, let alone using them to kill a giant beast like a dragon. He’s just someone who loves Y/N… and isn’t that enough? 

“I want to help. I can make weapons. And I spend enough time around swords, so surely I’ll pick up sword fighting easily enough.” He explains, acutely aware of how the entire crowd is staring at him.

John glances down at Bucky’s metal arm, and scoffs. “For this mission, we require our recruits to be… fully operational, able to do whatever we need, whenever we need. I’m not sure if you’d be a suitable choice.” Right away, Bucky knows what he means, and he understands why, aside from his upbringing, John is so dead set on treating him so horribly. His arm. As if having a prosthetic makes someone any less of a hero, or prevents them from doing the right thing. Bucky’s cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and tears sting at his eyes once more. How dare he? He tried so hard, all this time, to not let John’s words affect him. But now he knows that he’s judging him and viewing him as lesser because of his disability, something he cannot control… hurts him deeply. All he wants is to save Princess Y/N. Is that so wrong?

“It’s beautiful.” Her words replay in his mind, as does the look of pride and wonder she had as she looked at it. That memory makes Bucky feel even worse. The one person who stood up for him and appreciated him has been taken, and there’s no way of knowing if she’s even still alive. And they won’t even let him help rescue her.

“Sir John. Please don’t be so rude.” Sir Steve hisses. “He obviously cares for the Princess a great deal, and I do not see why his arm makes him a lesser candidate.” Bucky breathes a small sigh of relief. At least he has Sir Steve in his corner. Sir Steve turns back to Bucky, smiling. “Thank you for volunteering, Mister Barnes. You will be a fine addition to the army.” He insists, giving John a look as if to warn him not to protest further. Yet, the look John gives Bucky strikes fear into him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A few days later, the group sets off, ready to rescue the Princess and the others. Bucky glances down at the horse they gave him to ride. He’s not used to horse riding, or any part of this life. He still feels completely out of his depth. Suddenly, a memory enters his mind.

“I thought I’d find you here.” Y/N giggles, stopping in front of him. “I was out on a ride, and thought I’d come see my favourite person.” Bucky’s heart almost goes into overdrive, and his cheeks burn. “This is Chestnut.” The horse steps closer to Bucky, nuzzling into his hand slightly.

“He’s beautiful.” Bucky smiles. “I’ve never been horse riding before. Honestly, it kinda scares me a little.” He admits, but Y/N chuckles. Not mocking him, though. She never could.

“You don’t have to be afraid. It’s really quite simple when you get used to it.” Y/N laughs, letting him pet Chestnut. “I love it. But they have trained me to do this my whole life.” Bucky would love that. But to be honest, he’d love spending time with her, doing anything and everything possible. As their hands brush his coat, accidentally, their hands touch, and it sends a shockwave throughout Bucky’s entire body. So strong, so passionate that for a moment, it leaves him speechless. He registers something flickering in Y/N’s expression, and he wonders if Y/N feels the same about him. And yet, he can’t find the words to ask her, or tell her the truth. 

Bucky wishes he’d asked her now, or at least admitted his feelings. Maybe he could’ve prevented this, or at least found some way to protect her. The pit of guilt and fear continues to build deep in his gut. Y/N could be anywhere, even dying, and he does not know where.

“Maybe one day I’ll teach you how to ride.” Her last words to him that day echo in his mind.

Little did either of them know, though, where they’d be now, with Bucky riding a horse to slay a dragon and save her life. Or partnering up with Sir John Walker, of all people. Thankfully for Bucky, Sir John stays up ahead, as far away from him as possible. For now, anyway. Sir Steve’s horse soon falls into place beside Bucky’s, and Bucky finally takes a moment to relax.

“Thank you Sir.” Bucky says. “For standing up for me back there.” Sir Steve chuckles.

“Not at all. And please, call me Steve.” His face falls, his lips pressed tightly together. “I apologise for Sir John’s comments. He’s….”

“A smug asshole?” Bucky finishes, and Steve laughs. 

“Yes, very true.” He nods. “I know I can’t offer much solace, but you’re not the only person he dislikes and treats so cruelly. He doesn’t seem to like anyone aside from the Princess and her parents… although he usually sucks up to them.” He sighs. That doesn’t surprise Bucky in the slightest. After all, John strikes him as someone who wouldn’t hesitate to step on anyone to get what he wants, especially a position as the head of the Royal Guard. “Honestly, I relish the times when I get to put him in his place. Unfortunately, though, I can’t do much to get him removed. I know it cannot ease the way you feel, but I am glad you’re on this mission with us.”

“I want to do whatever I can to help.” Steve chuckles, and Bucky raises a brow.

“Bucky, you don’t have to pretend. I’ve seen the way you look at the Princess, and how deeply you care for her.” Bucky’s cheeks turn scarlet, and his eyes widen.

“I was-” Bucky stammers, expecting to be told off for flirting above his station. But instead, Steve smiles.

“Don’t worry. She speaks about you a lot, actually. And she cares deeply for you, too. Very deeply.” He winks, almost as if there’s something there. Something that Bucky has hoped and prayed was true for so long is true. His heart pounds, his mouth and eyes go even wider, and he blinks in surprise as he tries to think up a way to respond.

As the embarrassment and shock spreads throughout his body, another, warmer feeling grows too.

Hope.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After making camp for the night, the group set off again early the next morning. The atmosphere is more serious, as everyone knows how close they are to reaching the dragon’s cave, yet are unaware of what horror faces them there. Bucky is silent, his stomach churning with anxiety. He barely slept last night, sick with fear about Y/N and if she’s alright. When he did manage to fall asleep, he was awoken by a nightmare. Y/N was alone, screaming and crying out for him, but he couldn’t get to her in time. He knows this is just his mind and his anxieties about Y/N, but he still hopes to whatever higher power there is that this wasn’t a prophetic dream, and that Y/N is okay. 

The closer they get to the cave, the trees darken with soot, their branches scorched by fire. Bucky registers the hair on the back of his neck standing up. This has somehow suddenly become more real, the fact they’re dealing with a fire blowing dragon, not just a mere mortal. Suddenly, he feels far more out of his depth. Yet, he keeps going, ready to save Princess Y/N. Unfortunately, the closer they get to the cave, the more insufferable John becomes.

“When we arrive, I’ll take charge with a group of soldiers and attack this monster head on.” He insists. “And then, I’ll bring back its head, and Princess Y/N will be in my arms.” As he and his friends whisper and laugh amongst themselves, Bucky hears the words “Surely there’ll be a royal wedding soon”, and all the things John’s sure Y/N will do to thank him for saving her life. Once more, Bucky’s stomach begins to churn. This time, though, it’s for something completely different. The way John speaks about Y/N, like she’s an object just for him to possess, makes him feel sick. Like someone as loving as her would ever want to marry someone like him.

