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targaryen-dynasty · 9 months ago

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REDAMANCY.

Cregan Stark x female Targaryen!Reader (Part 4 here)

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept your younger brother’s offer to return to the capital for your child to receive his blessings. And when you‘re finally on the way, it’s your husband‘s duty to take care of you.

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT-MDNI; p in v, lactation kink, lactating, pregnant sex, pregnancy, slight breeding kink, praise kink, slight degrading, angst, fluff

WORDS: 3.3 K

NOTES: Redamancy means A love returned in full; an act of loving the one who loves you, and let me tell you: these two are in love. Thanks to @sylasthegrim, it‘s always good to know you help me with my zero grasp on English!

✖️ 𝐚𝐝𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭!

Ravens from Winterfell flying all the way down to King’s Landing has always taken quite some time. And therefore it was no wonder you were surprised that one of your younger brother’s ravens reached the castle not long after you'd informed him you were with child, inviting you to birth it in the Red Keep for it to receive the young king’s blessings.

Being the ever dutiful Lord of House Stark, there was no way your husband would refuse the offer, and once your pregnancy had crossed the seventh moon mark, a carriage and your husband’s entourage were sent south.

From the very beginning on you’ve been hesitant to accept the offer. Westeros’ capital has brought nothing but pain and grief to you, and you’re afraid coming back ruins the comfort and peace you’ve found far, far away from the castle in the North, in Winterfell. But a part of you misses and longs for your siblings and the part of your family that’s still left, hence it didn’t take too much convincing from your husband.

You’ve lost count of the days you spent in that damned carriage by now, solely accompanied by your maids as your dear husband rides at the front of his entourage, joining his men on horseback. But there’s one thing all days have in common: it’s you being exhausted beyond relief once night comes.

For the longest time you thought your unborn babe to be no-fussy and calm, which proved to be false just one week into the travel. It’s restless, kicking and moving especially when you finally find rest in the bed of the receptive inn you stay in for the night. Your feet are swollen, just like your breasts, and your body provides milk as though the babe has been long born already, and all you crave at this point is for the pregnancy to be over already.

As the wheelhouse comes to a stop, you rub your swollen bump with a sigh, looking toward the door with heavy footsteps approaching. Your beloved husband opens the door, and even though he won’t admit it, he looks just as exhausted as you do.

“Is it time?” you ask, slowly rising to your feet with another sigh. You place your small hand in his large one, allowing him to help you out.

He nods, bringing a hand to the small of your back. “Indeed. We have reached the crossroads. From here we are only ten days away from King’s Landing, which means the end of our journey is in sight,” he replies. “How are you and our son feeling?”

Cregan guides you away from the wheelhouse, escorting you through the crowd of his men towards a large inn sitting right where the river road crosses the kingsroad. And from old tales of your uncle you know it has to be the Bellringer Inn, a place where even your great-grandfather and great-grandmother have stayed at before.

“We do not yet know if this babe will be a boy or a girl, husband,” you chastise him in a teasing manner.

“You are right, we do not,” he says. “But I feel it in my bones. Just call it a father’s intuition.”

You roll your eyes at his words and nudge his ribs with your elbow, yet there also pulls a smile at the corners of your lips. He chuckles at that. “Careful, my love, I am not as nimble as I used to be.”

Shaking your head, you giggle softly. “Do not tell me that you are an old man now, Lord Stark.”

As you make your way through the courtyard and towards the inn, you can feel the curious glances of the passerby; a man of Cregan’s caliber always drew the attention toward him, just like your hair did. But you’re unbothered by it all. You carry a piece of your husband within you, and that thought fills you with a sense of fulfillment and pride.

He looks for the innkeeper as you reach for his hand, pulling it from your back around your frame, squeezing it softly. “Might you join me tonight? I know that you can not leave your men alone, but one night will surely do no harm. I must admit that I have hardly found sleep without your warmth for the past weeks.”

With a gentle, intimate gesture, Cregan brushes his fingers over your swollen bump, before pulling you against his side. “How can I ever be expected to refuse anything my beautiful wife asks of me? Of course I will join you tonight.” Leaning a bit closer toward you, he adds with a quiet whisper: “Your presence has been missed in my bed as well. The nights feel cold and lonely without you by my side.”

Heat crawls onto your cheeks at the proximity and the slight implication that comes with his words, solely interrupted when a stout man with a bushy beard but otherwise pleasant demeanor walks around the corner and welcomes you two.

Upon Cregan’s inquiry about the availability of a room, he hands over the keys and leads you toward your place of retreat for the night. More than once have you told Cregan you’re perfectly fine with sleeping in a tent with him, yet he always came back to your delicate condition, stating he only wants the best for you and his unborn child, and you eventually have given up and accepted it.

The room is decent. Not as big as your chambers at home, but still larger than what you’ve slept in for the last few weeks. Your maids already scurry into the room to bring some of your belongings and clothes to get you ready for the night, while Cregan leans in to kiss your temple. “Let me arrange for my man to sleep outside the inn for the night,” he mutters against your skin. “And then we shall spend the night in warm beds.”

Even with your maids bustling around you, you can’t help but feel a flicker of excitement at his words. The prospect of sharing the night with him is enough to make you forget the soreness of your swollen curves that has become a constant companion over the past few moons.

“I will freshen up in the meantime,” you say, leaning into his touch before he pulls away to take care of his men’s sleeping arrangements for the night. Once everything was adjusted in the chambers, your maids moved to help you out of your clothes, but you refused them, having planned something very special.

Standing in front of the small window, overlooking a stable with a thatch roof and a bell tower, you all but admire how quietly Cregan opens the door, and with the lock falling right into place behind him, the room grows even quieter and the atmosphere becomes charged with anticipation.

“Is everything sorted?” you ask, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“All set,” your husband replies with a low voice as he approaches you.

He comes to tower over your frame from behind, moving his hands over your hips up to your waist. Lifting your head, your eyes lock with his. “Alone at last, hm?” There’s a sultry smile on your lips now, and you gently reach behind you to cup his cheek with one hand. “Now you’re all mine for the night.”

You lean against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breaths against your back. Cregan seizes the opportunity and brushes your hair over one shoulder before he presses his lips to the crook of your neck. The touch makes you sigh, stirring something inside of you you have had to keep at bay for quite some time. When he brings his large hands to your swollen breasts, fondling them through the thick fabric of your dress, you can’t help but moan, the slight squeezing aiding against the heaviness.

But then his hands and lips leave your body, and he slightly leans around you to look at you – or rather your breasts – and you immediately know the reason why.

The gray fabric has become damp under his touch, two dark spots prominent in the front of it. While it brings a bit of shame to your cheeks, the low rumble that escapes his chest sends a fire straight down between your legs. “I should have warned you I started leaking a fortnight ago,” you admit ashamedly, biting your bottom lip.

“I quite enjoy the sight of it, you know,” he says, voice laced with a combination of awe, adoration and burning need. His hands shift to the lace in the back of your dress. “But let us put this to good use.”

The dress comes undone with ease, falling to the floor in a puddle around your feet. Damp spots are decorating your smallclothes, but this time you don’t mind the sight. Cregan’s hands now roam over your body, tracing the curve of your waist and your growing bump.

Although you know exactly what it is his words are meant to imply, you choose to tease him. “And what is it you have in mind right now, hm?”

His gray eyes briefly flicker to the bed close to you, before meeting yours again. “I have a few things in mind. But for now…” He cups your chin, tilting your head up so he can claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss that’s full of desire and passion. It makes you feel as though the air is sucked right out of your lungs by him, as if you can’t survive without his lips on yours. “How about we make the most of this night, my love?”

“I’m all yours,” you breathe against his lips.

His large hands roam your curves, helping you out of your undergarments, until they settle at your thighs, wrapping around them to effortlessly hoist you up. Although Cregan is quite the bull of a man and appears to be a brute, he possesses a tenderness you wouldn’t expect from him, gently keeping your body against his and lying you down on the bed not far away just as carefully.

Soft, gentle kisses are pressed to your collarbones, igniting a fire within you that has been smoldering for too long. As his fingers glide over your skin with featherlight touches, leaving a burning trail behind, he finds his hands drawn to your full breasts, cupping and holding them, and eventually squeezing them.

More droplets of your milk trickle into his calloused palms, wetting his skin, but he does not care–not when he has you writhing and whimpering beneath him at just the faintest of touches.

Your husband’s eagerness would have almost made you chuckle, watching him rise from the bed to rid himself off his clothes hastily, if it wouldn’t match your own desire and greediness. With his breeches falling to the ground, his cock stands to full attention, hard enough for it to almost seem painful.

His hungry gazes devours your bare form, tall frame slightly hunched forwards as his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths.

“Will you just stand there and watch, my wolf?” you tease, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What happened to ‘let us put this to good use’?”

It’s the teasing lilt in your voice that pulls him out of his stupor like a wave, the chuckle he releases low and throaty. “You are a temptress, my love,” he replies. “You are lucky I am a man of my word.”

“Then touch me,” you whine, words coming out more desperate than actually intended.

He doesn’t need any more encouragement. Slowly approaching the bed, Cregan bows forwards and grabs one of your feet. He lifts your leg and starts to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses along the inside of your leg, occasionally nibbling on the skin of your inner thigh.

Your back slightly arches off the mattress, body thrumming with desire. Entangling your hands in his dark curls, you use the grip as reigns to where you want him most, but your husband acts completely unfazed, not allowing you to tug him higher up.

He takes his time, kissing and nibbling your thighs, before he boldly presses a kiss to the apex of your legs, tongue briefly dragging through your folds. It elicits a shudder in its wake, and you can’t stifle a moan.

Making his way up, he licks your navel, and eventually traces the curve of your full breast, circling your hardened bud. Cregan laps up every drop of milk that oozes out of your bud like nothing else than a starved wolf, the edge of his teeth applying just a faint pressure to the sensitive skin to stimulate the flow.

But when his other hand comes up to fondle and squeeze your other breast, that’s the moment you lose your composure, shamelessly smothering him with your breasts. “Gods, Cregan…” you whimper, immediately bringing you relief. There isn’t even time to waste a thought about the indecency of it all, not when it feels just so right.

It’s your mewls, your whispered whines and moans, the sound of you saying his name in such a desperate manner that drives him to continue. “You make me ache for you,” he rasps against your skin, voice thick with desire. Your husband never falters to ignite a fire inside of you with his words, especially when there’s an innuendo hidden between his praises.

Bringing his hand from your breast down between your bodies, he aligns himself with you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds in a way that makes you bite back a moan and grind against him. You grip his dark curls harshly as he finally eases inside, pushing into you inch by inch, agonizingly slow to make sure you feel him enter you.

His suckling falters with the tightness of your walls embracing him, overwhelmed by pure bliss and a feeling he’s missed for the past few weeks.

Every gasp and whine that escapes you only serves to embolden him further, continuing to tease and taste your breast with unrivaled enthusiasm. It juxtaposes the slow, sloppy thrusts of his hips, and brings you two different kinds of sensations at once.

Cregan has made himself home between your legs, rocking his hips leisurely back and forth. He has dropped his weight on one elbow and leant his upper body to the side, determined to not put any weight on your swollen bump. His lips are firmly wrapped around your bud while his hand teases the other, pinching and squeezing it between his fingers. The proximity is unmatchable, feeding into your constant desire to be as close to him as possible.

You can practically watch him lose every ounce of self control, his suckling becoming more intense and the thrusts growing in determination. His groans and grunts are muffled, and droplets of your milk trickle idly down his chin, getting lost in the dark, coarse hairs.

You fully expect him to say something when he releases your bud, but he’s far too eager to get his fill again. Pinching the perky bud of your other breast harshly, droplets of milk run down the curve of it, only to be traced by his tongue, liking a flat stripe over your skin. He chokes on a groan as the sight has you clenching tightly around his hard cock.

“Please– do not stop,” you whimper, applying a bit of pressure to his head to urge him towards your breast again. “... not yet.”

Dark-blown eyes suddenly flicker up to meet yours, and a shuddered breath leaves your lips. “My my, what a greedy wench I have for a wife,” he chuckles to himself. You don’t take offense, but the statement does make you duck your head and bite your bottom lip sheepishly. “I do not intend to.”

Despite the teasing, it’s obvious your pleas fall upon eager ears as he heeds your command and closes his lips around your bud again. Every hungry pull of his lips draws more and more milk from you, and while relief makes itself known in your breasts, a different kind of pressure starts to settle in the pit of your belly.

Squeezing him so well, you make it impossible for Cregan to move on his own accord, and quickly take over, rolling your hips against his. It’s a race for completion, making your pearl throb with anticipation.

The coarse hairs of your husband’s beard drag over your sensitive skin with his eager suckling, tickling you and causing you to arch against him even more. You have your arms wrapped around his neck at this point, keeping him tightly against you.

A string of yesses falls past your lips like a chant, and the pace of your hips increases as far as your bump allows you to. Your mind grows hazy with pleasure, until your peak washes over you with a loud gasp.

You haven’t noticed Cregan watching you through it all, too focused on the sensations coursing through your body. His gaze is mesmerized, clearly relishing in the relief that’s etched onto your features and the way your walls flutter around his cock.

He pulls back, droplets of milk resting in the corners of his lips, and lifts his body to tower over you. The thrusting of his hips grows sharper now, determined to help you through your pleasure.

“That’s it,” he rasps, one hand resting on the mattress next to your head while the other gropes at your now relieved breasts.

“Once this pup is born,” he emphasized the words by rolling your sore bud between his index finger and thumb, drawing out just a few more droplets of milk. “I shall put another in you to keep you round with my seed.”

Your head grows dizzy, lightheaded even, and you can’t do more than whimper and whine through your peak, not fully comprehending what he’s said.

Cregan snaps his hips into yours once, twice before he topples over the edge with a loud groan, his throbbing cock spending itself deep inside of you. Cupping your breast, his fingers dig harshly into your flesh.

You continue to roll your hips against his, prolonging his pleasure. Switching roles, it’s now your turn to milk him for every drop, taking everything his cock spills inside of you. Every muscle in his body tenses, until eventually, he collapses to the side, careful not to put his weight on your swollen bump.

With his cock slowly becoming flaccid again, the sensation of his seed leaking out of your cunt is more apparent, causing heat to spread throughout your body. If it wasn’t for you carrying his child already, you would have mounted him to make sure his seed would bear fruit.

Cregan eventually lies down on his back, and you seize the chance to rest your head on his chest. It’s hard to keep your eyes open as his hand softly entangles into your hair, scratching your scalp in the manner that usually lulls you to sleep. His breath is slower now, his chest rising and lowering your head.

“I can not bear to spend another night without you by my side,” you all but whisper, bringing a hand to his stomach.

Your finger trails the contours of his muscles, before following the dark trail of coarse hairs down.

“You needn‘t worry about that,” he says. “We shall not stay in King’s Landing for too long. And I highly doubt that anyone could get me out of your chambers during the time we stay there. Once we arrive, we shall stay together.”

Nodding your head slowly, you hum a ‘mh-mh‘, too engrossed in the feeling of his hand in your hair and the other rubbing soothing circles over your back. Having trouble staying awake, you’re hardly able to process his next words, already drifting off to sleep.

“Let us sleep now, my love. We have another tiresome day ahead of us.“

Cregan Taglist: @nats-whore @aemondsbabe

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lqveharrington · 4 months ago

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Double Surprise | R.L.

summary: The Marauders and Lily come over for Christmas Dinner but you and Remus have a little surprise for them all.

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

includes: mentions of sex, talks of pregnancy, drinking, sirius and reader acting like siblings, overall just fluff

a/n: this idea came to me randomly 🤷‍♀️ (and it’s not even Christmas time yet??)

Ever since you fell for Remus all those years ago, you knew he was the one you wanted to be with forever. He did as well. You went from talking, to dating, to engaged, and the latest: married. And every single time you fell harder and harder for him.

So it was no surprise that you wanted a child with him. A mini version of your love right beside you. After a long conversation with a worried Remus, you both decided it was time. You were able to soothe his thoughts about the full moon and a baby at the same time which you knew was his greatest worry. He didn’t want to accidentally turn you nor the baby into what he was.

With many nights of trying — although both of you could argue that some of those nights were much more passionate than others — you were finally pregnant with his child. There was no other way to tell your friends about the news except over Christmas dinner, of course.

“How do I look?” You bit the tip of your thumbnail in anticipation, looking at yourself through the mirror hung in the hallway. “Presentable enough?”

It wasn’t like you were scared to tell them… Actually, you were beyond terrified to tell them, especially Lily. She was practically a sister to you at Hogwarts and you always told her everything that happened in your life. And having a baby was the most important news of all.

“Gorgeous as always, dovey.” Remus murmured as he carefully wrapped his arms around you with his hand placed on your stomach, cradling the growing fetus.

You weren’t showing at all. You were barely two months, but you knew he meant it as a comforting gesture. You tilted your head to look at him properly and smiled when he placed a gentle kiss to your lips.

You parted and bit your lip softly, smiling even harder as you looked between his eyes. “What was that for?”

“Just admiring the one I love.” He nudged his nose with yours and kissed you once more.

The moment was sweet enough to give you a cavity, but the rapid knocking from your front door caused the both of you to snap out of it. You lean your head on his shoulder and shut your eyes for a second, letting yourself stay in comfort for a little longer.

Finally — after more aggressive knowing from the door — you sigh and press a loving kiss to his lips. “Get the door, please? I need to check on dinner.”

“You just don’t want get cold.” Remus patted your hip as you sent him a cheeky smile.

“You know me so well.” You blow him an air kiss as you sauntered into the warmth of the kitchen.

But even from the kitchen you could hear the shouts of the people at the door, which amused you beyond all doubt. Sirius — of course — was the loudest voice you could make out. His shouting loud enough for the neighbors to hear over the thickening snow.

“Moony, let us in! It’s freezing!” Sirius shouted as he pounded on the door with his fist, teeth chattering.

The next voice you heard was James. And it was no surprise to you that he used his wife’s name to get Remus to open the door faster.

“You don’t want Evans to freeze, do you?”

Finally, you heard Lily’s voice through the thick door. “It’s Potter now, but we all know I’m still your favorite, Rem!”

You snickered when you finally heard the door unlock and feet stumbling into the warmth of your house. The clunking of boots and your coat rack filled the air as you pulled the food out of the oven.

“Oh, thank Godric.” Sirius immediately collapsed onto the arm chair, propping his feet up toward the fire place. “I couldn’t feel any of my bloody fingers.”

Lily hastily placed her coat into James’ hand before directing her attention to the Welsh man beside her. “Remus, I love you, but I love your wife so much more.”

At that, you perked up and rushed into the living room, colliding with Lily and crushing her in a tight hug. “It’s my favorite Potter!”

“Hey—“

“Says you, Mrs. Lupin.” Lily kissed both your cheek and held you in front of herself to get a better look at your figure.

Thankfully, you wore a comfy sweater that covered your barely showing bump. Lily rubbed your arms, smiling so bright it challenged the sun’s rays. You tuck strands of hair behind your ears, face radiating pure joy.

“How did we both get so lucky?” You return her smile and lead her into the kitchen with questions trailing after. “How are you?”

James looked at Sirius and Remus in disbelief, still surprised that the girls left them faster than the speed of light. Remus shrugged and still had a lovesick look on his face.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that.” James propped his coat and Lily’s on the rack and snapped his fingers in front of Remus, sighing when he glared at him.

“Are you sure?” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows and nudged Remus with his elbow. “It could be fun.”

“You two are so weird.” Remus rolled his eyes and left them to set up the dining table, shaking his head when he heard the two of them bickering as they followed him.

“You’re part of this friend group!”

As the smell of Christmas dinner filled the house — along with chatter from all of you — it was finally time to reveal your surprise to the group. They were merely talking amongst themselves as they ate dinner, oblivious to the glances you kept sparing to your husband.

You were still anxious about how the reveal would go down. Noticing this, Remus brought your hand up and kissed the back of it with a look a reassurance. Now you knew you had to tell them.

“Mm, you know the Longbottoms? They have a child on the way.” Lily drank from her iced tea as she told you the latest gossip she heard since the last time she saw you.

“Really? It seems like everyone we know is.” Sirius swirled his wine around before downing it all in one go.

You grimaced at him, masking your face when he made eye contact with you.

He glanced around at the table and gave you and Lily confused looks, refilling his wine in the process. “Hang on now, how come you,” He pointed a finger toward your figure. “And you,” He then pointed at Lily. “Aren’t drinking wine? Christmas is the best time to drink some.”

“Saving it for the in-laws.” You waved a hand around and did your best not to project nervousness. “Besides, Remus isn’t drinking either.”

Sirius stuck his tongue out at you then quickly retreated when you sent him a dirty glare. He was about to protest when Remus interrupted. Remus knew that you two fought like siblings and it wasn’t needed today.

“Speaking of gifts…” Remus squeezed your hand and grabbed your attention once more. “Dovey got you guys early gifts.”

You nod slowly and clear your throat, letting excitement take over when you saw Lily light up. “We’re going over to his parents’ house for Christmas and I really want to see your reaction to this present. It’s one that can’t that long.”

As you stood up to find the presents for them, Remus guided them over to the living room right in front of the Christmas tree. The three of them sat across the carpet like children on Christmas morning. You handed them their gifts and took a seat next to Remus, his arm naturally moving across your shoulder.

Before Sirius could even tear into his gift, you stuck your hands out to stop him. He frowned and crossed his arms, almost like he was a child.

“Sirius— I want you all to open them at the same time.” You swiftly spoke and fiddled with Remus’ fingers instead, effectively calming yourself down.

All together, the three of them opened their gifts and suddenly, gasps filled the air. Lily and James’ mouths were gaping and you couldn’t tell if it was good or bad sign.

“What do you guys think?” You bit the inside of your cheek and leaned your head in Remus’ shoulder, trying to defuse the nervousness creeping up your body.

Sirius huffed and spun the picture a thousand times without looking at the other gift inside. “I can’t tell what it is… What’s written on it?”

“You’re kidding.” James looked between you and Remus before down to your stomach, running his fingers through his hair.

“Really? You’re being so serious right now?” Lily twisted the ends of her tissue paper in excitement, ready to jump all around the room.

“Hey, wait—“ Sirius tried to intervene, still clueless to what the photo was supposed to be portraying.

“Congratulations! The odds of this happening is pretty slim.” James stood and clapped Remus’ back, giving you both happy looks.

Your face twisted in confusion as you looked up at James, Lily trailing right behind. “What do you mean?”

“Me too.” Lily placed a delicate hand on her stomach, making you gasp in return.

“Really?” Your eyes shined brightly, grasping her hands in yours.

“Yeah, just found out a couple of weeks ago.” She shrugged and watched James and Remus converse about the new fatherhood they would embark together.

“Congratulations, Lils!” You giddily exclaimed and pulled her into another soul crushing hug.

Lily laughed in enjoyment. Not only was she happy you were pregnant, but she was overjoyed by the fact you were pregnant as the same time as her. Although you were ahead by a little.

“What is happening?” Sirius whined, throw the paper onto the ground before looking inside the gift once more. Once he found the onesie that said he was going to be an uncle, everything clicked into place. “Ohh…”

“You poor thing.” Remus rolled his eyes before meeting your happy eyes.

You radiated pure joy because of today and he swore that this memory would be etched into his mind forever. No matter what happened, he knew you always had someone to talk to about anything. He pulled your waist and kissed the top of your head, knowing damn well your face was red.

“I’m so happy for you, dovey.” He murmured softly and rubbed your stomach. “I love you more everyday.”

You look up and smile back, “I love you too, Rem.”

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heartmix · 5 days ago

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girl he's taking home - mv1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x fem!reader, Charles Leclerc x ex-situationship!reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

Warning: angst, but happy ending. not my favorite ending but i didnt know how else to end it

A/N: wasn't going to do a part 2 to 'girl you're taking home' but the lovely @lilorose25 gave me an idea. I meant to get this out last week, but work happened. Hope you enjoy this!

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

If you were to ask yourself six months ago how you felt about the new season, you would have responded with dread, not looking forward to anything. The way Monza ended and the 2024 season ended in general did not benefit you emotionally. If you weren't living your dream right now, you would have definitely walked away.

Having to continue and move on with Charles as his race engineer was harder than you thought. You could keep it professional, knowing how high-stakes this job was. The only mishap was being with Charles.

The team noticed a change after that night. They expected him to be on a high in the following races but were met with the opposite. He didn't want to talk to anyone unless it involved racing. He spent most of his free time locked away in his driver's room or hanging out with Carlos. Even Carlos had a hard time trying to get Charles back to his old self.

Soon, the headlines ran wild about his breakup with his girlfriend, the perfect excuse for his mood. No one batted an eye anymore, figuring he was just torn up. He was also fighting for second place in the WDC and first place for Ferrari in the WCC. The Prince of Ferrari had every excuse in the book at his disposal.

You, on the other hand, distanced yourself as far as possible from the driver. Free times were spent with other engineers, going out for drinks after a team win was spent with the social media team and if you had extra time beyond that it was spent with Carlos with his last few races with the team. If you were in a bad mood everyone chalked it up to having to deal with a moody driver. An excuse was an excuse.

When the season came to an end, you were beyond relieved. You didn't want to see a track or anyone from work till it was pre-season training. Distancing yourself from anything that reminded you of Charles was what you needed.

Thankfully, with the new season and Lewis's arrival, you were busy making sure everything was perfect. Him personally requesting you sent you over the moon and you did everything to give your attention to him. From his first suit-up in red to pre-season training, you managed to avoid Charles, magically. It was hard since you had to work just in the other garage, but somehow, you made it work until the first race of the season.

The paddock was roaring for the new season. Excited to see all the new rookies, all the new line-up changes, and Lewis in Ferrari red. This was the most anticipated season in ages.

In the short time you had before you were needed back in the garage, you wandered around the paddock hoping to bump into a familiar face. There was a small chance you'd get to see him, but if it was for just a minute, you'd take it.

While maneuvering your way through the crowd, it was going to be impossible to find him, but as fate would have it you bumped into the last person you wanted to see.

"I'm so sorry." He apologized before he realized who it was. He stood there stunned for a second, taking you in. One would have thought he'd seen a ghost.

"Hi Charles," you smiled politely, wanting to be anywhere but in the middle of the paddock talking to him, where everyone could see.

Anyone with a pair of eyes could see it was an awkward interaction. The better part of two years you've spent as his engineer and were as close as ever. When the news of you switching to team 44 broke out, there was speculation, but the public chalked it up to being part of Lewis' contract. It was no secret Lewis loved to shine the light on females in this industry.

"Hi, um how are you? I haven't been able to see you at all in Maranello." He looked like he was forced to meet your eyes. Switching his weight to each leg and his hands fidgeting with the hem of his kit.

Your response was curt and sharp, "That was the goal."

"I just wanted to apologize. I was selfish and wanted everything. I wanted the best of both worlds but realized you were the one for me. You were the only one I wanted to be around. I don't even know why I entertained the thought of another girl. I love you, and I'm sorry." Half a year ago you would have been over the moon hearing all of this, but now you wanted nothing to do with him and have him disappear.

"Charles, what did you want out of this?" A harsh tone slipped from your lips. You didn't mean for it to sound like that but you couldn't help it. After all the emotional damage he put you through you weren't about to cave in.

"I just really needed to tell you this and to let you know that maybe we ca-" Before he could even finish his sentence you felt an arm wrap around your shoulders. At this, you couldn't help but smile, about time he showed up.

"Charles." His tone was calm but stern, setting the tone of his intention.

"Max?" Charles was shocked, looking in between the both of you. The way you melted into his arms, the smile that replaced the scroll in a second. Charles also knew Max enough to know when he was protective and when he wanted to get a point across. You were his point.

Max knew everything that had happened between the two of you. He was the one who caught you walking back to the hotel with tears in your eyes on that Sunday night in Monza—the one who let you vent about the situation. You were too emotional to even think about how bad it looked to dish out your affair to Charles' friend and another driver, no less. You haven't even had a proper conversation with the Red Bull driver, just being in his presence when he would talk to Charles. You expected him to degrade you and look at you in disgust. Instead, he did the opposite. He reassured your feelings, told you some not-so-good choices of his own, and made sure you weren't alone.

Since then, you've built a small friendship. He checked up here and there to make sure you were okay. You send him a good luck text before every race. When he was declared 4-time champion in Vegas he invited you out to celebrate. How could you turn that down, especially with the drama that came out of that grand prix? After many gin and tonics, you don't remember much besides waking up in his hotel room.

You were fully prepared for him to throw you out, never wanting to talk to you again, but were surprised that he didn't regret anything, that he wanted you to stay. There were, of course, reservations on your part. If you went through another incident, you weren't sure you could convince yourself to stay at the job you loved.

Max, being the ever-understanding man that he was, told you to think about it, but he wasn't going to give you space. He wanted to continue going out with you and spending time with you. There would be no embarrassment being around you and couldn't care about the stories the media would spin. He didn't define you about what you did with your past relationship, he only cared about a possible future one with you.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to take my girl for lunch with the little free time we have." He gave a tight-lipped smile, leaving no room for questions.

"Oh, yeah, yeah, of course." What else was Charles supposed to say? No? You weren't his, not anymore, not really ever. Just a minute ago, he wasn't above begging for you to take him back, but how could he do that to you, seeing how happy his friend made you? At the end of the day, he still cared for you and wanted what was best. If that was Max, he would come to accept it.

"See you on the track Charles." Max bid a farewell before turning the both of you in the opposite direction.

"Took you long enough." You teased, being met with soft laughter.

"Sorry schatje, next time I'll get you from Ferrari."

"And have rumors about you moving to Ferrari? Horner would kill me." You could only handle so much news for this season. The cameras flash, capturing you and him walking together was enough to deal with. You couldn't imagine what both of your teams would think.

"Not before I kill him."

Smiling at his serious intention despite the playfulness undertone, how could you ask for a better guy, "So romantic, Mr. Verstappen."

"Only for you." At that moment, he leaned down for a kiss. Well, cat is definitely out of the bag.

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine

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hedgehog-moss · 2 months ago

Note

Pls give recommendations for Odd books 🙏

Here we go, a list of literary oddity :) This post contains majestic spheres, alien taxonomies, cruel subway polytheism, a fourth-dimensional cat, disturbing earthworms, infinite space football, existential mussel terror, a Parisian absurdist time loop, and a picture of a telegraph-pole-man-cheetah. I'm not exactly recommending these books, in the sense that I won't take any complaints if you find them more odd than good, and some of them transcend the concepts of good and bad anyway.

• The Other City, Michal Ajvaz. It's all like this:

• Contes du demi-sommeil, Marcel Béalu ('Half-asleep tales') —is the book that prompted my post about stories that have no ambition or justification beyond being odd. I'm sad that it hasn't been translated :( One of the tales is about a strange opaline sphere that rolls on the road. It doesn't accelerate when the road becomes a steep slope but continues rolling majestically. At one point it floats away towards the sky. Someone wonders if it was the moon. Someone else says authoritatively "It was an angel's egg." Everyone is reassured by this explanation. The whole thing feels exactly like remembering a dream you had. There is also a man who reads too much and whose body atrophies so only his head is left and his wife puts it in an egg cup for better stability.

• Leonora Carrington— The Skeleton's Holiday, or maybe the Hearing Trumpet. I've read them so long ago but I think the latter is the one with the old ladies and nuns? There's also a guy who was murdered in his bath by a still-life painter because he said there was a carrot in one of his paintings, but it might not have been a carrot? It's hard to remember details from this book without feeling like I might be making them up. Bonus Leonora Carrington painting which kind of feels like a short story:

• The Codex Seraphinianus, of course. I wish there were more bizarre encyclopaedias out there.

Also I love this review:

• Sleep Has His House, Anna Kavan —I really liked the way this book used language; making life feel like a fever dream even more than in Samanta Schweblin's Fever Dream (which I really liked too.)

The eye is checking a record of silence, space; a nightmare, every horror of this world in its frigid and blank neutrality. The actual scope of its orbit depends on the individual concept of desolation, but approximate symbols are suggested in long roving perspectives of ocean, black swelled, in slow undulation, each whaleback swell plated in armour-hard brilliance with the moonlight clanking along it . . .

• The second half of Michael Ende's Neverending Story, where things get stranger! I remember the hand-shaped castle with eyes and the city of amnesiac former emperors and the miserable ugly worms who cry all the time out of shame then create beautiful architecture with their tears...

• The Gray House, Mariam Petrosyan. This is the one I had in mind when I talked about a 'museum of the strange, but one you wouldn't want to be trapped in after closing time'. Another book that made me feel uncomfortable in a similar (good) way was Edward Carey's Observatory Mansions, the protagonist of which is a man who curates an odd private museum and can't stand the sight of his own hands.

• Oh, speaking of uncomfortable, and hands—He Digs A Hole, by Danger Slater. To me this book was in the more-odd-than-good category but I liked its refusal to have a coherent philosophical meaning. It's about a man who can't sleep so he goes to his garden shed and saws off his hands and replaces them with gardening tools. Then he starts digging a hole. And then it gets weird. (Read at your own discretion if you have a worm phobia; there's some body horror featuring sexually aggressive earthworms. And then it gets disturbing.)

• 17776 — Someone sent me an ask a few years back to recommend this online multimedia narrative to me and I really enjoyed it! Here's the summary, borrowed from the wiki page: Set in the distant future in which all humans have become immortal and infertile, the series follows three sapient space probes that watch humanity play an evolved form of American football in which games can be played for millennia over distances of thousands of miles. The work explores themes of consciousness, hope, despair, and why humans play sports.

• Saint-Glinglin, Raymond Queneau —the author admitted that this book presents some "internal discontinuities." I didn't like it much but I respect the talent it takes to write a novel where everything feels like a random digression, including the key suspenseful scene that matters to the plot. The one digression I loved had to do with the way the narrator is existentially horrified by various sea creatures. It's like he dreads them so much he can't help but think about them when he should be telling a story.

The oyster... This gob of phlegm, this brutal way of refusing the outside world, this absolute isolation, and this disease: the pearl... If I conceptualise them even a little, my terror starts anew. The mussel is even more significant than the oyster and even more immediately admissible in the domain of terror. Let us indeed consider that this little sticky mass whose collective stupidity haunts our piers, consider that it is alive in the same way as a cow. Because there are no degrees in life. There is no more or less. The whole of life is present in every animal. To think that the mussel, that the mussel has, not a conscience, but a certain way of transcending itself: here I am once again plunged into abysses of anxiety and insecurity.

Near the beginning he philosophises about what would happen if a man and a lobster were the only two survivors of the apocalypse. The lobster would break the man's toe and the man would say, "We are the only beings that remain on this devastated Earth, lobster! The only living beings in the universe, struggling alone against the universal disaster, don't you want to be allies?" But the lobster would disdainfully walk away towards the ocean, and "the sight of the inflexible and imperturbable lobster pierces the sky of humanity with its unintelligible claws." (I can't overstate how little this has to do with the rest of the book.)

• Autumn in Beijing, Boris Vian —needless to say the story does not take place in autumn nor in Beijing.* To the extent that it can be said to be "about" something, it's about people trying to build a train station in a desert with tracks that lead nowhere. (I just went on goodreads to check the title, and it's actually called Autumn in Peking in English. I also discovered that it was featured in a list of Books I Regret Reading. I liked this book, but I understand.)

(* French writers love doing this—like when Alphonse Allais said about his 1893 book The Squadron's Umbrella "I chose this title because there aren't any umbrellas of any sort in this volume, and the important notion of the squadron, as a unit of the armed forces, is never brought up at all; in these conditions, hesitating would have been pure madness.")

• The Library at Mount Char, Scott Hawkins—I fear this one makes a little too much sense for this list, but you can't say it isn't weird; and I loved it and recommend it any chance I get.

• The Eleven Million Mile High Dancer, Carol Hill —this book was so wacky and made me laugh. I've not yet managed to successfully recommend it to someone; its brand of odd didn't resonate with the people I know who've read it but that's okay. You could say it's about a woman astronaut whose weird cat disappears into the fourth dimension (or the quantum realm?) and she goes to space to save him—but that makes the book sound more straightforward and less messy than it is. Her cat leaves her a note before he disappears:

• The Bald Soprano, Ionesco —fun fact, there's a tiny theatre in the Latin Quarter in Paris where this absurdist play has been staged every night for nearly 70 years, with the exact same set design and costumes and everything, like the actors are stuck in a time loop. They celebrated the 20,000th performance this year! There's an actress who has been playing her character for 40 years and said joining this theatre was like joining a religion. I've been going to see this play as a New Year tradition with my best friend since we were 14, so I love it madly, though I wouldn't say it's good, necessarily—the author said it was about "absolutely nothing, but a superior nothing."

• Statuary Gardens; or Les Mers perdues (apparently not translated) by Jacques Abeille. This man is obsessed with weird statues. Unfortunately I find his writing style rather dull—I feel like he takes strange ideas and makes them feel mundane in a bad way...! But his books still have a nice, quiet, oneiric atmosphere, and images that stayed with me, like a solitary gardener trying to grow stone statues in the depleted soil of a walled garden. Here are some illustrations from the second one:

I'll look into some of the books recommended on my previous post! (and I agree with the people who brought up Cortázar, Borges, and Junji Ito. <3) Some potentially-odd books I have on my to-read list: Clive Barker's Abarat, Goran Petrović's An Atlas Traced by the Sky, Salvador Plascencia's The People of Paper, Jean Ray's Malpertuis; Jan Weiss's The House of a Thousand Floors; Brice Tarvel's Pierre-Fendre.

#ask #book recs #i know i've made some of these sound barely readable but it would be risky to oversell them #it's funny how indignant i felt when i first thought that saint-glinglin didn't exist in english translation even though objectively it #wouldn't have been a huge loss and i don't think english speakers are clamouring for more crustacean existentialism after sartre's lobsters #but they should get to choose not to read this book!

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azrielbrainrot · 7 months ago

Text

Moonlit Shadows - Act I

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Description: When tasked to find the once famed Temple of the Moon Goddess, Azriel only expected to find old, forgotten ruins if anything at all. He could have never imagined that not only would he find a temple but also someone who would change his life forever.

Tropes/Tags: Star Crossed Lovers (in a way), Forbidden Romance (kinda), Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, some Angst with a Happy Ending

Warnings: a bit of angst

Word Count: 12,4k

Rating: 18+ (this part is actually kinda chill)

Notes: Just as a warning (?) reader has white hair and white silvery eyes in this story but those are the only physical descriptions I will make, they're kind of part of her magic. Also when I started writing this I totally intended on it being a one-shot but the story got away from me and I decided to split it up into 3 parts. I really hope you enjoy!

Act II

You've been pacing in front of the temple's door ever since the sun set over the mountain, the warm rays slowly being replaced with the brilliant pale moonlight. You keep wringing your hands together and smoothing down any possible wrinkle on your dress, repositioning the diadem perched on your head to make sure it sits perfectly. It's not often you get visitors up in the temple, let alone any your Goddess went out of Her way to warn you about and gave clear instructions to help in any way you could. You can't quite distinguish if the anxiety building inside you is the result of excitement or wariness - possibly a healthy dose of both.