“That plan will not work.” The words leave Bucky’s mouth before he can even stop them, and John stops, turning to face him, a brow angrily raised. 

“Excuse me?” Bucky’s blood chills, but he still keeps going. 

“I think it would be better if we went slower and surprised the dragon. Or at least, planned an attack first. If we all charge in on our horses, it’s going to hear us coming and attack us all before we can get too close.” John scoffs.

“Do you truly believe a blacksmith knows more than-”

“John, please.” Steve hisses, coming to Bucky’s defence once again, much to Bucky’s relief. “Let him speak.”

“Very well.” John sneers. Yet, Steve’s defence gives Bucky more confidence, and he continues.

“Like I said, if we go in too fast and loud, it’ll notice us from miles away and be ready to kill us all before we can even strike.” He explains. “I propose we wait a while until it falls asleep. That way, we can sneak up and wound it before it has the chance to fight back.” As Bucky talks through his idea, John continues to scoff and roll his eyes, muttering things under his breath. Bucky knows he probably does sound crazy to some people, not least because John’s right, he’s not a royal guard. And deep down, he doesn’t even know if this plan will work better than John’s, or at all. But that doesn’t mean he can’t point out the flaws in John’s idea. And after so long being treated like a second-class citizen by him, Bucky’s ready to take full pleasure in doing so.

“Very well. Who believes in this plan?” John asks, and some hands in the group rise, including Steve’s. “Well. You can all sit around like sitting ducks whilst we rescue the Princess and kill the beast.” He shrugs. 

As they advance on the cave, Bucky begins to wonder if John may be right about this after all, if his idea is complete nonsense. But then, Y/N’s smile fills his mind once more. She always believed in him, even when nobody else would. And really, her support is all that matters to him.

Soon, they reach a clearing, the dragons’ cave a few metres ahead, and the group takes shelter to prepare themselves. Most stay back with Bucky, following his advice and getting ready to plan their attack. Meanwhile, John and his followers get ready to charge. “See you at the wedding.” John whispers to Bucky, smirking down at him from his horse. Bucky refrains from punching him in the face.

As John’s group charges in, Bucky and the others wait for any noise or movement. Within seconds, a roar fills the air… as does the sound of screaming. Horrible, anguished screams that chill Bucky’s entire body, the likes of which Bucky has never heard before. He also registers the sound of horse hooves, of people desperately trying to get away… but another roar sounds, and they soon stop. 

“God….” Steve gasps as the agonising screams continue. Bucky tries to cover his ears, wanting the noises to stop, but they keep going. It’s suddenly very obvious what’s happened to John and the others. And what could happen to Bucky and the others if they don’t time their attack exactly right.

He looks around the group, each of the men staring back at him, their bodies shaking and mouths wide open with fear. Even Steve looks horrified, his face pale and panicked. They look at him, seeking reassurance that this won't happen to them. And Bucky doesn’t even know what he can say.

Soon, the screaming stops. And once more, the clearing is silent.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Nightfall comes quicker than Bucky would’ve liked, but he also uses the time to refine his plan. Despite the fear still coursing through his veins, he’s determined to kill this beast and save Y/N, whatever the cost. Including the loss of his life.

“So. What shall we do?” Steve asks.

“I’m going in there.” He tells the others. “Myself.” The others protest, but Bucky shakes his head. “No. I don’t want people to get hurt, like last time. You go rescue the others. This is my plan, and I should be the one to go into danger.”

“But you can’t go alone-”

“Yes, I am. Trust me, please.” Bucky hisses. Sighing and clenching his jaw, Steve nods.

“Okay. But if you need any support, we’re helping, alright?”

When Bucky enters the cave, he’s suddenly aware of how much colder it is. He steps closer inside, trying to calm his nerves. He notices a small orange glow down the tunnel, and he follows it, knowing it’ll either lead him to the dragon, or to Y/N. With each step, his heart pounds faster and faster, and he braces himself for whatever he’s about to see. When he rounds the corner, he sees the dragon, curled up and asleep by the fire. As he stares at the beast, one much larger than he expected, he remembers all the stories he was told growing up. Of the brave knights and princes who saved the princesses from the vicious beast. He used to imagine himself like that, as a hero.

Now that he’s here, staring down the dragon all alone… it’s different. And he doesn’t feel much like a hero at all. In fact, he’s terrified.

But Bucky knows what he has to do. He grabs his sword and stabs the dragon in its side. Immediately, it awakens, roaring in pain. As it clambers up, its tail swinging wildly, Bucky ducks underneath it, striking the dragon a few more times as he does so. The dragon readies its tail once more, and Bucky jumps up, clambering onto its body. It jolts, trying to throw him off, but he keeps a grasp on its wing, holding on for dear life. The dragon runs out of the cave, trying to escape him or at least find somewhere to fight. Bucky braces himself… and strikes the beast once more, this time deep in the chest.

With one final, earth shattering screech, the dragon’s body jolts, throwing Bucky clear. He lands hard, hitting his head against the ground, which dazes him for a few seconds. Despite the pain, the last of Bucky’s adrenaline continues to flow through his veins, and he gets back up again… albeit a little more unsteady on his feet. The dragon’s tail clips him a few times, but Bucky still moves forward, raising his sword and striking the dragon a few more times. His hits do not go as deep as his previous ones, yet the beast still roars out in pain. As it staggers away, Bucky tries to follow behind, but by now, the adrenaline is starting to wane, and his head is beginning to hurt.

Yet, as Bucky falls to his knees, about to pass out, he persists. By now, he’s too weak to stand, and instead tries to crawl after the dragon. But he’s too unsteady, and collapses in a heap a few times. Each time, he gets back up, ready to keep going. Until he’s too weak to even stand.

“Bucky…” Y/N’s soft whisper enters his mind. “You have to get up. You have to help me.” 

“Y/N…” He murmurs. Even though he knows this is just a hallucination, one caused by his injuries, he can still feel her whisper against his skin, and her hand cupping his cheek.

“Help me. Please.” With one last push, Bucky pulls himself up. But he’s still too weak, and he collapses to his knees once more. And this time, he just wants to go to sleep.

“I’m sorry Y/N.” He sighs as the world starts to fade away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Some time later, Bucky comes to. He registers soft blankets and pillows surrounding him, and for a moment he wonders if he’s back home, his moment of heroism little more than a dream. Yet when he opens his eyes, wincing a little at the sudden bright lights, Steve is staring back at him. 

“Good afternoon.” He chuckles. “Don’t sit up too quickly. The palace doctor said you’re still pretty concussed, so you’re on bedrest for a while.” Slowly, everything sinks in. Palace doctor. Steve. It’s real. He really fought a dragon. But that means….

“Y/N.” Bucky gasps. Despite Steve’s instruction, he tries to get out of bed. “Where’s Y/N?”

“Princess Y/N is fine.” Steve reassures him. “She had a few scrapes and bruises, but nothing too serious. She’s resumed her royal duties.” Bucky lets out a breath, an immense relief finally off his shoulders. 

“Thank the gods.” He smiles. 

“And,” Steve continues. “You killed the dragon and saved everyone still trapped in the cave.”

“I…I did?” Bucky gasps, still in disbelief. Still wondering if this is a dream. Steve chuckles, and nods. 

“You’re a hero, Bucky.” Before Bucky can say anything more, hurried footsteps echo down the hallway. The door bursts open, and Princess Y/N rushes in. 

“Bucky!” she gasps, almost launching herself onto his bed.

“Princess, wait! You’re both still injured-” But Y/N doesn’t even listen to Steve’s words. She wraps her arms around Bucky, pulling him close to her. Despite the pain, Bucky has never been so happy to see her, or to be holding her again. She begins crying, and her body shakes.

“You saved me….” She sniffles. “I thought I’d never see you again, or make it out alive. You saved me.” As she cries, Bucky continues to hold her, stroking her back to comfort her.

“I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“Because of you, Bucky.” She sniffles. “Because of you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As soon as Bucky is out of the palace infirmary, Y/N’s parents hold a ceremony to thank him for saving the others, including their daughter, and for killing the dragon. Bucky stands beside Steve, dressed in the royal guard’s uniform. Since his rescue mission, Y/N has personally asked that he be appointed as her personal bodyguard, something Bucky is honoured to do.

“This thing is kind of uncomfortable.” Bucky murmurs, adjusting the neckline.

“Thankfully, we don’t have to wear it all the time, but you get used to it.” Steve laughs. “It looks good on you, though. Congratulations, Buck.” Bucky grins, standing up taller as pride fills his body. Although a part of him is still convinced that this is a dream, and that he’ll wake up alone again. 

And then, Y/N enters the room, walking down the aisle towards them both. She’s dressed immaculately in her full royal attire, crown perched upon her head. She looks gorgeous, like an angel. As she approaches Bucky, her face beaming, he blushes. Bucky bows, and Y/N lifts her sword, resting it on each shoulder.

“I dub thee Sir Bucky Barnes. The new knight of the realm, and my honoured protector.” She calls, and the crowd applauds. 

Later, after the ceremony, Bucky finds Y/N standing on the balcony outside her room. “Shouldn’t you be inside enjoying your party?” She asks, chuckling.

“I wanted to check up on you. We’ve both been through a lot in the past couple of days, to say the least.” Y/N nods. Although she hasn’t spoken too much about what she went through, Bucky knows it can’t have been good. But he wants her to know that he’ll make sure that she’ll never be afraid or alone ever again. 

“Thank you for saving my life, Bucky. I could tell you that every day for the rest of my life and it would still never be enough.” Bucky shrugs.

“You saved my life too, Y/N. All those years ago, when you got the palace doctor to see me.” Y/N nods, chuckling.

“I guess we saved each other, then.” As the pair laugh together, Y/N steps closer. “Bucky?” She whispers. Before he can even reply, she reaches up, cupping his face in her hands. In an instant, Bucky knows exactly what she means. “I love you. I have for the longest time.” She gasps. Quickly, she pulls him closer, placing her lips on his in a soft, yet passionate, kiss. Bucky places his hands on her waist, deepening the kiss. The kiss is somehow even better than he imagined it. When they pull apart from each other, Y/N is beaming once more. “Wow…that was incredible.” She gasps.

“I love you too.” Bucky admits. “I was just too scared to tell you the truth because I was afraid, and I thought I didn’t fit into your world because you’re… you’re you, and I was just a blacksmith and-”

“Bucky.” Y/N chuckles, stopping his rambling. “I never cared about our different classes. To me, you’re just Bucky. You’re the most caring person I know, and you make me smile, even on my worst days. And of course, you saved my life. I love you.” She repeats, pecking his lips again, and Bucky smiles.

“I love hearing you say that.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you that every day for the rest of my life.” She grins.

“Are there any rules about a Princess dating her bodyguard?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” She giggles. “And besides, even if there were… I think I’d be able to change them.” Grinning, Bucky pulls her in for another kiss.

                                                    THE END.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

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[darling-archeron]

time won't fly (it's like i'm paralyzed by it)

chapter four: until the night is over: loop seventeen

Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.

Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.

A "round robin" style fanfiction with different authors. This work is meant to be read from beginning to end, but each chapter is written by a different author with their own spin on the time loop prompt.

Warnings: canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence, temporary character death

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Word Count: 7.5k

Notes: Behold, my humble contribution to @feysand-hivemind's timeloop fic! Working on this story with all of you wonderful, talented people has been an absolute delight.

Tumblr Masterlist | Read on Ao3

Another failure, and Rhys was back where he had started.

Again, the dream. The wolf, the arrow, and Feyre, sharp hate in her eyes. And he was back in Amarantha’s bed.

The loops were starting to pile up. There had been far more variables, far more failures, than he had hoped. Would there be a limit to the number of second chances he was given?

Beside him, Amarantha stirred. He tensed, shifting his gaze over, but she only adjusted her head before falling still again. Her long red hair fanned out across the bed, brushing up against his shoulders. 

His sleep in Amarantha’s bed was almost always shit, so the good news was that he had plenty of time to think.

In nearly every loop so far, save the first one, he had tried to change Feyre’s path early on. The window between Feyre letting go of her hatred of faeries and beginning to trust Tamlin was practically non-existent. Either she didn’t trust him because he was a faerie, or because he was an enemy of the Spring Court and obviously sneaking around.

The first time, she had progressed the farthest – but exposing her to Amarantha’s ire, when she was still on edge, had been disastrous.

There had to be some kind of middle ground.

He loathed the idea of letting her go back Under the Mountain. He wouldn’t watch Amarantha break her again.

And yet – what if Feyre going Under the Mountain was the key? It was where they had, at least, gotten closest, with Feyre admitting her love for Tamlin, even if it had been too late.

The far easier option would have been to get her to admit her love for Tamlin sooner, before she even stepped foot in Amarantha’s court. But what if that wasn’t enough? His appearance at the Spring Court in the first loop hadn’t been enough to spur her on.

All he had were theories, the best of which had been strung together with hardly anything to hold them.

Clare Beddor – that was the name Feyre had given him in place of her own. Had he given that name to Amarantha and told her that Tamlin had brought a human to the Spring Court, he would have been spared in the first loop. Of course, that didn’t exactly solve anything, because Feyre still wouldn’t have.

Of course, that was assuming Amarantha found her under that alias. As long as she was in love with Tamlin, he doubted Amarantha cared what a human’s name was.

But what if Clare hadn’t been fictional? It was an unmistakably plain, human name, perhaps belonging to someone from wherever Feyre had once called home.

Even if it wasn’t, was it possible for him to orchestrate things so Amarantha’s ire fell on someone who wasn’t Feyre?