The last time someone climbed these steps had been almost a full decade ago. It was a quite short affair as well since the visitor only needed a book long forgotten in the temple's library. You'd read it multiple times before, and offered it without hesitation, prompting the traveler to thank you and immediately start descending the mountain, going on his way all the while muttering about finally having all the knowledge he needed to achieve his goal. That small interaction served as a reminder of your purpose in this temple, filled you with a sense of accomplishment you usually felt in such situations, but you've been alone in between these walls since then.

After almost four centuries you're more than used to the quiet, to the way your steps echoe in the grand empty space. The loneliness had been a more prominent companion, but even that had come and gone throughout the years. You had no place in the world, nor family or friends waiting for you anymore. All you had left was your duty to the temple. But you're still only fae and the longing for some company catches up to you every once in a while. At times you think you only want the reminder that you're still alive.

There wasn't much to do around the temple either, it magically gave you food and kept itself clean so you didn't even need to bother with that. You could recite every book in the library at this point and you found you weren't the best artist as you tried your hand at painting and sculpting, even music and dancing. The flowers around the temple seemed to grow effortlessly, not even needing you to tend to them either. Even keeping a journal proved inefficient as there was little to write down, the monotony of your life not interesting enough for such a thing. When tasked with guarding the temple, you would never have imagined boredom would end up being your biggest problem.

You still recall the day your hair started turning white and your eyes dulling, losing their color slowly until they turned into the silver, almost white color they were now, mirroring the moonlight. At first your parents thought it could be some disease or even a curse, they were scared for your health and safety beyond measure, but when the Goddess contacted you and sent you the amulet you now wear religiously around your neck, it guided you and your parents to this very temple hidden in the mountains of the Night Court. She then told you Herself what the fates had written for you, presenting you with an oath and sharing her power with you, making you the Keeper of the Moon Temple.

Everything had seemed impossible to believe at first, the time of the Gods had passed millenia ago, it was hard to find someone who could even name any of them anymore, you certainly couldn't at the time. So when you were told what your role in life was going to be you had been completely blindsided, not even knowing what to make of your new occupation, of being trusted with such an important task when you weren't even three decades old.

Truthfully, you expected at least a few people to show up every once in a while, asking for help or guidance. You even prepared yourself for there to be some threats to the temple, but things had been mostly peaceful and quiet, so quiet. You understand why guarding the temple is important, this type of knowledge and power can't ever fall into the wrong hands, the safety of the world depends on it, but sometimes you wonder what your life could have been like if you hadn't been chosen by fate to hold such a heavy burden by yourself.

Your heart stalls in your chest when you feel a presence approaching, used to feeling them pass by unannounced as the temple remains hidden in its protective spell. When it's clear this is the visitor the Goddess had warned you about, as they entered the wards seamlessly, you take a deep calming breath, adjusting the diadem one last time, and open the heavy doors, revealing the temple to the moonlight. As the stairs come into view, you step up to the threshold and clasp your hands together behind your back, waiting to be of help as your Goddess instructed you to.

Distractedly rehearsing your greeting, unused as it was, you almost miss the dark shadows swirling up the milky steps, passing by you and escaping to all corners of the temple before you have time to react. Your head snaps back to follow them, breaking the calming character you were falling into in preparation to fulfill your duty. Some of your power drips down to your fingertips, casting a white glow under your skin, as you study these shadows intently. Not finding any ill intent in them, as strange as they were, some of the tension leaves your body. They simply lay before you, more and more of these wispy shadows gathering together as they swirled around themselves, not paling even a fraction under the bright moonlight or your powers. Strange little things indeed.

You wonder for a moment if this was the visitor the Goddess had mentioned, not knowing what to make of it or how to approach such a situation. She had not specified if the visitor was fae, though you're not so sure how you would be able to help shadows. Before you could embarrass yourself in trying to speak to these creatures, the same presence you felt earlier makes itself known, much closer than before. Looking up at the starry sky, you find strong, dark wings carrying someone directly to the temple, a glimpse of blue shining over their dark form.

This was already the most interesting visitor you've ever had. You'd never had the pleasure of meeting any winged fae before, and, given their reaction to the fae approaching, you were confident the shadows were under their command. Those were definitely even rarer than winged fae - Shadowsingers, you remember them being called.

As they fly down closer to you and the temple, slowly letting the wind guide them, you feel a strange tug on your chest, and then another, this time strong enough that it makes you look down at yourself with furrowed eyebrows. Your confusion only deepens when you notice a bright string connected to your heart, raising your hand to try and touch it. Your fingers pass right through it, as if it wasn't there in the first place, and soon after you try catching it, the string disappears from sight.

You lay a hand down over your chest, feeling your heart beating under your palm. The string was invisible now, but you could still feel it tugging incessantly, as if urging you to look up. You follow its silent command, almost gasping out loud when you find the winged fae a lot closer than you had expected, catching him as he lands with a harsh tud on top of the steps, arms bracing out to maintain his balance as if he isn't quite used to landing yet. The shadows swirling at your feet rush to him, and a bewildered expression takes over his face, likely mirroring your own, as he stares at you, mouth agape.

Wide leathery wings stand behind him, open in a somewhat awkward angle as he stands frozen in place. As the moonlight filters through them you realize they're not quite black as they appeared before, the insides actually have a beautiful crimson hue to them. Your eyes seem to have a mind of their own as they keep cataloging his entire form, taking note of every detail as if it was crucial information. He was covered from head to toe in black leathers, you recognize it as an armor of sorts. It clung to his every muscle, showcasing them as much as it protected him from harm. You find the same blue light from before twinkling in the midst of all the black, studying it closer to find it came from gems scattered across his armor, you're almost certain they hold some of his magic somehow.

Moving up his neck, you find tan skin shining under the moonlight and black hair curling into his forehead softly, locks messy and a little damp from the flight. The stranger also had striking hazel eyes, and you find yourself struggling to not get lost in them, only bringing yourself to break eye contact when you notice the glittery string once more in the corner of your eye, only this time it's connected to his chest.

Your breath catches in your throat as you follow its path slowly, careful not to lose the thin thread once more, finding it leading back to your own heart. You feel another tug, prompting you to look back up at the male in front of you. A hand falls over your heart at the implication, right where you could feel the phantom string had tied itself. Yet another tug confirming your suspicions.

How could this be?

⭒.˚ ☾⭒.˚

Azriel wasn't expecting his evening to turn out like this when he was called to Rhys' office. While he knew there was going to be a mission of sorts, he never imagined it would involve a temple no one has ever heard of or a Goddess long forgotten. Even with Amren's knowledge and the old books she found corroborating her words, Azriel was still anticipating coming back to Velaris empty handed. He's flown over these same mountains at least a million times in the five centuries he's been alive, and never once has he noticed a temple or any signs of magic.

The woods under him looked completely untouched as far as he could tell, no one choosing to live so far from the neighboring towns, isolated between the trees and steep mountains. His shadows filtered through the woods in case he missed something from his high position, even if he thought this search was in vain, it didn't mean he wasn't going to give it his best to fulfill his High Lord's order. He felt almost naked without his shadows latching onto his body though, the single companion still perched on his shoulder in order to relay him information not giving him nearly enough coverage to feel at ease when he was so far from home.

Mission and discomfort aside, the wind felt heavenly hitting his skin on this warm summer evening. It had been a while since he was able to fly for this long without dreading his destination as it usually meant he was visiting the Illyrian mountains, the Hewn City or a much more gruesome mission than the one he found himself in at the moment. It also feels good to step away from the full houses he found himself in nowadays. As much as he loved his family, Azriel had always valued his alone time and it was getting harder to find himself completely alone in the midst of missions and the ever growing inner circle.

As he was flying over the edge of the mountain, Azriel was getting ready to make the trip back and throw a very satisfying “I told you so” at his brother's face when his shadows suddenly disappeared right before his eyes. The abruptness of it made him panic for a few seconds, clapping his wings so he was hovering in the same place and was able to study the space ahead of him, trying to feel for any type of ward or shield but coming up empty. He could still feel his shadows, and knew they were alright given how calm the remaining one was as it sat on his shoulder and simply urged him forward, as if confused why he had stopped in the first place.

Azriel trusted his shadows blindly, they had never steered him wrong after all, and so he did as he was told and slowly started moving forward once again. After living for five hundred years surrounded by magic, there isn't much that can surprise the shadowsinger, but he can safely say he's never seen anything like this. He felt his body pass through some sort of gateway, one that went unnoticed by him until now, and as he did his surroundings began changing as if they had only been a mirage before.

In between the trees a path carved in white stone could now be seen, glinting under the moonlight in complete contrast to the rest of the dark woods. As his eyes followed this path, going up stairs of the same stone carved into the side of the mountain, he found a white temple sitting right at the top. It wasn't a huge building by any means, but the white eerie glow it emitted made it impossible to miss had it not been the spell covering it - one that would make the one who kept Velaris safe for centuries pale in comparison - and keeping it hidden from the world and unwanted eyes.

Amren had been right after all, something that happens more often than he would ever care to admit. The Goddess of the Moon still had at least a temple left in this world, leaving it behind when She took to the sky. Not much is known about the old Gods, but Azriel, born and raised in the Night Court, felt himself relax as he looked up at the moon shining above him, not believing this Goddess could be anything but benevolent. She had watched him fly over from Velaris after all, it almost felt like he was guided here.

The entire temple was made of white stone - it appeared to be the same type of stones used for the path and stairs leading up to it, only more polished. There were silver highlights carved into the walls and columns, these glowed with an intensity Azriel had never seen. Most of the roof was a huge skylight, likely so the moon could illuminate Her temple and Her followers could bask in Her brilliant light.

Given the color scheme of the entire building, his shadows were easy enough to spot, which would have been a big problem had he decided on a more covert operation when coming to the temple, he was more than glad he came here in peace. His little companions seemed perfectly content as they swirled around and over themselves right in front of the temple's doors, a few steps from a figure completely clad in white.

Even after finding the temple where he had only seen trees and shrubs before, he couldn't help but feel even more surprised that there was someone inside it. A sudden spark of magic has the shadowsinger moving faster, a gasp catching in his throat when he sees bright, pale light coming from the figure's palms. Even this wasn't enough to send the shadows that would be at the receiving hand of it into alarm, something curious on its own as they were usually as suspicious and careful as their master.

Azriel was already within earshot when the person in front of him decided his shadows posed no threat and the white light disappeared from her hands. At first glance she might have looked like a regular high fae female, but there was a different kind of power flowing through her, as shown by the strange way this light magic manifested itself, something Azriel had never felt before.

Upon flying down closer, his feet almost touching the top of the steps in front of the temple, he realizes she had not been wearing a white hood or veil as he initially thought but her hair was completely white. There was an unnatural element to it as each strand shone under the moonlight, almost rivaling it in its intensity. The floor length dress she wore was of the same color, made of a light, breathable fabric, almost translucent in certain areas, swishing softly in the faint breeze. She had not looked up at him yet, seemingly intrigued as she watched her own chest. Perhaps looking at the pendant she wore around her neck, the magic coming from it could almost be seen in its intensity.

Azriel took this moment to take her in, not knowing what to say since he was the one possibly trespassing. She was absolutely gorgeous, truly mesmerizing in her beauty and demeanor. It was almost impossible to believe she was real, standing right in front of him and not a Goddess walking his dreams. For a moment Azriel wonders if this is truly the Goddess, if She never left the land of the mortals as it was once believed, instead keeping herself safely hidden in these uninhabited mountains, but when she looks up from her necklace, eyes falling on him for the first time, all thoughts evaporate from his mind. White, silvery eyes meet hazel and a sudden rush of inexplicable feelings hit him right in the chest, squeezing his heart tight and taking his breath away. It felt as if the world had broken apart and put itself together, as if everything finally made sense. The only thing he could make sense of was one word, swirling around in his mind and completely taking over every cell on his body. Mate. You were his mate.

In his stupor, Azriel forgets he was still up in the air, wings freezing along with the rest of his body and sending him falling towards the ground. Thankfully, he hadn't been too high up, and was still able to land on his feet, knees only buckling under his weight slightly as he steadied himself. This had to be the most ungraceful landing he's performed since his brothers were training him between giggles and harmless teasing when he first joined the Illyrian camps. If he wasn't so surprised and his brain was able to formulate a single thought, he would be cringing at the fact that you had just witnessed it, his mate had witnessed it.

It takes several moments before he starts catching on to the situation, the ringing in his ears subsiding and the rest of the world re-emerging around you. He hadn't even noticed his shadows had returned to him, ecstatic for their master finally found his equal. Azriel tries to school his features in an attempt to keep at least some dignity, in fear of coming on too strong as well, especially since it seemed you were in the same predicament as him, a curious but stunned expression locked in your beautiful face as you studied him. His stupid Illyrian senses make him flare out his wings a little before he has the chance to fully take control of his body. When your gaze finds his once more, his heart stalls in his chest before speeding up at an alarming rate. You haven't even spoken a single word to him, but his heart already sang for yours.

⭒.˚ ☾⭒.˚

The oath you made before your Goddess rushes into your head as you study the handsome male in front of you. How could this be possible? The fates had decided your life lied within the temple long before you were born, so why give you a mate? A bond like this is extremely rare, you'd never seen one in your entire lifetime, albeit you lived isolated from the world for most of it. Still, this was something only a few were blessed with, a bond stronger than what mortal minds could even comprehend, so why waste it on you? Could the fates and the Mother be this cruel?

You can't even bring yourself to hope he didn't notice the brilliant bond forming between you - an angry twist pulling at your heartstrings when you dare to think of hiding it - considering the expression on his face and his silence, it seems he's already more than aware of it. All it took was a single glance and it had fallen into place for both of you.

In the midst of the rushing thoughts invading your brain, you try to remember what you've read about mating bonds. There was a book talking about them in the library, of this much you were sure, but its contents were evading your racing mind.

Gaze falling to the floor, trying to sober up from what you imagine to be one of the most intense occurrences anyone could go through, you almost miss the step he takes towards you. The surprise of it makes you flinch slightly, but it was enough for him to notice and take the same step back, wings coiling up tightly to his back and shadows moving to cover him almost completely, excitement wiped off his face and replaced with a hurt expression.

Your gaze falls on him once more, a self loathing feeling crawling up your throat and making you want to beg for his forgiveness on your knees at the thought that you put that expression on his face. This bond would take some getting used to, in what world would you kneel before a male you've just met. Still, you didn't want him to think he scared or even disgusted you in any way, mate or no mate, that was extremely rude.

You clear your throat softly, remembering the weight of your role in this temple and trying desperately to fall back into character, hoping the familiarity of your duties will bring your mind some peace and help you get through this moment.

“Forgive me, it isn't often that we get visitors,” his entire body tenses up even further at your words, but it relaxes as you keep speaking, “I welcome you to the last Temple of the Moon. I'm the keeper and sole habitant of this temple. I've been tasked to keep it safe from any possible threats, but also do my best to help anyone the Goddess deems worthy of being shown the way, just as you have been.”

You try not to look too long in his general direction in fear of getting lost in his eyes once more, but that's close to impossible when you're talking to him and he might be the most beautiful male you've ever encountered. Taking a step to the side, you hold out a hand towards the door, inviting him into the temple, something you should have already done.

He nods his head once after watching your outstretched arm for a moment longer, and then makes his way inside slowly. As he passes by, you can't help but breathe in his scent, it feels intoxicating and it takes every bit of strength in your body to not let your mind linger on how well it would smell mixed with yours, until you couldn't point out where one ended and the other began.

A gasp pulls you out of your betraying thoughts, a smile finding its way to your lips, knowing the sight was making him speechless. It always sparks a little pride in you when someone gazes upon the temple for the first time. Even after living here for centuries, this temple's beauty still takes your breath away. The entire floor was made of replandescent white stones, silver gems weave highlights into them, creating patterns across the entire room, maps of constellations and lunar phases, and giving it a particular glow of their own. They were illuminated by the giant skylight making up most of the ceiling, as to allow both the moon and sunlight to enter. You've tried identifying the materials used in this construction before but ended up coming up empty. It seems the precious stones and gems used no longer grew in this world, perhaps they never did.

At the far corner of the room there was an altar, one without statue or offering table, but an altar all the same. Even when She walked this world, your Goddess never accepted gifts or ever allowed anyone to replicate her image because even that could end up leaving traces of her power behind. The altar looks empty right now, and you catch yourself wishing he could be here to see it on a full moon, when the moon rays fall right over it and you can communicate with and receive any orders the Goddess might have for you. The entire room holds an even more intense glow during that night of the month as well, you're sure he would find it fascinating.

Making your way around him, careful not to step too close or accidentally touch his wings, you catch sight of his awe stricken face, tan skin glowing beautifully under the moonlight. A small, fond smile appears on his face when his gaze falls back on yours, and you almost curse the Mother for the challenge she just put in front of you. His beauty was truly otherworldly, it rivaled every shiny gem and stone in this room, maybe even the moon herself. How were you supposed to act normally knowing this was your mate?

“I've never seen anything like this before,” he admits softly, eyes never straying from yours. The sound of his voice makes you pause, it feels strangely familiar, like something you've been waiting to hear your entire life. There's a curious kind of magic around mating bonds, you don't know how it's possible for someone you've just met to already have so much power over you, even when you're trying your best to ignore him.

“I still find myself at a loss for words when gazing at this room as well,” you agree, wanting to cringe at the bashful expression you know has fallen over your face. Your plan of keeping a detached demeanor while fulfilling your duties was doomed from the start. You clasp your hands behind your back before continuing in what you hope is a professional voice. “The Goddess warned me of your arrival and left orders for me to help you in any way I can. If you tell me what you seek, I will give you what you came here for as long as it's within my abilities.”

His eyebrows furrow slightly at your words. “How did you know I was coming?”

“The Goddess knows more than us mortals will ever be able to grasp,” you explain as vaguely as possible while hopefully not raising any suspicions. There's not a single cell in your body that thinks he's untrustworthy, but they're incredibly biased, and the inner workings of your role as the Moon's keeper must be protected.

He seems satisfied enough with your answer, but there's a different kind of air about him now. As if remembering he doesn't know you, and has found himself at your mercy.

“You haven't told me what you came for,” you remind him. If you sit in silence for long your thoughts will start drifting again.

“Right,” he clears his throat, a pinkish tint covering the tips of his rounded ears. “I come on behalf of the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court.” Your eyebrows raise at this, not expecting him to be such an important person. “One of the High Lady's sisters has been turned into a seer recently, and given that she wasn't even born fae, these powers have proven extremely hard to control.”

You've heard the story of the human who saved the fae from the evil clutches of Amarantha, and her sisters who were tragically thrown in the cauldron by King Hybern and turned into fae against their will. Your Goddess had even told you one of the sisters vengefully stole her powers from the cauldron, and the other was gifted seer abilities. Given the circumstances in which this all went down, it's understandable that she has been having trouble controlling her powers. Being a seer is an exceptionally heavy burden, and she's still so young too.

“We have some books that might be able to help, both in controlling one's power and pulling an entranced fae out of any visions or dreams they've found themselves stuck in. Was that what you were hoping for?”

“Yes,” he admits, apparently relieved at having found what he was looking for, “We found texts mentioning the followers of the Moon Goddess often had prophetic dreams, and wrote entire manuals on how to navigate them. Since Elain wasn't born with these powers these books seemed perfect to help her, and so the High Lady sent me searching for them.” You nod, motioning for him to follow you as you turn and start walking to the library, already making a mental list of all the books that might help his friend.

Even lost in thought, you sense him stopping in his steps as you're walking down the corridor, overwhelmingly aware of his every move as you were. This prompts you to turn around and face him in question, only to find him watching you in amazement.

“You're breathtaking,” he blurts out before he can catch himself, making heat rush up your neck and settle over your entire face. He looks away embarrassed for a moment, one of his shadows crawling up his neck and over his ear, before looking back at you with a bashful look. “I'm sorry. I just- Is it normal for you to glow like this?”

This power has been a part of you for so long, you almost forget about the way your hair lights up in the dark, an aura surrounding you as well, giving you an overall ethereal glow. “Yes, I harness power from the moon and She glows so…” you trail off, biting your lip as he keeps studying you. “The library is right up ahead,” you add, turning your back to him once more so you can gather your thoughts for the nth time since he stepped foot into this temple.

As you navigate through the familiar rows of shelves your heart finally calms, easily picking up the pertinent books. You can't help but keep watching him out of the corner of your eye, not out of suspicion, but curiosity for his every reaction. He seems content with following after you as he watches the decorations and studies the books sitting on the shelves, not once asking you what you're giving him, simply carrying the books you hand him. It makes you wonder if he usually trusts everyone this easily or if it's something reserved for you.

When you hand him the last book, you move to the back of the room slowly, the place where you keep some important magical amulets and tools, waiting on any sign from the Goddess forbidding you from lending him any of them. He comes to stand beside you then, likely noticing your hesitation.

“There is also an artifact that I think could help your friend,” you start, picking up the bracelet in question and holding it up as you explain its power, “This can help numb one's powers.”

“Like faebane?”

You shake your head, “No, this is completely painless, but it's vital that it is only used when she's finding herself lost in her visions and you're struggling to pull her out. This is not to be used as a crutch. If she used it to suppress her powers too often, she might never be able to take control of her full powers and this bracelet could become something she can't live without.” He nods, hopefully understanding the gravity behind your words. “It's also extremely rare and dangerous so I ask that, as soon as she has a better grasp of her abilities, I would say within a few years at most, this bracelet is delivered back to the temple so it can be kept safe.”

“What happens if we don't return it?”

The question makes you tense up and close your hands around the bracelet, your voice coming out clipped as you answer him. “I'm not entirely sure as no one has ever attempted something so foolish as long as I've been here, but those types of transgressions are handled by the Goddess so I imagine you would not be able to keep it even if you tried.”

“I wasn't considering keeping it. I was merely curious,” he rushes to explain, sincerity dripping from every word and making you relax a bit.

“Curious?”

“If you would be the one to come for it,” he confessed.

A warm tingly feeling spreads through your body as you digest his words. Would he seriously consider stealing from a God just for a chance to see you again? Even if it meant being at the end of your wrath? Can you be confident the bond wouldn't drive you to such extremes as well?

“I can't leave the temple unattended,” you murmur, much too softly for your own good. Your emotions are running all over the place, it almost seems like they're fighting to see which one will take control of your body, and unfortunately, you have an inkling as to which is winning as his scent overwhelms your senses once again.

“Of course,” he says, taking a small step closer to you, shadows mostly retreating from his body, “Forgive me. I didn't mean to upset you.” Must his voice sound like a cup of hot chocolate after a day spent playing in the snow?

It doesn't help that you've been in this temple for so long that you can't even recall the last time someone touched you, not even sexually, no one has so much as held your hand or hugged you in decades, ever since your parents passed. Looking at him, you know you could get lost in his arms, your head resting against his strong chest.

It's only when you squeeze the bracelet too hard, a bit of its power zapping through you, that you're finally able to pull yourself from the beautiful hazel of his eyes, and your consuming thoughts. Clearing your throat and handing him the bracelet. He only hesitates a second, likely pulling himself out of the moment as well, before carefully taking it from your hand, conscious of not letting his skin touch yours, much to your dismay.

You can feel your eyes widen at the sight of his scarred hands before you have a chance to school your features. The armor he wears and the sword strapped between his wings tell you he's a warrior, but you can't imagine what could have happened for this injury to scar like this. Someone employed directly under the High Lord must have access to the best healers in the court. Suddenly, anger bubbles in the pit of your stomach at the thought that someone dared to hurt your mate.

This time he's the one to pull away from you abruptly, shadows returning to their master, and that infuriating string tugging at your heart as he does. It makes you want to reach out and hold his hand, reassure him somehow, but thankfully your brain catches up to the thought that might be overstepping, and so you simply nod at him and ask him to follow you back to the temple's main room once more.

The walk back is filled with a heavy atmosphere, not only considering your oversight, but also at the realization that you must send him away now, likely never to see him again. If you're lucky he will be the one to return the bracelet, and you will be able to see him in a few years. The thought makes you slow your pace.

It's only when you reach the heavy doors, that you allow yourself to turn to him, his face reflecting your feelings perfectly. You briefly consider mentioning the bond, at least to make sure he feels it too, but you fail to see what good that would bring. You still can't leave the temple and, now that he's gotten what he came for, he will not be able to return either. This will be the last time you see each other, regardless of your feelings.

He studies your face carefully, perhaps wondering the same. It seems he reaches a conclusion as he speaks up, “Can you tell me your name?” He sounded hopeful, but somehow scared of asking, as if denying him could hurt him beyond comparison.

You whisper your name hesitantly, knowing this isn't just another stranger, this was your mate. He repeats it, tasting it on his tongue as he stares at you with an intensity you almost couldn't bear, but were unable to look away from.

“My name is Azriel,” he offers willingly, like he wanted nothing more than to hear you say his name, and who were you to deny him this when you were already withholding so much? You repeat his name the same way he did yours, the impertinent little silver string connecting you and your mate reappearing as the delicious word left your lips.

You keep repeating it in your mind as he thanks you for your help and you watch him take flight, hesitation written in his entire body language as his wings slowly carry him over the clouds, looking back down multiple times as if fighting himself to keep moving. You repeat it once more out loud, when you can't see him anymore and you know he's out of earshot. This time his name is followed by a broken whisper of an apology.

⭒.˚ ☾⭒.˚

The flight back to Velaris was one of the hardest ones Azriel has ever attempted, noticeably taking him much longer than it would have under normal circumstances. He has had to fly back home on an injured body and even injured wings, carrying another with him – Cassian of all people – and he's had to fly through the most extreme weather, heavy rain, snow and the torrid desert sun. All of those things had seemed easy compared to what he was experiencing now with a well rested body.

Both Rhysand and Cassian had mentioned how the mating bond made them act differently, how it seemed like it was taking control of their body and pushing them to act a certain way, but he didn't expect it to be this bad. His every instinct was screaming at him to turn around and go back for his mate.

He even had to take a break along the way, after watching the temple disappear right before his eyes, hidden inside the spell that had kept it safe for millenia. As the sight of the brilliant building was replaced with trees and rocks, the only thing going through Azriel's mind was that he might never see his mate again, the mere thought sending his heart into disarray. He spends a good while sitting under the moonlight, looking ahead at where he knows she is, while his shadows do their best to comfort him. Trying desperately to wrap his head around everything that happened, and how much his life changed in such a short time.

If he had been given a warning, a chance to prepare himself, then maybe he would have approached things differently, but getting blindsided by a mating bond wasn't in his plans. In fact, it had been a good while since he had stopped hoping for a mate.

He had longed for one most of his life. For someone that not only was his equal, but was also able to connect to him in ways only those who have experienced such a thing can begin to comprehend. A person that would accept him no matter how wretched he was, how much blood he has had to wash off his hands for the sake of his court. Someone he would love with every breath in him, even if it ruined him completely.

So many don't truly believe in mating bonds until they see them in front of them, but Azriel always did. He'd seen the worst this world had to offer and knew that if there was such darkness, then its counterpart would be equally as strong. And what could be stronger and brighter than love?

It wasn't until his brothers found mates of their own within a year of each other that Azriel started truly wishing for one though. Before, it was nothing more than a dream, just as he had dreamt of flying when he was locked in his cell, of seeing his mother when his cruel father kept him away from her, but seeing the happiness the mating bond had brought his brothers and how amazing the connection they shared with their mates was, he couldn't help longing for the same.

That was until enough years passed, everyone around him happily mated or in loving relationships while he stood by and watched from the same dark corner of the room. Azriel had convinced himself he wasn't worthy of a mate, even now after seeing you he can't help but feel the same. You were perfect in every aspect of the word, a beacon of light even kept away in your temple, while Azriel was nothing more than a monster. The feared Spymaster of the Night Court. Always ready to drench his hands in blood for the sake of his family and his home, always covered in shadows. A lesser fae, Illyrian of all kinds.

You deserve someone better, of that much he's sure, but the Mother had decided you were equals, and Azriel didn't mind doing his best to be worthy of you even if he had to work for it for the rest of his life. He's been waiting to love someone for so long, has been saving all of that inside him, and he wants nothing more than to shower you in affection, in reverence. Except it didn't seem like he would have the chance.

For most of your interaction, Azriel was convinced you had also felt the bond forming between you two, but he couldn't be sure, not when you hadn't even mentioned it or alluded to it before showing him out. Maybe he had read too much into things, let his own feelings bleed into his analysis, or maybe you simply didn't want a mating bond, not with someone like him. It didn't seem like you knew of him, but who's to say you haven't heard of the awful things he's done, and decided you didn't want anything to do with a monster like him.

The thought had his shadows rushing to soothe him once more, whispering vehement denials of his unworthiness as they covered him. Unfortunately, they wouldn't answer any of his questions about you, claiming it wasn't their place to explain your feelings or situation. In a way they were right, but that left him with no idea of what to think.

Azriel sat on that mountain, mulling over everything that had happened until the first rays of the sun started rising over the horizon. It wasn't until Rhysand reached out to check on him, worried at his spymaster's unusual tardiness, that he resumed his trip back to Velaris, this time passing through shadows along the way to cut his time shorter, hoping his brother hadn't caught glimpse of the heartbreakingly beautiful female consuming his every thought. Trying desperately to clear his mind as the cool wind hit his face, preparing for the meeting that was waiting for him as soon as he got home.

“So the temple truly exists?” Rhysand had been as skeptical about the temple's existence as Azriel, finding it hard to believe that such a thing could be hidden in his own court without his knowledge.

Azriel nods and sets the books you've given him on the dark desk, dropping the bracelet on top of the pile carefully, trying not to be reminded of the way you had handed it to him, or focus on your scent still clinging to it faintly. Shaking himself out of it and letting the spymaster mask fall over his face, he starts explaining how he had found the temple behind a powerful spell, going into detail about the building itself, the keeper who had helped him and the books and bracelet given to him, including the warnings you gave him, making sure to stress the fact that the bracelet was to be returned as soon as Elain gained enough control of her abilities.

“You really didn't feel the wards around the temple?”

“No, if my shadows hadn't disappeared right before my eyes I wouldn't have even noticed they were there.” So much had happened that Azriel almost forgot how peculiar those wards were, in fact all the magic present in the temple and in you had felt different.

“And this keeper?” His heart speeds up treacherously, enough so that Rhys gets a curious glint in his purple eyes, undoubtedly noticing it. “Tell me about her.”

A soft scowl takes over his features, a strange possessiveness creeping up before has the chance to quell it. “She was waiting for me at the entrance. Apparently the Moon Goddess warned her there was a visitor coming.”

“She can talk to the Goddess?”

“It seems so,” Azriel hesitates for a moment, “Her magic is different from any fae I've seen. Her hair is completely white, and her eyes aren't much darker, maybe a bit more silver. There was a certain aura about her, her entire being seemed to glow beautifully under the moonlight, even more when we moved inside. She truly looked otherworldly. In that moment, she looked even more radiant than the stars and the moon combined.”

A moment of silence falls over the room as everyone digests Azriel's words, tiny gasps leaving Feyre and Elain, who had been out of it for most of the conversation as a result of yet another one of her visions, and Nesta's jaw dropping significantly as they were not used to hearing the Shadowsinger muse about someone like this. Unfortunately, the others have seen him drunk enough when he was younger, so it wasn't as much of a surprise.

“What was that, brother?” Cassian's teasing voice cuts through his thoughts, “I thought you didn't resort to poetry.”

Azriel looks up at this, heat rising to his cheeks at the amused looks shared by everyone in the room, realizing he had lost himself in his descriptions of you, unable to keep them as clinical as he normally would, especially when it came to a mission.

“I just meant her magic manifests in a way I've never seen before,” he finishes lamely, one of his shadows oh so helpfully crawling up his neck to notify him that no one seemed to believe his excuse.

“Right, her magic,” Nesta mocks, suddenly interested in hearing about the temple after focusing on the books that would be helping her sister.

Thankfully, Amren didn't care about whether he found the keeper beautiful or not, and wanted to keep the conversation on track, a bored expression on her face as she pulled the attention back to her and the topic at hand.

“You said she called herself the keeper of the temple, correct?”

Azriel nods at her while checking his mental walls just in case, lest he also let them fall in his moment of distraction, and his High Lord or Lady saw something they shouldn't. He can only guess what feelings and thoughts would be attached to your image in his mind. If they saw this he would never hear the end of it.

“I believe she not only can communicate with the Goddess but also shares some of her powers. It's hard to determine just how powerful she truly is,” the ancient one turns to Rhys and Feyre, a serious look taking over her features, “She could become a threat to us.”

“She's not a threat,” his voice cuts through the room, protecting his mate instinctively.

Rhysand raises one annoyingly perfect eyebrow at Azriel's sudden outburst. Some of the amusement still lingers around the room, but the anger behind his statement was undeniable, creating some tension and confusion between everyone. It's not often they see him so on edge, to the point of raising his voice at Amren of all people.

He tries to calm himself as much as possible, knowing this is a symptom of the mating bond and that his brothers and sister-in-laws might be able to figure that out, and tries to explain himself once again.

“I was the one who talked to her, there were no ill intentions when she guided me through the temple and gave me the books. She even added more books than we wanted or knew existed, and the bracelet. She helped us willingly.”

Amren studies him through narrowed eyes for a moment longer before finishing her earlier thought. “Even if she had any ill intentions, keepers are bound to their temples and can't physically leave, so there wouldn't be much to worry about.”

It feels like the world stops when Azriel hears these words. Every little hope he was clinging to in regards to your bond escaped him in that moment. If what Amren said was true, you couldn't leave the temple, even if you wanted to come and find him, and he couldn't find the temple unless he needed something and the Goddess showed him the way. He could very well never see you again, or only once more, when Elain got better and he had to deliver the books and bracelet back to the temple. Was that why you ignored the bond? Because you knew there was no hope for the two of you?

Azriel spends the rest of the meeting in a sort of trance, barely able to listen to what his family was talking about, or even register what they decided when it came to helping Elain use the books. It was impossible to focus on anything when it felt like his life, a dream that had barely started was crumbling right before his eyes. He only tunes back in when the meeting is over and most of the Inner Circle starts leaving, hoping he can at least go rest from his flight, take a long bath and find a quiet place to be alone and digest these life changing last few hours.

He was already on his feet, dragging his exhausted body to the door when Rhys called out his name, making him turn around in question. “There's something else we need to discuss.” His brother was always the most perceptive at the worst times. The last thing Azriel wants to do right now is discuss his miserable fate with anyone.

Everyone filters out the room then, even Feyre who drops a kiss on her mate's cheek before following her sister out - a gesture he's more than used to witnessing but bears a different weight today - leaving the two brothers alone in the quiet office. Azriel doesn't move from his spot, standing in the middle of the room with crossed arms as Rhysand studies him, daring him to start the conversation, secretly praying he simply has another mission to send him on instead of the conversation he's almost sure is about to start.

“Are you going to tell me what happened with this keeper?”

Azriel has to physically stop himself from sighing. Why couldn't the Mother let him have a moment after everything that has already happened in the last few hours?

“Nothing happened,” he sounds defensive even to himself, his mind too preoccupied to try and mask his emotions, “She gave me the books and then I left.” This much was true, unfortunately.

Rhys simply hums, always sounding irritatingly sure of himself. “So you wouldn't mind showing me your memories of last night, right? I'd like to take a good look at the temple. It seemed quite intriguing,” he pauses for a second, head tilting a fraction to the side, mouth forming into a smirk, “and so did she.”

A snarl escapes Azriel's mouth at his brother's words. Even if he knew he was being baited, controlling this damned bond was impossible right now. Rhysand's smirk only deepens, like a predator who successfully lured its prey, since his brother gives him the exact reaction he was expecting with that little comment. No wonder Azriel has to work so hard as his Spymaster, it's a miracle Rhys has lived this long.

“You look very defensive of a female you've only exchanged one simple conversation with.”

“Like I said before,” he says, that snarl not quite leaving his lips no matter how hard he tries, “She helped us without a second thought, even more than we expected. I just don't understand why everyone keeps insisting that she might be a threat.”

“I didn't say she was a threat, I simply asked you to show me what she looked like.” The High Lord taps his purple painted nails on the table, waiting for a response. When it becomes clear that Azriel isn't taking the bait, Rhys keeps going, “Can't blame me for being curious of how this keeper beautifully glows under the moonlight. She looked otherworldly, you said?”

The thought of assassinating his loving brother crosses Azriel's mind. He doesn't even know what to respond knowing those were his own words, and any reaction would be amplified by the mating bond. The High Lord had him right where he wanted him.

As he keeps staring at his brother, shadows climbing up his body until most of him is covered from those intense violet eyes, Rhysand's expression changes, a somewhat defeated look replacing the earlier amusement as he accepts that he'll have to pry the truth from his spymaster.

“Azriel, I've known you for over five centuries. I can tell when you're hiding something from me,” his face and tone turning even more serious as he continues, “I also know what a fresh mating bond feels like, the emotions it evokes in us.”

Azriel stares at his brother for another moment, before realizing there was no need to try and pretend he wasn't right, letting out a sigh before sitting down in the chair across from him defeatedly, shadows settling while his wings drooped, enough to touch the floor.

“If you already know, why are you asking me about it?”

“I didn't expect this to be your reaction,” he says, thoroughly studying Azriel's face. “I don't understand why you wouldn't be happy. I know it can be scary, but you've always wanted a mate, Az.”

“There's nothing to be happy about.”

Rhys simply rolls his eyes, “I know a bit more about mating bonds than you do. Trust me there's a lot to be happy about.”

His temper rises at this, emotions still not having settled - he's starting to wonder if they ever will. Even his shadows were becoming overstimulated, not knowing how to soothe their singer in these circumstances.

“Didn't you hear what Amren said? She can't leave the temple, she's bound to it, and I can't go back there since it's hidden under whatever spell that was,” the words almost caught in his throat, “I'm never seeing her again.”

Saying it out loud makes the whole situation unbearably real. It's not often Azriel sees himself in conversation such as these, always one to ignore his feelings for as long as possible, and then isolating himself when they become too much, but his brother knows him too well, as he said before, and was prying out everything too easily.

“I don't even know if she wanted this,” he finds himself whispering.

“Why wouldn't she?”

Azriel swallows all the self-pity, the unworthiness he felt when it came to you, or anyone else really. Diving into these feelings would lead them into a different conversation, one he wasn't sure he could handle, much less right now, and so he opts for the simpler answer.

“She didn't mention the bond once, she was ignoring it – if she even felt it at all,” he leans back and runs his hand through his hair, “my feelings were muddled the whole time I was there so I can't even know for sure.”

“You didn't tell her you were her mate either,” Rhysand reminds him.

Would things have gone a different way if he had? Or would you simply let him down as soon as he brought it up? Did it even matter? Would he be able to survive your rejection?

“She told you the temple showed itself for the people who needed it, right?” Azriel looks up at his brother, nodding. “Seems to me like you need to talk to her.”

⭒.˚ ☾⭒.˚

You're not entirely sure what one is supposed to do after finding their Mother-blessed mate, and then proceed to send them on their way, possibly to never return. Not being able to get even a wink of sleep and spending the next few hours searching your library for any information on mating bonds seems appropriate though. There wasn't anything written in these books that you didn't already know about mating bonds: extreme attraction, a connection of emotions, feelings of primal possessiveness, the possibility for a love unlike any other.

There was no mention of the silver string you'd seen tied around both of your hearts, but the bond seems to manifest itself differently for everyone, and the magic your Goddess has poured into you was peculiar to say the least. Even Azriel might not have seen or felt it manifest the same way you did, but that doesn't mean it's not there. Denying it is out of the picture at this point.

The section about rejecting mating bonds caught your eye, but it quickly soured your mood. It seems there's no way to reject a mating bond and hope for life to ever go back to normal, especially for males as they would always feel like a part of them was missing. The book didn't exactly go into depth on the topic – there can't be too many other idiots thinking of turning down a mating bond, – so it didn't mention anything about just ignoring the bond. Would it just fizzle out until you could barely feel anything, or would it end up with the same effects of a rejected bond? As much as you knew this bond was doomed from the start, you didn't want to convict Azriel to a lifetime of madness, or even worse. It was bad enough he couldn't get a mate out of you.

After your mood deflates at the bleak prospect for your future, and the sun has already replaced the moon, you decide to indulge yourself for a moment. Since your encounter had been so brief, you ended up not finding out too much about Azriel aside from his name, and, as much as there was a voice nagging at the back of your mind, warning you that trying to learn more about your mate won't help you in successfully ignoring the bond at all, you're still only fae and curiosity got the best of you. How could you not be curious about your mate?

You'd heard stories about a shadowsinger working under the High Lord of the Night Court, but you didn't know if that was him as the High Lord had changed since then. If it was though, this would make him a truly important figure for this court, country even. You can't help but feel proud at the thought.

Your search for information on Shadowsingers soon proves fruitless, not being able to find much else aside from their abilities to communicate with shadows, rare as they are, so you move onto researching winged fae instead, in hopes of finding out what kind he is. There are various kinds, this much you know, but for some reason you've always imagined them all to have feathered wings. It's at times like these that you wished you had traveled more when you were younger.

Most of the day is spent like this, tucked into your favorite sofa in the library, the temple refilling your teacup and offering you little snacks as you search for any bit of information that could help you understand who Azriel is. A tug on your silver string finally pulls you out of the moment, body immediately going into alert as you feel your mate nearing. These feelings are entirely too abstract, there's no way of knowing if he's flying over the temple or simply a bit closer than he had been an hour prior - which could still be halfway across the Night Court. You'd also found in one of the books that mates could attempt reaching out to each other through the bond, the descriptions of the resulting feeling appearing quite similar to what you were experiencing at the moment.

You try to ignore it and carry on reading your book on wings - the irony not lost on you - but the string keeps tugging incessantly, even more firmly now, and you suddenly get the feeling that he was actually close, possibly even trying to reach out at the same time or following the bond.

Had he come looking for you? You told him the temple kept itself hidden unless the visitor needed something from within these walls and the Goddess allowed them passage. He had to know that he wouldn't find anything more than trees and shrubs in this forest, the temple keeping itself out of sight even if he had been here before and knew its exact location, such were the wards around this place.

Putting away the book and sitting up on the sofa, you wonder what you should do. There's no way of communicating with him, and you won't be able to let him in, no matter how desperate you were since that decision was not your own to make. Your role was to protect the temple, but you knew he wasn't a threat either. Were you to simply stand by and watch while he looked for you, only to be met with silence? The Mother seems to have a twisted sense of humor.

As you were preparing yourself mentally for what you assumed were going to be a tough few hours, you feel the unmistakable sign of someone passing through the barrier, prompting you to stand up and winnow straight to the main hall, opening the front doors in a rush, only to find a familiar dark figure waiting for you.

If you weren't witnessing it with your own eyes, if your heart wasn't beating at that rhythm that seemed reserved solely for him, you wouldn't have believed this to be true. Your feet move of their own accord, carrying you towards your mate as he stands at the entrance to your temple, a contagiously hopeful expression on his face as he watches you move to him.

“How did you get here?” You can't help the dumb question, not being able to understand what is happening in the midst of your surprise and every other feeling that came with his presence.

“I needed to talk to you,” he explains in a breathy tone, smiling down at you like he wasn't sure if this would have worked either, if he was actually going to be able to find you.

The Goddess showed him the way, if She hadn't he wouldn't have been able to find you, even with any shadowsinger trick he might have had up his sleeve. Could She know he's your mate? She had been the one to warn you of his arrival the day before after all.

You're still trying to gather your thoughts when he continues, skipping over all the pleasantries as if he couldn't keep the words in any longer.

“You're my mate.”

Hearing the word coming from his mouth makes your heart soar, a tingling feeling spreading over your entire body as if lava was now running through your veins. This was not a confession you needed to hear, but the bond welcomed it anyway.

“I know,” you admit, a bittersweet smile overtaking your features.

“Are you unhappy with it? With me?” You quickly shake your head in denial, but he continues before you have the chance to explain, “I would understand it if you were, and if you don't want the bond, I won't force you to accept it. I promise I will never hurt you.”

Is this what has been going through his mind since he left? That you wouldn't want him? The thought makes you swallow, you've only wanted to spare him as much pain as you could, not hurt him more yourself.

“Azriel, that's not it. There's nothing wrong with you, or any reason I wouldn't want you as my mate” you assure, “but I swore my life to protecting this temple, and I can't physically leave the grounds. That's not fair to you.”

He doesn't seem to be surprised at the information, meaning he was probably already aware of your predicament and decided to come talk to you anyway, but he still takes a moment before speaking, thinking through his words as he watches you, shadows coming up to whisper in his ear.

“Did you make a vow of chastity or anything similar?” The question takes you aback for a second, heat rising to your cheeks at the implication.

“Not explicitly, no,” you clear your throat, “but it's hard to keep a relationship when you're bound to a temple hidden in the middle of nowhere. I can't even walk past the first few steps.”

Azriel looks behind him at your words. If he took a few steps down, you wouldn't be able to follow him, a different set of wards keeping you within these grounds. When he meets your eyes once again, you add carefully, “This isn't a relationship worth pursuing when we both know it won't end up working.”

“I think I would like to decide that for myself,” he says as he takes a small step closer to you, “if you'll allow me.”

“What?”

“I would like to come visit you whenever I can, and get to know you. This… I don't think we should throw away a chance like this so lightly, not without at least giving it a try.” He closes most of the distance between you, raising up his hand and holding his palm up for you to take, “Even if it never becomes a romantic relationship, or if it ends up breaking both of our hearts, I don't want to be the person who didn't fight for something so special in fear of getting hurt.”

You watch his hand as you mull over his words. It's not as if he doesn't make sense in his argument, you're more than aware how downright stupid it is to throw away a mating bond when some people spend their whole lives searching for one, but you're scared, for both of your sakes. Letting your mate into your life, even without accepting the bond, knowing that there will come a time when you will want more from it than what you're capable of having would not simply hurt you both, but change both of your lives beyond recognition – it could even kill you. And yet, staring into his hopeful eyes every little reason why you should be turning him down, walking back into the temple and closing the door behind you, seems to escape your mind.

When his hand lowers slightly, wings drooping as well, possibly taking your hesitation as denial, your hand moves to hold his instinctively, surprising the both of you. You had been kidding yourself into thinking you could fight a bond like this. The smallest sign that your mate would leave and your body moved to keep him by your side. Your decision has been made. You can only hope the Gods will have mercy on you.

“I would like to get to know you too, Azriel,” you say, squeezing his hand in yours as a blinding smile takes over his devastatingly handsome face. “As long as the Goddess shows you the way to the temple, I don't see anything wrong with… talking.”

He lets his thumb run over the back of your hand before raising it to his lips, sending your heart into disarray as he leaves a soft kiss on your skin. A flush covers the tip of his ears, and you catch a flash of the silver string connecting the both of you.

“Then I promise to come see you as often as I can.” He lets your hands fall between you two, fingers still intertwined as you stare at each other like fools. You catch yourself after a moment, thanking the Mother for living in this isolated mountain for once so no one could witness this.

“Do you want to come in? You must be tired after your flight,” you invite, letting go of his hand, missing the warmth of his skin immediately.

His gaze drops to your hand before meeting yours once again and nodding, following you inside into the main hall he had been in before. It looked different in the light of day, his hazel eyes studying it once more.

“I didn't fly all the way here,” he starts, gaze still stuck on the stone covered walls, “I can travel through shadows, similarly to how most high fae can winnow.”

“Oh.” You watch as his shadows move lazily around him, coming up his legs. “Is that one of your shadowsinger abilities?”

“Yes.” You wanted to ask more, your earlier curiosity returning, but you find a conflicted expression when he meets your eyes, you can also feel it in your chest, and so you wait for him to decide if he wants to share it with you.

“I'm not high fae,” he admits.

“Right, the wings,” you let out, much too excitedly, as your eyes fall on the huge appendages on his back, “I've never met anyone with wings, and haven't even heard of featherless wings. I searched in the library for types of winged fae, but most of our collection is a bit outdated, and the Goddess was never too interested in those sorts of things so I couldn't find anything that fit your description.” Your mind finally catches up to your words then, eyes widening before falling to your hands as you play with your fingers, and add lamely, “I have a lot of time on my hands here, and I didn't think I'd see you again so…”

You dare a look at his face when his silence drags on too long, finding him watching you with a surprised expression, wide hazel eyes staring into your white ones. His shadows had crept up his neck once again - singing to him you suppose.

Azriel finally finds his words after another moment, your eyes not straying from his for a second, “I'm Illyrian,” he starts, studying your face carefully before continuing, “As far as I know, we're the only ones whose wings have no feathers.”

“Illyrian?”

“Have you heard of it?” He seems scared somehow, but you're not exactly sure why he would be. You try to remember where you've heard the word before, only taking you a moment to remember them as people who live in the mountains up in the north, and were part of the High Lord's army.

“Yes. I know they're people who live in the mountains, and fought in the war but I didn't even know you had wings,” you gesture to them, “I didn't get much of a chance to travel before I came to the temple, so I've never met any Illyrians.”

“That's all you've heard?” You nod slowly, eyebrows furrowing at his insistence. “Illyrians have an unfavorable reputation. The males train their whole lives to fight, and the females aren't regarded as much more than a means for procreation,” he explains further, “Some have started changing their ways, slowly, but most camps insist on their traditions, no matter how cruel. They- We just don't have a good reputation.”

You start understanding where he was getting at. Some fae had trouble opening their eyes to how the world was changing around them, choosing to remain willfully ignorant to the harm it brought those who were different from them, who they deemed as lesser. He was scared that, had you heard about whatever cruelty he's seen from his peers, you would judge him for it. You feel a little offended that he would think so lowly of you, but the truth is he doesn't know you at all, or you him.

“It's hard to outlive archaic traditions when we live for centuries. I wouldn't ever dream of passing judgment on an entire group of people for the beliefs some of its members insist on clinging onto,” you clasp your hands together behind your back, shrugging as you smile up at him, “and I might be biased, or even wrong, but I think you're very kind, Azriel. You came all the way here to help your friend, with no real proof that you'd find what you were looking for, and then you came back to ask permission to visit me, even when you thought I might not accept it. Cruel is the last word I'd use to describe you. I'd rather go with sweet.”

“Sweet?” He asks, a flush rising to his cheeks and a bashful smile finally erasing that conflicted expression off his face. “You think I'm sweet?” You hum in agreement, your grin growing so large it hurts your cheeks. “I'll have to let my mother know at last someone agrees with her.”

You let out a laugh, the image of a baby Azriel getting showered in praises from his mother entering your mind. You almost have trouble imagining him as a child, but you have no doubts he was more than sweet, adorable even, with his round cheeks and small wings.

“So…” You lean back on your heels, intertwining your hands behind your back. “Do you want me to show you around the temple?”

“I would love to,” he agrees with a blinding smile on his face.

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fic #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #my writing

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multific · 2 months ago

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Bounded by Hope

Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Summary: You catch Lucius's eye as he fights in the Colosseum, his strength and resolve captivating you. Later that night, you sneak into the arena, where he confesses.

The roar of the Colosseum still echoed in your ears as you lingered near the edges of the great arena that evening.

You swore you could still hear the people cheer.

Lucius had fought with unmatched skill earlier that day, you watched him closely, but it was the moment his eyes briefly met yours that sent your heart racing.

You weren’t supposed to be there, but you had to be there just to see him.

The poet Gladiator.

That was something you wanted to see.

Now, with the moon high in the sky and the city around you settling into sleep, you found yourself sneaking through the shadows, your heart pounding with both fear and anticipation.

The Colosseum was large, its arches surrounded by darkness.

It wasn’t hard to find the gate leading to the fighters’ quarters; your feet seemed to move as if they knew the path.

“Who goes there?” a voice called softly from within.

You froze, gripping the cold metal bars.

Lucius’s figure emerged from the shadows, his tunic loose and his hair messy.

He had been resting, but his eyes were sharp as they fell upon you.

“It’s... just me,” you whispered, your voice soft and gentle.

“My Lady, you shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, stepping closer to you as his expression softened.

“And yet, here I am,” you replied, your fingers tightened around the bars. “I wished to see you.”

He moved closer to you, his eyes studied yours, his hands brushing against the bars opposite yours.

“Why? Surely you know this is dangerous.”

“I saw you today, fighting in the arena. You were incredible. But it wasn’t just your skill, no, it was your heart that captured me. I’ve never seen anyone like you.” you admitted.

He chuckled though there was a hint of bitterness in it.

“A gladiator doesn’t usually receive such praise from someone like you, My Lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said quickly. “Not tonight. I’m just a woman standing before you, nothing more.”

“And I am just a man who fights because he must,” he said quietly. “But today... when I saw you, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time. Hope.” He said and leaned closer, the bars the only thing separating you.

“Hope for what?” you felt your heart pounding in your chest.

“For freedom. For a life beyond these walls,” he said, his voice growing stronger. “For a chance to hold onto what I’ve seen in you.”

“Do you truly believe you can win your freedom?”

“I have to,” he said firmly. “Not just for myself, but for you.”

“For me?” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper.

“If I win, I will leave this place, and I will find you. I will make you mine, if you’ll have me.” He said, his hands gripping the bars tightly now.

Tears welled in your eyes, you didn't even know each other. Yet a simple look was enough for you both.

“You don’t have to fight for me, Hanno,” you said softly. “I would wait for you, no matter how long.”

“Please, call me Lucius. I must fight,” he insisted. “I must earn the right to stand beside you. I must become a man you are worthy of.”

The intensity in his voice left you speechless.

You reached through the bars, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

He closed his eyes at your touch, leaning into it as though it were the first kind thing he’d felt in years.

“Then fight,” you whispered. “But promise me you’ll be careful. Promise me you’ll come back. Promise you will make me yours”

He opened his eyes, locking them with yours once more.

“I swear it,” he said. “For you, I will do anything.”

In that moment, the world around you disappeared. All that existed was him, and the bond growing between you.

Both of you leaned in and you pressed your lips to his through the cold metal bars, the kiss was brief but filled with everything you couldn’t say.

When you pulled away, his gaze burned into yours.

“I will see you again,” he promised.

“And I will wait for you Lucius,” you replied. "I must go now." you said as he nodded and you left just as you came.

As you walked back into the night, his words replayed in your mind.

His vow will stay with you until the moment you see him again.

Gladiator II Collection

Taglist:

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @mel-vaz @akamitrani

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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queers-gambit · 4 months ago

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The Risk

part one: Match Made in Grey Haven

prompt: after your wedding, you and Elrond embark on your honeymoon touring Middle-earth. your company is attacked on the road by Orcs. help comes from an old friend.

pairing: Elrond x shy!female!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 7.1k+

note: internet researched Elven wedding customs, i don't want to hear it. keep the Elrond requests coming.

warnings: pre events of TROP, the "shyness" more so conveys as inexperience, romance, little bit of fluff, Gil-galad is a girl's girl, and Elven weddings! also cursing! violence! angst! character injury! Orcs! blood! literal hurt and comfort! emotions are hard! abrupt but happy ending, not edited, wonky brain went wonky, and intentionally misspelled words to indicate accent.

You spent a year and a half planning your wedding.

Due to your status amongst the Elves and their court, it was declared the event of the century and the High King himself demanded it be planned to the highest of exquisite detail. Granted, you and Elrond were content to marry in a quicker fashion, leaving it between family, but Gil-galad loved a good party and who were you to refuse your King?

So, you spent about 18 months (on and off) in Lindon, going over details and specifics with Gil-galad while Elrond did the King's actual work. You're positive Elrond was content to escape the wedding planning and honestly, you didn't mind as much as you feared you would because the King was opinionated, decently funny, and decisive. He spared no expense. He encouraged you to branch away from your usual humble taste. He wanted the whole of Elvendom to come together to celebrate. He wanted this occasion to be...his.

You had no objections.

You were honestly relieved someone else wanted to plan such an extraordinary event for you - but were beyond you ready to be married! Several times in the last several months, Elrond actually offered to elope - run away to the Gray Havens and marry before your beloved grandfather, Elrond's old master, Círdan - but the King was putting so much effort into your wedding, you didn't accept. It was nice, though, how mutually anxious Elrond appeared to be to marry you, too.

However, the past three moons, you've been absolutely inconsolable. Your wedding was only days away, Elrond had traveled to Eregion for "business" months ago, and Círdan had yet to arrive! You felt overwhelming panic consume your very being, becoming slightly more irritable as you couldn't help but feel (wrongfully) abandoned - should it not of been for your best mate, fellow Elleth, Bôril. She held your emotions in check, posed as buffer between you and emotional ruin, and was the voice of reason when your rationality vanished.

"What if something happened?" You worried during one of your late night, last minute sessions. "How would we know? What if - while traveling - something went awry?"

Gil-galad sighed gently, "Herald Elrond was sent with some of my most trusted warriors."

"Elrond is warrior enough by himself," Bôril smirked, "you worry for nothing - "

"I am supposed to get married in a matter of days and neither my grandfather nor my intended can be found. I think I have plenty to worry over!" Gil-galad and Bôril shared a knowing look while you wiped your face clear of frustrating fear. "I am not accustomed to not knowing. It's this unknown, the lack of answers that pushes me towards insanity."

"Well," Bôril smirked, her eyes casted towards the hall, "fear no longer, sweet friend, all your answers approach."

In confusion, you turned in the seat you had been slumped in, seeing Elrond and Círdan heading down the hall towards the room you were gathered in. With a gasp, you leapt from your chair and rushed into the causeway towards your dearest loved ones. "Thank the Valar! Elrond!" You gasped first, flinging yourself into his arms; which coiled around you tightly and lifted you, his face burying in your neck. "My love - where were you? What happened - why the delay?" Your voice cracked as your whispered, "You said you'd be only 6 weeks, you were gone twice that! I was so worried!"

"I'm so sorry for worrying you, my star," he whispered back; breath hot in your ear. "I'll explain it all," he promised, lowering you back to your feet to pull back only to instantly take your cheeks in his hands. "I'm sorry it took so long, but I promise, it was for a good reason," he told you softly, thumbs sweeping over the apples of your cheeks; then glancing over pointedly at your grandfather.

"And you!" You scolded playfully. "We expected you weeks ago! Yet you sent no word!"

"We were delayed," Círdan smirked, approaching you as Elrond released his hold; confirming they were together this time. "C'mere, sweet one," he chuckled, bringing you in for a tight embrace. After releasing, he gently tapped the button of your nose, "I am here now, ready to help where I can."

"Oh, please," you chuckled, taking a half-step closer to your betrothed, "there's nothing left to be done, our generous King has planned it all for us. I'm just relieved you are both safe."

Elrond smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist, bringing you in to place a sweet peck on your cheek. "Come," your fiancé encouraged, and when you reentered the planning chambers, you realized others had followed you in.

Evidently, Elrond had gone to Eregion on "business", yes, but it was personal. He had gifted you a ring to symbolize your engagement; modest, silver, simple, gorgeous, and so perfectly "Elrond" - but he wasn't satisfied with it, apparently. As per Elven customs, the engagement rings would be exchanged at the ceremony for wedding bands, and Elrond was determined to give you something extravagant - to prove his adoration. So, he went to Eregion and forged with the Greatest of the Elven Smiths, Lord Celebrimbor, a wedding ring he thought suitable for your finger. Círdan met them to aid in the creation of this gorgeous ring Elrond crafted - insisting you couldn't see it until the ceremony. The trio also crafted Elrond a matching wedding ring that would only accentuate yours; another show of his devotion to you.

Hence their collective delay. Lord Celebrimbor arrived with them, greeting you with mirth; truly excited and honored to have been involved with your wedding band creation.

You were just relieved everyone finally safe and gathered in Lindon. That night, you laid in bed with Elrond; deflated by relief, just staring at him, hand on his cheek, caressing his flesh. "Next time, send word if you're to be late," you requested in a whisper.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "we were so focused, purely driven by creating something that you'll have forever - we lost track of so much time."

"How many rings did you make?"

"Too many. Though, Celebrimbor will have now options to gift others."

You both snickered, sighing with contentment. Then you whispered, "I fear I might owe a few people an apology..."

"Why? What happened?"

"I was... Operating on a short fuse while worried about you. Might've gotten a little snappy."

"You were rude?" He gasped comically. "I didn't know you even knew how to be."

"Hush," you breathed, leaning closer, "I was worried."

"But I'm here now," he promised, hand to your neck encouraging you to kiss him.

After that, the days passed in a breeze, as if a collective sigh of relief had been heaved by all of Lindon.

And then, the morning of your wedding finally arrived and it was like chaos struck. You never knew, but apparently, outside the chambers you used to prepare in, Gil-galad had everyone rushing around to perfect final details; prepare food, set tables, water and arrange flowers, retrieve whatever was requested by other guests. However, you were none the wiser (as he intended), being fretted over by all types of Elves who were impassioned to make you and your day as flawless as possible.

The High King ensured Elrond was taken care of, the young Herald quiet and seemingly concentrated on his thoughts; lips moving without words, repeating his vows to himself silently. Before it could've been questioned, Círdan arrived with a velveteen jewelry box; appearing ready for the day's events, as if awake for hours.

"Here," Círdan smiled, shooing away the attendants so he could sit beside Elrond, "this is for you, my boy."

"My Lord?" Elrond questioned softly, accepting the gift.

"It's customary."

"What is?" He wondered, opening the lid and revealing a gorgeous, glimmering broach. "Lord Círdan - "

"It's custom for the bride's mother to gift her new son-in-law a gem to be worn as a boastful show of the joining of two families," the craftsman explained. "This... This sapphire belonged to my daughter, and now, I'd like you to have it."

"I don't think I could accept - "

"It is customary," Gil-galad stepped in, seeing the refusal ready on Elrond's tongue.

So, Elrond swallowed his nerves and nodded to Círdan, "Thank you, my Lord. This stone is... Beyond words, surely, only it's previous owner could rival it's beauty."

The tears were bright in Círdan's eyes the rest of the day.

Due to the lack of conventional family, the ceremony was kept between only the High King Gil-galad as officiant and Círdan as witness. The King had designated a private overlook for your ceremony, standing at the cliffside under the golden glow of the Great Tree with Elrond in fine velvet tunics; gorgeous sapphire glittering on his chest, keeping his father's cloak in place as his own special tribute. Just as the sky turned heavenly, sun in position to set, Círdan began to lead you down the pathway - towards your forever.

Elrond choked on air, tears slowly filling his eyes.

You were draped in the finest of silks, a thin veil covering your face; hair in long ringlets, pinned back from your face in an elegant updo. It was like the Light of Valinor itself was shining through you, nearly blinding Elrond with sheer bliss. It was almost as if time slowed, nearly stilling completely; as if your form was moving in slow motion. Even under the sheer veil, Elrond could see your grin and suddenly, he couldn't hear, see, smell, feel anything but your love and light.

With a gentle sniffle, Elrond glanced at Gil-galad, who was beaming with pride already; his own growing, which nobody realized was even possible. Upon approach, Elrond instantly met you at the base of the stone stairs; watching Círdan give a watery smile while hugging you sweetly. He pulled back, gently lifted the veil to flip over your head, and sighed while caressing both cheeks.

In Sindarin, he whispered, "They'd be so proud of the woman you've become... And the man you're marrying. Just as I am."

Now, Elrond choked on his emotion.

"Thank you for everything," you managed to whisper, your grandfather sighing gently before guiding your hand from his into Elrond's. He joined Gil-galad on the platform, both watching proudly as Elrond was at a loss for words - only able to look you up and down.

Finally, he breathed in Sindarin, "Gorgeous."

Before the Elven High King and under your grandfather's loving eye, you and Elrond exchanged vows during sunset. It was intimate and private, either of you slipping your engagement rings off as Círdan presented your wedding bands. You gasped when you saw the ring Elrond crafted for the first time, looking at him with wide eyes, voice gentle as you asked, "You made this?"

"I did."

"For... Me?"

Elrond smiled, "Of course. A wife as beautiful as you deserves a ring that could only strive to embody your shine."

"Don't make me scold you for being so cheesy on our wedding day, my love, please," you giggled, Elrond chuckling while he took your hand to splay before him. He slid the ring onto your index finger, allowing you to do the same with his matching band. Neither of you were able to contain your glee when Gil-galad pronounced you officially as man and wife - Elrond all but lunging forward to hold your cheeks, swooping in to sear your lips with his kiss. You were just as excited, holding onto his biceps to keep him close; feeling warmth swell and burst in your chest as you realized... You were finally married.

After, at the feast Gil-galad had planned, the whole of Lindon was decorated and celebrating your union; hosts of food on long banquet tables, live bands entertaining the crowds, lanterns and candles glowing, conversation turning boisterous as Elves indulged on the castes of wine gifted or collected by the King.

Who, if you were wondering, was hosting the entire affair and having a splendid time as Bôril danced with Camnir - seemingly to Vorohil's chagrin, which Elrond pointed out to you first.

You were just happy to bask in your husband's glory; unable to believe he was yours, that you get to spend your life with him, that you were bound together. He seemed... Youthful in this setting; a young lad that was forced to grow up too quickly, finally able to appreciate the attention directed at him while gracefully accepting words of congratulations everywhere he turned. It was so simple, something decently mundane, but you found it impressive; the way Elrond could accept conversation from just anyone.

It simply intimidated you; content with your written letters and accounts, never truly needing to interact with people on this level. You were better, not quite as shy as before, but old habits die hard and overcoming social anxiety was a lifelong profession. Speaking of, your anxiety spiked from the sheer number of attendants, but Elrond was both sword and shield - intercepting people left and right, saving you from any "on the spot" moments.

The party went deep into the night, and while it was a fun time - complete with Bôril challenging the High King to a silly drinking game, Celebrimbor teaching the steps to an old dance, and Vorohil getting shot down by several Elleths - you were beyond exhausted. Perhaps you didn't hide it as well as you thought because Elrond slid into his empty seat and instantly leaned into your ear to ask, "All right, love?"

"Hmm? Yeah, 'course," you answered, setting the glass of First Age wine (a gift from Celebrimbor) aside to focus on him. Gently caressing his chin, you asked, "You all right?"

"Perfect, actually, just look at my wife," he mused, "though, you look tired, my star."

You hummed, "Can't fool you, can I?"

"It's my job now," he chuckled, letting you lean in gleefully to peck his lips. "How about we slip away? Hm?" He whispered softly, glancing around dramatically - like he was conducting a secret mission.

"Yes, please," you hissed, both snickering lightly. Like a couple of randy youths, you stood with the gifted First Age bottle, hands tangled together, 'sneaking' away to your rooms; thinking you were pulling it off, being so sneaky.

"Oh, bless their hearts, look. Look! I love those idiots," Bôril giggled to the King, "they're so obvious! Look at them go!"

"They're in loooove," Gil-galad teased, refilling his goblet.

"Guess they just can't wait to consummate their marriage, huh? Good for Elrond," Camnir snickered, freezing when Círdan's blank stare registered. "I-I'm so sorry, my Lord, I did not - I misspoke - I didn't think you, uh... I'm sorry."

Círdan just groaned lightly, his friend, Lord Celebrimbor, leaning over to top off his glass and encourage it closer to him; patting his shoulder in sympathy. Bôril and Gil-galad truly tried to hold back, but the scene was truly comical to witness and the two laughed so hard, they ended up leaning on each other and slumping in their chairs.

The party continued without you and Elrond, but it's safe to say, you were engaged in a party of your own.

"You've been quiet, love," you noted softly, one hand held tightly by Elrond's, the other holding your horse's reins; walking to give them a break on this leg of the journey. For weeks, you've been on the road together, touring Middle-earth as part of your honeymoon.

Never having been anywhere other than the Gray Havens and Lindon, you were like a new born fawn in the wilderness - but it was exhilarating to travel.

"Hmm?"

"You're pensive," you amended.

"I am simply in thought, my star, nothing of concern," Elrond assured.

"You're sullen."

"I don't mean to be," he sighed.

"What's troubling you?"

Elrond was quiet for a long moment, stepping carefully as neither of you noticed thick, dark clouds beginning to fill the sky. Finally, he admitted quietly, "We are not far from Khazad-dûm."

You hummed in understanding, then pondered while stepping around overgrown tree roots, "Remind me why we did not extend Prince Durin a wedding invitation?"

"We did," Elrond informed, sighing deeply, "he just... Did not respond..."

"That does not sound like him, based on your account."

"No, it was truly... Odd," Elrond admitted, "perhaps being why I feel strange being close to his kingdom now."

"Do you wish to visit?"

"We don't have the time - "

"We can make time, Elrond," you insisted, squeezing his hand with a grin. "And as far as anyone is concerned, the great Dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-dûm is part of Middle-earth, and therefor, part of our tour. I'd like to meet your friend, my sweet. Now, which direction?"

"We don't have time, starlight, we are expected by Lord - "

But Elrond came to a sudden halt, pulling you into his side as both your horses stamped and whinnied loudly; tossing their heads and snorting, the whites of the eyes flashing as ears flattened as they suddenly stopped in place. You flinched into your husband's side, the horses restless, guards circling around the pair of you quickly. Darkness descended.

"What is it?" You asked in concerned confusion.

"Something is amiss," Elrond rushed, looking confused and concentrated. "I-I do not know what, but the shadow has stretched. C'mere, mount up, my love, quickly, please."

"My Lord," Vorohil, one of your guards and a friend to your husband, directed his horse between yours while Elrond ensured you were safely seated, "there's a darkness to the path ahead, the horses - they are refusing to go forward. It grows darker, my Lord."

You had to reseat yourself as Elrond mounted; the horses backing away as there sounded a ghostly moan from the woods surrounding you.

"This darkness?" Elrond repeated, "Where did it come from? 'Tis midday - "

"Look around us!" Vorohil barked, Elrond sending him a sharp look before looking up - realizing there seemed to be a sort of dark cloud covering the sun, your path, and the woods surrounding you.

You gasped when there came a sudden, horrendous, guttural screech in an echo, making it impossible to locate the origin; and suddenly, a force bodied into your side. It knocked you from your horse, but due to the sudden nature of the attack, also took your beast down with you.

You were lucky your leg didn't shatter on impact.

You heard Elrond scream your name; body hitting the dirt and rolling a few feet before being halting by a boulder. Your sight cleared, evened out, gasping again and shoving yourself against the jagged rock in an attempt to create distance when you saw the horrid, gangly creature made of pure, tangible darkness - pure evil - muddy and growling while surging towards you with gnashing teeth.

A sword decapitated the creature before it could reach you, making you flinch at the show of violence. Your name was spoken in a rush, but you couldn't comprehend hearing words yet; staring at the dead creature, twitching from the severed nervous system at your feet - spewing black blood. Your eyes caught sight of it splattered up your skirt.

Boots hit the ground, a pair of hands caressing both your cheeks and making you gasp in panic. But Elrond's worried face was in front of yours, speaking soothingly in Sindarin, "Easy, easy, be calm, it's me, my love, it's just me. I'm so sorry, but we have to go - now, my love, please, get up for me, come with me - "

"My Lord!"

"Elrond!"

Elrond was forced to stand over you and use his bloody blade to defend you both; choking back tears as you realized this was an ambush by Orcs, creatures of pure hate; something Middle-earth thought extinct after not having been seen in an age. And you were defenseless.

"NO!" You gasped when a hand came around your throat, hoisting back into the boulder; holding you in place as two Orcs ravaged your body for anything of value they could've taken. When they tried taking your wedding ring, you fought back harder - struggling in their putrid arms, sobbing, trying to stave them off. "ELROND!" You begged, gagging when the hand around your throat constricted to close your airway.

"Just cut the bloody thing off!"

You whimpered when you were overpowered, hand flattened to the rock forcefully; fingers spread, the Orcs snarling as a dagger was brandished and stabbed directly into the boulder through your pointer finger.

"Y/N!" Vorohil was heard struggling, your cries muffled from the lack of air and tight hand. The gem-glittering belt you wore was yanked from your waist just as the Orc holding you hostage was ripped away, making the other react by stabbing your lung with his dagger between your ribs.

After Elrond killed the first Orc, he instantly engaged the second; only Vorohil catching sight of you freezing before slowly collapsing against the boulder and sliding down it. He noted the smear of blood you left on the rock before the blade protruding from your ribcage.

You were in shock. The pain was insurmountable, yet you felt nothing at the same time. Numb. Confused. Overwhelmed. Paralyzed.

The fighting lasted several long minutes after that, your dress now properly saturated as you knew enough survival skills to not pull the blade free of an injury; it acted as a plug to keep the blood from pouring OUT of your body. You were left on the ground, slumped, weakly holding your wound and feeling unable to react when an Orc leered closer to you.

Elrond's blade emerged from the Orc's chest and was yanked free, the body dropping to reveal your husband; bloodied, panting, caught off guard, but obviously fairing well enough. He was in the heat of the moment, battle turning his blood hot, eyes catching something glittering in the mud and only thinking how out of place it looked. When he blinked, Elrond realized it was your wedding ring - complete with your severed finger still in it.

Elrond snatched the digit from the mud, eyes raking over you, needing to do a double look when he realized the extent of your injuries. Your finger was lost but your ring was secured in your husband's belt.

"No," he whimpered, rushing forward and dropping his sword to take hold of your cheek; blood gently leaking from your nose at a slow but steady pace. "No, no, no, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, stay with me, stay awake for me," he begged, sniffling emotion as his other hand laid over yours around the dagger's handle, "just let me see, let me see the damage, my love, c'mon, I've got you. I need to see to help."

You were too weak to fight him anyways, letting his muddy hand pry yours away to reveal the weeping wound. His eyes widened, nodding as he assessed the situation; wanting to get you out of here, but the Orcs weren't yet vanquished.

In fact, Elrond was tackled off you by another Orc, crying out when the momentum yanked the dagger free. Ironic timing, perhaps, because an injured Orc was clawing at your legs; biting at your flesh; making you grit your teeth, pick up the dagger, and drive it into the Orc's eye. You were relieved when the creature stopped moving; adrenaline instantly draining and making you slump back once more.

You didn't notice when the Orcs were fully killed off until Elrond was propping you up again, sprayed in blood and mud, tears in his warm brown eyes. "No, my starlight, no, you have to stay awake, you must," he reminded, getting one arm around you, the other first laying to your openly bleeding wound, then shoving the dead Orc off your legs. Elrond cursed in Sindarin when he noted the bite marks, how dirty nails left deep streaks after clawing up your body. "Please, stay awake," he hissed, cradling you into his chest before calling out, "Vorohil!"

"My Lord!"

"We need to get her to a healer - where? Where?" He begged, sniffling as you were shifted into his arms and lifted; few surviving horses being wrangled in.

"I don't - I don't know - "

"You are the cartographer!" Elrond snapped, "Tell me where to take her, where are we closest - !?"

"My Lord," Vorohil sighed, "t-the closest civilization to these parts is-is Khazad-dûm - "

"Hurry!" He barked, situating you sideways on his horse before swiftly mounting; settling you into his chest with a secure hold. The others were left in the dirt as Elrond spurred his steed onward, knowing the way to the Great Dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-dûm.

Upon arriving at the gates, he was a frenzied mess. Elrond doesn't even remember the procession of events; he just knows his men showed up at his flank, he was holding your limp body, begging for aid, and someway, somehow, was then lead into the Kingdom's healing quarters.

"Elrond?" A voice questioned softly, a few nurses and healers checking over the remaining company as you were laid on a surgical table. "Is tha'... You?"

He looked over, eyes void, dead, still splattered in the blood and grime of his enemies. "Durin," Elrond whispered.

"What happened?" The Dwarf Prince asked carefully, taking a slow step forward.

"We... We were..." Elrond looked back at you, hating how many healers surrounded you, "We were attacked - just less than a league from here."

"I see. Who... Who attacked you?"

"A pack of Orcs," he whispered, stumbling back into a wall as his breathing turned ragged, "while we were on the road."

"She's not breathing!" It was announced, Elrond sliding to the floor as horror struck his face. Panic seized his heart, short circuited his brain.

"Elrond?" Durin worried, Disa rushing into the room after him. "Hey? Can yah hear me?" The ginger asked, hand to Elrond's shoulder. "Elrond? Elrond, can yah - "

"I need help! Hold here! She's bleeding!"

"I can't see the wound - cut the corset!"

" - the finger's been lost - "

"She's got bruising on her neck, help me save her windpipe!"

Elrond's breathing became erratic, knees pulling into his chest as his men stood firm in support. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, Durin asking his name again, then, "Who is she?"

"M-My wife - she's my wife, Durin, she's my wife - "

"Okay, okay, okay," Durin comforted, kneeling to the ground at Elrond's side; keeping themselves separate as Disa neared them slowly. Durin shot her a look, silently saying 'close enough', and she stopped - heart aching for the devastation on the Elf's face.

"What's this? An Elf!?" Another Dwarf was heard barking.

"We do not deny aid!" A different Healer Dwarf barked, quickly shedding your dress and revealing your wounds to the room; making a few avert their eyes and hiss as ebony poison had taken to the veins around the wound.

"Do what needs done!" Durin barked, "To save her life! Use any means necessary!"

"You heard your Prince!"

"C'mon," Disa encouraged the Elves, "we should let the Healers work, we do not want to get in their way."

"Is there... Somewhere we can wait, nearby?" Vorohil asked nervously, glancing at you, who was being fussed over as blood splattered onto the ground; wound raging, blood covering your side as they seemed to aggravate the wound in order to clean it of the infection. "What if they need us?" Vorohil whispered.

"We have somewhere close-by for yah's," Disa assured. "Durin?" She asked, "Perhaps Elrond would like t'wait with us?"

"We'll be along," he agreed, knowing Elrond was like a rock in that moment. Disa lead the others away, leaving Durin to sigh and take a seat beside Elrond; just watching the Healers at work. "So, uh, how long yeh been married?"

"We... We sent you, um, a, uh..."

"Oh, right, yeah, yeah, of course. So... Only a couple months, then?"

"Seems like no time at all."