The makings of a plan began to take shape in his head.

It wasn’t a particularly honorable plan. It involved putting Feyre in danger, it involved at least one scapegoat. But he had already lost his – his Feyre too many times. And he knew, deep in his heart, that he would do whatever it took to keep it from happening again.

He knew by now that sleep would elude him the rest of the night. His mind was restless, but any moment of repose was strength.

There might not have been any more dreams ahead of him tonight, but Rhys lay awake and went through his usual ritual, picturing those he loved and wondering what they might be doing right now. Tonight, he dared to add one more name to the list.

I will not fail you, Feyre.

-

The previous times he had felt the call to seek her out on Calanmai, he ignored it. This time, however, it would be necessary.

And Rhys couldn’t deny that he felt a little thrill at the idea of seeing her again.

It was a perfect spring evening. The air was cool and fresh on his face – something he never took for granted anymore. He didn’t know how Amarantha could stand to spend most of her time Under the Mountain, choking on the same stale air year after year.

Cloaked in shadows on the edge of the tree line, Rhys observed the nearby figures, only illuminated by firelight. The drums had been beating for hours now – it wouldn’t be much longer before they reached their peak, and Tamlin would select his maiden. He bit down a wave of revulsion at the thought of Feyre being selected for such a ritual.

Luckily, if her thoughts from the previous loops were any indication, it wouldn’t come to that.

Not far from where Rhys stood, there was a group of half a dozen male lesser faeries. Loud, bawdy, and vulgar. After a moment of combing through their minds, Rhys saw that their thoughts were equally foul.

He selected the worst three, and then planted the seed of an idea in their heads.

Go and see what kind of trouble we can find. Plenty of fresh meat on a night like tonight.

As the minutes crept on, the pulling sensation in his chest drew tighter, and he scanned the firelit crowds for the shape of his painter.

Where are you? Come, find me. Go see Calanmai, he urged, even if she wouldn’t hear.

At last, he caught a glimpse of her weaving through the crowd, alone.

Any other time, he would have been angry that Tamlin didn’t have any protections on her. Wandering alone on a wild night like this only meant trouble for a human woman.

However, in this situation, it played right into his plans.

Feyre wandered through the crowd, likely searching for Tamlin or Lucien. Slowly, she wandered away from the throng, closer to his edge of the woods.

Closer to where he had led the males.

He watched from afar as they approached Feyre, nearly cornering her. One of them leaned in much too close –

And Rhys winnowed, right behind Feyre, catching her as she stumbled back on a piece of loose rock.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

-

The first meeting on Calanmai set things into motion. Though he had longed to linger, he had kept things brief, not getting as much as her name out of her.

She had thought he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen.

Why did the knowledge bring him such pleasure?

The name of the game was to still appear intimidating and a bit frightening, but not so much that he couldn’t be trusted. He couldn’t let the mask drop the way he longed to, but it was better than nothing.

He hadn’t been able to avoid taking the head, branded with the Night Court sigil, to the Spring Court a few weeks later. If he spared the faerie Amarantha had initially chosen, she would just pick another. However, he was able to put it somewhere else when he delivered it.

It was simple enough. He winnowed to the Spring Court and immediately sought out Feyre’s room. He could sense her even without having her in his sights, still fast asleep in the time just before dawn.

He cast his magic towards her, dragging her subconscious into a slightly heavier sleep. She would sleep halfway to noon, but that would give Tamlin plenty of time to deal with his little gift – and even if he didn’t, she would be far less likely to see it in the smaller garden where he left it, spiked on the ornamental fence.

He saved Feyre from the horror, but Amarantha expressed her displeasure that he had picked somewhere too subtle.

Her nails were sharp on his bare shoulders, tendrils of red hair brushing his neck as she loomed above him.

“What happened to your sense of theatrics, Rhysand?” she crooned. “Perhaps I need to put on another show, to give you some more inspiration to work with.”

Encased in the ring on her finger, Jurian’s eyeball spun. If the male was still in there somewhere, at least one of them could be panicked about the situation.

“If you wish it, my queen,” he crooned.

Whatever he could do to satisfy her nearly unabating thirst for violence before Feyre arrived.

-

Weeks passed, and Rhys spent hours trying to find another way back to the Spring Court. Every little interaction he had with Feyre before she came Under the Mountain could be crucial to their success.

Unfortunately, Amarantha’s paranoia only stretched so far.

“Why so eager to go back to the Spring Court, Rhysand?” Amarantha mused one night, when he had again suggested it. “One might think you’re hiding something there.”

He forced himself to stay calm, to continue rubbing her shoulders to relieve the tension from them.

“Only eager to see Tamlin flounder, my queen. You must admit, his attempts to break the curse have been laughable.”

“Which is why I’m hardly worried now. You serve me here, Rhysand.”

For not the first time, Rhys wished the bed would open up and swallow him.

-         

In the days leading up to the curse’s deadline, Amarantha finally loosened his leash as she had in the first loop. He knew the terrible things he would have to do in the days to come, but he also couldn’t deny his excitement at seeing Feyre again. Other than the day he had left the head spiked for Tamlin, he hadn’t so much as glimpsed her.

The bustle and brightness of spring greeted him as he winnowed onto the front lawn. Even with a fraction of its denizens, the manor was busy, as always.

Last time, the way things had unfolded was accidental. This time, he needed to keep this part as close to how it had first happened as possible.

He let scraps of his power wash out before him, alerting the whole manor of his presence, strolling into the dining room that only appeared to hold Tamlin and Lucien.

This time, he immediately noticed the third plate betraying her presence. He swore he could sense her, too. How had he been so oblivious the first time around?

He let the same words as before spill from his lips, as if he was acting out one of the plays Mor loved to watch at the Velaris theatre. Taunting Tamlin and Lucien, pretending to be surprised when he let his gaze land on the third plate.

When Tamlin’s glamour fell from around her, he had to hold back his sigh of relief. She was still safe and whole – lovely, with the midday sun at her back, bringing out the gold in her hair.

“I remember you,” he said softly. “It seems like you ignored my warning to stay out of trouble.”

It was all he could do to keep up the familiar song and dance with Tamlin and Lucien. The urge to reach for her, make sure there wasn’t a single mark on her, was stronger than ever.

Instead, he reached for her mind, seizing it between his mental hands. As he traced his finger across her collarbones, her throat, he felt her fear.

“Don’t be afraid, darling,” he whispered into her mind.

“Don’t – “ Feyre ground out, too afraid to say much more.

One day, I swear, I will make it up to you, Feyre.

He flipped through her mind – and curiously, found no memories of her being intimate with Tamlin. Only memories of Tamlin biting into her neck on Calanmai – only hours after he had first met her.

“Amarantha will enjoy breaking her,” he said, letting his cruel words settle over the room. “Almost as much as she’ll enjoy watching how you anguish over it.”