Durin chuckled, "Nah, two months in? You's two are still in that blissful state."

"And when it ends?"

"Oh, yeh'll see, married life becomes all yah know." Durin sighed, hating himself but needing to ask, "What happened to her, Elrond?"

The Elf shook his head, the tears never ending; suffocating him. "The horses," he managed to choke out.

"What of 'em?"

Elrond gulped. "They picked up on it first - that's what I noticed. They didn't want to go down the path, then this sort of darkness came... It was quick... It happened so quick, Durin, I did not - I did not see nor hear them. We were unprepared."

"What else?" Durin was unusually soft.

Elrond shook his head, "I got her on her horse, something didn't feel right. I thought - I just thought to get her out of there, get to safety - you know?"

"Just in case?"

"Yes. But the darkness - it brought them, let them move in the daylight. They tackled her from her horse - I tried to get to her. I swear, Durin, I tried, but it was all so fast - I didn't even see her get hurt. I just found her like that, holding on. What kind of husband can't even defend his own wife? By the end... She was... She wasn't..."

Elrond melted into sobs, folding in on himself, Durin's frown deep and concerning. Despite his own feelings of malcontent towards his old friend, he reached out and let his arm wrap around Elrond's neck. This allowed the Elf to lean into the Dwarf's neck and absolutely lose his shit. Not like anyone heard him, though; the Healers all yelling over one another as they rushed around in an effort to pull the blackened poison from your body.

You don't remember much. Just pain.

Then you remember voices. They were all around you, yet hazy; like you were underwater.

You remember smells - like alcohol and disinfectant.

You remember warmth in your hand; a weight, a constant presence that you squeezed when you felt ready to open your eyes. The twilight had passed, you were awake, a soothing voice cooing and encouraging you back into reality. It was just hard to pull yourself out of the tarpit your mind was seemingly lost in.

Upon regaining consciousness, you were greeted by Elrond's tearful expression of relief. "My love," he spoke clearly, "can you hear me?" You nodded, trying to open your mouth, but he rushed, "No, no, do not - don't do that, don't try to talk. Save your strength, please. You're okay." You nodded again, watching his watery smile warble before dissolving into sobs. "I thought you wouldn't make it," he admitted through his emotional breakdown, hovering close to you if only to feel your warmth and be assured that blood still pumped freely through your body.

"I had reason to come back," you whispered, earning a stony look of reprimand before he sighed and leaned in to kiss your forehead.

"Here, I have something for you," Elrond sniffled, reaching for his belt, "and I cannot keep it any longer." Your brows furrowed when your husband retrieved a bright gem, quickly realizing it was your wedding ring. Elrond saw your confusion, lifting your hand to place the ring on your pointer finger - making you lift the other, finding it bandaged with only four fingers. Your head snapped towards Elrond, but he begged, "Please, just rest, my star, you've been through enough - "

"What happened?" You demanded in a gravely voice.

"Do not - "

"Tell me."

Elrond sighed and situated himself at your side, careful not to jostle your form. "Well, first... We are in the Dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-dûm." He descended into the tale of how you lost your ring and obtained further injury, then rushed to get help, being reunited with Prince Durin, and ending on how you've been asleep for 'too long'.

You croaked, "I'd like to thank our hosts..."

"That can wait until you've rested longer. You've been unconscious for days."

"Then I've rested enough."

"I almost lost you," Elrond growled, "you will not move, not until you are cleared to do so. And I have the best authority to ensure you follow the rules."

You chuckled, "Oh?"

Elrond went to answer, but frowned in a panic when you started coughing from the dry prickle in your mouth and throat; quickly fetching the cup of water from the side stand. "Easy, my star, here, carefully, carefully," he whispered, holding the back of your neck, helping you sit up only slightly as to not irritate your abdomen, and tip the cup to your mouth to fill it with cold, fresh water.

"How's our patient doin' today, Elrond?" A voice asked cheerfully, "I'm tellin' yah, I can feel it, she'll be awake in no time, real soon, and then you'll actually sleep - "

"You have not slept!?" You asked sharply, looking to Elrond and noting the contradiction to his flesh; how pale he appeared with dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken.

Yes, Elves didn't need sleep like humans or Dwarves, but still, they needed some - and it was evident Elrond had none.

The Dwarf gasped and whirled around to spy you awake and conscious on the stony bed they had layered with fluff, furs, and blankets for your comfort. She dropped the tray of nutrients to another table, looking like she wanted to rush you. "You're awake!" She squealed.

"Disa - "

"DURIN!" She bellowed, hiking up her skirts and rushing from the room, "SHE'S AWKAE! DURIN! DUUURIN!"

You couldn't help the laughter that burst forth, wincing when your side seared in pain - making you choke on air. Elrond muttered to himself in Sindarin, finding a wet cloth and approaching your injury, carefully lifting the thin sheet covering you and peeling the bandage off. You heard Elrond hiss between his teeth, you trying to glance at the mark - but your husband would not let you. "Just stay still, my love," he whispered, "this won't take long, but it might sting - "

You grunted and whimpered when Elrond began soaking your wound; the cold water feeling nice in the hot infection, but making you squirm from discomfort. "Elrond," you begged, hand slapping to his wrist, "please."

"I know, but it needs cleaned - it won't hurt forever, my love."

"Oi," the Dwarf, Disa, snapped as she reentered the room, "get away from there, Elrond, go, go, go, shoo, let me through."

"Disa - "

"No," She now scolded Elrond, pushing him to stand straight and take the cloth from him, "your only job is to be a husband, not Healer - that's my job. You stand over there, hold her hand, and - DURIN!" She suddenly shouted towards the door, where a ginger Dwarf revealed himself sheepishly.

"Oh," you breathed in interest, trying to sit up a little, "Prince Durin, what an honor - "

"Oh, no, no, you don't, lassie, you lay back - just lay back."

"Listen to Disa, starlight," Elrond worried, both their hands reaching out to try to gently encourage you back down.

"It's customary to greet royalty on your feet - "

"Not in yer state, dearie," Disa comforted softly, patting your shoulder; Elrond gently caressing the top of your head. "Just rest - Durin will come to you," She shot her husband a look, who slowly entered the room.

"I just - I want to thank you, Prince Durin," you stuttered, wincing as Disa started tending to your wound again. "For saving me - or saving us, so I hear."

"Ah," Durin cleared his throat, nodding with pursed lips, "'twas nothing, uh, my Lady, we just... Couldn't say no to the state of things."

"Still. Thank you," you breathed. "And for your friendship to Elrond, it's been - "

"Starlight," Elrond quietly discouraged you with a small head shake, looking just as uncomfortable as the ruddy-faced Dwarf.

"What? What's wrong?" You asked, but neither man could meet your eyes. So, you looked to Disa, "What did I say?"

"Oh, you said nothin', dearie; 's just two stubborn mules refusin' to speak of the boulder in the room," she tisked with a small smirk.

"Do you think this boulder has to do with your absence from our wedding? I must admit, I allowed myself to feel excited, thinking we'd finally meet; and was entirely saddened by your lack of attendance."

"I know, sweetling, me too," she assured with a sigh, "but their boulder is truly suffocatin' - prevents them from speakin'."

"Oh-hhhh," you hitched the word to exaggerate, both your husbands stunned into silence by the quickly casual conversation, "so, like most men?"

"Mhm," she hummed sassily. "Friends for decades, Durin even considers Elrond a brother - "

" - So does Elrond - "

" - And yet, the fools cannot bear t'speak few words t'mend the bond! Oh, it's absolutely pigheaded!"

"What exactly needs mending?" You pondered softly. "I thought..." You looked over to see Elrond's head bowed, both hands resting in your single one; looking ashamed. "Elrond?" You asked, squeezing his hand.

"It's nothin' of note anymore, my Lady," Durin stepped in, making your suspicion grow, "just... A little, uh..."

"Distance," Elrond supplied finally, lifting his head and nodding, "our tension stems from a matter of distance."

"Hm," you noted, turning to Disa - who was already offering you a tired, pointed look. "What do you know of this boulder?"

"Oh, aye, it's distance," she nodded, frowning, "some... 20 years of it? Or just about."

"Has it been only 20?" Elrond questioned softly, looking earnestly to his friend; who stiffly looked away, but you saw the cracks in the ginger's foundation.

"'Only'?" You repeated, Disa sending her husband a look. "Prince Durin, my Princess, you must forgive my husband - he can forget how... Long life is. 20 years is a mere blink to an Elf, but to the other races, Elrond, it's a lifetime."

"I did not mean to offend," Elrond told you.

"I know, love, but you speak to the wrong person - I am not the one who deserves to hear your apologies," you said, pointing at Durin with your wedding ring firmly in place.

Elrond agreed and turned to his friend, admitting, "I'm sorry for the offense I've caused. I did not realize so much time had passed." Durin scoffed, Disa growling his name. "Is there more I've done? I do not understand, I have missed my friend - "

"Missed!? Yah missed my weddin'!" Durin snarled in a shout, your head resting on the pillow under your head and deflating in pain as Disa worked to fix one of the stitches.

"You missed ours - "

"And the birth of my children! Two of 'em!" Durin tacked on. "You cannot barge into my mountain and demand I welcome you with open arms! You cannot claim that which you discarded! I did yah this favor because of the obvious threat to life, and I comforted you in the wake of yer wife's injury! I ignored my own woes and bygones because that was the decent thing t'do! I mean," he chuckled without humor, "even when yeh wrong me and refuse to even take ownership - accountability - for yer wrongdoings, I still comfort yah!"

"'Discarded'? 'Refuse to take'..." Elrond repeated, "Durin, I - "

"It's as yer wife said!" Durin growled, "20 years might be the blink of an eye to an Elf... But I've lived an entire life in that time!" Emotion caked Durin's tone. "A life you missed! So, yeah, yeh know what? We missed yer weddin', yeah... But you've missed the past 20 years..." There came an awkward sort of silence, the group stewing in their tension. The Dwarven Prince scoffed a couple times as Elrond processed his words, asking with attitude, "So what do yah have t'say to that... 'Friend'?"

You smirked gently as Elrond did not respond, instead slowly approaching his friend as if a skittish, injured deer. Slowly, in a fluid movement, Elrond laid his hand to Durin's shoulder, squeezing as he spoke with sincerity, "Congratulations." Disa laid her hand in your bandaged one, both smiling as she paused her cleaning session to watch and listen. "On your wife, your children," Elrond elaborated. He slowly retracted his hand, "And thank you for your help, the aid that saved my wife's life. Thank you for comforting me, too; I hope you can come to forgive me."

You cleared your throat, the two turning to find their wives watching them smugly. "I think you might owe someone else an apology, my love," you whispered.

"Disa - "

"Don't even," she beamed, "yer already forgiven."

"Ah, don't let him off easy," Durin grumbled.

"His wife almost died in front of him, I think that's reparation enough."

Durin paused for a long moment, then nodded, "Yeah, all right, fair enough."

"Now," Disa announced, standing, "I think the Lady's wound is as good as it'll get for now - it's up to you for the rest of the healing," she patted your shoulder.

"On the morrow, we shall - "

"Oh, no, you mistake me," Disa smirked to Elrond, "there's no leavin' yet. She's not ready - she can't sit on a horse, one awkward bump on the road and she'll pop a stitch, start bleeding, risk worse infection - "

"How long?" Elrond worried, magnetized to your side again with one hand in yours, the other caressing the top of your head to stroke your hair in calming motions.

"Just a few days, until the stitches come out," Disa assured. "Yeh'll stay with us!"

"No, they will not," Durin argued.

"They're staying."

"They're leaving."

"They're staying!" Disa scolded her husband, who huffed and shook his head before pacing in a circle. "Now, yeh wanna try t'move around a bit, love?"

"Please," you begged, "losing my mind just sittin' here."

"All right, just be careful - your legs took a beatin', too. Them buggers got you good with their teeth - easy, easy, there's a good girl." Once on your feet and both hands in Disa's, she distracted you from the pain by asking, "So, go on, lass, tell us 'bout yer weddin', hmm?"

You chuckled, stumbling a little into her arms before rightening yourself while answering, "Oh, it was lovely. 'M pretty sure my best friend hooked up with the High King, too."

"No!"

"I know! I knew the King wanted the party of the century, but there's other ways to achieve such status."

Durin snickered, thinking Elrond looked like he was going to have a stroke as Disa helped guide you around the room to earn your bearings. Behind you, Durin's hand held Elrond's shoulder to keep him in place; letting Disa assist you as the two men appreciated the obvious relationship blooming before them.

And years from now, when your daughter rescued the Ring Bearing Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, your husband would heal him; a direct result after nearly losing your life that caused him to study the art.

part one: Match Made in Grey Haven

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

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boykisser4 · 6 months ago

Text

Tangled Souls

pairing: demon!Shōta Aizawa x male!reader, nsfw/dc so minors begone

warnings: male reader, smut, monsterfucking, biting, slight blood play, tailfucking, multiple orgasms, male masturbation, breeding kink, creampie, degradation, reader is a virgin but it's not central to the plot

ꜱʏɴ��ᴘꜱɪꜱ: your mother has always told you to be wary of the woods. Boys get lost in there, only to wind up dead, their bodies and faces twisted in pleasure and agony. you've followed that rule diligently your entire life—only to find that belief shaken when a beautiful demon appears on your doorstep in need of your help.

In the quiet town of Shibuya, nestled between the bustling neon lights and the whispering whispers of the ever-expanding urban sprawl, there was a rumor as old as the cobblestone streets themselves. It spoke of a set of ancient woods that lay just beyond the outskirts, a place where the line between reality and the supernatural grew as thin as a thread. The townsfolk had long ago learned to keep their children close and their doors locked when the moon was high, for it was said that the forest was a playground for creatures that were better left to the imagination.

You, a young man on the cusp of adulthood, had heard the stories countless times. Each time, your mother's voice grew a little more tremulous, her eyes a shade darker with fear. Yet, as you grew older, the whispers of the woods grew louder, beckoning you with secrets and promises of adventure. One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced with the sway of the autumn leaves, you found yourself standing at the edge of the forest, your heart thudding a rhythm that echoed through the trees.

The demon that appeared before you was not what you had expected. He was not the monstrous creature of your nightmares, but rather a being of such ethereal beauty that it seemed as if the moon itself had taken human form. Shōta Aizawa, a man with sharp, angular features and hair as black as the abyss, emerged from the shadows with a grace that seemed to defy the very fabric of reality. His eyes, piercing and red, bore into yours with an intensity that made your knees wobble and your breath hitch in your throat.

He spoke to you, his voice a velvety caress that seemed to wrap around your very soul. "I am lost," he said, his words tinged with a hint of desperation. "Can you help me find my way?" There was something in his gaze that made you feel as if you could trust him, despite the whispers of your mother's warnings. Without a second thought, you nodded, and together you stepped into the enigmatic embrace of the woods that had called to you for so long.

The journey was a blur of moonlit paths and whispers of leaves that seemed to carry secrets of their own. Aizawa walked with purpose, his tail swishing gently behind him as if it had a mind of its own. You couldn't help but feel drawn to him, as if there was an invisible thread connecting the two of you. As the night grew deeper, you began to feel a warmth building in your loins, a need that you had never experienced before. It was as if the very air was thick with a scent that called to your most primal instincts.

You stumbled upon a clearing, the light of the moon casting a silver glow upon the dewy grass. Aizawa paused, his eyes scanning the area before they settled on you, a smirk playing upon his lips. "You're brave," he murmured, his voice a low purr that sent shivers down your spine. "But I require more than just your guidance." He stepped closer, his tail curling around your leg, sending waves of pleasure through your body. "I need...companionship."

The air grew thick with tension as he reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. You felt yourself lean into his touch, your body betraying your mind's attempt at rational thought. He leaned down, his breath hot against your neck, and whispered, "I can give you what you've been craving, if you let me." His teeth grazed your skin, and you felt a sharp sting followed by a pulse of exquisite pleasure that had you gasping. It was then that you realized the extent of your folly—you had entered the demon's domain, and now you were his to claim.

The smirk on Aizawa's face grew wider as he stepped closer, his body pressing against yours. You could feel the heat emanating from him, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night air. His tail slithered upwards, coiling around your waist before it dipped lower, teasing the fabric of your pants. Your cheeks flushed with both arousal and embarrassment as you felt yourself growing hard against his thigh. He chuckled darkly, his hand moving to cup your erection firmly, his claws digging into your skin just enough to make you wince.

"You're so eager," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "But before I give you what you want, you must do something for me." His grip tightened, and you whimpered, the pain adding to the confusing mix of emotions swirling within you. "You must accept me—all of me," he continued, his other hand moving to the base of his tail, revealing the swollen tip. It was then that you understood the full extent of what he was asking for—what he needed.

With a flick of his tail, he unzipped your pants, pulling them down along with your underwear. The cool breeze kissed your exposed skin, making you shiver. He knelt before you, his eyes never leaving yours as he took you in his mouth, the sensation so foreign yet so intoxicating that you couldn't help but moan. His tongue danced around the head of your cock, teasing the slit before taking you deeper. You watched, entranced, as he swallowed you whole, his eyes fluttering shut in pleasure.

The demon's tail slid between your legs, the tip probing at your entrance. You felt a moment of fear, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the all-consuming need that had taken root in your core. He pushed in gently, the sensation of his tail entering you unlike anything you had ever felt before. The pain was there, but it was muted by the sheer ecstasy that flooded your body with each thrust. His mouth never left your cock, sucking and licking as he claimed you, his tail moving in rhythm with his mouth.

The pleasure built, wave upon wave, until you could no longer hold back. You came with a cry that was part pleasure, part fear, your seed spilling into his eager mouth. Aizawa pulled back, licking his lips with a satisfied smirk. "Now," he purred, his tail still buried deep inside you, "we are truly connected." He began to move again, his tail working in tandem with his mouth, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of another orgasm.

You felt yourself being filled, the pressure inside you growing unbearable. His tail swelled, and with one final, powerful thrust, he released his own essence deep within you. The sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt before—a mix of pleasure and pain that left you trembling and gasping for air. As he pulled away, his tail slipped out of you with a wet sound, leaving you feeling both empty and utterly claimed.

Breathless, you looked down at him, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "You are mine now," he said, his voice a dark promise. "And together, we will uncover the secrets of the night." With that, he rose to his feet, pulling you along with him. The woods seemed to close in around you, the whispers of the trees growing louder as you took your first steps into a new, darker chapter of your life.

The moon cast a cold, pale light over the clearing as Aizawa led you deeper into the woods. The sounds of the night grew more sinister, more alluring, with each step you took. You were no longer the same person who had ventured into the forest; you were now a part of it, bound to this demon in a way that transcended simple companionship.

The demon's hand was a vice around your wrist, guiding you through the underbrush with a sense of urgency that sent your heart racing. His eyes gleamed with excitement, his sharp teeth bared in a predatory smile that made your stomach twist in anticipation. You knew that there was no turning back now—you had made a deal with the creature of the night, and you would see it through to the end.

As you stumbled through the woods, the air grew thick with the scent of lust and power. It was a heady perfume that seemed to coat every leaf and branch, making your head spin. Aizawa's grip on your wrist was the only thing keeping you grounded, a reminder of the bargain you had struck.

The clearing grew wider, revealing a hidden grotto bathed in an eerie blue light. The walls were slick with moisture, and the ground beneath your feet was soft and yielding. Aizawa pushed you against one of the damp walls, his eyes burning with desire. His hand snaked down to your now-bare cock, stroking it back to life with a skill that seemed otherworldly.

"You're mine now," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. "And I will take you, in every way imaginable." His tail slithered around your waist again, this time with more urgency, the tip grazing your throbbing member. "But first, you must learn to crave it."

With that, he sank to his knees, his eyes never leaving yours. He took your cock in his mouth once more, sucking and licking with an intensity that had you bucking your hips against the cold stone. His claws dug into your thighs, leaving trails of fire in their wake, but the pain only served to heighten the pleasure. His tongue flicked against your slit, tasting the pre-cum that beaded there, and you couldn't help but moan his name.

The demon's tail grew more insistent, sliding between your cheeks to press against your tight hole once again. You felt yourself opening up to him, your body betraying your fear and welcoming the intrusion. He pushed in, the feeling of fullness making your eyes roll back in your head. His movements grew faster, his mouth and tail working in perfect harmony to drive you to the brink of insanity.

The walls of the grotto seemed to pulse with an ancient power, the very air vibrating with it. You could feel it in your bones, a call to the darkness that now lived within you. The demon's eyes glowed brighter as he brought you closer to the edge, his tail swelling even more within you.

You came again, your body convulsing with the force of your climax. Aizawa's tail pumped into you, filling you with his essence as he swallowed down your seed. The world around you spun, colors swirling and colliding as the power of the woods claimed you fully.

As the aftershocks of pleasure subsided, you slumped against the wall, panting and spent. Aizawa's tail slid out of you with a wet sound, leaving you feeling both violated and oddly satisfied. He stood, his own arousal evident in the bulge of his pants. "Now," he said, his voice a low growl, "it's time for you to truly understand what it means to be with a demon."

Without another word, he tore open his own pants, revealing his engorged cock. It was monstrous, a twisted mix of human and demonic, and it throbbed with an unnatural hunger. You stared, both terrified and fascinated by the creature before you.

He stepped closer, his claws digging into your hips as he lifted you off the ground. "You will take me," he growled, his eyes never leaving yours. "And you will scream my name as I claim you."

You had no choice but to comply, your body responding to his command even as your mind rebelled. He positioned you, your legs wrapped around his waist, and with one powerful thrust, he filled you completely. The pain was exquisite, a scream ripping from your throat as he pushed deeper, stretching you beyond what you thought possible.

His movements were relentless, his hips pistoning into you as his claws raked down your back. The demon's teeth grazed your neck, the promise of a bite that would seal your fate hanging in the air. The pleasure and pain melded together, creating a symphony of sensation that had you begging for more.

With each thrust, you felt yourself slipping further into the abyss, the boundaries between reality and the supernatural blurring. The whispers of the woods grew louder, echoing the chant of your name on Aizawa's lips.

And as he claimed you, as his teeth sank into your flesh, you felt a transformation begin. Your vision swam with the taste of iron as your blood mingled with his saliva. Your nails grew sharp, your skin prickling with the beginnings of a furious power that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath you. The demon's cock filled you to the brim, each movement sending shockwaves through your body. You could feel yourself changing, evolving into something more, something primal and dark.

The bite grew deeper, and the pain subsided, replaced by a white-hot need that consumed every part of your being. You bucked against him, desperate for more, for the release that only he could give you. His hips met yours with a ferocity that had you seeing stars, his claws digging into your skin as he held you in place. The demon's breath was hot and ragged in your ear, his voice a snarl as he whispered sweet, dark promises of eternal pleasure and power.

The ground beneath you trembled as your climax approached, the trees around you seeming to lean in closer as if to witness your fall from grace. The creature inside of you grew stronger, its hunger matching that of the demon who claimed you. Your body was no longer your own, a mere vessel for the dark desires that now ruled you.

With a final, brutal thrust, Aizawa came within you, his seed mixing with the power of the bite. You felt it, a fire spreading through your veins, setting your very soul alight. You howled, the sound echoing through the woods, a declaration of your new allegiance. The demon pulled away, his teeth releasing your skin, and you slumped in his arms, panting and trembling with the aftershocks of your transformation.

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lokisgoodgirl · 7 months ago

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Illusion & Truth: The Rite (V)

Masterlist for The Rite is HERE My Regular Masterlist is HERE Summary: (5) Loki does some soul searching, he lets you into a secret, and shit goes down at the pre-Rite feast. (w/c 5.4k) Warnings: Minors DNI. Language. Plot, shocker. Asgardians behaving badly. Sick child (not serious). Petty bitch behaviour. Lagertha being an MVP. A/N: This is the longest chapter of the mini-series. Please bear with me. You'll see why.🥰 lies.

Loki hadn’t left his chambers for the rest of the afternoon. That woman from the Circle-Club: Freja, Mellandra…something like that, had come by seeking to ‘soothe’ what ailed him.

Self-serving, of course.

But thoughts swirled in his head that not even Freja/Mellandra’s silken heat sheathing his sword could quieten. And with that realisation, Loki had another one about you which settled in his stomach like a stone.

I don’t want anyone else. No one but her.

Somehow, you needed to fall in love with him in two moons – three if he counted the night of The Rite itself. Or at least, the stirrings of love which went beyond simple lust or pure reverence. If you knew that...it would push you away. Why wouldn't it? Asgardian royals had stacked the decks for millennia; beginning courtships of likely matches for marriage from a young age – and the Rite was a foregone conclusion: part of the wheel. It was too important, and there were no second chances.

But you fucked it up. If he didn’t fulfil the Rite, then he’d be forever out of the succession. And if he did succeed, and you fell in love with him, he’d have to break your heart as swiftly as he’d cheated his way to it. Loki couldn’t love – not like the others. He’d accepted that a long time ago - he'd been told many times.

He brought a hand cleanly against a goblet on the desk and sent it crashing to the wall. Thick cracks spread from the impact. He buried his face in his palms, stifling a scream. Perhaps his brother was right; perhaps Fandral was the better choice after all. There was no hope for your feelings to blossom given the boorish, wanton way he’d conducted himself. The Circle-Club, Norns. What must she think.

The door creaked open. “More wine, my Prince?” the chambermaid said. She was wearing the low-cut robes tonight, holding the flask beneath the curve of her breasts. She looked up at him through lined lashes, a dark eyebrow rising. She didn’t seem concerned at his distress – not one bit. Just wanted to ride him or suck him off or let him bend her over the balcony: not that he could blame her. “No,” he said abruptly. Once she’d left, he was sure the serving groom wouldn’t be far behind – offering his services. They had a system, he was certain of it. If one was declined, they knew Loki was in the mood for the other. His eyes wandered out the open archway. Daytime bustling of the courtyard below sounded loud to his ears. Suddenly the jug appeared in front of him, tapping onto the table while the tart, sweet scent of wine filled his nostrils. Her hands wound around his neck; breasts pressed between his shoulder blades; her breath hot in his ear.

“Are you sure, my Prince?” she whispered, sucking his earlobe between her teeth. “I’ve missed your highness’s touch, it’s been over a week.” Loki closed his eyes, trying to smother the revulsion at himself. The drinking, the endless sex, the aloofness: that nothing mattered. Perhaps he wanted it to matter – did anyone ever think of that? Even endless pleasure, Loki was finding, grew tiresome when flitting from one instant gratification to the next.

“No…thank you,” he said softly; holding up the flask. She said nothing else, just blinked a few times as he nudged the smooth metal into her hands. She threw concerned glances over her shoulder every few steps as she left, closing the door behind her. Loki slumped into the chair; trying to remember how people who didn’t drink wine and fuck all afternoon passed the time.

And so, until sunrise, he decided to do what he’d avoided for far too long: think.

Loki pulled at his sleeves.

The inferior material so favoured by the common-folk was starting to itch. He lingered on the outskirts of the palace gardens, scanning for you. And soon, there you were – led by Håkon. He was a little shit, but Loki liked him – and he showed promise as an apprentice; a rarity, considering his beginnings. Loki smiled. The face he wore didn’t hold that type of smile so agreeably as his own, but it would do. Håkon nudged you to his level, and Loki saw your eyes widen before meeting his own across the path.

You walked briskly towards him, eyes darting to passers-by. “Loki?!” you hissed. Loki’s smile grew. “The very same, little owl. Does my disguise not please you?” You made a face, and Loki snorted lightly, the rough knuckles that met his lips stifling it. To anyone that looked on him, he was a roughened, reddened stable-hand ilk: the type would garner no second looks except that of the guards searching for escaped jailbirds.

“It’s necessary, I assure you. Even this early in the morning, the markets are busy. I’d rather not attract any unwanted attention.” “I didn’t think it was possible for any attention you received to be unwanted...” Loki’s eyes narrowed. The subsequent smile lit your eyes in the same when it did when you looked on his own face: like the strike of a match. It made his stomach flip. You were wearing a beautiful green day-gown – the same shade as the calla lily growing by the pond.

“I had intended for us to walk around the gardens but…plans have changed. I hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Håkon’s coming too. Although…I fear you may be rather overdressed.” Your face fell. “Håkon’s coming?” “He’s not so bad,” Loki said as the boy wove ahead through the crowd, stealing small pieces of cake from the morning stalls. “Perhaps you may grow to like him.” You cleared your throat, and Loki felt his skin prickle with the words unsaid. He could feel them on the air before your tongue formed them. The obvious question most were too afraid to ask. “Is he your son?” There was no judgement in the question, only curiosity. It was, Loki surmised, a reasonable assumption with the boy’s dark hair and playful tricks – indeed, he often wished the answer was yes. But he replied, “No, merely my apprentice. No illusions, not this time. Upon my honour, such as it is.”

Loki’s fingers flexed by his side, and a rough, woollen cloak unfurled covertly in his grasp. He held it in a bundle towards you. “As beautiful as that gown is,” he said in his gruff, stolen voice, “Best not to attract attention where we’re going.”

“Don’t you want to change my face, too?” you said, and the sparkling mischief in your eyes made blood thud in his ears. “No,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly. He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t deny myself, and the people of Asgard, even the shortest glimpse of your skin under this morning light.” You stared at him for a moment before gasping into laughter. Loki frowned. “I’m not laughing at you, Loki…I just…” Your breaths were becoming short, and people were staring. You leant against his shoulder, burying your face against the rough scratch of his grubby tunic. “It’s only…well, they have to see me with you. I can only guess what they’re thinking. I still have a reputation to uphold, you know.” A laugh built in Loki’s chest, shaking in time with your own. You pulled away from his shoulder, smoothing a wiry chunk of crusted, mousy-brown hair behind his ear. “Alright,” he said bashfully. “I didn’t think of that. How about…I change your appearance too – but alter it so that we can see each other for our true selves?” You grinned. “Deal.” Loki could tell the exact moment that the enchantment licked over his skin by the edge of your bottom lip between your teeth. Norns, how he wanted to rip that dress to shreds with his teeth and have you inside the topiary maze.

Beneath the magical mask of rough, woollen clothing – he was wearing casual livery; a green tunic buttoned up to the neck, and tight-fitting buckskin breeches tucked into riding boots. Freshly washed hair tumbled over his shoulders. He could see you, and you could see him – and to anyone else, you were just two, ragged, happy peasants and their thief of an offspring.

Loki’s breath hitched as you reached out a hand. “So…where are we going?” He led you through the market, down side-passages that spread like veins from the centre of Asgard’s township and soon the buildings grew less polished…less gold.

Amber brickwork shifted to craggy, dirt-smoked stone and Loki couldn’t help noticing your face grow more cautious with every step. Eventually, he stopped outside a large wooden door cut into a tall building. Håkon knocked. After a minute, the gap creaked open. “Lagertha?!” you gasped, neck snapping to Loki. Her eyes narrowed. “What says the fox to the crow?” she asked warily, keen gaze shifting between you. Loki rolled his eyes. He could never remember the inane answers to such riddles, no matter how many times she told him. “43, 33, 36,” he said. Lagertha frowned. “What?” He repeated his measurements, and her eyes widened. “Loki?!” she hissed, sticking her head out and casting a furtive look to either side of the empty alley.

She shot out a dainty fist and grabbed him by the collar, pulling him inside. Loki grasped your hand, yanking you after him. The door slammed. Loki crouched to receive her hug; he was always surprised how strong she was. “I didn’t think you’d come, what with the late notice…I didn’t think—” She stopped herself, pulling back and shooting a piercing glare in your direction. “Who’s this?”

“Ah,” Loki said. Before he could say anything else, Lagertha wafted theatrically in front of her nose.

“Borr’s bones, Loki. Lower the glamour, will you? I understand the need for secrecy, but is there any need for the smell?” Loki’s lips rolled together, biting his tongue. Behind him, Håkon laughed. With a flex of his fingers the enchantment burned away to reveal his true form, and yours too. Lagertha’s face softened. “My dear…” she said sweetly, as though she hadn’t been moments away from poking you in the eye. “So nice to see the two of you spending time together. He must trust you, if he brought you here.” You opened your mouth to ask inevitable questions but Loki placed a hand on Lagertha’s back. “Show me. From your note, it seems we have no time to waste.”

Lagertha led him to the open courtyard in the middle of the building. From the outside, it resembled the same crumbling wreck as all the buildings in this district – but inside, it was a palace: all curved edges and bright, warm colours. Cushions littered the floor, a pond in the centre and a fountain spurting shapes with changed on the hour. The lilt of childish laughter twinkled in the air – but then, he saw her. A girl no older than two lay cradled in the arms of a nurse in the corner. Her skin was flushed and splotchy: the areas not afflicted had the pallor of rotted milk. Loki had seen her several times before – and several times he’d wished she would alter her screeches of happiness at a change in the breeze or the spray of the fountain to a decibel lower. But now, the absence of that joyful screech was torturous. He came skidding to a stop, falling to his knees on the cushions. “You should have summoned me sooner,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to the girl’s forehead. She was hot with the scorch of impending death. Lagertha sank to her knees beside him. “You know the rules– only in the direst of circumstances.” “May I?” he asked the nurse, and she shifted. He held the child, her head lolled in his arms, eyelids fluttering. He could see your profile out of the corner of his eye – and for a moment, he regretted ever considering bringing you to this place.

Nothing says romance like the demise of an infant, he scolded himself. He hadn’t thought it would be this bad. But you touched his back, a comforting trail of your fingers down his spine.

Loki pressed a hand to the small chest, closing his eyes. A swell of magic pulsed through his skin; green licking out from his palm. The baby’s eyes shot open in shock, a strangled cry of surprise tearing around the cloisters. Loki held the squirming child steady, palm flush to her skin. Hold on, he willed. Hold on.

Slowly, too slowly, the angry splotches receded. Plumpness began to puff back into her cheeks, and the child’s eyes opened – glossy and bright with sleepy wonder. “Thank the gods,” the nurse breathed, and Lagertha clapped her hands together. “Not the gods,” Lagertha said dryly, “just this one. He’s the only one worth having.” Relief swelled in Loki’s chest as he passed the child to the nurse. “Careful, Lagertha – I’ll have you for treason.” “Not if I have you first,” she replied wryly. They exchanged a knowing smile.

Loki’s nerves didn’t settle until they’d draped into the chairs by the water’s edge. Someone brought tea, and he tried to pour it before realising his fingers were trembling. You took the pot, pouring a cup for Loki, Lagertha, and yourself. “Thank you,” he murmured, and the smile that danced on your lips was like none he’d ever seen before. He looked away quickly, and then heard you ask… “What is this place?”

Lagertha snorted. “An orphanage, of sorts. I help when I can, in between the weaving – and Loki manages to come once a month or so to keep things in check – keep things nice for the children, make sure the pantry is stocked with the meats he smuggles from the palace, bless him.” Loki felt heat creep up his cheeks as she reached across the table, nobbled fingers wrapping around his wrist.

It's now or never, he thought. But in his heart, he knew you had to know. That you could be trusted. He could feel it. “If my father knew it existed…especially under my patronage - he would shut it down, turn them out.” Tea slopped over the side of your cup. “What?!” “He grows suspicious – and there are spies everywhere. Fandral, for instance.” Loki bit back the spit of his name. “If it's discovered before I am confirmed in the line of succession, then I won’t have as much say in what's done if it’s exposed.” “Why would Odin want this taken away?”

Loki’s heart sank as your eyes landed on each small, plump child in turn, older ones around Håkon’s age peering around pillars. There was a dozen spread across the courtyard, and more upstairs in bed. Many, many more. Two girls splashed in the centre of the garden pool, un-phased by their illustrious visitor. He saw the exact moment your keen mind landed on the right question. “Who are they?” you asked quietly. “Bastard sons and daughters of the gods, and of the court. The unwanted; the shame of Asgardian wealth and lust, and selfishness,” Loki heard himself say. Lagertha squeezed his hand. He met her eyes, unspoken words passing between them. She was asking permission, and he granted it. She cleared her throat. “The high and mighty in the palace like to smear this one because he lays it about, no offence intended m’Lord—” “—None taken,” Loki said with a small smile. “—But Loki here, he enjoys his pleasure with people he can take care of, should it be needed. I mean yes, he has the contraceptive magic and all that…but he doesn’t take advantage, not like the others. They pretend goose-fat wouldn’t melt: playing pure and then heading to the taverns and brothels, leaving their seed behind in the bellies of women who have no choice but to give ‘em to us when the lords’ pretend they don’t exist.” Loki couldn’t look at you. He stared at a ripple in the pool, following its progress until it faded to stillness. Suddenly, your hand was at his cheek; your lips pressing to his in a silent, soft understanding. He met your eyes.

“I know what it is to be unwanted,” he admitted – and with horror, he realised his vision was beginning to blur. “I couldn’t let that happen to them.” “He says next year, I’ll have a friend at the palace,” Håkon interrupted cheerfully from across the courtyard, looking up from a plate of sliced cheese. He shot Loki a glare. “Not a girl through,” he added – and beside him, a girl with long blonde hair suspiciously like Thor’s punched him in the arm. “Ow.” Loki smiled. “I can’t add my apprentices too quickly, you understand. One a year usually suffices to evade suspicion – and then afterwards, they travel to Vanaheim to continue their education. But Håkon is staying a little longer…” His eyebrows rose in the boy’s direction, “If he behaves himself.”

Loki met your eyes. There was that look again, the one that made him feel like a nervous virgin and a king at the same time. He straightened as your fingers clasped around his thigh beneath the table. It wasn’t a gesture of lust, he was sure – but his groin ached just the same. “We should go,” he said, and your face fell. Around them, childish wails of discontent grew loud and soon small hands were pawing at his legs - little bodies jostling for a place on his lap and wrapping their chubby arms about his neck. Your laughter was music above the fray. “We should stay,” you said sternly over the excitement – and Loki grinned through a veil of small limbs and wide smiles. “They’ve clearly missed you.” “You don’t mind?” His heart fizzed as you rested a fist beneath your chin. “Not a bit,” you said, as a boy with auburn ringlets crawled onto your knees, smudging the green silk with butter-greased fingers. And what’s more, Loki realised as you greeted the boy with a hug, she means it.

When you returned to your chambers, the sun was beginning to set.

The most beautiful dress you’d ever seen in your entire life was hanging against the window: shimmering in amber hues slatting across the floor. A deep, rich green: silk that rippled with sparks of gold. A note was pinned to the lapel. ‘Make him erupt in his britches again,’ it said. You snorted. It was signed with a looping, cursive L – and a kiss. You weren’t sure how Lagertha had managed to ensure its delivery between hobbling after three dozen squealing children for nine hours alongside you – but you appreciated it none the less. The fact Loki had told her about events in the orgy-room yesterday made an unexpected warmth blossom in your belly. It was becoming harder not to get attached.

You’d tried not to think too much about tonight: the feast. It made it all a bit…real. A celebration of Loki’s attempt at The Rite – and a celebration of his chosen partner: aka, a chance for the court to get a good look at you.