He was aware of Feyre’s growing apprehension as he threatened Tamlin, and he almost reached back into her mind, to whisper something more soothing to her, but he stopped himself just in time. 

Not here. Not now, when there were so many variables still at play.

Tamlin shoved at him, but he sidestepped easily.

“Not now, Tamlin. I’d hate for the lady to see you become a smear upon the floor.”

Tamlin fumed, but Rhys finally had an excuse to turn his attention wholly back to Feyre.

“What’s your name, love?”

He felt her hesitation – felt the lie in her mind before it formed on her tongue.

“Clare Beddor,” she gasped.

Rhys smirked. “I’ll be sure to give Amarantha your regards – all of your regards.”    

-

When Amarantha summoned him to the throne room for a full report, it was all too easy to tell the truth. To give her Clare’s name.

Anything for Feyre.

Now all that remained was to wait and see if his gambit paid off.

-

Two days later, and the Attor dragged poor Clare, kicking and screaming, Under the Mountain.

As he had expected, Amarantha made a game of pulling pain from her like notes from a violin. He stood there and watched, the same bored smirk on his face.

He went into her mind, took away her pain as easily as snuffing out a candle.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you, Clare. I know you didn’t deserve it, didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Please, just end this,” she begged, unaware or uncaring of who she was speaking to.

He hated himself a little bit more as he didn’t reply. For Feyre to be safest, Amarantha’s bloodlust had to be fully spent.

“I don’t have that power, but your pain is gone. Scream when she expects you to.”

Over the next few days, Rhys remained at Amarantha’s side, watching as she tormented Clare. Perhaps because he was a glutton for punishment, he delved into her mind to get a glimpse of the person whose life he was destroying.

She was a simple village girl. Kind, gentle, she loved teasing her younger brothers and caring for her family’s animals. She hated the taste of oatmeal, and shunned the Children of the Blessed when they came to town.

The days wore on, and finally, Rhys couldn’t take it anymore. He reached back into Clare’s mind and ended it, once and for all.   

-

All too soon, the doors to Amarantha’s throne room swung open again as the Attor dragged another human girl through its doors, throwing her on the ground before Amarantha’s throne.

Rhys felt the pain in her knees as they hit the marble, so sharply it might have been his own. He did his best to steady his breathing. If anyone sensed how quickly his heart was beating, he would be fucked. 

He had to focus. Amarantha couldn’t know that a single thing was amiss this time around.

“What’s this?” The False Queen asked, leaning forward in her throne.

“Just a human thing I found downstairs,” the Attor hissed, leering at Feyre, and Rhys fought the urge to mist the wretched creature then and there. “Tell her Majesty why you were sneaking around the catacombs – why you came out of the old cave that leads to the Spring Court.”

He watched as Feyre proclaimed her love for Tamlin in front of all seven courts, bargaining for his freedom. She practically beseeched him to say something, but he didn’t so much as nod. Only sitting there as still and unfeeling as his stone heart.

“Give me a single reason I shouldn’t destroy you where you stand, human.”

“You tricked Tamlin. He is bound unfairly.”

Amarantha prattled on, enjoying the sound of her own voice. Rhys would have blocked it out entirely if Feyre’s safety didn’t entirely depend on Amarantha’s words. What would come next was the one part he had truly been unable to predict.

After all these years, Rhys understood how Amarantha worked well. If he had gambled right, she would offer to a game with Feyre, string her along for a bit while dangling Tamlin in front of her like a carrot. Not an optimal outcome, but it would give him time to better understand Feyre’s purpose on this path. From there, he could formulate the rest of his plan.

After she had just torn Clare apart, doing the same to Feyre would be boring, predictable. All things The Deceiver despised.

“I should have listened when darling Clare said she’d never seen Tamlin before, or hunted a day in her life. Though her screaming was certainly delightful. I haven’t heard such lovely music in ages. I should thank you for giving Rhysand her name instead of yours,” she crooned.

Though he stood in the shadows, off to the side of Amarantha’s throne rather than directly beside it, he felt the eyes of the court turn to him. Feyre didn’t spare him a glance, her eyes locked on Clare’s mangled body, but he could feel the horror radiating off of her.

He had known Clare’s death would complicate things. But seeing Clare through Feyre’s comparatively innocent, human eyes – the weight of his crime crashed down fully upon him.

Another sin added to the list of reasons he would burn in hell.

Amarantha verbally toyed with Feyre for a bit longer, enough that Rhys’s dread grew as he started to wonder if he had gambled wrong.

But then she spoke the words he had been praying for.

“I’ll make a bargain with you, human.”

He saw Feyre stiffen – and he was far from relaxing, either.

“You swear you love Tamlin?”

“With my whole heart,” Feyre insisted, her voice heavy with conviction.

“Well then. Proving your devotion should be easy. You complete three tasks of my choosing – three little tasks to prove how deep that human sense of loyalty and love runs, and Tamlin is yours. Just three little challenges to prove your dedication, that your kind can indeed love true, and you can have your High Lord.”

She turned to Tamlin, spouting more nonsense about fickle human hearts. Rhysand’s mind was already racing.

Three tasks – they could be anything, with so many variables. How would Amarantha see fit to make a human prove her love?

Amarantha went on to list conditions, stipulations, throwing a riddle into the mix.

That made him relax a bit. Amarantha had never been as clever as she gave herself credit for. Even if she forbade everyone from giving Feyre hints, it couldn’t be too difficult.

“So – are we agreed?” Amarantha said at last.

Feyre glanced across the throne room once more, eyes locking on Tamlin, who still hadn’t moved a muscle.

“Agreed,” Feyre said.

Cauldron, please, tell me I haven’t just subjected her to a fate worse than Clare’s. 

And with Feyre’s words and a swing of the Attor’s clawed arm, ripping into her skin, her fate was sealed, and Rhys’s along with it.

-

Rhys did his best to monitor Feyre from a distance. She had appeared alright when Amarantha gave her the riddle shortly after her arrival. He knew Lucien had already been to see her and patched up her injuries from the Attor’s beating, but it wasn’t enough. He had to see how she was faring and start getting her to trust him.

Also, a selfish part of him admitted, he hated to be so far from her when she was at last within his reach.

Amarantha had given her one of the worst cells in the dungeons, which was truly saying something. It was foul smelling and damp, and perfectly situated so that the screams and groans of the other prisoners angled themselves into the cell.

When he winnowed inside, she looked so small, curled up on a palette of foul-smelling hay that threatened to make his nose start running. At least she had a cloak to keep her warm. She hadn’t arrived with it – Lucien’s, if he had to guess.

At first, he thought she might have been asleep, but she shot up, eyes flying to where he stood in the corner of her cell.

“Hello, darling,” he crooned, stuffing his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t have to hide his tense fists.

“What do you want?” she hissed, blue-gray eyes narrowed.