You sighed, looking in the mirror. I can do this, you thought. For Loki. You frowned. The idea that you’d be doing it for him was new – and the thought seemed to expand inside your skull like dandelion seeds blossoming on a stalk. For Loki. And then, another thought. You’d meant to raise it this morning, but the day’s events had been…distracting. What the fuck was the second part? The one that had him more nervous than he had any right to be? He couldn’t doubt his skills in oral pleasure, surely. He’d only have to look between your legs and you’d explode. It had to be something else: something important. You tried to push it aside as your giggling maid helped you into the dress and fixed your hair. It wasn’t as elaborate as the royals, but it would do. And besides, you weren’t one of them. And you never will be.

When the final clasp was added to your hair, there was a knock at the door. Just one. The maid answered, and from the pitch in her voice you could tell she was flustered. Loki had said he’d meet you outside the feasting hall – Is he here? Your stomach fluttered as you scurried to the entranceway, and immediately grimaced. “Fandral?” He looked up from where one forearm was pressed against the archway, looming over your maid like a lech. If Loki did that, it would be unbearably hot – but Fandral had a way of making even the most potentially erotic poses illicit the same response as hot sick. “The very same,” he drawled, straightening a ruffled cuff. “Loki sent me to fetch you, since we’re all to be such great friends.” “He did?”

“Mmm,” Fandral said. It wasn’t an answer, but you were running late. Maybe he’ll throw me down a well, you thought as you gingerly took his arm and began walking in silence down the corridor. If he tries, I’ll drag him by the balls down with me.

Fandral’s tunic was made of the softest velvet you’d ever felt: a bright, cerulean blue. His fingers clasped over your hand wrapped around his forearm as you walked. “How curious,” he hummed, and your expression hardened, staring ahead for what was coming. “Such soft hands, despite your status. I’ve heard buckling ones own shoes is a terror for callouses.” “You must give me some tips - I’d hate to scratch Loki’s intimate areas with my nasty, commoner callouses.” Fandral yanked you to a stop. There was a flash in his eyes. “Do not call yourself a commoner. It’s an insult to the Prince – as though he would lie with a peasant. You are the lowest rung in the court, and he’s too good for you…but you’re not so low as to be unable to debase yourself further.” “From what I hear, others aren’t so picky as you are,” you muttered, pulling your arm from his grasp, remembering the sweet faces of the children nobody wanted. The shame of the Asgardian court. One of Fandral’s slicked eyebrows rose. “And what does that mean?” Shit. He’s a fucking spy - you’re going to blow the secret, and you’ve only known for a day. You improvised, cracking your neck to the side and painting on a mask of apathy. “You’re arrogant, anyone ever tell you that?” Fandral sneered, the illusion of his upper hand returning. “Consider your proclivity towards our Prince, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You rolled your eyes, thankful that the chatter of nobles filing into the feasting hall was growing louder. Looked like there was only one more turn—

“He’s trying to make you fall in love with him.” You stopped, blinking furiously; the crowd visible at the end of the corridor blurring. “Excuse me?”

But before Fandral could respond, a shadow fell over you both. The sight was like smelling salts. Norns, he’d never looked so handsome. Loki’s dark hair was half drawn up to expose the sharp lines of his face; a golden band resting on his head with thin spires like spun, violent sunlight pointed to the ceiling.

His outfit matched your own perfectly: a thick brocade tunic with delicate buckles running up his midsection; green and gold woven with breath-taking perfection. The tunic fell to his mid-thighs, leather trousers tucked into thin boots the same forest green as your dress. His hand slid around your waist, placing a chaste kiss on your cheek. Out of the corner of your eye, Fandral grimaced.

“You look…beautiful,” Loki breathed against your ear, his scent richly spiced, and for a moment it stifled the guilt clawing in your chest. He drew back, shooting Fandral a withering glare. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” As Fandral gave you a last, salty look – Loki’s eyes fell on you again. “Just one more thing,” he said softly, flexing his fingers. A weight grew on your head in time with Loki’s smile; the same crown of sun rays growing towards the ceiling, matching his own. “Tonight is for you,” he said, offering his arm.

“For us,” you replied, hoping it was true.

The first few hours of the feast passed in a blur.

You’d never forget the feeling as you walked arm-in-arm with Prince Loki down the centre of the hall feeling like a queen: nobles cheering, Fandral looking like he had a wedgie, Frigga smiling widely, and Thor…although not quite as much. Odin’s face was like a pruned apple, but what else was new.

Don’t get attached, you reminded yourself again. But it was becoming harder.

You sat beside Loki at the top table, chatting easily as the two of you tucked into honey-glazed boar, potatoes baked in cream, vegetables soaked in the most delicious spices you’d ever tasted.

Every so often, a noble would shuffle in front of you both with a small bow, offering their good luck wishes to the god beside you. “Not required, but appreciated,” Loki said every time. And every time, you stifled a laugh. More than once, you caught Frigga gazing at you out of the corner of your eye. But when your eyes met, hers darted away. That small smile hadn’t left her lips all night.

Loki stood. “It’s far too dull for this time in the evening, time for some dancing…don’t you think?” Thor perked up two seats down from you, his eyes alight and a sticky ring of honey smeared around his mouth, dripping down his chin. “Dancing! Yes, brother.”

Loki smoothed the front of his tunic, waiting for a adequate number of revellers to admire his outfit, before making his way to the band assembling in the corner. You recognised the lute player from yesterday’s orgy – the blindfolded one. Loki’s seat was immediately taken by Fandral, and you rolled your eyes. “What do you want?” you snapped. “The second part of The Rite – I assume he still hasn’t told you.”

Fandral released a whispering chuckle that made your stomach tighten. He hovered by your ear with a smile stretched on his rattish face, golden glitter from his hair falling to the tablecloth. To anyone watching, it might look like he was telling a joke, but there was no humour in his voice.

“He has to make you cum with that pretty mouth of his, yes. But your feelings towards him as he does it will be measured: not lust, or respect as your better…but the deeper sort. It will be impossible to hide it. If you do love him, then afterwards, he’ll discard you like the commoner you imagine yourself to be. And if you don't, which is more likely...let's be honest, you’ll have cost him his place in the succession.” Fandral withdrew, a dazzlingly artificial smile plastered on his face. You opened your mouth and closed it again, heartbeat hard in your throat. “It breaks my heart to see him play you,” he sighed, playing with Loki’s fork. “Just as he will break yours…but alas, it’s how it must be. I expect he’s lavished you with his attention these past days, let you see…allegedly…another side of him?”

“You’re just jealous,” you blurted. It was childish, and frantic.

His eyes narrowed. “It’s no secret I have feelings for the Prince which go beyond mere frippery – I make no waves against it. Loki is magnificent in many ways, but he’s always been a fool. And you will make a fool of him too, when it’s clear you don’t love him; when he is shamed, his status diminished - left forever in his brother’s shadow.”

Your vision swam. “But…why would he…why would he choose me, then? It’s too important, I…” Those plump, hopeful kid’s faces flashed in front of your eyes again. The way he sang to them, and made baby animals burst in living shadows from his fingertips to prance across the courtyard amidst their shrieks of delight. They were in danger. Loki had to secure his place in the succession. This wasn’t about you, not really.

“Fandral,” you said, searching his face, not knowing what you wanted him to say. “Just enjoy yourself tonight.” Fandal smiled, giving a small wave to someone across the room. “I’m sure Loki will come to his senses before the ceremony.” Time seemed to stop as Loki drew you on to the dancefloor, and soon the centre of the hall was a shifting sea of graceful bodies and swirling silk. You’d never wanted anything more than to attend one of these things – you weren’t going to let Fandral ruin it.

Loki’s body was like steel, but he moved like fluid - a liquid grace which twirled and manoeuvred you easily across the floor. His cheek pressed to yours, lips grazing your skin at achingly slow intervals. You wondered if he knew he was doing it. And yet— ‘It breaks my heart to see him play you; just as he will break yours.’ Your hand faltered from Loki’s hold, fumbling the step.

He drew you closer, eyes clouded with concern. The lutes seem very loud all of a sudden. “Loki…” you started. You needed to know – and he needed to choose. There was much at stake, and you didn’t know if you could give him what he needed to come out The Rite with his place in the succession intact.

“May I?” Fandral’s voice shattered the moment.

He was the picture of gentile chivalry, a hand extended with a reverent bow. Loki looked at you, and you suddenly realised the only thing you wanted was more time before the illusion that this could all be real shattered forever.

As your hand left Loki’s, reaching for Fandral’s – you saw the creep of a cruel smirk, and a white glisten on Fandral’s fingers too late. Your breath caught as he lunged. And then, all hel broke loose.

Loki’s body was a wall of muscle ramming between the two of you, smacking Fandral’s arm to the side.

You stumbled backwards, falling into Frigga dancing with some lord from Vanaheim. Grapes went skittering across the floor from the knock-on-carnage; goblets cracking against marble and shrieks as priceless suede shoes were splashed.

Loki was gripping Fandral’s wrist as the blonde looked up wide-eyed, words shaping his lips that came out in a mess of denials and apologies. Between the nonsensical muttering, you heard two words from Fandral’s lips: ‘Thor…whorehouse.’ Loki’s eyes narrowed, and then he punched Fandral in the face. The sharp crack of his nose breaking split the air. “Loki,” Odin boomed, shuffling in front of the long table at the head of the hall. “The Rite feast is no occasion for your brutish theatrics.” Loki’s fingers tightened around Fandral’s wrist and a pathetic squeal snaked from his throat. “He tried to sabotage my partner,” Loki growled through gritted teeth. He sent Fandral sprawling to the floor. “See? He bears the seed of a god on his hand – you know the rules better than any, father. It would render her ineligible to take part. Bartered with a lady of the night in Asgard’s township from one of her patrons, no doubt.”

Your stomach dropped as gasps rose around the hall; whispers of a hundred conversations turning to a roar. “Silence,” Odin shouted. The guests obeyed. “Is this true?” he directed at a cowering Fandral. “Surely no god would involve themselves with such a person, such an act.” Your eyes swung to Loki. You’d never seen him angry. And dark irons…it was hot.

His fists clenched and unclenched by his sides; a muscle in his jaw feathering with every strong beat of the pulse in his neck. A wave of pride, and desire, and…something else, swelled in your stomach. The gold-spired crown on his head glittered beneath candlelight, dark curls spilling over brocaded shoulders like ink. “I assure you, father – it is true.”

And Odin knows it…bastard, you thought as Loki turned, brows heavy as he stared his father down. “Order him from my sight, or I cannot be responsible for what comes next.” And for once, Odin complied.

You couldn’t hear Fandral’s protestations of innocence, or the clatter of guards. All you could hear were Loki’s heavy breaths as he pulled you after him down a side corridor and into the open air of the balcony. All you could feel was the press of his body to yours as your back hit the wall; the pressure of his ravenous kiss; the need of his sighs and broken apologies into your open mouth.

His palms cupped your cheeks, lips slotting so perfectly against yours and the weight of his chest flush to your body like he thought you might vanish.

You pressed a palm to his chest, pushing him back. Deja-vu of the first night you entered Loki’s world flashed in front of your eyes: a kiss on a balcony, a promise made with hidden intentions– but it was nothing like this.

There was something different swimming in his sapphire eyes: more than lust, or duty…or tricks. It would’ve been a foregone conclusion that Loki would be successful in achieving The Rite with Fandral. He could bring that golden turd pleasure like he’d never known; show the Norns he could win the love of the people who worshipped him…but that option was dead now. Not that you’d wanted it for him in the first place.

Could that look in Loki’s eyes be faked? The one that smouldered with embers of cities he’d burn for you; of how inexplicably far he’d go to keep you as his partner in this farce even though the odds were stacked against him. He’d known they were all along. “Loki…” you whispered, and he wet his lips, biting the bottom one softly as his gaze fell. I could love him, you realised. Eyes wide open; knowing that this might be all it ever was, and even if he would never feel the same – I could love him. With the little time that was left, you only hoped it would be enough.

Tags in comments ❤️as always I lovvvvve hearing your thoughts! Thank you so much if you're here!

Chapter Six: Consequences

#the rite🕯️#loki x reader #loki smut #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki x you #loki imagine #loki odinson #loki (marvel)#loki x female reader #loki x yn #loki x y/n

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heliosunny · 8 days ago

Note

Food for though???

How about yan phainon with someone as strong as mage reader?

I have reread all your anaxa's and phainon's fic for at least 10 times now haha

I need more crumbs of them if you don't mind :)

Yandere!Phainon x Elf!Reader

The moment Phainon saw you, he knew you were the key to victory. Elves were rare. Your kind did not meddle in mortal wars. Yet here you stood, radiant beneath the silver moon, your eyes as cold and unyielding as an untouched winter. You were beautiful, yes, but it was not beauty that made him fixate on you. It was power.

Elves were creatures of magic, of ancient spells and untamed energy. And Phainon, a warrior hardened by battle and ambition, was not a man who let go of what he needed.

“We will slay the dragon” he had told you, his voice rich with conviction. “And with your magic, the battle will be won.”

You had laughed. A cruel, elegant sound. “You think I would fight for you? How arrogant.”

He had expected resistance, but not the way you looked at him, as if he were beneath you. “I have no reason to help you, human.”

You turned, walking away, your regal posture exuding the pride of your kind. “You should know better than to chase what you cannot have.”

Phainon clenched his fists as he watched you disappear into the dense forests of your homeland. He did not believe in fate. But he did believe in taking what was meant to be his.

The enchanted woods around your home pulsed with the hum of old magic. No mortal should have been able to step foot here. Yet the moment you opened your door, he was there. Phainon stood just beyond the threshold, unshaken by the forces that should have repelled him. His tall, muscular frame cast a long shadow under the moonlight, his silver-white hair barely ruffled by the wind. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that sent an unfamiliar chill down your spine.

Your fingers twitched, summoning the magic coiling beneath your skin. “You should not be here.”

He smirked, stepping forward. “And yet,” he murmured, “I am.”

Your magic should have burned him alive. The protective spells weaved into these lands should have swallowed him whole. And yet he stood there, untouched, unafraid. “You should leave” you warned. “Before I make you.”

Phainon exhaled a slow breath, as if amused by your defiance. “You are strong. But you already know that, don’t you?”

You stepped back.“I do not seek power.”

“But power seeks you.” His gaze flickered over you, sharp and assessing. “I came here because I refuse to accept a world where you waste yourself in solitude. You belong somewhere greater than this.”

“I belong to no one” you snapped.

His lips curled. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

“You think I will stop?” His voice was softer now, too gentle for the weight it carried. “That I will let you walk away?”

Why was he so certain?

“You will fight by my side” Phainon continued “Not because I force you—but because you will see the truth in my words. The world is cruel, and you and I are the only ones who can shape it as we see fit.”

His hand reached out, and before you could move, he brushed his fingers against your hair. “You are wasting your freedom here” he whispered. “Come with me.”

For the first time, you feared that no amount of magic would ever keep him away.

Phainon whispered. “Come with me.”

You did not answer. The night air was thick with tension, the weight of his presence pressing against your senses. Your magic flickered at your fingertips, a silent warning.

But Phainon, the arrogant human that he was, stood unshaken. His piercing blue eyes locked onto yours, unrelenting.

“You should leave” you said coolly, power thrumming beneath your skin. “Now.”

Phainon exhaled slowly, tilting his head. “And if I refuse?”

You didn’t hesitate. A pulse of magic shot through the air, the wind bending to your will. The trees trembled as roots twisted and surged from the ground, forming a barricade between you and him. Phainon barely had time to react before the earth beneath him split open, a powerful gust aiming to throw him out of your land. But just as quickly—he countered.

With a sharp movement, his foot slammed into the ground, sending a shockwave through the soil. Your attack faltered. The roots stilled, the wind dissipated. Your eyes narrowed. He met your gaze with quiet amusement.

“You are strong” he admitted. “Stronger than most.”

Your magic sparked again, an unspoken challenge. “And yet you still think you can control me?”

Phainon smiled. “Not control” he corrected. “Persuade.”

Your patience thinned. The audacity.

“I have no reason to fight for you, human.” Your voice was sharp, edged with warning. “Whatever goal you seek, find another fool to chase it for you.”

“I do not want just anyone.” His voice dipped lower, holding something dangerous beneath its smoothness. “I want you.”

Your magic pulsed again, a silent stay back. Phainon did not step away. “If you truly wished for me to leave” he murmured, “you would have cast me out by now.” A spark of anger flared in your chest. He was testing you.

“Careful, human!” you warned, power surging around you. “I do not take kindly to those who overstep their place.”

Phainon chuckled, unbothered. The wind howled between you, as if caught in the battle of wills. He did not command your power, nor did he steal it from you. He was your equal. And that was what made him dangerous. “You are too proud to admit it,” he said, “but you feel it, don’t you?”

His gaze burned into yours.

“The way our strengths match. The way the world is shifting. You are meant for something greater than hiding away in these woods.”

“I belong where I choose to belong.”

Phainon tilted his head. “But you hesitate.”

Your grip tightened on the staff at your side. “You mistake patience for hesitation.”

“Then prove it.” Power crackled in the space between you. An unspoken challenge. A battle neither of you wanted to lose. Phainon wasn’t just a warrior—he was a strategist. He would not fight you outright, not when he could break your resolve first. But he had made a mistake. You were not so easily broken.

With a flick of your wrist, the wind surged again, surrounding you both in a vortex of raw power. His silver-white hair whipped in the storm, his sharp blue eyes gleaming with something dark, something fascinated. “You can chase, human” you said coldly, daring him to try. “But you will never catch me.” And with that—you vanished into the night.

Phainon stood amidst the fading echoes of your power, exhaling a slow breath. His fingers curled slightly, the lingering warmth of your magic still brushing against his skin. “We shall see, little elf.”

The moment you vanished into the forest, Phainon chased after you. You had expected as much. He was stubborn.

A man who refused to accept defeat. The trees bent to your will, shifting and closing behind you, creating a maze of ancient roots and thickened shadows. A path only an elf could navigate. Yet Phainon kept coming. Your sharp ears caught the sound of his boots crushing the damp earth, his breath steady even as he pursued you through the labyrinth of enchanted wood. He was too fast for a human. You exhaled sharply, then turned and struck.

A bolt of pure energy exploded from your palm, crackling toward him like lightning. The ground trembled under its force. But Phainon did not falter. His hand shot up, and with a powerful sweep of his arm, his own energy surged to meet yours. The impact shattered the air between you, sending sparks flying. You did not give him a chance to recover. Spinning, you summoned the wind itself, a fierce gust howling through the trees. The air twisted into blades, razor-sharp and merciless. Phainon moved like a warrior born for battle. He dodged the first strike, his body shifting with trained precision. The second, he deflected with a sudden pulse of his own energy. The third—he met head-on.

Steel clashed against magic as he drew his sword, the blade slicing through your spell in a brilliant arc of silver light. You narrowed your eyes. So, he wished to test his luck with weapons? You raised your hand and the forest answered. Vines lashed out from the earth, twisting toward him like living serpents. The ground itself shifted beneath him, forcing him off balance. You lunged, striking with a burst of raw force meant to drive him away for good.

Phainon caught your wrist. The moment his fingers closed around you, time seemed to slow. His grip was firm, heated from the battle, unyielding in its certainty. His blue eyes burned with something almost unreadable—frustration, fascination. “Still running?”

You met his gaze, lips curling. “Still chasing?” A surge of magic exploded from your body, sending him flying back. He landed with a skid, his boots dragging against the dirt. For the first time since the battle began, Phainon gritted his teeth. He was enjoying this—too much. But you were not about to let him have his way. Just as you stepped forward to finish the fight

“Phainon!” A voice cut through the chaos.

A blur of movement, then a figure stepped between you. One of his companions, someone from his so-called team. They held up their hands, panting. “Enough! We don’t have time for this!”

Phainon did not move. His gaze was still locked onto yours. You could see it in his eyes, the pure, unfiltered fury at being interrupted. But the presence of his ally forced him to pause.

You, on the other hand, felt something entirely different. Relief. Victory. Freedom.

You met Phainon’s gaze one last time, satisfied. “It seems your people have more sense than you do.” Then, without another word, you turned and disappeared back into the forest.

This time, he did not follow. “You should have let me handle it.”

His companion shifted uncomfortably. “You were wasting time, Phainon. The dragon is nothing compared to that elf.”

His hand was still clenched at his side, the phantom warmth of your magic still burning against his skin. You had been so close. And yet, you had slipped away.

You were happy. You thought you had won.

How naive.

Phainon exhaled slowly, forcing himself to smile. “It doesn’t matter, that elf will come back.” he said.

His companion frowned. “You don’t know that.”

Phainon’s eyes gleamed. “Oh” he murmured, voice as smooth as silk. “I do.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, the forest was silent. The stars shimmered above, casting their soft glow over the elven village hidden deep within the ancient woods. The air carried the scent of blooming night flowers, and the distant hum of magic pulsed beneath the earth, a reminder that you were home. Far from him.

You let out a slow breath, fingers grazing the carved wooden railing of your balcony. The battle with Phainon had left a lingering fire in your veins, but here, surrounded by the familiar embrace of your homeland, that fire began to settle. You had won.

The moment was shattered by an unnatural stillness. A presence. A disturbance. Your muscles tensed. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it something foreign, something human.

“I expected more of a welcome, little elf.” Your heart lurched. You turned and there he was. Phainon stood at the edge of your balcony, as if he belonged there. His silver-white hair was tousled from travel, his blue eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. He had no right to be here.

Rage surged in your chest. “How dare you—”

“You ran” he interrupted smoothly. “Did you think I would simply accept that?”

“You are trespassing.”

He took a slow step forward, his gaze never leaving yours. “You call it trespassing” he murmured. “I call it persistence.”

Your patience snapped. With a flick of your wrist, the wind howled. The very air turned against him, slamming into his chest with enough force to send him over the edge of the balcony. But he did not fall.

Phainon twisted, landing gracefully on the wooden floor as if he had expected the attack.

You scowled. “Leave.”

“No.” The sheer audacity of his defiance made your magic crackle.

“You are bold for a human.”

“And you are stubborn for an elf.”

You didn’t waste time on more words. Another surge of magic lashed out, this time, roots from the balcony coiled like serpents, aiming to bind him, force him away. Phainon moved faster. In one swift motion, he dodged, closing the distance between you. Before you could react, his hand grasped your wrist. A spark shot through you, not pain, but power clashing against power.

“Let go” you snarled, magic flaring. Phainon held firm. He was not trying to overpower you, he was forcing you to listen.

“You waste your strength fighting me” he said lowly, his voice like embers smoldering in the dark. “When you could use it for something greater.”

Your jaw clenched. “I have no desire to follow you.” His grip tightened just enough to make you feel the weight of his presence, the sheer determination in his stance.

“You think your home will protect you from the world” he continued, his voice deceptively calm. “But your peace is a lie.”

“Stay here, and you will be safe—for now” Phainon murmured. “But what happens when the world comes for you? When your strength is needed, but you are too late to act?”

Your throat tightened. “Join me” he pressed, his voice dipping lower. “Not because I demand it, but because you and I both know, you were meant for more than this.”

Your magic pulsed, but so did his conviction. The moment stretched, your will clashing against his in a battle that was not fought with weapons, but with unspoken truths.

Another presence, a flicker of movement in the trees. Phainon’s hold on you loosened. Someone was coming. You wasted no time. You pulled back, stepping away from him.

“This is not over” Phainon said, his voice a promise. But you only smiled.

“You are right” you murmured.

The moment you disappeared into the shadows, Phainon stood still, his breath slow and controlled, but his patience frayed at the edges. You had run. Again. You were slipping away. And Phainon hated it. His jaw clenched. The moment had been perfect, too perfect. He had forced you to listen, to see things his way. You had felt the weight of his words, the undeniable truth in them. He had seen it in your eyes. Yet, before he could break through, someone had come. A bitter laugh rumbled in his chest. Of course, fate always seemed to conspire against him. He turned sharply, striding back into the depths of the forest.

He would not linger like a lovesick fool. No, he had work to do. If persuasion would not bring you to his side, then perhaps… pressure would.

By the time Phainon reached his camp, his team was already waiting. One of them, the same one who had interrupted, rose to speak, but at the sight of his expression, they hesitated.

“Gather information” he ordered, his voice edged with command. “Every weakness. Every tie they have outside their sanctuary.”

His second-in-command frowned. “You mean the elves?”

Phainon’s fingers curled into a fist. Not the elves. You. The village was sacred, shielded by magic. But you were not a prisoner there. Eventually, you would have to step beyond its borders to explore, to act, to seek. And when you did—he would be waiting.

“Find out everything” he continued. “Where they go. Who they trust. What would make them reconsider their decision.”

Because that was all he needed. One moment of doubt. One opportunity. You had chosen to turn away from him, to cling to your false peace. But peace was fragile. And when it was, you would have no choice but to turn to him.

The elven village glowed softly beneath the moonlight, nestled deep within the ancient forest. It was a place untouched by human hands, serene, untamed. And yet, none of it compared to you. Phainon stood hidden in the trees, his sharp gaze locked onto the balcony where you stood. You were unaware of his presence, your expression calm, the tension from your earlier battle with him having melted into something softer. It was rare to see you like this. You had no idea how much you infuriated him. Your power, your beauty, your sheer stubbornness. Everything about you defied reason, yet he could not let you go.

He had chased you across forests and battlefields. He had fought you, reasoned with you, tested your limits. And still, you resisted.

Would it always be this way? Would you ever truly stand at his side?

The thought alone made something dark coil in his chest. No. He refused to let that be the outcome. But before he could dwell further, the forest moved. A low, guttural growl echoed from the shadows. Phainon barely had time to react before the beasts emerged. Large, otherworldly creatures slithered between the trees, their glowing eyes locking onto him with primal hostility. Guardians. Born of ancient magic, raised by the elves. And they had sensed an intruder.

Phainon clicked his tongue. The first lunged. He sidestepped with ease, unsheathing his blade in one fluid motion. The second came faster, claws swiping at his chest, forcing him to parry. They were testing him. But Phainon was not a man who bowed to monsters. His eyes narrowed, and his stance shifted. If they wanted to challenge him, he would answer. Magic crackled at his fingertips, and just as he moved to strike— “Stop.” Your voice rang through the clearing.

The moment the creatures heard you, they halted. The tension in the air was thick as you stepped forward, your gaze sharp. The beasts reluctantly pulled back, still watching Phainon with suspicion. “He is not a threat” you said firmly.

Phainon felt the weight of your words, the way the creatures hesitated, then obeyed. Because of you. Only because of you.

You met his gaze, expression unreadable. For a brief moment, Phainon wondered- was this it? Had you changed your mind? Had you finally begun to see reason?

But then you spoke. “Leave.”

His fingers curled. You were still fighting him. Even after defending him, you were still denying him. Phainon let out a slow breath, forcing down his frustration.

Fine. If you would not come willingly, then he would simply make sure you had no choice.

Phainon did not stop walking until he was far from the village. The distant calls of the creatures still echoed behind him, but his mind was elsewhere. Even after seeing you in your element, even after witnessing your world, your people, your peace, his resolve did not waver. If anything, it hardened. You would never break on your own. So he would make sure you had no choice. You had been given the chance to surrender—to accept him. And you had refused.

Then let the game truly begin.

It started with small things. A misplaced book. A candle that flickered despite the absence of wind. A familiar path that suddenly felt… unfamiliar. You noticed them at first only in passing, minor inconveniences, nothing worth dwelling on. The village was alive with magic, after all. Spirits stirred. Shadows danced. The forest had a will of its own, shifting ever so slightly like a living entity.

But then the changes became too frequent. Too deliberate. One evening, as you entered your home, you found your chair moved. Not by much, just a few inches. But enough that your eyes lingered on it. Had you moved it earlier and simply forgotten? You shook the thought away.

Then, a few nights later, you awoke to the sensation of being watched. The room was silent, moonlight filtering through the window. Your heartbeat remained steady, yet your instincts whispered: something was off. Your gaze flickered toward the doorway. The wooden frame stood empty, yet the air beyond it felt… occupied. A trick of the mind, you told yourself. And yet, the feeling remained.

The entire village felt different. The laughter of the elves had softened, their usual warmth replaced with hushed voices. The creatures raised among your people, the guardians that had attacked Phainon grew restless. They paced near the borders, sniffing the air, their hackles rising at unseen threats. You reached out to one of them, fingers brushing against thick fur. The beast trembled under your touch. “What is it?” you murmured. It did not answer, but its ears flattened as it stared beyond the trees—toward the deeper woods. Toward the world outside. A world where he was.

Phainon. No. He was gone. He had left. You had seen him disappear into the shadows yourself. He wouldn’t return so soon. Would he?

Your belongings began to vanish. At first, it was small things—a hairpin, a letter, a single page missing from an old book. Then, something more personal. A bracelet. One you had worn since childhood, crafted from the enchanted silver of your people. It was bound to you through magic, it should not have been able to leave your side. Yet, when you reached for it one morning, it was gone.

Panic clawed at your chest. You searched every inch of your home, retracing your steps, trying to rationalize the impossibility. But deep down, you knew. This was no accident. Someone had taken it.

The barrier weakens.

That night, the village wards flickered. The protective magic surrounding your home, woven into the very trees themselves, had remained unbroken for centuries. Unshaken. Impenetrable. Until now.

You stood at the edge of the forest, staring at the faint shimmer of the barrier. It pulsed weakly, its usual glow dim. Someone was testing its limits. And you already knew who. You turned, heart pounding.

For the first time since his departure, you felt him. Not through sight, not through sound, but through an instinct deeper than words. Phainon was close. Not within the village. Not yet. But near enough that his presence curled around the edges of your world.

Your peace was shattering. The forest was eerily silent as you moved through the shadows, your every step measured. The disturbances—the missing bracelet, the flickering wards, the feeling of being watched had been warnings. And you had ignored them for too long.

You would find Phainon. And you would end this game.

He was close. You knew it. And then, you saw him.

Leaning against a tree, bathed in silver moonlight, Phainon stood waiting. As if he had known you would come. His silver-white hair gleamed under the night sky.

He looked at you the way a predator regarded prey. “Finally” he murmured. “I was wondering when you’d stop pretending you could ignore me.”

Your hands curled into fists. “You never left.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You’ve been watching me. Manipulating my home, my people—”

“I gave you time” he interrupted smoothly. “Time to see reason. Time to accept that what I offer is better than this illusion of peace you cling to.”

“You think you know what’s best for me?”

Phainon stepped closer, his expression darkening. “Yes.”

You struck first. A burst of magic surged from your palm, searing toward him like a silver blade. Phainon barely dodged, twisting just in time. His own magic flared—sharp, raw power slamming against yours in a storm of light and force. The ground beneath you shook. Every blow you traded was a challenge. Every movement a declaration. He was fast, calculating. But you were his equal. And yet

“You hesitate.” His voice cut through the clash of magic. “You could have killed me just now.”

You had aimed for his shoulder, not his throat. Not the killing blow. He laughed. “You’re already doubting yourself.”

Your grip tightened around the hilt of your magic-forged blade. “Shut up.”

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” He sidestepped another strike, blue eyes gleaming. “That slow, creeping realization. That no matter how much you fight me, I always find my way back to you.”

Phainon saw the flicker of hesitation—and he seized it. “You are powerful” he murmured, dodging another blast of energy, his voice weaving through the chaos like silk. “Beautiful. Unlike anyone I’ve ever met.” He stepped closer. “You could have anything.” Closer. “Yet you stand here, wasting your strength protecting a world that will never understand you the way I do.”

The battle stopped. Your breath hitched, the warmth of his skin searing against yours. His voice dropped lower, softer—intoxicating. “You belong with me.”

“Enough!” A third presence. You barely had time to register it before something struck between you and Phainon.

A force strong enough to send both of you stumbling apart.

One of his allies.

Phainon’s head snapped to the side, annoyance flickering across his face. Whoever had interrupted had done so at the worst possible moment—for him.

For you? It was salvation.

Phainon’s grip on your wrist loosened just enough and you ran.

As you disappeared into the trees, you felt the weight of his gaze lingering. Phainon would not let this be the end. Not until he had you.

Branches clawed at your skin as you sprinted through the forest, breath ragged, magic flickering at your fingertips. The village was close—so close. But he was faster. A hand snatched your wrist mid-step, yanking you back. Your balance shattered as you crashed into his chest—solid, unyielding. Phainon’s arms wrapped around you in an iron grip, his strength overwhelming. You struggled, thrashing, magic surging, but it was too late.

His voice rumbled against your ear, low and triumphant. “You’re not going back.”

A sickening pulse of magic erupted from him, swallowing you whole. The world shifted. The forest dissolved into darkness. The village, your home—vanished. And when your vision cleared, you were no longer in the woods. You stood in a vast chamber, encased in stone and silver. The air was thick with his power.

Phainon still held you, unshaken. “You fought well” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch disturbingly gentle. “But this was always how it was going to end.”

“You—” Your voice was raw. “Let me go.”

He smiled. “No.” Phainon exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours, savoring the moment. “This time, you’re staying with me.”

#yandere x reader #yandere #hsr x reader #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon honkai star rail #phainon hsr #phainon x reader #yandere honkai star rail #honkai star rail #yandere hsr #hsr x y/n #hsr x you

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winxanity-ii · 2 months ago

Text

DO YOU STILL BELIEVE?

ship: odysseus x fem!penelope!reader warnings: non-explicit (emotional intensity, mentions of war and trauma, heavy themes of longing and separation, a bittersweet reunion) word count: 5.2k a/n: I had so much fun writing this one-shot inspired by Epic the Musical and The Odyssey! Penelope and Odysseus’ love story has always fascinated me, and I wanted to explore the raw emotions of their reunion while staying true to the themes of trust and enduring love. 🥹 I hope you enjoy this piece, and as always, feedback is welcome! Next update for Catch Me If You Can is in the works, so stay tuned! 👀.

★·.·´🇪‌🇵‌🇮‌🇨‌: 🇹‌🇭‌🇪‌ 🇲‌🇺‌🇸‌🇮‌🇨‌🇦‌🇱‌ 🇲‌🇦‌🇸‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌🇱‌🇮‌🇸‌🇹‌`·.·★

An unsettling silence clung to you as followed Eurycleia down the quiet corridors back to your chambers. The weight of the contest bore down on your shoulders like a storm cloud, and your mind churned with thoughts too heavy to quiet.

As you reached your room, Eurycleia stopped, turning to face you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher. Her aged hands, calloused from years of service, trembled slightly as she reached for the latch. "My lady," she began, her voice low and trembling, "you must remain in your room at all times tonight. No matter what you hear, you cannot leave."

Her words struck you with a jolt of unease, and you frowned. "Remain here? What do you mean, Eurycleia? What is going on?"

She hesitated, her gaze darting to the side as if the walls themselves might overhear her. "Please," she said softly, bowing her head. "Forgive me, but it is for your safety."

The cryptic answer only deepened the knot in your chest. "Eurycleia," you pressed, stepping closer, "tell me—"

"I cannot, my lady." Her voice wavered, but she straightened herself, her resolve unwavering. "I ask only that you trust me. Stay here, and do not leave until someone comes for you."

Before you could utter another word, she dipped into a deep bow, her gray hair catching the faint lamplight, and hurried away, the door clicking shut behind her.

For a moment, you simply stared at the door, her final words echoing in your ears. Trust me. What could she mean? What danger awaited beyond these walls?

Letting out a shaky sigh, you turned toward the room. The weight of your robe dragged against your shoulders as you pulled it tighter, seeking comfort from its soft folds.

The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls. It was a futile attempt to drive out the chill that had seeped into the room—and into your very bones.

Crossing to the window, you pressed your palms against the cool sill, your gaze drifting out over the kingdom below. The village lights flickered like stars scattered across the darkened land.

Beyond them, the sea stretched into the horizon, its surface shimmering faintly under the light of the crescent moon.

Your thoughts wandered, as they always did in moments of stillness, drawn to the same familiar ache that had lived in your chest for years.

The contest... Would it truly decide your fate? One of those suitors, those arrogant men who had feasted in your halls and mocked your son, could soon become your husband. The very thought sent a shudder down your spine, and you hugged your arms tighter around yourself.

A whisper escaped your lips, barely audible over the soft crackle of the fire. "Odysseus..." The name hung in the air, a prayer, a plea, a question. "What would you think of me now, letting this madness continue? Letting strangers fight for what was never theirs to claim?"

Your vision blurred, and you lowered your head, a tear slipping down your cheek. For years, you had waited. For years, you had woven and unwoven that shroud, holding on to a hope that had felt as fragile as a thread in the loom.

Was it foolish to hope still? To think that he might return, that the man who had held your heart so completely could be more than a memory?

Your lips trembled as you forced a bitter laugh. "I am not you," you murmured, the words breaking the silence. "I am not brave enough to fight this battle. All I can do is endure."

Your mind drifted, as it often did, to Telemachus. A smile tugged at your lips despite the ache in your chest. "Oh, Odysseus," you said, a soft chuckle escaping through your tears. "You would adore our son. He has your mind—so sharp, so clever. And your smile..." You let out a watery laugh, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound. "Even when he's being stubborn, I see you in him."

The image of Telemachus as a child came to you, vivid and warm—a boy who had once clung to your skirts, demanding stories of his father's heroism. Now, he stood tall, a man in his own right, with the weight of the kingdom already pressing on his shoulders. How proud Odysseus would be of him.

Your musings were cut short by a sudden, sharp sound—a shout echoing faintly down the corridors.

You froze, your heart leaping into your throat. Another shout followed, then the unmistakable clash of steel against steel.

Your breath hitched, and you stumbled back from the window, your pulse racing. What was happening? Panic swirled in your chest, and you turned toward the door, your hands trembling as you reached for the latch.

It didn't move.

You tugged harder, a frustrated gasp escaping you. "Open the door!" you shouted, pounding against the wood with the flat of your palm. "What is going on out there?"

A muffled voice answered from the other side, strained and apologetic. "My Queen, please—forgive us. You must remain inside."

"Why?" you demanded, your voice rising as fear clawed at your throat. "Tell me what is happening!"

But the only response was silence, broken only by the distant sounds of chaos—the cries of men, the clash of swords, and the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ears.

You staggered back, your chest heaving as you tried to make sense of it all. Your mind raced, grasping for answers. Was it the suitors? Had the contest descended into violence? Or was it something else—something you dared not name aloud?

Your knees buckled, and you sank onto the edge of the bed, your hands clutching the fabric of your robe as though it could anchor you. The air felt thick, suffocating, and your thoughts spiraled, each one more desperate than the last.

"Odysseus," you whispered, the name falling from your lips like a prayer. If he were here, he would know what to do. He would protect you, protect Telemachus, protect this kingdom.

Another shout rang out, closer this time, and your breath caught in your throat. You could do nothing but wait, trapped within these walls, your fate hanging in the balance.

☆

You paced the length of your chambers, your footsteps muffled by the thick rug underfoot. Every pass brought you closer to the walls and then away again, as if your own restlessness could push the heavy silence out of the room.

Minutes ago—minutes that felt like an eternity—the shouts and screams that had echoed down the corridors had gone silent. That silence pressed on you now, as heavy as the stone walls of Ithaca's palace.