Good – the fire hadn’t gone from her yet.

“I’m only checking in on my favorite human. How are you faring?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.”

“I’m fine,” she said, scowling in a way that reminded him of Mor when she was irritated.

“Is that so? Because your situation would imply otherwise.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she shot back.

“I mean you’ve come to claim Tamlin, without the faintest idea of what you’re getting yourself into.”

“You’re just saying that to get into my head.” Her voice was steely, but he saw a shiver shoot through her. Not just from the cold, although that was likely part of it.  

“I assure you, I only have your best interests at heart. And, just between the two of us, I’m happy to extend my assistance in any way I can.”

A dangerous, dangerous thing for him to say.

Feyre raised her eyebrows. “You want to help me? You’re Amarantha’s – her lackey.”

“That’s what everyone thinks,” Rhys admitted. “But have you never considered that I might have my own agenda?”

“Well, I don’t want any part of it,” Feyre spat.

Internally, Rhys grimaced. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with her today.

With a wave of his hand, he summoned a blanket he had stashed in a pocket realm earlier. It wasn’t anything particularly nice, and there was a hole worn through in the middle. One of the nobles’ discarded rags.

“Think on it,” he said, tossing the blanket towards her, and winnowing back out of the cell before she could reply.

-

A few more long days went by, and Rhys could barely stand the thought of Feyre alone in her freezing cell. He slept on silk sheets and ate some of Prythian’s finest food every evening. Not only that, but her first trial was rapidly approaching, and he had made almost no progress in gaining her trust. He hadn’t been back to visit her, but he had checked in on her thoughts a handful of times. They ranged from bored, to angry, to fearful. She was pondering the riddle but hadn’t come closer to the right answer.

Six days after his initial visit, he convinced himself that he had waited long enough. It was midday, and Amarantha was sound asleep. She had dismissed him after he had serviced her – a rare mercy. It also gave him the perfect window of opportunity to visit his painter again.

“Go to hell, Rhysand,” she said, sounding bored when he appeared.

“What – no Rhysand, apple of all eyes, or Rhysand, all my waking moments are consumed with thoughts of you?” he purred.

She glared at him - a sight that was becoming quite familiar. “What do you want now?”

“The same thing I wanted to do last time. To see how you’re faring down here, Feyre.”

“How the fuck would you be faring, in my shoes?” she spat.

“You’ll find you have no idea what my shoes are like,” he shot back. Cauldron, what was it about this woman that set him ablaze so quickly?

“How is Tamlin?” she finally asked.

“The High Lord of Spring is doing perfectly fine, as far as I can tell. Amarantha has been dragging him around like a puppy, but he hasn’t so much as budged.” He said truthfully.

That seemed to bring her some satisfaction. “Good,” was all she said.

“Does it bother you? That he hasn’t been down here to see you?” he said the question in his same coy, teasing tone, but he longed to know the answer.

“What does it matter to you?”

“Feyre, please. I – I can’t lose you again.” He blurted it out before he even realized what he was saying. But it certainly got her attention.

Fuck, this was really starting to wear on him. In his desperation to monitor Feyre at every hour, he had barely been getting any sleep.

“What?” That got her attention, and she turned to him at last. A crease formed between her brows, trepidation in her eyes.

How much could he tell her without obliterating any chance of earning her trust? With his powers stolen, he didn’t dare to go in her mind and wipe away the thought. As much as he hated to admit it, he was out of practice on human minds, and he certainly wouldn’t be testing his theories on his painter.  

But if he played it right – perhaps having her know could prove advantageous. He just had to make sure he didn’t sound insane.

Feyre was still waiting for his reply.

In the quiet, he used his magic to feel for any listening ears. Years of intuitively knowing when Azriel was nearby had honed his senses well.

“What do you think my goal is, here?”

Feyre frowned. “That’s not an answer.”

“Just tell me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I assume to save your own skin and piss Tamlin off however you can.”

Well, her assumptions could have been much worse.

“Feyre, I need you to listen to what I’m about to say, and not make any assumptions or jump to conclusions until I’m done.”

“Why should I trust you?” She spat. 

“Have I done anything to cause you harm thus far?”

“No, but-“

He cut her off, knowing he would never get a word in edgewise over his painter if he didn’t.

“I have been Amarantha’s lackey under this Mountain for forty-nine years. Most of them have been long, the same things happening year after year. But months ago, something changed. I had a dream.”

Skepticism danced across her face.

“I dreamed of a young woman, drawing her bow in a snowy forest. Aiming at a deer first, and then a wolf, which she shot with remarkable precision. It left me with a strange feeling in my chest, but I cast it aside, convinced it was only an exceptionally clear dream. But the feeling didn’t go away. On Calanmai, I felt a strange inclination to visit the Spring Court. Another unusual feeling – I’ve made a point to avoid that court and the sycophants that live there for years. So I ignored the pull. I barely believed you were real, much less human, until I saw you for the first time, in the dining room with Tamlin and Lucien when I interrupted your dinner.

“That’s not –“

He kept going, or he knew he would never finish. It was best to keep this part succinct anyway. “By then, Tamlin’s time was almost up. He sent you away to protect you, but you came back, came Under the Mountain, just as you did now. But your timing was poor, in a way you had no control over, and Amarantha was angry, and I tried to protect you from her wrath, but – things didn’t end well. We both died, and I was prepared to meet the Mother.”

“And then….I had the same dream, of you killing the wolf. And I woke up the same way I had the time before, and I watched the same events unfold before my eyes, only changed by my interference. Not just once. Over and over. You always killed the wolf, you always came to Prythian and fell for Tamlin. And eventually, I realized that I’m stuck in some kind of loop, reliving the same events over and over again.”

“You’re insane,” Feyre breathed, taking a step back.

No, no, no. He couldn’t let this go poorly.

“Let me prove it to you,” he said, extending his hand. “Mind to mind.”

“I’m not letting you in my mind again,” she said, taking another step back. “I felt you, back in the dining room in the Spring Court. Tamlin has told me plenty about you, you know. I’m not a fool.”

He took a step towards her, bridging the space between them. Even as both of their lives hung on the line, something was electrifying about arguing with her like this. It made him feel more alive than he had in a long time. He could admire her stubbornness, even as it worked against him.

“And what has Tamlin told you?” he asked softly.

“That you’re responsible for terrible things.”

“And you believe everything Tamlin tells you? Even when he concealed this whole mess from you?”

“That was part of the curse. He couldn’t help it.”

“Couldn’t he?” Rhys raised an eyebrow.

Feyre dropped his gaze at last, falling silent.

“I swear to you, on the Mother that I will not harm you. Nor will I enter your mind again without permission.”

He watched her consider for a long moment, fingers fidgeting at her sides in an attempt to appear unruffled.

“Fine.”