Your mind churned, spiraling into darker and darker thoughts. What had happened? Had the suitors staged an uprising, turning the contest into bloodshed? Did Ithaca fall under siege from an unseen enemy? What if the guards were overwhelmed, and Telemachus...

You stopped mid-step, your breath catching painfully. Telemachus. Your son. The boy you'd raised to be strong, who carried so much of his father's spirit. Had he fallen in the chaos? Was he lying out there, cold and lifeless while you were locked away, helpless to protect him?

"No," you whispered, shaking your head furiously, as if the motion alone could banish the thought. But your heart wouldn't listen, and it dropped like a stone into your stomach, twisting painfully.

What if the suitors had taken over? What if they had harmed Telemachus? The thought of losing him, your son, the last piece of Odysseus you'd held onto, made the breath hitch in your throat. Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out the world around you.

No, no, no. Your mind flashed to his strong but still-youthful face, the way he carried himself with the dignity of a man but the vulnerability of a boy. Your knees weakened at the thought of him hurt—or worse.

"Telemachus," you whispered, clutching your robe tighter around you. Panic clawed its way up your throat, and you rushed to the door, slamming your fists against it. "Let me out! I demand to see my son!" Your voice cracked, trembling with desperation. "Open this door! What's happened to him?"

From the other side came a muffled voice, hesitant and filled with regret. "My lady... forgive me, but I cannot. I have my orders."

"Orders?" you repeated, your voice rising with fury. "To keep me locked away while my son—while my kingdom—falls apart?" Your fists pounded harder, the sharp thud echoing in the empty room. "I beg you, please! Telemachus! Is he—" Your voice broke, and the words wouldn't come.

Your knees weakened, and you leaned heavily against the door, pressing your forehead to its cool surface.

No response. Not even the muffled, apologetic voices from earlier. Just silence.

You leaned your forehead against the wood, trembling as your thoughts spiraled further. Pressing your palms flat against the door, you whispered a prayer to the gods above, your voice trembling. "Please gods... protect him. Protect my son. Keep him safe. Please."

The silence beyond the door stretched on, heavy and suffocating. You stayed there, trembling against the wood, every second a fresh torment.

And then... the latch clicked, breaking through your whispered pleas.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as you staggered back. Slowly, the door inched open, the dim light from the corridor spilling into the room.

Relief surged through you, mingling with your anger as you rushed forward, ready to demand answers. "How dare you keep me—" But the words died in your throat, caught like a fish in a net, as your gaze landed on the figure standing in the doorway.

Your heart stopped.

"...Odysseus?" His name escaped your lips in a whisper, barely audible, trembling like the flicker of a candle in the wind.

It couldn't be.

Your eyes widened, your mind struggling to reconcile the man before you with the ghost of the memory you had clung to for so many years. But there he was, standing in the doorway, real and solid, and yet so very different from the man you had kissed goodbye all those years ago.

He looked older. His once-youthful face was lined with the passage of time and the weight of what he had endured. Faint scars crisscrossed his hands and forearms, reminders of battles fought and hardships survived.

His frame was leaner than you remembered, his once-strong build worn by years of trials, yet he carried himself with a strength that belied the weary lines etched into his features.

His hair, streaked with silver, curled just slightly at the edges, framing a face that was both familiar and foreign.

And his eyes—oh, his eyes. They were the same piercing eyes you had fallen in love with, though now they carried a heaviness, a burden of things seen and done that you could scarcely imagine.

You took a trembling step closer, your breath shallow. Your gaze darted over him, drinking in every detail as though you feared he might vanish if you blinked. His clothes were ragged, torn at the edges, and caked with dust and blood, but he stood tall, the weight of the years and his trials radiating off him like a shield.

When your eyes met his, something shifted. The hardness in his gaze softened, the lines around them easing ever so slightly as his lips parted.

"Penelope," he rasped, his voice hoarse, as though it had been too long since he'd spoken your name aloud. He took a step toward you, his movements slow and deliberate, as if testing the waters of a dream.

Your head shook slowly, side to side, as tears welled in your eyes, spilling over before you could stop them. "N-No..." you stammered, your voice trembling, barely audible. "No... no!" The word grew louder as you turned abruptly, your legs buckling beneath the weight of the moment, sending you stumbling back toward the window.

You pressed your palms to the cool stone sill, your gaze locking onto the distant horizon as though it could anchor you. Your mind raced, each thought more frantic than the last. This isn't real. It can't be real. Fear clawed at your chest, your heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might break free. A strangled laugh escaped your lips, wild and unbidden.

The sound startled even you, cracking like thunder in the stillness of the room. It morphed into a sob, the sound catching in your throat as you gasped for breath. "I've lost it," you whispered, a broken, bitter laugh slipping through your trembling lips. "The gods have taken pity on me—or perhaps they've cursed me." Your shoulders shook as the dam finally broke, tears spilling freely now, mingling with the bitter laughter that refused to stop.

You clutched at the sill, your fingers digging into the stone as if you could steady yourself against the onslaught of emotions. The ache in your chest was unbearable, a mixture of disbelief, longing, and the fear that this was nothing more than a cruel trick of your mind—a dream that would shatter as all the others had.

A warm hand rested gently on your shoulder.

You froze, the heat of his touch cutting through the storm raging within you. A gasp escaped your lips, and your eyes squeezed shut, unwilling to face whatever was behind you—whether it was real or a phantom conjured by desperation.

The warmth seeped through your robe, grounding you, making it impossible to ignore. The sobs caught in your throat, and you were left trembling, torn between the urge to lean into the comfort and the fear of being hurt by it.

"Penelope," he said again, his voice softer this time, filled with something raw, something that threatened to undo you completely.

Your breath hitched, and with painstaking slowness, you turned. Your legs felt weak, as though they could give out at any moment, but the pull of his voice, of that warmth, was impossible to resist.

Your gaze lifted, hesitantly, until it met his. There he was, your husband, the man you had mourned and prayed for.

His face, lined with years of hardship, was impossibly familiar yet so changed.

His hair was streaked with silver, his cheeks sunken, but his eyes held the same warmth, the same depth that had drawn you in so many years ago.

Your hands shook as you raised them, trembling in the space between you, hesitant, unsure. Your lips quivered, the words catching in your throat as you whispered, "Odysseus... is it really you?"

He didn't speak. Instead, he reached out, his calloused fingers wrapping gently around your trembling hands. You flinched at the contact, the shock of it too much, but he didn't let go. Slowly, he guided your hands to his face, pressing them against his cheeks.

His skin was rougher than you remembered, his beard thicker, weathered by years of trials and battles, but the warmth—the life beneath your touch—was unmistakable. It grounded you in a way that no words ever could. He leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as though savoring the moment, as though he feared you might pull away.

"It's me," he murmured, his voice low and steady, his breath warm against your hands. His thumbs moved in small, gentle circles over your wrists, as if to reassure you, to anchor you both in this moment.

Your breath hitched, and fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. "O-Odysseus," you choked out, the name falling from your lips like a prayer. Your hands, still trembling, curled slightly against his skin, afraid to let go, afraid to believe, and yet unable to deny the truth of the man before you.

He opened his eyes then, meeting your tearful gaze with a tenderness that took your breath away. "Penelope," he said again, the way he spoke your name like a vow, a promise that he was here, that he was real.

Your heart stuttered, caught between disbelief and an aching hope that threatened to overwhelm you. The tears you had tried to hold back now flowed freely, your chest heaving as you fought to find words, any words, to bridge the chasm of years and heartbreak that separated you.

"Have my prayers been answered?" you whispered, your voice trembling, fragile as the thread of a spider's web. Your eyes searched his face, tracing every new line, every scar, every mark of hardship etched into his features. "Is it really you standing there, or am I dreaming once more?"

Odysseus' lips parted, as though he, too, struggled with the enormity of this moment. He tightened his hold on your hands, his calloused thumbs brushing against your skin in a gesture so tender it made you tremble. "It's me, Penelope," he murmured, his voice low but steady, a reassurance as much for himself as it was for you.

You shook your head slightly, as if to clear it, your tears blurring your vision. "You look different," you said, your voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "Your eyes... they look tired. Your frame is lighter, your smile..." You swallowed hard, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Your smile is... torn."

A flicker of pain crossed his face, and he let out a breath that seemed to carry the weight of years. "I... I am not the man you fell in love with, Penelope," he admitted, his voice soft but unwavering. "I am not the man you once adored. I am not your kind and gentle husband."

His words struck you like a blow, each one driving home the truth that you had feared, and yet something in his gaze kept you rooted, unable to look away. "And I am not the love you knew before," he finished, the admission hanging heavy in the air between you.

Your lip quivered, your knees threatening to give out again. "What kinds of things did you do for you to believe such things?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question carried no accusation, only a desperate need to understand, to piece together the years that had separated you.

His jaw tightened, and his gaze dropped for a moment, as though the weight of the answer was too much to bear. "I left a trail of red on every island," he said finally, his voice raw with the truth. "I traded friends like objects I could use. I hurt more lives than I can count on my hands." His eyes flicked back up to yours, and the pain in them was almost unbearable to witness. "But all of that was to bring me back to you."

Your breath caught, your hands trembling in his grip. He was baring his soul before you, and yet you couldn't stop the flood of questions, the fears and doubts that had plagued you for years. "So tell me," he continued, his voice softer now, carrying a note of something fragile. "Would you fall in love with me again, if you knew all I've done? The things I can't undo? I am not the man you knew, Penelope. But I know you've been waiting for my return, my love."

You felt as though the air had been knocked from your lungs, his words hitting you with a force that left you reeling. "Odysseus..."

He stepped closer, the air between you heavy with unspoken emotion. The years of longing, the nights spent weaving and unraveling hope, the ache of absence—all of it welled up inside you, pressing against your chest until it was hard to breathe.

"If that's true," you began, your voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and resolve that even you hadn't expected, "could you do me a favor?"

Odysseus tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he studied you, the faintest flicker of concern crossing his features. "Anything," he rasped, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had carried countless burdens but would shoulder another if it meant easing yours.

You drew in a shaky breath, your hands twisting in the fabric of your robe as you glanced toward the corner of the room, where the wedding bed stood—a monument to the love you had cherished through the years, even as it seemed impossible to hold onto. "Just a moment of labor," you whispered, your voice barely audible as you struggled to keep it steady, "that would bring me some peace."

He straightened, his brows drawing closer together as unease flickered in his gaze.

You swallowed hard and gestured toward the bed. "See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here."

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. Even the crackling of the fire in the hearth seemed to fade into the background as your words hung heavily in the air.

At first, Odysseus didn't move, his body as still as stone, but the change in his expression was stark. Confusion gave way to disbelief, then hurt, and finally, a simmering anger that seemed to pulse just beneath the surface.

He took a slow step forward, his eyes fixed on the bed as though it had somehow betrayed him.

"How could you say ask this?" he asked, his voice low and tight, the tremor in it betraying the storm of emotions he was struggling to contain. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles whitening as though he were trying to ground himself. "That bed isn't just wood, Penelope. It's us—it's everything we built, everything we were."

You held your ground, your heart hammering in your chest. "I know," you replied softly, though your voice carried a sharp edge, your words deliberately chosen. "That's why I ask."

His gaze snapped to yours, his eyes flashing with a pain that struck deep. "I built that bed with my own hands," he said, his voice rising, the anger now bubbling to the surface. "Do you remember the olive tree, Penelope? The one in the garden, where you smiled at me for the first time—truly smiled, not out of courtesy or politeness, but with a warmth that lit up the whole world? That tree was alive, vibrant, like you. I could have built a bed from any wood in the kingdom, but I chose that tree. I thought it would hold us together, root us, even when life tried to tear us apart."

You said nothing, your eyes brimming with unshed tears as he continued, the floodgates of his heartbreak fully open now.

"When I carved it..." he said, his voice breaking slightly, "I poured everything into it—my love, my hope, my belief that what we had was unshakable. And now, after all these years, after everything I've done to get back to you, you ask me to destroy it? To tear it from its roots and cast it away as though it means... nothing?" His voice cracked on the last word, and he shook his head, stepping back as though the distance might protect him from the blow you'd just dealt.

Your lip quivered, but you refused to look away. Instead, you stepped closer, your voice quiet but resolute. "And do you know why I asked, Odysseus?" you countered, your tone measured, a mixture of cunning and vulnerability. "Because I had to know. After twenty years, I had to know if the man who stands before me is the man I loved, the man who could never move that bed because he made it immovable—because he made it ours."

He froze, his breath catching in his throat as your words sank in.

You took another step forward, your tears finally slipping down your cheeks as you continued, your voice softening. "Only my husband would understand what that bed means, what it represents. Only he would react the way you just did—with anger, with heartbreak, because it's not just a piece of furniture, is it? It's us. It's the life we built together, the promises we made under the shade of that olive tree. Only my Odysseus would carry that weight with him... even after all these years."

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and the anger in his eyes melted into something deeper—something raw and unguarded. He took a shaky breath, his hands relaxing at his sides as he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Penelope..."

"Yes," you murmured, your lips trembling as a smile began to form. "Yes, only my husband knew that... So I guess that makes him you."

The tension in the room shattered, replaced by a flood of emotions that neither of you could fully contain. Odysseus took another step toward you, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek with a gentleness that belied the storm that had just passed.

"Penelope," he said again, his voice full of reverence, his thumb brushing away your tears. "You... you are still the clever woman I fell in love with, the woman who could outwit gods and men alike. And you’re right. That bed... it's us. And I could never, would never destroy it. Not for anything."

You placed your hand over his, your fingers trembling against his calloused palm. "And I could never stop loving you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Not then. Not now. Not for anything or anyone."

Your tears fell freely now, your voice breaking as you spoke. "I will fall in love with you over and over again, Odysseus," you said, the words tumbling from your lips like a confession, raw and unguarded. "I don't care how, where, or when. No matter how long it's been... you're mine."

His eyes opened, meeting yours with a fierce intensity. "Don't tell me you're not the same person," you continued, your voice trembling but determined. "You're always my husband, and I've been waiting for you."

His hands cupped your face then, his touch gentle but firm, as though grounding himself in your presence. "Penelope," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, his forehead resting against yours. "For you, I would wait an eternity."

"How long... has it been?"

His lips curled into a faint smile, bittersweet and full of unspoken apologies. "Twenty years," he said, the weight of those two words pressing against you like a physical force.

Twenty years. Twenty years of pain and longing condensed into this moment, the air between you heavy with unspoken promises and the undeniable truth of a love that had endured against all odds.

And then, without warning, he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative or shy but raw and consuming. His lips claimed yours with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. You felt the tremor in his hands as they cradled your face, his calloused fingers rough yet gentle, grounding you in his presence.

The weight of twenty years was in that kiss—two decades of longing, of yearning, of pain too deep to articulate.

He kissed you like a man starved, as though you were the first taste of life he’d had in an eternity. The press of his lips was firm, insistent, yet reverent, as if he were terrified that you might slip away if he loosened his hold for even a moment.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, the rhythm faltering before surging forward with a force that left you lightheaded. Your hands, trembling and unsure, found their way to his chest, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic as if to anchor yourself, as if to remind yourself that this was real, that he was here. His heart thundered beneath your touch, the rapid beat matching the wild cadence of your own.

The kiss deepened, his desperation bleeding into every movement. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that left no room for hesitation. His beard brushed against your skin, rough and unfamiliar, but it only added to the heady sensation, grounding you further in the reality of him.

When he pulled you closer, his arms sliding around your waist to hold you firmly against him, the warmth of his body seeped into yours, chasing away every lingering doubt, every shadow of uncertainty.

You could feel the tension in him—the coiled strength of a warrior who had been fighting for so long, the vulnerability of a man who had feared he might never return home.

A small, broken sound escaped him, muffled against your lips, and it sent a shiver racing down your spine. His lips lingered on yours as though memorizing the shape, the feel, the reality of you.

When he finally pulled back, his breath came in ragged gasps, his forehead resting against yours once more. His eyes were squeezed shut, his lashes damp with unshed tears, and his grip on you remained firm, as though he feared you might vanish if he let go.

"Penelope," he whispered again, his voice hoarse, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you. "I thought... I thought I'd never hold you again."

Your own breaths came in shallow, uneven bursts, your lips tingling from the intensity of the kiss. Your chest heaved, your hands still clutching at him as if you might fall apart without the solid weight of him beneath your fingers.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, and the raw vulnerability you saw there stole whatever words you might have spoken. His lips were red and slightly swollen, his cheeks flushed, and the way he looked at you—as though you were the only thing keeping him grounded—made your heart ache and soar all at once.

You lifted a trembling hand to touch his face, your thumb brushing against the tear trailing down his cheek. "Odysseus," you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of everything you felt but couldn't say.

And as his lips found yours again, softer this time but no less fervent, you knew without a doubt that this was your Odysseus—the man who had left, the man who had fought, the man who had returned.

And you kissed him back with all the love, all the pain, and all the hope that had carried you through the years. The two of you stood there, the world falling away as time seemed to collapse.

He pulled back slowly, his breath mingling with yours, the space between you charged with everything unspoken. For a moment, he simply stared, his hands trembling against your skin.

"Penelope," he whispered, his voice breaking, his tears falling freely now. "After everything... after all this time..."

You placed a trembling hand on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm, a grounding warmth that made you choke on a sob. "I—I love you, Odysseus."

His hand covered yours, pressing it tighter against his chest as though to hold you there, to keep you from slipping away. "I love you, Penelope," he murmured, his voice steady now, resonant, filled with everything he couldn't say before. "Always. Forever. Even when I thought I'd never see you again... it was always you."

And in that moment, twenty years of separation melted away, leaving nothing but the love that had never wavered, the bond that time and trials could not break.

A/N: Ahhh, y'all im crying in bed!!! i just listened to the last saga of epic (ithaca saga) and it got me sobbing, just a mess. jorge did a phenomenon job portrtaying odysseus love for penelope ❤️❤️ i just had to create my one-shot/interpertation of this 😩❤️

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spicy30 · 16 days ago

Text

Modernness of 1400s 010

Pairing: HOTD x Fem!Modern!Reader

Extra: The reader is noted to be bilingual (Spanish speaking) and is familiar with the majority of Latin-based languages, No use of Y/N

Rating: 18+ (domestic abuse)

Tags: @fan-goddess @meowmeowmothermeower @bunxia @your-favorite-god @coolalienstatesmansports @georgiatesulitsyeykite @qwerrtsworld @wegottastayfocus @dakota-rain666 @talilosha @the-deep-dark-abyss @101crows @agustdeeyaa @ggglich-exe @illjhhlisa @deepeststarlightmoon @cluelessteam @a-fruity-snack @i-zenin @justablondeeee @feyresqueen @yduimobsessed @pinkluv29 @xmenteria @itwaszzmoon @powllito @xadaboo @magdalenacarmila

WC: 12.4k

21st day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.

…

Jacaerys furrowed his brows looking over the letter. “To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Again.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Again.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” One more time.

“To Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, I urge you to end all communications with me. No longer do I wish to be in contact with you.” Your name was signed at the bottom. He darted up from his chair going over to his night stand to read your last letter. Had he missed something in your last letter? They were sent only three days apart. What changed?

…

7th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Today is a holy day—the holiest of days. The seventh day of the seventh month, when the Seven smile down upon their faithful.

There are few things in this world that can truly be called holy.

Today is one of them.

But you are not. Not in the eyes of the High Septon.

You are new. Different. Unexplainable. You are magic—a force beyond his comprehension. Like the dragons, like the Targaryens, who, despite their sins and misdeeds, remain inexplicably closer to the gods than he, the High Septon, ever will.

Today, the bells of the Great Sept toll in solemn rhythm, calling all to attend the sacred ceremony of the Seven. The air is thick with incense, the sweet and smoky fragrance curling through the stone corridors like a prayer whispered to the heavens. Worshipers flood the Sept, their voices a low hum of reverence, heads bowed, hands clasped.

You are there among them, standing apart yet undeniably present. Dressed in white, gold glinting at your wrists, the light streaming through the stained-glass windows dances over you like a blessing from the gods themselves. To many, you appear a vision—a living relic touched by divine hands.

But to the High Septon, seated at the heart of the sanctum beneath the seven-pointed star, you are an annoyance. A disruption.

As he leads the prayers, he does not meet your gaze. When his eyes sweep across the congregation, they glide past you as though you are invisible. Yet in his chest, a familiar irritation brews, sharper with every passing moment.

You are too still, too composed, as if you do not carry the weight of your sins. The others kneel with trembling hands and tearful eyes, pleading for forgiveness, but you remain poised, serene, as though you have no need to beg the Seven for their mercy. It is as though you think you are already favored—already holy.

The High Septon’s words rise and fall in practiced cadence, his voice steady and commanding. He preaches of humility, of repentance, of knowing one’s place beneath the gods. But his thoughts stray, circling back to you, unbidden.

He recalls the whispers about you. The miracles you claim, the illnesses you’ve healed, the strange knowledge you wield. He remembers the way the sun cast its colors over you that day, a spectacle he had never seen before, and how even now the faithful murmur your name in the Sept as if it is a hymn.

It infuriates him.

You are not holy. You are not chosen. You are not ordained by the gods to serve their will.

You are no better than the Targeyens dancing on their dragons, breathing fire and destruction in their arrogance. Magic, power, miracles—they are tools of chaos, not proof of divinity.

As the ceremony draws to a close, he stands beneath the great star, arms outstretched, his voice booming with finality. “May the Seven guide us in their wisdom. May we walk humbly in their light, never straying, never claiming what is not ours to take. For pride is the path of ruin, and only through devotion may we find salvation.”

His gaze lingers on you for the first time, sharp and pointed, his unspoken condemnation clear.

And yet, as the worshipers rise and disperse, heads bowed and voices hushed, you remain unmoved. You lift your chin ever so slightly, meeting his stare with an expression he cannot place—neither defiance nor submission, but something more elusive.

If he is waiting for you to falter, to shrink beneath his judgment, he will be left wanting. You do not need his validation. You have come not for his approval but for answers.

As the High Septon turns away, his robes trailing behind him, he mutters a quiet prayer under his breath. Not for you, but for the realm. For he is certain now: you are not holy. You are dangerous.

…

10th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Aemond Targeyen had seen many things in his life, despite the lack of an eye. How could he not? He can see through Vhagar. Flying through the skies, seeing through the eyes of the gods. Aemond had seen more than those with two eyes ever will.

An unfortunate side-effect to seeing through the Gods (Vhagar) is that not many things interest him any longer. He has grown bored of looking through the eyes of man.

Yet by many, Aemond was considered no mere man—how could he be, as a Targaryen? Born of fire and blood, chosen by Vhagar, the queen of dragons. The gods had marked him. And though his Valyrian blood deemed him superior, Aemond’s sights were set higher still. To him, the eyes of a King—perched atop the Iron Throne, looking down on the realm—were the only vision worthy of comparison to the gods. The Iron Throne was the apex, the sole seat that could match his ambitions and cure his ennui.

But this sight in front of him might be enough to satisfy him, if only for a bit.

Here and now as he lies on your bed bare as the day he was born, his gaze lingers on you—a sight that, for once, stirred his restless mind.

You sat by the window, your lips slightly parted in concentration as you painted your lashes a dark, striking black. Your eyes, already piercing, became more prominent with each careful stroke. You held a mirror in your hand, one he hadn’t seen before. Encased in what looked to be silver or perhaps fine steel, it bore delicate engravings partially obscured by your fingers, which were adorned with rings. Your nails, long and polished, gleamed like tiny blades. (How you seem to glisten down to even your nails he will never know)

The mirror’s quality was far better than his own—his, with rusted edges and dim reflection, felt crude in comparison. Yours was pristine, untouched by decay, much like yourself. You seemed impervious to the filth and shadows of King’s Landing, as if you had stepped out of another world.

The light pouring through the window illuminated your exposed collarbone and the soft swell of your cleavage, making your skin glow. Your cheeks held a perfect flush, a rosy hue that mimicked the warmth of sunlight caressing your skin.

He watched, transfixed, as you set the mirror down and reached for a bag embroidered with golden letters that spelled DIOR—a name he did not recognize but found intriguing nonetheless. From the bag, you pulled a silver-encrusted tube, sleek and foreign.

Aemond’s sharp eye followed your every movement as you opened the tube and lifted the mirror once more, applying a glossy sheen to your lips with precision. For a fleeting moment, he believed that perhaps you could fulfill his longing for something—anything—worth observing through the eyes of man.

In this moment, you were more than a curiosity; you were a masterpiece, a picture of regality and otherworldly elegance. Aemond’s boredom, for once, began to waver.

Aemond remained silent, his sharp gaze unwavering as you tilted your head, inspecting your reflection in the mirror. The sunlight seemed to cling to you, as if it, too, were captivated. You pressed your lips together lightly, spreading the gloss evenly, and then set the tube down beside your mirror.

The motion was simple, yet deliberate, exuding a calm self-assurance he found rare in others. The people of King’s Landing always seemed to wear their unease plainly, their movements erratic, their gazes nervous. You, however, moved as if you had all the time in the world, as though nothing could rush or disturb you.

“You stare,” you said suddenly, breaking the silence without glancing his way.

Aemond’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, unrepentant. “Should I not?”

You finally turned your head toward him, an arched brow accompanying your unimpressed expression. “It’s rude, you know. People tend to find it unsettling.”

“Do they?” he asked, voice laced with amusement. “I wonder if anyone’s ever dared tell me that to my face.”

“First time for everything.” You leaned back in your chair, crossing one leg over the other. The hem of your dress shifted slightly, revealing the shimmer of gold-threaded embroidery along its edge.

Aemond’s eye flicked briefly to the fabric before returning to your face. “And yet, you don’t seem unsettled. Only... irked.”

“Maybe I’m just used to people staring,” you replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “Or maybe I’ve decided it’s easier to let you stare and get bored than to tell you to stop and risk making it worse.”

Aemond chuckled softly, low and resonant. “You think I bore so easily?”

“I think you bore quicker than most.” You rested your elbow on the arm of your chair, propping your chin on your hand as you studied him. “Which begs the question—why are you still here?”

“So you are irate today.” Aemond’s smirk widened, a rare spark of genuine intrigue lighting his expression, yet it never seemed rare with you. It only fueled his amusement when your lips pursed, the gloss on them gleaming in the sunlight. Tugging at the robe that hung loosely off his frame, he stood, his eyepatch resting untouched on the nearby counter.

“Tell me,” he said smoothly, his tone baiting, “I figured it would’ve passed by now. What has you cross today? Did you not enjoy the ceremony of the Seven.”

You didn’t respond, your silence an act of defiance that only seemed to amuse him further. Aemond stepped closer, the faint rustle of the bedsheets as he moved towards you breaks the stillness.“Still upset that my mother hasn’t introduced you to the High Septon?” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate. “Everything is easier with a name to stand behind you.”

He leaned down slightly, and the sweet, almost otherworldly scent that seemed to belong only to you enveloped him. It was both maddening and intoxicating.

“I don’t understand why he refuses to meet with me,” you said, frustration softening your usually steady voice. “It has been a whole month yet he seems to despise me, but I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?”

Your wide eyes—framed by lashes that seemed longer and darker in the sunlight—looked up at him with an innocence he knew better than to trust. His hand moved before he thought, fingers brushing against your cheek, but when you tilted your head, it was your hair that became ensnared in his grasp, soft and impossibly sweet smelling.

“Good deeds are not enough for the High Septon,” he said, his voice quieter now, as if sharing a secret.

“Is that not what the Faith preaches?” you murmured, though your eyes weren’t on his. They lingered on his lips instead, and he knew you were aware of the power you wielded in that moment. “I don’t do it for recognition, though. Perhaps I did at first, but... it feels good simply to do good.”

Your gaze drifted from his lone eye to the sapphire, then back again, studying him in a way that made him feel both exposed and intrigued. Before he could respond, you leaned in, your lips brushing his cheek in a chaste kiss, the gloss leaving a faint shimmer against his skin.

For a moment, he was still, caught between the warmth of your touch and the unfamiliar sensation of vulnerability it brought. But when he straightened, the corner of his lips curved, though his eye remained calculating.

You were dangerous, he thought, but perhaps... that was what made you so interesting.

He leaned into your cupping your face and brought it closer to him as he kissed you. A practiced motion between the two of you. He felt as you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him down. He obliged to your wishes. His hands drop and inside hold your waist as he lifts you up from your chair. You both break and he can look at you admiring as the sun hits your eyes illuminating them.

“Otto fights me on everything,” you murmured, your voice soft, as though you feared the walls might hear. To Aemond, it sounded almost like a whispered heresy, something that should never be spoken aloud in a place like the Red Keep.

“He sees you as a disruption,” He replied evenly, though there was a flicker of something in his tone. Amusement, perhaps? Or curiosity? “You challenge the natural order of things—his order.”

“Challenge? All I’m doing is suggesting progress,” you scoffed, leaning against him as your arms continue to hold him close to you. “Do you not see the benefit of what I’ve proposed? Patents would encourage innovation. Imagine what could be built—what could be created—if inventors and scholars felt protected, if their work wasn’t stolen by those with power but no imagination.” You speak into his chest.

Aemond’s lips twitched slightly, the barest hint of a smirk. “And yet, you expect my grandsire, the very embodiment of power and tradition, to willingly hand over control of such matters? You’re either bold or naïve.”

“Why not both?” You gave a sweet smile looking up towards him.

The corner of his mouth lifted further at that, though his eye remained sharp, assessing. “Adding a new position to the council is no small request. It threatens the balance of power.”

“Does it?” you countered. “Or does it merely challenge the age-old idea that men like Otto cling to with all their might?”

Aemond tilted his head slightly, studying you. “And who, pray tell, would you recommend for this new position?”

You hesitated, Aemond could almost see your thoughts turning. You hadn’t yet settled on a name, but you knew what you needed—someone older, someone with experience, yet not so entrenched in tradition that they would resist progress.

“I’m still considering,” you admitted, though your tone was firm. “But it would need to be someone who understands innovation, someone who values intellect over influence.”

“Someone you could control,” Aemond clarified while looking down towards you, his hand firmly on your hips

He watched you give a wide grin. “Control? No. Persuade? Perhaps. Influence? Certainly.” You gave Aemond another chaste kiss before turning around preparing your papers. “In any case…this needs to be passed.” He heard you hum out before turning around.

Aemond gave a low hum, his tone distant, as he began dressing himself. He heard your soft farewell before the door clicked shut behind you, leaving him alone in your chambers. It was unusual. In the past month since your peculiar routine together had begun, Aemond had never lingered in your room for long. You always seemed particular about your things, shooing him out with a sense of urgency that he attributed to your underlying fear of his mother. It irritated him, though he wouldn’t admit it aloud.

You should not fear his mother—not when he stands between the two of you.

(But even as the thought passed through his mind, a quieter, less comforting truth lingered: what is a Prince to a Queen? And worse still, Aemond could not deny that it was his father’s favor, not his own protection, that truly shielded you from his family’s ire.)

He reached for his eyepatch, which lay discarded on the desk. As his fingers brushed it, the leather slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. His irritation flared for a moment, a small crack in his otherwise stoic demeanor. He knelt to retrieve it when something caught his eye—a faint glint of metal, hidden beneath your bed.

Aemond stilled, his hand hovering over the eyepatch.

“California love” Aemond turned around to his brother in…well Aemond didn’t know what it was. “California knows how to party. California knows how to party.” His brother sang as he threw back a drink. “What do you think brother?” Aegon grinned. “A wife beater.”

Aemond furrowed his brows. “You would strike your sister-wife!? Our future Queen!” Aemond hissed out marching towards his foolish older brother.

Aegon shook his head while grinning. “No brother, that is what this-” Aegon pointed towards his white…shift? (Aemond refuses to call it a wife beater) “It’s called a wife beater.” Your name came from Aegon’s mouth of how you had introduced him to ‘slangs,’ ‘gang wars’ and ‘the west coast vs the east coast’ (Aegon said that he much preferred the West coast)

“In the city of LA, in the city of good ‘ol Watts. In the city, city of Compton. We keep it rockin', we keep it rockin' Now let me welcome everybody to the Wild Wild West. A state that's untouchable like Eliot Ness….thats all I know. Love that song. Sunshine state. Sunfyre and I would thrive in California.” As Aegon sang Aemond simply stood there.

California?

Aemond Targeyen knows nothing.

Your homeland, your past, the strange words that spilled from your lips when he pressed you beneath him—these were all mysteries wrapped in the enigma that was you.

This lack of knowledge gnawed at him, and in that moment, he justified his curiosity as natural. Expected.

Reaching beneath the bed, his hand found the metal handles of an oddly shaped bag. He hesitated for only a moment before pulling it into the light. Inside the bag were an assortment of objects: a neatly folded set of unfamiliar clothing, patterned bags, soft leather pouches, and a pair of sandals—the very ones you had worn when he first saw you. But one item in particular drew his attention.

It was green, with dark, rounded glass encased in what appeared to be a semi-translucent frame. Light and delicate, the object felt strange in his hands. Aemond furrowed his brow as he examined it, noting the fine, intricate metalwork at its hinges.

He carefully unfolded the arms of the object, marveling at the tiny mechanisms that allowed it to move with such precision. The craftsmanship was like nothing he had ever seen. What sort of blacksmith could forge such delicate pieces?

Curiosity overcame him, and he brought the dark glass to his eye. The world darkened instantly, and he frowned. He adjusted the arms until they rested over his ears, the glass sitting snugly on his face. He blinked, the dimmed view unnerving him.

Why would anyone wear such a thing? What purpose could it serve?

He removed the object abruptly, and the brightness of the room returned with a sharpness that made him wince, a faint ache forming between his brows. Looking deeper into the bag, Aemond found a small booklet with a box on its cover—a strange contraption with a glass eye at its center. Opening the booklet, he discovered what appeared to be miniature portraits. But they weren’t paintings; no brushstrokes marred their surfaces. They were impossibly detailed, lifelike beyond comprehension. They were reflections frozen in time.

One of the portraits featured you with another girl, her appearance as foreign as yours. The two of you wore what could only be described as scandalous—she in a strapless dress, while the both of you held food between your mouths, connected in a playful pose. Another showed the two of you in what he could only interpret as smallclothes, laughing as you stood knee-deep in the sea. In yet another, you were seated in a contraption he could only compare to a carriage, though it bore no wheels or horses. You wore trousers and a small white top that looked more like undergarments to his eyes.

Aemond continues to look through the small portraits. Countless photos of you in what seem like another lifetime. There you were, standing before a tower that soared higher than the Red Keep itself. Another portrait depicted you before an awe-inspiring Sept, the girl from earlier by your side. He turned the page to find you with a woman he assumed was your mother, standing before what appeared to be a glass pyramid. Each image offered a glimpse into a life so foreign, it might as well have been from another world.

One portrait caught his attention: you dressed in a long coat with an undershirt that covered your neck, dark trousers, and those same green-framed dark glasses perched atop your head. A strong wind seemed to whip your hair across your face as you stood before a grand landscape with a mighty river snaking behind you. In another, you were bundled in heavy clothing, yellow mirrors covering your eyes, and a rounded hat atop your head as you held two metal objects, white snow blanketing the scene behind you. Another showed you and a man he presumed to be your father, standing before a tower that leans precariously to one side. More portraits followed, featuring great statues, vast cities, and you with your family in settings so extraordinary they hardly seemed real.

Some of the portraits appeared to be breathtaking works of art, though most were self-portraits of you with the girl and others. One, in particular, showed you and a group of girls clad in tunics bearing numbers—outfits far too improper by Westerosi standards. Another featured a large gathering of people, all young, their attire beyond Aemond's comprehension. In that image, you were smiling brightly, your arm wrapped around a boy who stood close to you.

He turned another page and paused, his brow furrowing. The next portrait showed you standing beneath a floating banner that read “Happy Birthday.” A brightly colored cake sat before you, and your family stood gathered around you. You looked impossibly young, your smile radiant and unguarded.

Aemond thought the booklet had ended, but as he went to close it, he noticed a small folder tucked into the back. Pulling it out, he found more portraits—these ones more intimate. They showed you and the same boy from earlier, but now, you were kissing him. Each portrait captured moments of affection and closeness that felt invasive to witness.

His hand tightened around the booklet, and a strange feeling curled in his chest—part curiosity, part irritation, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Who was this boy? What life had you lived before this one? Aemond stared at the portraits, his mind swirling with questions he doubted you would answer willingly.

…

12th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Daemon is not fond of you. That much is clear to everyone. To him, you are another green snake slithering in his path, another head to be severed when the time comes. It’s no matter; he’s already counting the days until your venom meets its antidote.

Yet, you don’t act like the other snakes. You bite the hand that feeds you, snapping at those who should be your allies. The whispers about you echo through the halls of the Red Keep, growing louder with each passing day. You sow chaos among the greens—retaliations and sharp words delivered like daggers—and though Daemon despises you, he finds himself lingering just long enough to see where the trail of destruction leads.

To Daemon, you’re not a player in this game; you’re a spectacle. A fire sparking in the middle of a powder keg. He doesn’t watch to see you succeed or to root for your cause—Daemon Targaryen watches to see who will fall first. Whether your bite sends the entire tower of greens crumbling or whether you’ll meet your own demise from their retribution, it doesn’t matter to him.

What does matter to him is his daughters. Daughters who now seem to be collateral damage to your venom. Daemon's loyalists, carefully reassembled during his prolonged stay in King’s Landing, begin to whisper of sour fruits. Letters—you’ve been sending them. Letters to someone caught in your vice, someone who ties himself to his eldest daughter. It gnaws at him, deep and persistent. You gnaw at him.

You shouldn’t have the reach to wrap yourself around a prince across the bay, to slither into places you don’t belong. You shouldn’t even be here, in this castle, weaving yourself into the threads of his family’s tapestry. To him, you are a mutt—a mongrel clawing at the edges of a world far above you, and yet, somehow, here you are.

It is that persistence, that audacity, that irks him most. He watches as you charm your way into rooms you should never enter, as you plant seeds in soil that should remain barren to you. And now, with every letter sent, every whispered scheme, it feels as though your shadow stretches closer to what he holds dear.

For all his hatred, Daemon couldn’t help but watch you, the way you slithered towards the council room with a grace that could captivate even the most hardened heart. Your hips swayed almost hypnotically, drawing his attention to the very room he had always longed to be in, only to be cast away from. "Well, if it isn’t the prattling bitch. Come to talk their ears off again?" he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

Daemon relished the way you stiffened, knowing full well that there was no one here to save you from his words. His gaze sharpened as he watched your brows furrow. "Jealous that you can’t?" you retorted, the challenge clear in your voice. "Let's try to remember, I’m in the room and—" You let your eyes trail over him, a deliberate move, “—you’re not.”

A small, defiant smile curved your lips as you began to walk away from him, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness of the hall.

Daemon’s amusement flickered, and he couldn't resist a final jab. "And let’s not forget, you’re nothing but a mutt with nothing to your name."

"Me? The mutt?" You turned back toward him with a tilt of your head, a playful glint in your eyes. "But I’m not the one patiently waiting outside for my wife to come back and collect me, like a good stray who’s been fed. I’ll make a suggestion to the Princess to toss you a bone."