She didn’t hide her scowl as she held out her hand, and Rhys considered telling her that he didn’t need physical connection to initiate it, but refrained. This was, after all, the first time she had willingly let him touch her.

He took her callused hand in his – though his was much too smooth, after all these years away from weapons that had once been like an extension of his arm.

For a brief moment, he considered showing her Velaris, snippets of his happy memories. If things went awry, he could always start the loop over again. But even that felt too risky. He couldn’t divulge it.

Instead, he did what he had promised and entered her mind. Gently, like walking through a forest in autumn and trying to avoid snapping a stick.

“See? Not so bad, is it?”

“Can we get this over with?”

He caught brief glimpses of her thoughts. Wondering if he was insane, wondering if she was insane for letting such a mentally unstable individual near her.

A strong sense of curiosity, too.

Good. That meant that not all was lost.

He showed her his memories of the first time he had watched her shoot the wolf, and their meeting in the dining room, and standing before Amarantha. He skipped over their deaths – that was the last thing he wanted to show her. Instead, he skipped ahead through other loops, showing their interactions or things he had watched her do.

Selfishly, he tried to pick the ones that painted him in a more flattering light.

After he had sifted through all the half-decent memories from previous loops, he switched gears. She needed to see more of him to trust him, and Velaris was too risky. But there were other things he could show.

He sent memories of him drinking with Mor, sitting at a desk next to Amren, piles of documents surrounding them both. Flying with Cassian and Azriel.

He could feel her jolt of surprise at the last one, at the revelation of his wings.

How peculiar, for that to be the thing she found most shocking.

At last, the memories ended. He could have sifted through her thoughts some more to find out what Feyre was thinking, but he found himself wanting to hear her voice her thoughts on her own.

She was staring at him in stunned silence as she pulled her hand away from his.

“Well?” Rhys promoted. “I’m sure it’s a lot to take in.”

She took a few steps backward, dropping back on the pallet, eyes wide.

“So you and I are all just players in this sick game? No – I’m not even a player. I’m a pawn.”

“Feyre –“ he tried to interject.

“If we fail, you’re the one that has to do this all over again. I – this version of myself, and everything I’ve gone through – I don’t even die. I just cease to exist.”

Rhys thought he might have preferred being in her position to reliving the same months over and over, but he kept that thought silent.

“It’s not fair. But – we’ve never done it like this before. We have to believe that this time, we’ll make it through.”

“How many times have you said that to me?”

“Never,” Rhys admitted. “I’ve never told you that we’re in a loop before.”

At that, the tiniest sliver of amusement appeared on her face.

“Well, that would explain why you did such a piss-poor job of it.”

“But you believe me?”

She exhaled, letting out a huff of air. “Unless you have some insane strategy, I don’t know why you would be making it up.”

“I meant everything I said earlier,” he finally said.

This was so, so far off the course of his original plan.

“We have never worked together before. If we do, I believe we can get out of here.”

What came after that, he truly had no clue.

“What about those other memories, Rhysand?” she asked. “The ones that weren’t part of the loop? Were those just to make yourself look good?”

“Would you think worse of me if I said yes? I won’t lie, I’ve done some monstrous things. But they have all been in the name of keeping my people, my family, safe.”

That seemed to resonate with something deep in her, and he watched as she seemed to mentally to go some far-off place for a moment.

“And Clare?” she murmured.

He offered up another bit of truth. “It was her or you.”

A grim line of determination creased on her forehead, and Feyre was silent for a long, long moment. Rhys again had to stop himself from instinctually reaching into her mind to see what she was thinking.

“Alright,” Feyre said at last. “What’s your plan?”

Rhys could have fallen to his knees before her at the relief he felt.

“You go through the trials like nothing has changed, you’re still fighting for Tamlin’s love. I swear that I will be beside you every step of the way, keeping Amarantha’s attention off of you as much as I can. And for the love of the Mother, think on the riddle she gave you.” He hoped he sounded more confident than he felt.

“What about the trials? Do you know anything about those?”

He shook his head. Amarantha had been tight-lipped about whatever she had in store for “the puny human.”

The sound of footsteps drawing near to Feyre’s cell drew his focus. “We don’t have much more time.”

“I have so many more questions.”

“Next time we get a spare moment, I’ll answer them,” he promised, scanning her up and down as if signs of the truth between them could be seen on her.  

Before Feyre could respond, the door swung open, revealing the red-skinned, pot-bellied guards that escorted her everywhere. They tossed in a stale-looking piece of bread and a bruised, mushy apple.

It simply wouldn’t do.

Reaching into their minds was as easy as cutting through butter.

“No more of this slop. From now on, you’re to bring her a fresh, hot meal from the kitchens twice a day. Tell the others, and the kitchen staff, too. Stay out of her cell, and don’t touch her. If you do, you’re to take your own daggers and gut yourselves. Understood?”

Feyre straightened, staring at him with a mix of emotions he couldn’t entirely decipher – but Cauldron, how he wanted to.

“You’re welcome,” he purred instead. Her surprised eyes were the last thing he saw before he winnowed away again.

-

Rhys could scarcely believe how well things had been going.

Of course, if you considered his painter trapped Under the Mountain by a murdering psychopath “going well.”

If he had thought Feyre consumed his thoughts before, he had been wrong. Having her in such a close proximity, not loathing him, felt like a fantasy.

Rhys did his best to make good on his promise. Each day, he made a point to send a hot meal to her cell. He was getting the sense that Feyre’s first trial would be some kind of physical test, and she had to keep her strength up. He installed wards that muffled the sounds of the screams that tore through the walls to Feyre’s cell at all hours.

In his free seconds, he found excuses to sneak back down to the dungeons under the guise of emotionally tormenting Feyre.

In reality, he was doing his best to satisfy her insatiable curiosity. She did her best to act nonchalant, but Rhys recognized the curiosity, the stubbornness, behind the mask. He knew it because the same traits were reflected in him.

Talking with her was a…disarming experience. She had seen him without the mask he had worn for so long. She saw the desperation that lay underneath without him having to voice it. It only made him question more why the Cauldron had shoved them together into this wretched situation.

“A question for a question,” he finally said one night, after she pressed him for more information on the Night Court. “You’re learning all of my secrets, but I can’t say the same. I’ll answer one of yours if you answer one of mine.”

Pure selfishness, on his part. He couldn’t help it.

She raised her eyebrows. “What about me could possibly interest you, Rhysand?”

“Rhys,” he corrected automatically. “And I think you’re drastically underselling yourself, darling.”

She shifted uncomfortably on the hay pallet. Even after everything he told her, she was still fiercely protective of her secrets; especially the human family she had left behind.

“Fine.”

“You said you’ve seen this over and over again. How do they end? Is it always with me dying?””

“Not always,” Rhys replied honestly. “Sometimes I go first.”

That set her mouth in a grim line.

“I know you like to paint,” he said. “Why?”