“My Lady.” Daemon’s eyes were drawn to the dornish knight who called after you.

“Ser Criston!”

Daemon gave a scoff as you pranced over towards the Knight. “A bitch and a whore. Tell me when we will be expecting a litter of mutts?” That made you stop in your tracks and Daemon couldn't be bothered to acknowledge the look on Crispin’s face.

“No,” you said sharply, turning to face him. "I am a woman who knows exactly what I want and how to get it." You took a deliberate step closer, your expression mocking. “You, on the other hand…” Your brows furrowed in feigned pity, “I almost feel sorry for you. Always last to be chosen, not even second, always third. I imagine it grates the most that your niece was chosen for the throne before you. How sad that must be, to have your bloodline suffer so.”

Daemon’s fists clenched as you continued. “First, Rhaenyra, then her younger brother—may he rest in peace—and finally, you. The third choice. That was of course before the birth of the King’s other four children. Even your son is nothing but a third choice, trailing behind Princes Lucerys and Joffrey. How truly tragic it must be, to know that the only way you can achieve anything as a second son is to marry your own niece.”

Your words rang in the air like a cruel melody, and Daemon gritted his teeth, anger rising in him.

You gave a high-pitched hum, shrugging your shoulders. "But I suppose you’ve always known your place, haven’t you? Best to start acting like it. I suggest getting yourself a seat while you wait outside for your wife, sitting down.”

Daemon’s gaze sharpened as you walked toward the door to the small council. He did not miss the small, self-satisfied smirk on the Dornish knight’s face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Daemon’s hand hovered near Dark Sister, a dangerous glint in his eye, but he refrained. The small council awaited, and for now, he would bide his time. But this… this humiliation would not be forgotten.

…

12th day of 7th moon of 129 AC

You were strange. Very strange to Ser Criston Cole. He had thought you a simple girl—fearful, fragile, like any other who came to King’s Landing with nothing to their name. (Like him all those years ago.) He remembered the day you prayed outside Queen Alicent’s chambers, trembling as though the gods themselves might descend to save you. If he was commanded to, Ser Criston Cole would strike you down. He would’ve struck you down that day had Alicent asked it of him, but she didn’t, only to observe.

So he has. He watched that day as he heard sounds from your room. He watches as Aemond seems to leave their training sessions earlier, as Aegon sings songs no one has ever heard under his breath, and how Helaena speaks in more riddles since going to the Riverlands.

“Beneath the dawn of gilded skies, a great age shall rise,” Helaena hums as she sows whilst her children play elsewhere. “Born of unity and splendor, a golden bond sworn.”

Alicent is right. You pollute and Ser Criston thinks that you are polluting a Prince's honor. (But should he go throwing stones from his glass house? If the Queen demands it of him, he will.)

However, until anything more is demanded of Ser Criston Cole he will not act, he will simply watch and now he watches you as you spit your words towards Prince Daemon. It brings him deep satisfaction. (Why? Criston likes to think that it is because Daemon has always been a thorn in his side but he knows better than that. Or does he?)

No he doesn’t because in this moment Criston feels as though he is living vicariously through you. It is as though your words are his, as though he himself is insulting the Prince without consequence.

“But I suppose you’ve always known your place, haven’t you? Best to start acting like it. I suggest getting yourself a seat while you wait outside for your wife, sitting down.”

You pollute things around you, never caring who else ingests your pollution. You are selfish beyond belief and Criston will live through you if only for a moment because he was denied when he wanted to be selfish.

Criston was denied a life that he wanted when his white coat was stepped on. He was denied the only life he could live honorably. Criston is forced now to live a life he cannot help but detest. He lives as Ser Criston Cole, as an honorable knight who has taken an oath of celibacy, Criston lives as a knight who broke his sacred vows, but what else does he have? Nothing but the favor of a Queen, for he lost his honor long ago.

So Criston watches you, watches as he sees you earn the ire of the Queen who he is sworn to, watches as you earn the annoyance of the hand, yet you earn the favor of a King. Ser Criston knows the danger that comes with earning the favor of a royal, much more of a King. You are beautiful woman, he cannot deny, he doubts anyone else can deny putting aside your peculiarity, but if King Viserys continues on the track of health you have launched him to, Ser Criston knows you have failed to see the chain on your ankle that ties you to the King and soon you too will be launched with the King and thus sealing your fate.

And like him, you will be forced to live a life you did not mean for.

But Ser Criston has not been told to act yet, so he simply watches you. Watch as for hours you stand in front of the council speaking as if you have all the answers in life, as you speak with knowledge beyond your years. You speak as though you have all the answers, as though the path forward is as clear to you as the sun in the sky. You speak of radical ideas to launch Westeros forward. You talk so much and so loud for someone with no name and no bloodline to shield you, it almost irritates him, but why? Ser Criston cannot say why.

You speak with everything. Everything is conveyed with every single part of your being. As if you truly believe the words you speak. But in his eyes you cannot be so sure of yourself. You cannot truly be putting your whole faith and trust into your ideas. You cannot hope to be so selfish and so self assured because when he was like you, he was not. You have nothing to shield you but the favor of a King and Ser Criston Cole knows that is not enough.

Ser Criston continues to watch you. Watch as once more the council is adjourned once more and there is a displeased look in your face. He watches as you all walk out, yet you walk alongside the King as he asks for you and you politely agree to meet him later in the evening. There's a disgust that arises in him as he hears you agree. A disgust that the Queen shares as they both walk away.

He can hear the Queen muttering beside him, her voice low but brittle with frustration. “The King grows too lenient. Too… infatuated with her nonsense.”

Ser Criston nods, a dutiful echo of her sentiment. “The council grows restless, Your Grace. Her influence spreads unchecked.”

Alicent pauses mid-step, turning to glance back down the hall where you have disappeared with Viserys. Her expression is tight, her lips pressed thin. “Unchecked, yes,” she murmurs. “But not for much longer.”

Ser Criston catches the cold edge in her voice, the glint of steel behind her calm façade. He has served Alicent long enough to recognize the slow, deliberate way she moves when she is planning something. His chest tightens, and though he knows it is not his place, he cannot stop himself from speaking.

“Your Grace,” he says carefully. He had danced with Alicent countless times. She never could admit what she wanted so it was up to him to decipher her. He watches her eyes, her body, her mouth, everything about her he watches. He gives a nod. Ser Criston is sworn to Queen, Ser Criston Cole always knows what is expected of him.

…

14th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

His lone eye looked over the letters you had received from his nephew on Dragonstone. Aemond crumpled the edges of the paper as his jaw tightened, his grip on the fragile parchment growing tauter by the moment. The words were innocuous enough on the surface—gracious, polite, and steeped in an almost boyish sincerity. But to Aemond, they were nothing short of treachery.

He read them again, his sharp gaze slicing through each sentence like a blade. "Your apology is well received." Aemond sneered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. What sort of relationship could the two of you possibly have that warrants such a familiar exchange? And why, by all the gods, had you accepted it?

Had you played the same game with Jacaerys that you had played with him? The same coy smile, the same allure that had drawn him into your chambers that first night? Had you ensnared his nephew as you had ensnared him? Opened your legs so obedient as you do for him? And what of that man in those strange, vivid paintings you kept so carefully hidden?

Aemond’s jaw clenched as his lone eye narrowed, scanning the lines once more, his ire growing with each passing sentence.

"You have shown me things that never in my life I would ever see, and for that I am grateful."

Just what had you shown him? Aemond cannot say because he does not know you—not truly—and it seems more apparent with every passing day. The inside jests you share with Aegon, the peculiar games you invent for Jaehaera and Jaehaerys while Aegon plays alongside you, the strange foods you bring to Helaena—why do his siblings seem to know you better than he does when it is Aemond who shares your bed?

"I truly do hope to see you once more here in Dragonstone."

He will not. Aemond will make sure of it.

But it is the most recent letter that cuts the deepest, the one that feels the most intimate.

"I would much rather share your burdens than have you face them alone."

Words you speak to a wife. Words meant for a partner, not a stranger. And yet his nephew has written them to you, without shame, without pretense.

There is no subtlety. None. What right does his nephew have to you? What claim?

And yet, for the first time, Aemond felt the foundations of his certainty falter. His hands trembled faintly as he set the letters aside, the crumpled edges a testament to the storm raging within him.

Pacing the length of the room, his mind churned. Were his fears unfounded? No, they couldn’t be. Not when Jacaerys's words were so plain, so brazen. Yet, deep in his chest, a whisper of doubt gnawed at him. Did he truly know you as well as he believed?

The thought clawed at his pride. Aemond paused, his fingers curling into fists as he wrestled with his frustration, his jealousy, and the painful shadow of uncertainty now cast over his mind.

The Valeyrons. To you they even feel entitled to. To his eye they felt entitled to you. It was clear in the arrogant tone he can hear as if Jacaerys himself was reading the letter aloud. The lofty prose his nephew promises you, the offer of refuge, the veiled promises of protection—all laid bare in the ink of a boy who thought himself noble, thought himself better. "Here I can assure you that your head will not be on a spike..."

If Jacaerys were to ever be King, he should be deemed Jacaerys the Hubris. (But he will not, Aemond knows this, for it is his foolish older brother who will sit the Iron Throne rather than his half-sister.) The conceited words seemed to burn Aemond. Did Jacaerys believe you were so weak, so naïve, that his words would sweep you away to Dragonstone?

(Maybe you were, it is why you have Aemond. It is how you look at him, with big innocent eyes that beg for your life and Aemond indulges in them.)

Aemond’s lip curled. It wasn’t just the content of the letters but their frequency—the familiarity they implied. The way Jacaerys wrote of shared moments, of private conversations, of flying on Vermax together. Aemond could practically hear the smugness in his nephew’s tone, feel the audacity of his offer to take you to the North or the Isle of Faces as though he had the right to show you the world.

…

15th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

“Tell me what other stories can you tell?” Viserys felt like a child asking you for such trivial things as you sitting and watching him while he sits in a mixture of lukewarm water and breast milk, just as you instructed. Yes, Viserys wishes you had come along much sooner.

Perhaps you would’ve been able to save him from this terrible fate he now must endure, though why the gods curse him as such, he knows naught. (But Viserys does know. He knows it must be some punishment for his dear wife Aemma. How he misses his wife.)

“What stories would you like to hear?” Viserys thinks. When was the last time he had someone tell him stories, or even read them to him. Not since Alicent all those years ago he supposes.

“Tell me stories of your youth, or anything about yourself.” He settles. You are so very different and it almost feels refreshing to hear you. Yes, Viserys wishes you had come sooner. A calm yet determined soul you had. A soul perfect for his daughter, a soul perfect to stabilize the realm. Yes, Viserys knows he is much your senior but for a moment as you tell your stories as Alicent did to him all those years ago, he can imagine the Queen you would’ve been.

A Queen that would have never let him rot like this.

Or mayhaps even sooner, to save Aemma.

“Sometimes, my dreams come true. Small trivial things though. I dream a memory, and days later I will be in the memory, but as it plays out in the present.” You speak and Viserys' lone eye widens.

“Tell me more.” Viserys leaned against the tub, the cool metal pressing against his sensitive skin. “Do you dream of things to come, or only what was?” Were you a dreamer? A dreamer that was not a Targeyen, or mayhaps you were a dragonseed.

He watches you closely, his gaze lingering a moment longer than it should. The way your skin always seems to gleam in whatever light surrounds you, and whenever you move, it’s as though the very rainbow of the Seven is ingrained within you. Something about you is different, something that makes him feel as if you might be more than just a woman in his presence.“Both, I think. But it’s hard to say. Most are trivial moments. Other times, especially in times of sorrow, a feeling of déjà vu occurs.”

Viserys did not know what ‘déjà vu’ meant, so he ignored it. “The Targaryens…most think our power lies in controlling the dragons,” You are no Targaryen. He should not tell you. You are not heir to the Iron Throne. “It is a lie. We do not control dragons. Our power lies in the dreamers of our family.”

“Daenys the Dreamer.” He heard you murmur and he smiled nodding.

“Yes, you know the story?”

“Prince Aemond has told it to me.”

“My boy? I suppose he has always been one for the books. It seems only natural for two intellectuals to speak to one another.” Viserys smiled, but his mind wandered. If you were a dreamer, perhaps it would be best to unite such a soul into the family. Have a stronger line of dreamers. He glanced at you once more, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face.

“I had wished to be a dreamer, but alas,” he continued, his tone tinged with a quiet sadness. “Perhaps it was never meant for me... a king’s burden is not one for dreamers, after all.”

His thoughts began to drift, the weight of the crown and legacy pressing down on him. A dreamer. Could you be the one to change the course of this house? To alter the doom that was always foretold for the Targaryens? Viserys’s gaze fixed on you as if searching for something deeper, something more than the surface of your words.

Perhaps if you were a dreamer, a true one, you could save this house from the doom that waits. The dreamers had always foretold it, but could you be the one to change it?

Viserys's mind wandered, as it often did in these days of fading strength. The weight of his crown, the weight of the Targaryen legacy, felt like too much to bear, and yet he still clung to it, clinging to whatever semblance of control he could grasp. Perhaps this dreamer, this person who was so unlike him, could offer a spark of hope in a world that felt so very dim.

“Sometimes, the burden of a crown is not in the weight of the gold, but in the dreams that shape the future.”

“Kind words.” Viserys smiled. “Yet I feel as if I had no true trial nor tribulations. I find myself wishing that I had. After all, smooth seas never made a skilled sailor. Tis’ the favorite saying of the Sea Snake. A saying that I can understand. I do not think I am a skilled sailor and I am not fit to start trying now.”

“Sometimes, Your Grace, it is not the storms we endure that define us, but the quiet strength to rise again after the calm. Courage is not always found in great battles—it is in the small, quiet choices we make, day by day, to try again, even when the seas are still.” Yes, a fine Queen you could’ve made. A fine Queen you still could make if you were betrothed to his oldest grandson, but he had slighted the sea snake enough Viserys supposes.

“Have you ever given marriage a thought? What will you do once your act is passed?” He asked as he laid back into the warm waters.

“Briefly. In times of…weakness. In times when I find myself overwhelmed.” He heard you admit. The silence that followed was deafening. “Sometimes I imagine marrying a lord and living far from King’s Landing. Living in luxury that my lord husband will indulge me in. Living life never thinking of anyone else. It is a simple path, an easy path.”

“But?”

“But if not me, then who? If not now, then when? Sometimes you have to be the one to step up, even if others believe it’s not your place to begin with.” How noble you are. The embodiment of the ballads he hears of the strong and noble knights. Viserys does not doubt there will be a song written in your name. A song that will be sung throughout time.

There is a prickle of jealousy when he looks towards you, but it is damning to him. How could he hold such prejudice to you, one so noble and brave.

…

18th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

Dear Jacaerys Velaryon,

I thank you for your concern for me, truly. It is comforting to know that I have someone who cares for me as you do. In truth I find myself everyday more willing to take your offer, but alas I cannot allow myself to. There is much to be done. I do not doubt the validity of your words and truthfully your kindness is ever humbling. However, to leave now, tempting as it may be, would be to abandon a game in which I have yet to place my final pieces. However, I will admit, the thought of retreating to a quiet life with you—watching movies, sharing stories, and even introducing your younger brothers to the oddities of my world—is a dream I would gladly entertain when the time is right.

Continuing on, I must ask for forgiveness for my imprudence but you promised me something before you left. I wish to make good use of it now. I would like you to commission portraits of the photos. You see, I find myself being homesick and I long to look at my family, but my phone has limited time, and I plan to have it for a lifetime. If I can be so shameless as to ask this of you, I would be eternally grateful.

(P.S-I have gone to see the weirwood tree. I am not a fan. It’s creepy. Why is it always staring at me!?)

…

20th day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

You are not from here. Aemond knows that much. You are not from here, but Aemond knows naught of where your origins lay. You are not from here and you seem as if you have always lived an eternity away from him which is strange, because he feels you against him yet you stare off.

You always stare off. Always traveling to a place where he cannot follow and it is starting to grate on him. It is starting to grate against Aemond that you have lived an eternity away from him, it is starting to grate on him that you cannot seem to let go of your past when he is here.

Why can you not let go when he has decided that your past is no longer relevant. The boy in the portraits that you hide under your bed is no longer relevant, your letter to Jacaerys will no longer be relevant.

Across the sea of time, you seem to forever drift, and it grates on Aemond because he offers you land—solid ground to anchor yourself—but you seem content to float endlessly in the unknown.

“I have to go,” you murmur, your gaze finally meeting him. Why is it that you only truly return to him when you must leave?

“Why?” he asks, his voice low but laced with frustration.

“Because your father demands my presence,” you reply, your tone quiet but resolute.

“Why?” he pressed, his eyes narrowing, as if demanding an answer beyond your words.

“I don’t know,” you admit, the faintest edge of exasperation creeping into your voice.

“Why?” His question lingers in the air, heavy and unrelenting, and for a moment, neither of you moves, suspended in the fragile silence.

Aemond watches as you break it, rising gracefully to dress yourself in the silks that his protection affords you. The fabric clings to your form, a subtle reminder of the safety he has provided, yet you seem distant, as if you’ve already drifted away.

“In any case, all is well,” you say, smoothing the fabric over your skin. “A recent turn of events has granted me favor with the High Septon.”

“How?” His voice is sharp, suspicious.

“A series of coincidences has deemed me a blessing from the Seven themselves.” That smile crosses your face again—the one that first drew him to you all those months ago. But this time, it’s different. There’s no bloodied lip, no evidence of your vulnerability. It’s a polished smile, practiced and untouchable, and it infuriates him in ways he cannot express.

“We will ride Vhagar tomorrow when you return,” he says, his tone firm, almost commanding.

“Why?” you echo, tilting your head as you fasten the clasp of your gown, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

“There are things that need resolving.” His gaze hardens, his meaning clear, though unspoken. There is a weight in his words, one that promises that whatever "resolving" he has in mind, it will not be gentle.

“Alright then.” With a final glance, you turned and left, leaving Aemond alone in your chambers once again. The sound of the door closing echoed in the quiet room, and for a moment, he simply stood there, staring at the space you’d vacated, his jaw tight.

After a moment, he moved. His steps were deliberate, his gaze sharp as he rounded the bed and knelt beside your strange bag. The remnants of your past—your secrets—were hidden here, carefully tucked away as if they could be forgotten. But Aemond would not let them linger in the shadows any longer.

Pulling the bag closer, he began to sort through its contents. The odd garments, the mysterious tools, the painted portraits on strange paper—they all spoke of a life he could not fathom, a world entirely separate from his own. His fingers brushed over one of the small, glossy portraits, his gaze narrowing as he studied it. It was you, smiling, carefree, standing beside a man he didn’t recognize.

The past needed to be resolved. It tethered you to something beyond him, something he could not control, and that grated against every fiber of his being. Aemond was not a man to share, not a man to be content with half-measures. If you would not let go of the past, then he would tear it away for you.

Gathering the items, he placed them back into the bag with methodical precision. His mind worked as swiftly as his hands, formulating the steps he would take. He would unravel this mystery, strip away the parts of you that resisted him, and ensure that you could no longer float aimlessly across that endless sea of time.

By the time you returned, there would be no past to haunt you. Only the future he had carved out—a future where you had no choice but to anchor yourself to him.

Standing, Aemond slung the bag over his shoulder. He turned to leave, his steps purposeful as he strode toward his chambers. The items in this bag held answers, and he intended to find them, no matter how deep he had to dig.

The door shut behind him with a soft click, and the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air.

…

“I have been thinking of you, Your Grace,” you began, your voice calm and measured as Viserys watched you carefully mix your concoction. “About how you once said you wished for trials and tribulations to make your reign truly memorable.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, leaning back, intrigued by your words.

“Well… history is not only written by the Citadel,” you continued, glancing up briefly to meet his gaze. “The smallfolk remember too. ‘The axe forgets, but the tree remembers.’ Have you heard the saying?”

“I have not,” he admitted, tilting his head curiously.

“It’s a reminder, Your Grace, to be kind. Those who have been wronged will never forget it, even if the one who wronged them does. And right now, those who feel wronged are the smallfolk. I’ve visited them often. Their living conditions are abhorrent. If you could alleviate even some of their suffering, they would be forever grateful—and you would be remembered, not just in scrolls but in their hearts. The smallfolk are the foundation of a lasting dynasty.”

Viserys’s brows furrowed as he considered your words. “What would you have me do? They are lawless. I appointed Daemon once, and he managed to bring order, but when he left, they returned to their primordial state.”

“They lack even the most basic resources,” you explained, your tone firm yet respectful. “Even a lamb, content in its pasture, can turn into a hunter when cornered. Or, as you might see them, savages. But provide the lambs with proper protection, extend their pasture, and they will have no reason to act out of desperation. They will remain what they are meant to be—peaceful, grateful subjects. And in their eyes, you will be the shepherd who kept them safe.”

Viserys’s eyes softened, though uncertainty lingered. “And you believe this is achievable?”

“With the right measures, yes,” you said with a small nod, your voice steady yet laced with conviction. “The smallfolk need more than punishment for their perceived lawlessness. They need a reason to trust their king—to see him not as a distant figure in a tower, but as their protector. If you provide that, Your Grace, they will speak of you for generations.”

Viserys leaned back in his chair, your words lingering in the air. Protector. The notion struck a chord deep within him, stirring memories of his youth when he’d dreamt of ruling not just with power, but with compassion. He had envisioned himself as a unifier, a king beloved by his people, yet here he was, years later, presiding over a fractured realm with smallfolk who cursed his name more often than they praised it.

“And I suppose you are the one to bring me this solution?” he asked, a faint edge of skepticism in his tone.

“If you wish to hear it,” you replied without hesitation, your composure unyielding in the face of his doubt.

“Go on then,” he said, leaning forward despite himself, curiosity breaking through his habitual weariness.

“Where there is life, there is water. Clean water is invaluable—far more than gold or any riches you could offer. It is the foundation of health, of order, of life itself,” you began, your words precise, almost rehearsed.

Viserys arched his brow. “And?”

“I can give them that,” you stated plainly, your confidence unsettling in its certainty.

“How?” he asked, his fingers brushing the armrest of his chair as he studied you.

“A water system,” you explained. “I can design one. But I need help. I need to study everything that could possibly hold relevance to constructing it.”

Viserys frowned. A water system. It was such a simple idea, yet the implications of such a feat were monumental. Clean water in King’s Landing? In the city that had plagued him with its stench and disease? He had lived with its squalor for so long that the very thought of change seemed almost… foreign. Could it truly be done?

“Do you have a place in mind for such a study?” he asked after a pause, his voice laced with both intrigue and caution.

“I do, Your Grace,” you said.

“Where?”

“Winterfell,” you replied, your voice calm yet resolute.

Viserys blinked. Winterfell? Of all the places, why there? The North was distant, cold, and far removed from the politics of the capital.

“Winterfell?” he repeated, his tone laced with doubt. “You wish to travel to Winterfell?”

“I do,” You affirmed.

Viserys’s gaze drifted toward the fire crackling in the hearth. Winterfell. The seat of the Starks, the First Men. He had not set foot in the North since his tour when he was crowned King, but the memories of its ancient halls, its vast godswood, and its stoic people were vivid in his mind. The North had always seemed so unyielding, so untouched by the decay that plagued King’s Landing.

“And what do you hope to find there?” he asked, his voice quieter now, as if seeking reassurance.

“Winterfell was built atop a spring. I may be able to draw inspiration from Bran the Builder.” Viserys studied you. So much you have changed here, yet you ask for more, more and he has not been able to meet your first request. Despite it all, you too promise much. Could you truly deliver on such a promise? You stand here in front of him applying your remedy onto his skin standing with so much life, so much promise that it stirs a faint glimmer of hope within him—a dangerous thing for a man like him to feel.

“You ask for much,” he said finally, his voice heavier now, tinged with the weariness of a ruler who had seen too many grand promises crumble.

“Only what is necessary,” You countered, your gaze unwavering. “If you wish to be remembered as a king who cared for his people, who built something greater than himself, then this is the first step. The choice, as always, is yours.”

Viserys remained silent, her words sinking deep into the crevices of his mind. You offer to give him the reign he had wanted.

Could he afford to gamble on her vision?

Could he afford not to?

…

21st day of the 7th moon of 129 AC

“A fucking hill.” Your voice was sharp, laced with frustration as you gestured wildly at the map spread across your desk. Aemond barely spared you a glance as he disrobed, the soft rustle of fabric barely audible over your rant. “And it’s fucking tall. How the fuck am I supposed to get around that!?”

“Cease your theatrics, woman,” Aemond muttered, his tone low and clipped as he sank onto your bed. The room was suffocatingly sweet, the cloying scent you carried clinging to every surface. It made his head ache. It wasn’t natural. You weren’t natural. Nothing about you ever was.

“Woman?” You turned toward him, your hands still planted on the edge of the desk. “I have a name.”

Aemond’s single eye flicked to you, unamused, as if daring you to continue. He said nothing, his gaze steady, and he watched as you rolled your eyes in exasperation. Without hesitation, you pushed away from the desk and strode over to him, your movements deliberate, your presence impossible to ignore.

“You’ve been so mad recently. What's wrong?” Aemond felt your hands linger on his shoulders. You looked smelled so sweet that it was nauseating. The soft hands you had reflecting you’ve never once been put through hard labor. Those soft hands that cradled his face as you looked down on him. It wasn’t long before he felt your lips on the side of his. Lips that were coercing him to turn and meet you, hands that held him so lovingly, your body slowly encompassing his own. Everything about you was so sweet. “I know I’ve been doing nothing but complaining about the topography of the land. M’sorry.”

Aemond’s brows knit together at the unfamiliar word. Topography. It felt foreign, unnatural, like so many of the things you said. His frustration flared, and with a sharp exhale, he pried your hands from his face and unceremoniously pushed you back onto the bed.

Without sparing you a glance, he strode to your desk, his gaze falling on the map you had been fussing over. “What nonsense are you rambling about now?” he muttered, scanning the intricate lines and markings with narrowed eyes.

Topography?” Your tone grated against Aemond’s ears, piercing and condescending. It was a tone he knew all too well, one that haunted him before he claimed Vhagar. It was the tone the Strong bastards used, the tone his drunken brother wielded against him. And now you—someone with no title, no standing—dared to use it on him.

“It’s like… like, I don’t know. You just have to know?” You giggled, the sound light and careless, yet it landed on him like an insult. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking with restrained anger. Have you always spoken to him like this? Him? A Prince of the Realm. A Targaryen.

“But basically,” you continued, oblivious to the storm brewing behind his eye, “it’s just… like… a map that shows the physical features of the land. Hills, mountains. The closer the lines are together, the steeper the slope of the hill. Stuff like that.”

Like. Basically. Stuff. The words felt beneath him, spoken with a lack of care or refinement he’d never tolerate from anyone else. His anger coiled tighter with every syllable. How dare you speak so unconcernedly before a prince, as if he were some common fool? A girl without rank, without even the most basic manners, speaking to him like this?

And yet, despite your audacity, you had humiliated him. The realization burned hotter than the fire in his chest.

Aemond’s fingers curled tightly at his sides as he stared at you, the map still spread out before him. You were completely unbothered, oblivious—or perhaps deliberately dismissive—of the offense you caused. Your casual demeanor only stoked the embers of his frustration, his pride demanding a response to put you in your place.

“How quaint,” he finally said, voice low and cutting, each word dripping with disdain. “Do you always explain things with such eloquence? Or is this condescension reserved only for me?”

You blinked, turning toward him with a frown that bordered on amused disbelief. “Condescension? I was explaining it to you.”

“Explaining?” he echoed, his tone sharpening. “No, you were speaking to me as though I were a child. A simpleton in need of your scraps of wisdom.” He stepped closer, towering over you as his single eye bore down into yours. “Do you forget who I am?”

You didn’t shrink under his gaze, which only added fuel to his growing ire. Instead, you tilted your head, defiance glinting in your eyes as a grin stretched across your lips—infuriatingly bold, maddeningly insolent.

“What in the mother—" You dragged the word out, the mocking lilt in your tone sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through Aemond’s veins. His hand twitched at his side, itching to silence you as your laughter spilled into the air, light and taunting.

“Fuck are you—”

“Hold your fucking tongue,” Aemond snarled, his patience snapping. His hand shot out, gripping your face with unrelenting force. His fingers pressed into the soft curves of your cheeks, silencing the laughter that grated against his ears.

Your wide eyes stared back at him, startled but not frightened—not yet. Aemond's grip tightened, his frustration boiling over into something darker, more dangerous. “You forget yourself,” he hissed, his breath warm against your skin. “You speak to a prince of the realm, and yet you behave as though you are untouchable.”

Your muffled words struggled against the hold of his hand, but Aemond didn’t loosen his grip. His teeth clenched as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a near-growl. “You will learn respect, even if I have to carve it into your tongue myself.”

His grip tightened as he shook your face, his fingers digging into your soft skin. He delivered almost taunting slaps to your cheek—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his dominance. “That will be the first and last time you ever take such a tone with me. Do you understand?” His voice was a low, venomous hiss, each word dripping with restrained fury.

Aemond’s eye bore into yours, watching as tears welled along your waterline, threatening to spill over. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed against you, forcing you deeper into the bed. His mind was a chaotic void, his thoughts clouded by humiliation, betrayal, and the sharp sting of wounded pride. You had humiliated him—time and time again. You had fooled him, made him feel like a fool in front of himself and others. His patience had reached its breaking point.

Aemond wasn’t a bad person. He was a man who did what was necessary. A man who kept order, who upheld principles, even if it meant crossing lines others would not dare to approach. Aemond was merciful—he had given you time. A grace period. Time for you to explain yourself, to come clean about your secrets and lies. Time to confess why you wrote letters to his nephew, toyed with his older brother, and played coy with his father. But you had wasted that mercy, prancing around as if nothing mattered, as if your deceit would never catch up to you.

“Do you understand?” he repeated, his tone sharper, more insistent. He felt the warmth of your tears rolling down onto his hand as they spilled, unbidden, from your eyes. The sight stirred something he refused to acknowledge, something deep and unnerving.

You nodded, a trembling motion that seemed to sap the strength from your entire body. Aemond didn’t ease his grip immediately, his eye narrowing as if he needed to see the truth in your submission. Only when your tears fell freely, soaking into his palm, did he let go, pulling back with slow deliberation.

Standing up, Aemond towered over you, his gaze cold and calculating as he watched you shift away, retreating to the farthest wall as though distance alone could shield you from his wrath. Your tears began to fall freely now, silent but unrelenting, accompanied by soft sniffles that only seemed to echo in the room's stillness. He watched as you curled into yourself, shrinking into a protective shell, your arms wrapped tightly around your knees. The vulnerability you displayed should have stirred something in him, but Aemond forced himself to remain unmoved, even as the sight tugged faintly at the corners of his resolve.

He sighed heavily, brushing his hair back with one hand as his jaw tightened. He refused to meet your gaze, choosing instead to focus on the far wall as though it might grant him clarity. Your sobs were soft but persistent, and they grated against his composure. He felt them press against the edges of his self-control, an unwelcome reminder of how close he’d come to losing it entirely.

“Aemond, I am sorry,” you pleaded, your voice trembling as you struggled to regain your breath. “I didn’t mean it.”

He turned his head slightly, his single eye sharp as it cut back to you. His breathing was deliberate, measured, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that contrasted starkly with your erratic, uneven sobs.

“Do not be coy with me,” he hissed, his tone laced with contempt. “I am not my father.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re so mad, but I’m sorry,” you insisted, your voice cracking under the weight of desperation. “I promise I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Aemond’s expression darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He took a step closer, his boots heavy against the floor as he loomed over you. “Your love letters to my nephew will stop,” he declared, his words cutting through the room like a blade. “Should I hear of you sending letters to anyone without informing me, I will leave you.” He let the threat hang in the air for a moment, letting its weight settle over you before delivering the final blow. “And everyone will know of your misdemeanors.”

Your eyes widened at his words, a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill as you opened your mouth to protest, but no sound came out. Aemond felt a fleeting pang of satisfaction at your speechlessness, though it was buried beneath layers of frustration and mistrust. He straightened, his posture rigid and unyielding as he looked down at you with an air of finality.

…

1st day of the 8th moon of 129 AC

“I, King Viserys, First of my name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm hereby pass the Patent Act of 129 AC.”

The proclamation hangs heavy in the air. A decree so alien to Westeros, so far removed from its traditions, that it almost feels as if a foreign king has taken the throne. The weight of the King’s words settles across the council chamber like an oppressive fog.

There doesn’t seem to be a happy face in the council. Not even yours, or perhaps you have just gotten better at hiding it. Ser Criston Cole does not know. He watches you with his sharp, calculating eyes, searching for a crack in your mask. But there is none.

The Hightowers contingent looks as if they’ve swallowed something bitter. Otto’s knuckles are white against the polished wood of the council table. Alicent sits perfectly still, her expression unreadable save for the tight line of her mouth. Only the soft rise and fall of her chest betrays her agitation.

“My King,” Otto finally speaks, his tone carefully measured but laced with disapproval. “This act… it is unprecedented. To allow individuals to lay claim to ideas, to inventions, is to invite chaos. It disrupts the natural order. The crown may find itself overwhelmed by disputes.”

Viserys, though frail, raises a hand to silence his Hand. “Enough, Otto. I have heard these arguments. Time and time again, I have heard them.” He leans back in his chair, his tired eyes flickering to you. “But the Seven Kingdoms cannot linger in the past forever. Progress must be made.”

You incline your head, a faint shadow of a smile ghosting across your lips. Ser Criston notes how carefully you control it, how you refuse to gloat in the face of victory. He wonders if that’s for the King’s benefit—or the Queen’s.

“And yet,” Rhaenyra’s voice cuts through the tension, soft but firm, (It is a sound that annoys him. A wound that refuses to heal.) “progress must be tempered with care. This act grants power to individuals, but power without restraint can lead to ruin. Who will oversee these claims? Who will ensure they do not conflict with the crown’s interests?”

The silence after the King’s words lingers, thick and suffocating. Ser Criston watches you carefully, noting the faint twitch of your lips as you nod without a word. His gaze hardens, ever wary of what it is you are truly playing at. He knows that beneath the calm, beneath your composed exterior, there’s something simmering. He just can’t place it.

“His grace sends me to Old Town to find a candidate.” You had won, and perhaps you knew you would all along, but Criston still doesn’t quite understand the depths of your plan. You, with no name, no true claim, standing before the council as though the world itself had bent to your will. (It had. You had bent everything to your liking and Ser Criston cannot help but feel a prick on envy. Why must it bend for you? You who had his exact standing but yet when he wanted to bend the rules, they did not bend for him and instead he was the one broken.) But now, as he watches you closely, he wonders if the weight of your victory has already begun to settle on your shoulders.

Your confidence has shifted. It’s a small thing, but Criston is a man who watches every detail, and it’s that shift he can’t ignore. Your silence is deafening to him. You speak but you are still so quiet. Nothing like the woman who spoke out against Prince Daemon.

“Yes, you leave tomorrow with two of my Kingsgaurd.” King Viserys adds and Ser Criston’s eyes flicker over to you. Your face remains impassive, only a nod is given.

“I should accompany you.” Alicent’s voice rings out. “It has been some time since I have visited. I long to see my son.” Ser Criston knows better. He knows his Queen, the hand he is sworn to.

There have been talks recently, talks of your enlightenment, when only a month ago,the High Septon used to scorn your name, he now praises it. Old Town is a strong hold of the faith.

Alicent does not want your pollution. Alicent does not want your ‘enlightenment.’

Note: After like forever, Aemond is finally gathering the pieces that shes not from Essos 💔 Anyways pls leave me your thoughts.

Previous I Next I Masterlist

To be added to Tag list: !(•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

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jobean12-blog · 4 months ago

Note

Up for a little game?🤭🤭

How would you meet:

Mob!Bucky, Vampire!Bucky and/or Barista/Baker!Bucky

And how would they ask you out. Or would you ask them out?

Bloody Kisses

Pairing: Vampire!Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Summary: Bucky finally makes you his.

Author's Note: SYDNEY! I've had Vampire!Bucky on my mind with all these new pics of him looking so yummy and then you sent this and I was like eeeeeeee here's my sign! So this is how you would meet and he would definitely be the one making all the moves. Vampire AU is an absolute favorite of mine so I can never get enough of it! Thanks so much for thinking of me and sending this little thot in! Hope you've had a lovely weekend and you enjoy this! HUGS!🥰❤️🥰Thank you all for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy!

Warnings: Bucky is irresistible in every way and he wants you. Mentions of blood, tension, some softness.

You’re mid conversation when you sense the change. It’s as if the stale air has been sucked away and replaced with something more tangible, something seductive.

Natasha’s eyes are focused on whatever is beyond your shoulder, toward the entrance of the hall.

Everyone around you seems to be looking in the same direction, so you place your drink down and turn.

A man stands just inside the arched doorway, his black jacket draped over his shoulders, the garment fitted perfectly and accentuating their broad width. His long fingers splay against the lush fabric, a gold ring glinting under the light of chandeliers, and his covetous blue eyes focused on you.

“Do you know him?” Natasha asks.

“No,” you breathe out, nearly swaying on your feet. “But I’m going to make sure I get to know him.”

An inexplicable awareness races across your skin coupled with a heat only he can set ablaze. He approaches and your pulse quickens, the urge to run into his arms something you need to fight against.

He wears all black, from his tight-fitted turtleneck down to his shined shoes and his strong jaw is shadowed with dark hair but his skin, it glows, smooth and soft.

When he walks toward you, he moves with such a sensual purpose that you notice the other women around you swooning.

But he makes no sign that he notices. His eyes stay trained on you, hungry and determined.

Without removing his gaze from yours, he takes your hand in his and brings it to his lips, turning it over and kissing the inside of your wrist, savoring the rapid pulse of your blood.

His lips linger there, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before they open and he smiles, turning your hand over to kiss your palm and then finally, each of your fingertips.

“You taste divine,” he whispers.

Your breath catches in your throat at the forwardness of his words.

You barely hear Natasha’s gasp, this man’s very existence consuming your every thought and somehow you know it’s the same for him. He’s oblivious to anything but you.

He speaks his name, hushed and soft along the shell of your ear, before he pulls you away from the crowd.

“Walk with me?” he asks as he leads you toward the glass doors at the back of the room.

You nod and fall into step beside him, taking his offered elbow.

The fragrance of the night hits you the moment you step outside, the lush gardens on the estate in full bloom and the full moon bright and silvery in the dark sky.

“The stars are beautiful tonight,” you muse as you look up.

“Mm,” he hums, and you bring your eyes back down, feeling the weight of his stare.

It’s hard to look away and you easily fall deeper into an intimacy that you can’t seem to recover from.

“And yet you shine brighter than any,” he murmurs, tucking you closer and brushing his thumb across your bottom lip.

You tremble in his arms, the feeling heady and addictive.

“How come I’ve never seen you before?” you ask as you walk deeper into the gardens.

“And yet it’s as if I know your heartbeat better than any melody that has touched my ears.”