She gave him a funny look. “I always enjoyed it, even as a child. My mother hated that out of all the talents that were suitable for a young lady, I had an affinity for the one that was as messy and wild as I was. And when things changed and my family lost our fortune, painting became a rare luxury. A bit of color in my dreary life, I guess.”

When they weren’t asking questions, Rhys prepped her about the different trials Amarantha might have in store. The first one was less than a week away, and he was still in the dark about it. It could have been some kind of duel, or puzzle, or perhaps an archery test. Amarantha had remained impossibly tight-lipped about it.

Whatever it was, Rhys knew Feyre would prevail. The hours he had spent in her cell, getting to know her, had only strengthened his opinion on that. And if for any reason, she stumbled, he would be there to pick her back up.

They had each other now, and this strange, tentative trust. They would not fail.

-

At last, the day of Feyre’s first trial was upon them.

The day prior, Amarantha had her lackeys bring in some sort of muddy labyrinth, hauled up from the catacombs somehow and reassembled in a giant pit. And in the early morning hours, when Rhys gazed upon the completed project, he knew what awaited Feyre in a few hours.

“Feyre – I know what your first trial is. She’s going to have you outrun and hunt the Middengard Wyrm.” 

He was at a loss for how to describe the wretched creature, so instead, he sent an image of it into Feyre’s mind, well aware of how terrifying the creature was.

He felt the tide of horror rise up in her mind.

“She wants me to kill that thing?”

“Yes – but Feyre, the Middengard has weaknesses. It’s blind, and it relies on smell. It knows its lair like nothing else, but if you can disrupt it, you’ll throw it off. I’ll be a second pair of eyes for you, too. Don’t worry.”

“Easy for you to say,” she responded, voice shaky.

Oh, she had no idea how not easy all of this was.

Later in the morning, he found himself back in Amarantha’s bedchambers, where she sat at her vanity and brushed out her long hair, her back to him. 

“Rhysand,” she mused as he came in. “You haven’t gotten anything else interesting out of the human, have you?”

“No, my queen. It seems she truly loves Tamlin. She believes with all her heart that she’ll be able to free him.”

The Deceiver scoffed. “And you haven’t noticed anyone helping her? Nobody developing any attachments.”

“Not at all.”

Her smile, slippery as a snake, curled upwards in the mirror’s reflection.

“Very good.”  

-

An hour later, Amarantha’s court had gathered around the pit that held the Middengard’s lair, waiting for Feyre’s entrance.

In a typical move for her, Amarantha had her throne moved into here so she could preside over the festivities above everyone else. A smaller chair had been brought in for Tamlin, who sat beside her.

That was another merciful thing about Feyre and Tamlin’s presence down here. It saved him from having to be at Amarantha’s right hand as often.

Feyre was brought in, escorted by her usual guards, and Rhys was again struck by how small she looked. But she held her head high, chin jutted out in defiance.

“So, dear Feyre, are you ready for your first trial?” Amarantha crooned. She looked especially bloodthirsty today, dressed in a long-sleeved black gown. There was a glint in her eyes that Rhys didn’t like.

In response to Amarantha, Feyre nodded.

“Well, I have been ready too,” Amarantha continued. “I’ve been excited to see how you’ll fare against the little surprise I have for you. But I suppose it won’t be much of a surprise, will it?” Her tone turned icy.

What?

“Imagine my shock, Amarantha said, “When someone came to me this morning with a full report. Telling me that someone’s been helping you the past few weeks. Fresh meals, warm blankets. Information.”

No, no no –

Who had betrayed him? He had been so careful.

He raked through his past interactions, doing his best to keep his face a blank mask, only cocking an eyebrow.

Amarantha’s hawkish gaze whipped around to him.

“Rhysand,” she hissed. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Gasps of shock and rapid whispering went up around the room.

“I don’t know what you're referring to, my queen,” Rhys replied smoothly. He wasn't afraid for himself - only Feyre. He had withstood Amarantha’s wrath many times before, and he would do it again.

“Liar,” she hissed, and before Rhys knew what was happening, a wall of force hit him, sending him crashing to his knees. 

No, not again -

He struggled to bring himself to his knees before another wave of her stolen power hit him, sending him back to the floor.

The throng of people that had been near him scurried out of the way.

“You’ve been helping her. Giving her comforts, preparing her for the trials.” 

Her questioning earlier had been a test.

“No!” A voice shouted from the other side of the room - Feyre’s. “He hasn't been helping me. You're wrong.”

Her attempt to spare him was touching, but Rhys knew it was too late for them. And it only turned Amarantha’s attention back to his painter. 

Tamlin seemed to finally remember that he could speak. “Amarantha, no. You can’t harm her, you made a bargain with her.”

Amarantha laughed – a horrible, high-pitched sound, and Rhys felt the pit of dread growing in his stomach. There had to be some way to salvage this. They had come so far.

“You’re finally defending her? When she only has eyes for Rhysand, of all people? The bargain is only upheld if the human’s heart is still set on you, Tamlin. And there is nothing in our agreement that stops me from tearing her apart whenever I please.”

Rhys stopped caring about Tamlin and whatever pathetic, useless pleas he had when Amarantha extended a clawed nail towards his painter. 

Her hand flicked, and Rhys watched, still crushed on the ground, as Feyre joined him on the unforgiving floor with a scream.

He knew this was the end. 

“You should apologize to me, human. I offered you a chance, I arranged this entire trial, just for you. And yet you refuse to play fairly.”

Her limbs twisted, going in directions that made him nauseous. 

His body was on fire, but he reached for Feyre’s mind.

 “Feyre,” he rasped, unintentionally saying it out loud, too. 

“Rhys, are you there?” Feyre asked.

He sent out a wave of comfort, as much as he could manage as he fought through the fog of his own. “I’m sorry Feyre, I wanted this to go differently.”

“If she spares you somehow – don’t let her find my family.”

He knew she wouldn’t, and the moment Feyre’s heart stopped beating, it wouldn’t matter anyway, but he didn’t say that.

“I won’t let her find them.”

“I guess you’ll see me in the next loop,” she said, sounding strained under the wave of pain, making her thrash and scream through gritted teeth.

He heard the snap, snap, snap, of her bones, and reached for her mind, to take away the pain as he had done before.

SNAP

A roar of pain coming from Feyre’s mind, and then, silence.

Amarantha had underestimated the durability of humans in her rage.

And this –

All of this – had been for nothing.

He had tried so hard to plan things out, to do it differently this time, and it was all for nothing.

Searing pain sliced through his body once more as he shifted, his gaze meeting Amarantha’s. She had stood from the throne, face twisted into a snarl above him. 

“Traitorous filth. After all these years, you try to deceive me?”

“I hope you burn in hell,” Rhysand spat with the remainder of his energy.

Her sneering face was the last thing he saw before the world dropped away into darkness.