You would swoon if you didn’t have the strength of his arms around you, but some part of your head still remains clear enough to say, “that didn’t answer my question.”

He just smiles and plucks a white flower from the nearby plant as you pass it and holds it under your nose.

“It smells amazing,” you whisper.

“Queen of the night,” he explains. “It only blooms under the cover of darkness and often wilts with the rising sun.”

Your mouth dips into a frown as you look down at the beautiful flower. “So, we can never see it bloom in the sun?”

He takes the stem from your hand and tucks it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

“No,” he says, tucking two fingers under your chin and bringing your gaze to his. “But the night offers so much to be in love with and yet, never asks for anything but our company.”

You let his words sink in and a small smile teases your lips.

His fingers trace their outline, his touch delicate but completely consuming.

Your lips part with a gasp and you feel his body tense against yours, his gaze wandering over your face and down the delicate column of your neck.

His fingertips fall, slowly tracing the outline of your throat and his thumb presses against your wildly beating pulse.

“Are you scared?” he asks, lifting his dark lashes to look you in the eyes.

“No,” you whisper and press yourself closer.

He releases you and pulls you further down the path, bathing you in the shadowed recesses of the overgrowth of plants.

Your back hits the stone wall, the feel of the cool leaves brushing along your skin.

His features look stronger here in the shadows, hard, thrown into sharp relief under the obscured glow of the moon. His cheekbones resemble carved stone, his eyes dark, his lips lush and exaggerated.

He gives you no time to hesitate, gripping your neck, his palm cool and steady while his thumb presses to the hollow of your throat.

It’s possessive and sends a silent thrill up your spine.

A smart girl would push him away. Pretend she’d rather be somewhere else and run for the safety of the light, the safety of the crowded party. r

Instead, you lift your chin and meet the slight dip of his head, your noses brushing and your breath catching.

“I don’t usually meet men like this,” you say. “I hardly kiss on the first date.”

You swallow and close your eyes, opening them again to find him smiling down at you.

“I know,” he says, unbothered. Undeterred.

He licks his lips before he kisses you, innocent and soft. You moan into the kiss, swallowing his mumbled whispers of praise.

Your skin tingles and a heat builds inside your chest, pushing down into your belly where it pools low, down between your legs. You want him so badly you feel restless and urgent, a need you can’t explain clawing in your throat.

You dig your hands into his hair, holding him to you, barely letting him move a breath away.

But it’s all a ruse. He pulls free of your grip easily, the power he holds undeniable, and looks at you with a passion burning in his eyes.

“I have waited a lifetime for you,” he murmurs against your mouth, trailing his lips along your jaw.

Your head falls back against the wall, exposing the soft skin that flutters violently over the flow of your blood.

He kisses softly under your ear, once, twice, and then slides his mouth lower, sucking on your skin until you’re arching into him. The first pierce of his fangs is nothing but euphoria and when he begins to gently suck you cry out his name.

The sip is barely enough to satisfy him and with a great effort he pulls away, lips stained red and blue eyes anchoring yours.

“And all the lifetimes we’ll share will never be enough.”

His words make little sense to you now, your entire existence being slowly devoured by his every touch.

When his large hands grip your hips and he drags you into him again, you go willingly, the sharp sting at your throat setting you ablaze.

This time he doesn’t hold back, drinking you in until your pulse slows, and your eyes begin to dim. You fall limp in his arms, and he gently releases you, trailing a delicate finger along your cheek before he cuts into his wrist and holds it above your parted lips.

“Drink,” he whispers.

You’re weak at first but with his gentle coaxing you suck harder, your strength returning as the taste of his blood moves through you. Revives you.

A feeling like you’ve never experienced before fills all your senses, throbbing in your lips and fingers, in your very skin. And when you meet his eyes once again it’s with new sight, his long fingers reaching up to trace your cheek.

“You,” he whispers, brushing his bloody lips along yours, “are mine for eternity.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #vampire!bucky #vampire!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x female reader #sebastian stan #vampire au

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my-religion-greek-myth · 2 months ago

Text

Forever beyond

This one-shot is written purely for the last part of the story (only 740 words), but the story itself got a little bigger, so it became nearly 16k words.. 🫠 Twisted ver. of maiden, mother, crone

Fem Reader X Agatha X Rio, mainly fem Reader X Agatha

Warning: Depictions of birth (which I've no idea if I did right), blood and character death that may be disturbing to some readers

The moon hung heavy in the inky sky, its silver light slicing through the thick trees. Agatha griped your hand tightly, her blue eyes darting back and forth as the two of you ran through the underbrush. Each step sent tremors through your body, your other hand clutching your heavily pregnant belly.

“Agatha,” you panted, your voice trembling with exhaustion. “I—I can’t… we need to stop.”

“We can’t stop!” Agatha yelled, though her tone was tinged with worry. Her grip on your hand tightened, her own breath ragged. “We’re almost there. Just a little further, love.”

You whimpered, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as you stumble. Agatha caught you, steadying you before pulling you along again. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest, and your swollen belly felt impossibly heavy.

Ahead of you, the shadows shifted, alive with something unnatural. Agatha’s jaw clenched, her glowing hands sparking with magic as she glanced behind you. “Don’t look back,” she whispered harshly. “Keep moving.”

But the pain became unbearable. You cried out, doubling over and clutching your stomach. Agatha froze, her face twisting with fear as she turned back to you. “Love, you have to—”

“I can’t!” you sobbed, your knees buckling. “The baby… something’s wrong. It’s too much.”

Before Agatha could answer, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. Clad in black, with raven hair gleaming under the moonlight, she stepped into the clearing. Her dark eyes shimmered with an unsettling calm, though her face carried the weight of sorrow.

“Rio,” Agatha snarled, her voice thick with rage and desperation.

Rio—your Rio, your lover, and Death—stood motionless. Her presence was an unbearable weight, the air chilling around her. “It’s time,” she said softly, her voice hollow. “You know I can’t fight this.”

“Like hell you can’t!” Agatha hissed, stepping protectively in front of you as you trembled and whimpered in pain on the ground. “You’re not taking them. You’re not taking either of them!”

Rio’s gaze flickered between you and Agatha, and for a moment, her mask slipped. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Agatha… I don’t want this. Do you think I want this?”

“Then stay back!” Agatha snapped, her voice venomous as her magic surged. A violet shockwave rippled through the clearing, forcing Rio a step back. “You don’t get to touch her!”

Rio raised her hands, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Agatha, please. I just want to—”

“No!” Agatha cut her off, her eyes blazing with tears and fury. “You think I’ll let you take her? Take our child? Over my dead body.”

Rio’s dark eyes softened, and her voice faltered. “Agatha,” she whispered. “I don’t want to take her. You know that.”

“Then leave!” Agatha’s magic flared again, cracking through the clearing like thunder. The shadows around Rio wavered, but she didn’t retreat fully. “If you come any closer, I’ll destroy you. I swear I will.”

Rio’s shoulders tense, her face a mask of anguish. “Agatha, I can’t just walk away. I didn’t choose this. It’s fate. The Fate… it’s stronger than I am.”

“Then fight it!” Agatha screamed, tears streaming down her face. “If you ever loved her—if you ever loved me—you’ll stay away.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists as her shadowy form flickers. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I don’t want to break this? I have loved you both more than you’ll ever know, but I can’t defy Fate.”

“You can,” Agatha growled, her voice raw and ragged. “You’re just too much of a coward to try.”

You cry out again, clutching at your belly as a fresh wave of pain tears through you. Agatha immediately dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as they cradled your face. “Stay with me, love,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against yours. “I’ll fix this. I’ll fix everything.”

Your voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear and pain. “Agatha… I don’t want to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she promised fiercely, her voice breaking. Her hands glowed brighter as she channelled her magic, pouring every ounce of her strength into you.

Rio stepped forward again, her dark form wavering as she kneeled near your side. Agatha’s head snapped up, her hand shooting out as another wave of magic struck Rio square in the chest, sending her backward.

“I said stay away!” Agatha roared, her voice thick with rage. “You don’t get to touch her!”

Rio rose slowly, her shadowy form flickering. “Agatha, I can’t do anything,” she said, her voice raw. “If I don’t guide her… if I don’t do this, it could cost both of them.”

“You’re lying!” Agatha screamed, her magic lashing out again, though Rio steadied herself against the impact. “You’re Death! All you do is take! You don’t help anyone!”

Rio flinched but didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped back into the edge of the shadows, her voice soft but firm. “Do what you can, Agatha. I’ll give you time. But I can’t hold this off forever.”

Agatha didn’t waste another second. Her magic surged, brighter and more desperate than ever, as she pressed her glowing hands to your belly. Tears streaked her face as she whispered frantic promises, her voice cracking with emotion.

“You’re staying with me,” she murmurs, her forehead pressed against yours. “Both of you. You’re not leaving me. I won’t let her have you.”

The forest hummed with power, Agatha’s magic blazing like fire as she fought against the inevitable.

And though Death lingered, watching from the shadows, Agatha refused to give up. She would fight until the last spark of her magic burned out—for you, for your child, for the life the three of you had built together.

No matter the cost.

Agatha’s hands trembled as the faint purple glow pulsed from her palms, weaving fragile tendrils of magic around your swollen belly. Each flicker of light was a plea, a desperate attempt to hold onto both you and the unborn child she had promised to protect. Sweat beaded on Agatha’s forehead, her dark curls sticking to her skin as her magic strained under the weight of her determination.

Your breaths came in shallow, laboured gasps, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet hers. Fear clouded your gaze, tears mingling with the sheen of sweat on your flushed cheeks. “Agatha,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling. “I’m scared.”

Agatha’s chest tightened as if your words had physically struck her. “Don’t be, love,” she murmured, though her own fear pressed against her ribs like a vice. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Just hold on for me.”

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, weak but trusting, as your trembling hand reached up to brush against her face. “You always say that,” you whispered, your voice a ghost of its usual warmth. “And I believe you.”

The glow of Agatha’s magic faltered momentarily, dimming as exhaustion crept in. Panic surged through her veins like fire. “No,” she hissed, her tone sharp as she refocused, pouring more of herself into the spell. “You’re not leaving me. Not like this.”

Behind her, Rio lingered, a cold weight pressing against the clearing as her presence loomed. Agatha didn’t need to turn around to know she was there, silent and watchful. The thought made her fury burn brighter, her determination more unrelenting.

“Stop hovering,” Agatha snapped, her voice biting even as her attention remained fixed on you. “You’re not taking her. Not now, not ever.”

Rio stepped closer, her dark eyes unreadable as she knelt beside the two of you. The air chilled further as her raven hair shimmered in the dim light of Agatha’s magic. “You’re fighting against nature, Agatha,” she said quietly, her voice calm but laden with sorrow. “Even your magic has limits.”

“Shut up,” Agatha growled, her violet energy flaring like a flame fed by gasoline. “I’ll decide when I’ve hit my limit, not you.”

Rio exhaled slowly, her hand twitching as though she wanted to reach for you but restrained herself. Her voice cracked with emotion. “Do you think this is what I want? To stand here, powerless, while you break yourself trying to save her?” She swallowed hard. “Do you think I want to take her from you? From us?”

“Then don’t,” Agatha bit out, her voice as sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension like steel. “Walk away, Rio. Just this once.”

Rio’s shoulders sagged slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “You know it doesn’t work like that,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with helplessness. “Fate doesn’t care about what I want.”

A sharp cry from you pulled their attention back to where you lay. Your body convulsed slightly, your hands clawing weakly at the earth as pain wracked your form. “Agatha,” you whimpered, your voice cracking. “The baby…”

Agatha’s heart shattered at the sound of your pain. “I’m here, love,” she said urgently, her hands glowing brighter as she pushed everything she had into stabilising you. “I’m right here. I won’t let you go.”

“She’s slipping,” Rio said softly, her voice almost inaudible over the hum of Agatha’s magic. “Agatha, you need to make a choice.”

“I already made my choice!” Agatha snarled, her magic flaring violently, illuminating the clearing in a burst of violet light. “I’m saving them both.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she moved closer, her hands hovering hesitantly over your stomach. A faint green glow began to emanate from her palms as she channelled her energy into supporting Agatha’s spell.

“What are you doing?” Agatha demanded, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Helping,” Rio said simply, her tone devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “You’re not the only one who loves her, Agatha.”

The admission sent a jolt through Agatha, but there was no time to dwell on it. Together, their magic wove a fragile cocoon around you, a blend of purple and green light that pulsed rhythmically with the faint heartbeat of your child.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the two women worked in silence, their energies entwined in a delicate balance. Your breathing began to steady, the sharp cries of pain fading into soft whimpers as the tension in your body eased.

Finally, Agatha collapsed back onto her heels, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. “She’s stable,” she whispered hoarsely. “For now.”

Rio remained kneeling, her gaze fixed on your peaceful face, her expression unreadable. “You bought her time,” she said quietly. “But this isn’t over.”

Agatha’s blue eyes burned as she turned to Rio. “Then we keep buying her time,” she said, her voice resolute. “As much as it takes.”

Rio hesitated, her gaze dropping to your belly. “Agatha,” she began, her voice low and measured. “If it comes down to it… if you have to choose—”

“I won’t,” Agatha interrupted fiercely, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “Don’t you dare ask me to.”

Rio met her gaze evenly, sadness and resolve etched into her features. “You might not have a choice.”

“I always have a choice,” Agatha snapped, her fists clenching as fresh tears burned her eyes. “And I’ll find another way. I always do.”

The tension between them hung heavy in the air, but the stillness was broken when your fingers twitched and your lips parted with a faint murmur. Agatha immediately leaned forward, brushing a damp curl from your forehead. “I’m here, love,” she whispered, her voice softening. “We’re both here.”

Rio reached out hesitantly, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “You’re safe,” she said softly. “We’ve got you.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused but filled with a faint glimmer of recognition. A weak smile tugged at your lips as you looked between them. “You… you’re both here,” you murmured faintly.

Agatha pressed a kiss to your forehead, her tears mingling with the sweat on your skin. “Always,” she said firmly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Rio nodded silently, her hand lingering on your shoulder as she exchanged a look with Agatha. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the two women shared a moment of unspoken understanding.

No matter what lay ahead, they would face it together.

And for you, they would fight until their last breath.

The cottage was tucked deep into the woods, shrouded in the earthy embrace of ancient trees and the faint hum of magic that Agatha had woven around its perimeter. The air inside was warm, the faint scent of herbs and candles lingering from spells cast earlier in the day. The soft glow of a fire crackled in the stone hearth, its light casting flickering shadows on the walls.

You rested in a small bed nestled against the corner of the room, bundled in blankets. The tension in your body had eased since Agatha and Rio brought you here, but your movements were still slow, your breaths faint and uneven. Agatha had barely left your side since they’d arrived, her hand often resting on yours, as if her touch alone could anchor you to the mortal world.

Rio stood in the doorway, her dark eyes scanning the room as though she didn’t belong there. She lingered, silent but watchful, her presence heavy with something unspoken. Agatha's shoulders tensed every time her gaze flicked toward you, her hand instinctively tightening over yours.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Agatha snapped, not looking up from where she was adjusting the edge of your blanket. Her voice was sharp, brimming with the exhaustion of someone who had barely slept in days. “Or do you have something useful to say?”

Rio stepped further into the room, the firelight catching the glint of her raven hair. “I came to check on her,” she said evenly, her tone measured. “I wasn’t sure if you’d let me.”

“Let you?” Agatha scoffed, finally lifting her eyes to glare at Rio. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you out of the forest entirely.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, her gaze softened as it settled on you. “She’s still weak. If there’s anything I can do—”

“You’ve done enough,” Agatha interrupted, her voice dropping to a low growl. She shifted slightly, her body moving to shield you from Rio’s view. “I’m not letting you anywhere near her.”

Rio’s brow furrowed, her expression twisting with something between hurt and frustration. “Agatha,” she said quietly, her voice almost pleading. “You know I’m not here to take her soul. If I wanted to… it would’ve happened already.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that?” Agatha hissed, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “After everything? After you stood there in the clearing, ready to let fate take her from me?”

“I didn’t want to—” Rio started, but her voice faltered as she caught the venom in Agatha’s glare. She sighed, the weight of her eternal role hanging heavily on her shoulders. “You think I had a choice. You always think that. But I didn’t.”

“You always have a choice!” Agatha snapped, her voice rising as she stood, her posture stiff and protective. “You just chose wrong.”

The tension between them thickened, the unspoken wounds of their fractured relationship rising to the surface. Rio’s hands clenched at her sides, and she took a step back, her dark eyes glimmering with frustration. “You think this is easy for me?” she asked, her voice low. “Do you think it doesn’t kill me to see her like this? To see us like this?”

Agatha laughed bitterly, though there was no humour in it. “Don’t you dare make this about you,” she spat. “You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself. Not when she’s the one who nearly died because of you.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the blanket, and Agatha immediately knelt beside you, her attention snapping back to you as though you were the only thing supporting her. “Love,” she murmured, her voice softening as her hand brushed your cheek. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze hazy as you blinked up at her. “Agatha,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Rio… is she—?”

“She’s here,” Agatha said quickly, her lips pressing into a thin line as her other hand ran through your hair. “But you don’t need to worry about her. She’s not going to touch you.”

Rio stepped closer, her footsteps hesitant. “I wouldn’t hurt her voluntarily,” she said softly, though her words were directed more at you than Agatha. “You know I wouldn’t.”

Agatha’s eyes flashed, and she turned her head sharply to glare at Rio. “Don’t come any closer,” she growled, her magic crackling faintly in the air around her. “I’m warning you.”

Rio froze, her dark eyes filled with something that looked like regret. “Agatha—”

“Don’t test me,” Agatha snarled, her voice low and dangerous. “I’ll fight you again if I have to.”

You weakly reached for Agatha’s hand, your fingers curling around hers in an effort to ease the tension. “Stop,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please… don’t fight.”

Agatha’s expression softened immediately as she turned back to you, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned closer. “I’m sorry, love,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Rio remained where she was, her hands clenched at her sides. She looked at you, her gaze heavy with longing, but she didn’t dare take another step. “I just want to help,” she said quietly. “If you’ll let me.”

Agatha didn’t respond, her focus entirely on you as she brushed a stray curl from your forehead. Her voice was a murmur, meant only for you. “I’m not letting her take you. Not now, not ever.”

Rio lingered in the doorway, the distance between her and the two of you feeling impossibly vast. The rift between them remained, but in the quiet of the cottage, the weight of their love—for you and each other— was like a fragile thread, threatening to snap with the slightest tension.

And as the fire crackled softly, you closed your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under again. Agatha’s touch remained a constant anchor, but even in the haze of sleep, you could feel the heavy presence of Rio, watching from a distance, unable to leave but unable to stay.

The dim light of the realm flickered as Agatha paced back and forth, her blue eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desperation. Tendrils of purple magic sparked at her fingertips, crackling in the heavy air like distant thunder. Each step she took reverberated with the weight of her emotions. On the other side of the room, Rio leaned against a worn stone pillar, her dark eyes calm but shadowed with an emotion she rarely let surface—guilt.

“You’re telling me you can’t do anything?” Agatha’s voice sliced through the suffocating silence like a blade. Her hands clenched into fists, and the air around her vibrated with the barely restrained power of her magic. “You’re Death, Rio. Death! You’re supposed to have power over this.”

Rio straightened, her dark hair falling around her sharp features like a veil. “And because I’m Death, I know the limits,” she said evenly, though the edge in her voice betrayed her own frustration. “I’ve bought her time. More time than I should have. But it’s catching up, Agatha. You know it as well as I do.”

“Don’t.” Agatha stopped pacing abruptly, turning to face Rio with a look that could have scorched the ground beneath them. Her blue eyes bore into Rio’s, daring her to say more. “Don’t you dare talk about her like she’s just another soul. She’s not some name on your ledger!”

“I never said she was,” Rio snapped, her voice rising as her own composure cracked. She pushed off the pillar and took a step forward, her presence suddenly more commanding. “Do you think this is easy for me? Watching her? Watching you? Knowing I can’t stop what’s coming? Do you think I don’t feel it too?”

Agatha’s chest heaved, her magic flaring dangerously as she closed the distance between them. “Then do something!” she growled, her voice low and venomous. “You have the power, Rio. Use it. Fix this.”

Rio’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening as she stepped even closer. “You think I haven’t tried?” she shot back, her voice breaking with a rare rawness. “You think I don’t want to tear apart every law of existence just to keep her safe? But this isn’t something I can fix with a snap of my fingers. It’s her time, Agatha. And every second I’ve delayed it, I’ve risked tearing everything apart.”

Agatha’s entire body trembled, her hands shaking with the effort of restraining her magic. Her voice cracked as she hissed, “I don’t care about balance. I don’t care about the universe. I care about her. I care about our family. And if you can’t do anything—if you won’t do anything—then what the hell are we even fighting for?”

Rio’s eyes softened, her own frustration melting into an aching sorrow that she couldn’t fully mask. “Agatha,” she said quietly, her voice losing its sharpness. “You know I love her. You know I’d give anything to keep her here. But even I have limits. Even I can’t outrun death forever.”

For a moment, the only sound between them was the faint hum of Agatha’s magic, pulsing in rhythm with her ragged breaths. The silence was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and shared pain that neither of them knew how to voice. Slowly, the violet glow at Agatha’s fingertips dimmed, though her hands still trembled with the weight of her emotions.

“She’s not just anyone,” Agatha whispered, her voice raw with anguish. “She’s F/N. She’s ours.”

Rio nodded, her calm facade cracking just enough to reveal the depths of her pain. “I know,” she said softly, her voice laced with regret. She took another cautious step forward. “But what do you want me to do? Steal time from the universe? Take life from others to give it to her? You know she wouldn’t want that.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, her gaze dropping to the ground as her voice faltered. “I just… I can’t lose her,” she admitted, the words barely audible, trembling in the air like fragile glass. “I can’t lose her again.”

Rio hesitated before reaching out, her hand brushing against Agatha’s arm with a gentleness that felt foreign in the heavy atmosphere. “Neither can I,” she murmured, her voice steady but heavy with sorrow. “But if we keep holding on too tightly, we’ll lose more than just her. We’ll lose ourselves. And she’d never forgive us for that.”

Agatha’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her as Rio’s words seeped into her defences. The sparks of magic around her hands flickered and faded, leaving only a faint hum in the air. Her voice trembled as she finally spoke. “You’re asking me to let her go.”

Rio shook her head slowly, her dark eyes locked onto Agatha’s. “I’m asking you to love her in the way she needs—to let her live without the weight of our desperation crushing her.” She paused, her gaze unwavering. “And to let me do my job when the time comes.”

Agatha looked up, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her lips quivered as she whispered, “I hate you.”

Rio’s lips curled into a faint, bittersweet smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know,” she said softly.

For a moment, the two women stood in silence, their love for you and their pain for what they couldn’t control binding them together even as it tore them apart. Agatha’s fists tightened at her sides, and she turned away, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll stay away from her for now.”

Rio hesitated but eventually nodded, stepping back into the shadows. “For now,” she agreed, her voice hollow.

As the light in the realm dimmed once more, Agatha stood frozen, her heart shattering under the weight of what she could not stop. Even as Rio disappeared from view, the heaviness in the air lingered—a reminder of the love they shared for you and the cruel fate that bound them all.

The quiet of the night enveloped the room, broken only by the crackling of the small fire in the hearth. You lay propped up against a mountain of pillows, your face pale but serene, the shadows of exhaustion softening your features. Your hands rested on your swollen belly, your fingers tracing slow, soothing circles. Agatha sat beside you, holding your hand tightly, her piercing blue eyes never straying far from your face. The tension in her body was palpable, every muscle coiled, ready to protect you from a threat she couldn’t touch.

Rio lingered in the doorway, her dark eyes shadowed as she watched the two of you. Her presence was heavy, her silence filled with unspoken words she didn’t know how to say. The air between her and Agatha crackled faintly, not with magic but with the weight of everything unsaid.

Your voice broke the stillness, soft and fragile like the first crack of ice on a frozen lake. “Agatha,” you began, your gaze shifting to meet hers. The intensity of her eyes—the way they softened for you—made your heart ache. “I need you to promise me something.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed deeply, her grip on your hand tightening as though holding you tethered to her would keep you safe. “Anything,” she said immediately, her voice firm despite the emotion trembling beneath it. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

A faint smile flickered across your lips, your hand brushing against hers. “If something happens to me during the birth…” You hesitated, swallowing hard, the words heavy and bitter on your tongue. “Promise me you’ll save the baby.”

Agatha’s expression froze, the colour draining from her face as if the words had struck her physically. Her body stiffened, her entire being rejecting the thought. “Don’t,” she said sharply, her voice low and strained. “Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be fine.”

“Agatha.” Your tone was firm, cutting through her resistance as your fingers tightened around hers. “Listen to me. Please. I need you to hear this.”

From the doorway, Rio’s voice came, soft but weighted with the gravity of her role. “She’s right, Agatha,” she said, stepping forward cautiously, her shadow stretching across the room. “You need to—”

“Not now,” you said, raising a hand to silence her, your gaze never leaving Agatha. “This is between me and her.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, her breathing uneven as she shook her head. “I’m not making that promise,” she said, her voice laced with defiance. The faint purple glow of her magic sparked at her fingertips, betraying the storm raging inside her. “I refuse to make that choice. I won’t lose you, not again. Not after everything we’ve fought for.”

Tears welled in your eyes, though you tried to keep your voice steady. “It’s not about losing me,” you said gently. “It’s about giving our baby a chance to live, to grow, to have a future. You can’t fight Death forever, Agatha. Not even for me.”

Agatha’s gaze dropped to your joined hands, her silence thick with turmoil. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, cracked by the weight of her emotions. “You’re asking me to give up the person I love most in this world.”

“And I’m asking you to love our child enough to do what’s right,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “Agatha, I need to know that our baby will have you, even if I can’t be there.”

Rio stepped closer, her movements slow, cautious. Her dark eyes softened as they flicked to you. “She’s not wrong,” she said quietly, her tone steady but carrying a deep sadness. “I’ll be here. I’ll do everything I can to make sure our child makes it through.”

You turned your gaze to Rio, offering her a faint, weary smile. “I trust you, Rio,” you murmured. “But this isn’t about magic or power. It’s about being prepared for the worst.” Your attention shifted back to Agatha, your voice breaking as you added, “I need you to promise me.”

Agatha’s shoulders trembled as she inhaled shakily, her lips pressing into a thin, defiant line. The weight of your plea crushed her, an immovable force against the love that burned inside her. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded, her voice barely audible as she whispered, “I promise.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with the sadness in your eyes. “Thank you,” you said softly, your fingers brushing against her cheek. “I love you.”

Agatha leaned forward, pressing her forehead against yours. The tears she had held back slipped free, streaking down her cheeks as her voice cracked. “I love you more than anything,” she whispered fiercely. “More than life itself.”

Rio stood silently, her chest tight as she watched the exchange. The shadow of her role as Death loomed over her like a silent spectre, a reminder of what might come. Her hands twitched at her sides, her heart aching with the knowledge of the inevitabilities she could not change.

Agatha turned slightly, her gaze finding Rio as if sensing her presence. “Stay where you are,” she said sharply, her voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want you near her.”

Rio’s brows furrowed, the faintest flicker of pain crossing her face. “Agatha—”

“I said stay back!” Agatha growled, her magic sparking faintly around her. “You’ve already taken enough from us.”

Rio hesitated but nodded, retreating a step, her expression one of quiet understanding. “I’ll be here,” she murmured, her voice soft but resolute. “If you need me.”

The quiet returned, broken only by the crackle of the fire as Agatha’s hand brushed gently against your hair. “Rest,” she murmured, her voice trembling but tender. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Rio lingered by the doorway, her shadow blending with the flickering light of the fire. Though the bond between the three of you had frayed under the weight of loss and love, her presence remained a silent promise, her own love for you holding her in place.

And as your eyes fluttered closed, Agatha and Rio remained rooted in their shared pain and devotion, bound by the fragile thread of hope that still held you all together.

The room was silent after you drifted back to sleep, your breathing steady, your hand still clutching Agatha’s like a lifeline. Agatha sat motionless beside you, her fingers intertwined with yours as if letting go would allow you to slip away. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced on the walls, but even its warmth couldn’t ease the chill settling over her heart.

Rio leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. The faint glow of the firelight reflected in her dark eyes, but the shadows beneath them betrayed the weight she carried. Finally, after a long moment, she broke the silence, her voice low and cautious. “She’s braver than both of us.”

Agatha didn’t look up, focusing entirely on you as her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. Her jaw tightened, and her voice, when it came, was thick with restrained emotion. “She shouldn’t have to be,” she murmured. “I’m supposed to protect her. I promised her a life of love, not… this.”

Rio pushed off the doorframe, her movements slow and deliberate as she stepped closer. Her dark eyes softened as she took in the scene before her—the woman she loved, the fragile person they both adored, lying between them like the thread that bound their fractured relationship together. “Agatha,” she said gently, her tone careful. “You’ve done everything you can to keep her safe. You can’t carry all of this on your shoulders.”

“Can’t I?” Agatha’s head snapped up, her sharp blue eyes blazing with frustration. “I’ve spent my life mastering magic, bending the rules of nature itself, to make sure she’d never know this kind of pain. And yet, here we are.”

Rio hesitated, but she moved closer, her hands still at her sides as though afraid to reach out. “You’ve done more than anyone else could,” she said quietly. “More than anyone else ever would. But there are limits to what even you can do, Agatha.”

Agatha’s glare hardened. “Don’t you dare talk to me about limits,” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “You don’t know what it’s like. You stand there and watch—you let this happen—because you’re too bound by your so-called rules to fight for her.”

Rio flinched, her composure cracking for just a moment before she schooled her features into calm again. “Do you think I don’t feel it too?” she said softly, her voice raw despite her restraint. “Do you think I don’t love her enough to want to change all of this? But you know what I am. You know what I’m bound to.”

Agatha let out a bitter laugh, though it was thick with pain. “You’re Death. The one thing no one can escape. And now you expect me to just sit here and wait for you to take her away.”

“I don’t expect you to do anything,” Rio replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I would never want to take her from you. From us.” Her dark eyes flicked to you, lingering on the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. “But this isn’t something I can control, Agatha. No matter how much I might want to.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened around yours, her free hand trembling as she smoothed a stray lock of hair from your forehead. “She made me promise,” she said, her voice breaking under the weight of the memory. “She asked me to choose the baby over her if it came to that.”

Rio’s gaze softened further, and she crouched down beside Agatha, though she made sure to keep her distance. “She doesn’t want you to carry more pain than you already have,” she murmured. “She loves you enough to think of your future, even if it doesn’t include her.”

“It feels like betrayal,” Agatha admitted, her voice trembling. “How can I promise to let her go when every part of me is screaming to hold on?”

Rio didn’t answer immediately. She stayed still, her presence steady even as her own emotions simmered beneath the surface. Finally, she said softly, “Because that’s what love is, Agatha. It’s not just holding on—it’s knowing when to let go. Even when it breaks you.”

Agatha’s head lowered, her tears falling silently as her shoulders shook. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, “I hate this. I hate you for being part of it.”

Rio’s dark eyes glistened with unspoken sorrow, but she nodded, her voice steady despite the crack threatening to break it. “I know,” she said simply. “And I’m sorry.”

For a moment, the two women sat in silence, their shared burden heavy between them. Agatha’s anger and Rio’s guilt coiled tightly in the air, but both of them stayed where they were, bound by the love they shared for you and the impossible choices looming ahead.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow painting the room in shades of warmth and shadow. Agatha’s hand brushed gently against yours as she pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I won’t lose you. I can’t.”

Rio didn’t reply. She stayed there, her gaze fixed on you, her hands clenched at her sides. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—speak the truth that hung in the back of her mind: that when the time came, she might not have a choice. Because to say it would only fuel Agatha’s rage, and because, deep down, it was the one inevitability that broke her just as much as it broke Agatha.

The silence stretched long into the night, filled with unspoken fears and a fragile hope that none of them dared to voice. For now, Rio remained in the shadows, watching as Agatha held you close, her love burning brighter than ever.

As the weeks passed, you grew quieter, your strength waning as your belly swelled with the life inside you. Agatha became your constant shadow, rarely leaving your side for more than a few moments. Her entire world seemed to narrow to you and the child you carried, her fierce protectiveness manifesting in every glance, every touch, and every whispered reassurance. She hovered over you like a storm, her presence an unrelenting shield against the world.

Rio, meanwhile, managed the day-to-day practicalities. She ensured the cottage was well-stocked, checked and rechecked the magical wards surrounding the property, and kept watch over the realm for any signs of danger. Her movements were efficient and deliberate, but there was an unspoken heaviness in her gaze whenever it landed on you. She tried not to linger near you and Agatha too long, knowing her presence only added to the tension that simmered beneath the surface.

One evening, as the setting sun bathed the sitting room in warm hues of amber and gold, you lay curled up on the chaise with Agatha. Your head rested against her shoulder as she read to you from an old, leather-bound book, her voice soft and soothing. Her arm was draped protectively around you, her free hand absently tracing circles over your belly. You felt the vibrations of her voice through her chest, supporting you in a way that no spell or charm ever could.

The door creaked open, and Rio entered carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. She hesitated in the doorway for a moment, her dark eyes flicking between the two of you. Her usual calm exterior didn’t waver, but there was a subtle tension in the way she held the tray, as though she were bracing herself.

She set the tray down on the small table near the fire and crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the chair across the room. “You two look cosy,” she said lightly, her voice tinged with her usual light humour.

You opened your eyes halfway, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite the exhaustion that weighed on you. “You’re jealous,” you murmured, your tone playful even though it came out weak.

Rio’s lips curved into a small smile, though her gaze softened. “Always,” she replied simply, her voice quieter now.

Agatha didn’t respond, focusing entirely on you as she continued tracing gentle patterns on your arm. Her sharp eyes flicked briefly toward Rio but quickly returned to you as if any moment spent acknowledging Rio’s presence might give her an opening to do what Agatha feared most.

You shifted slightly, placing your hand over Agatha’s as you glanced at Rio with a tired but teasing grin. “Lucky kid,” you said softly, your voice carrying a faint lilt of humour. “Gets to have Death as his mama.”

The air in the room shifted, the playful remark landing heavier than you likely intended. Agatha stiffened beside you, her body tensing as her jaw tightened. Her hand stopped moving against your arm, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Rio chuckled faintly, though the sound didn’t carry much humour. “He’ll be luckier to have two mothers who’d do anything for him,” she said, her tone gentle but steady. She didn’t move closer, staying rooted in her spot across the room as her dark gaze lingered on you.

You looked between the two women, sensing the unspoken tension that had grown thicker over the past weeks. Your hand tightened slightly over Agatha’s, supporting her as you leaned back into her warmth. “Do you think he’ll be okay?” you asked softly, your other hand moving to rest on your swollen belly. “Our baby?”

Agatha’s lips parted as if to speak, but her voice faltered. She swallowed hard, her hand covering yours over your belly. It was Rio who broke the silence, her voice steady but low. “He’ll be perfect,” she said firmly, her eyes locking on yours. “And we’ll make sure he’s safe.”

Agatha’s hand trembled slightly as she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll have everything we didn’t,” she murmured. “Love, safety, and… a future.”

You smiled faintly, the weight of the conversation pulling at your features. “A future,” you repeated softly, your eyes drifting closed for a moment. “That’s all I want for him.”

Agatha’s grip on you tightened imperceptibly, her chin brushing against your hair as she pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Rest, love,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Rio stayed where she was, her arms crossed as she watched the two of you. The faintest flicker of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes were heavy with emotions she couldn’t voice. She wanted to step closer, to sit with you and reassure you as much as Agatha did, but she knew better. Agatha’s protectiveness over you had only grown sharper with time, and any attempt to close the distance now would only stoke the flames of her fear.

The firelight flickered softly as the room settled into silence again. Agatha remained at your side, her hand resting protectively on your belly, while Rio lingered in the background, her shadow stretching across the floor. Though they didn’t speak to each other, the love they both felt for you filled the space between them—a love that bound them even as it fractured the fragile balance of their relationship.

And as the fire crackled and you drifted into a light sleep, Agatha’s hold on you didn’t loosen. Her sharp eyes darted briefly to Rio, her jaw tightening as though daring her to make a move. Rio didn’t. She stayed rooted in place, her expression unreadable, her presence a silent reminder of the inevitability neither of them wanted to face.

For now, the tension remained unspoken, the fragile peace held together by their shared devotion to you and the life growing within you.

The days blurred into an anxious haze as your due date crept closer, each moment heavy with anticipation and dread. The tension in the cottage was palpable, a shadow that seemed to stretch across every interaction. Agatha barely left your side, her eyes constantly scanning you for any sign of discomfort or distress. Her presence was fierce and protective, an unrelenting force that seemed determined to shield you from the world.

Rio, ever the silent observer, hovered at the edges of the household. She rarely spoke, her dark eyes watchful and brooding as she moved through the space, preparing for every possibility. Her presence, though quiet, was impossible to ignore—a constant reminder of the inevitabilities that hung over all of you.

One evening, as you leaned against a mountain of pillows in the sitting room, you tried to lighten the mood. “You two are going to smother me before this baby even arrives,” you teased, a faint smile gracing your lips despite the exhaustion etched into your features. Your hands rested protectively on your belly, the simple gesture grounding you amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

“Smothering?” Agatha scoffed, though the faint flicker of purple magic at her fingertips betrayed her anxiety. “I call it being attentive, thank you very much.”

From the doorway, Rio leaned casually against the frame, her dark hair brushing her shoulders as she raised a brow. “Attentive?” she drawled. “More like borderline obsessive.”

Agatha’s head snapped up, her icy eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. “This from the woman who refuses to leave the house because ‘something might happen,’” she shot back, her voice laced with tension.

“Guilty,” Rio admitted unapologetically, her grin faint but genuine. “But let’s not pretend you’re subtle, Agatha. The moment she so much as sneezes, you act like the world’s ending.”

You laughed softly, though the sound carried a hint of weariness. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two are more nervous than I am.”

“Nervous doesn’t begin to cover it,” Agatha muttered, her voice softening as she reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. Her touch lingered, her hand trembling slightly as her gaze searched yours for reassurance. “This baby means everything to us. You mean everything to us.”

Rio’s expression shifted, her usual sharpness giving way to a rare vulnerability. She glanced at you, then at Agatha, her voice quiet when she finally spoke. “You’ve been through a lot,” she admitted, the words tinged with an uncharacteristic rawness. “But this? This is something we can’t afford to lose.”

Your heart ached at the emotion in their voices, the love and fear that bound the three of you together despite the fractures in your relationship. You reached out, taking both of their hands in yours. Agatha’s hand tightened instinctively, while Rio hesitated for a brief moment before letting your fingers close around hers.

“We won’t lose,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the tears glistening in your eyes. “We’ve made it this far together. We’ll make it through this too.”

The words echoed, a balm that eased the tension in the room, if only for a moment. Agatha said nothing, her jaw tight as she looked down at your joined hands. Rio, too, remained quiet, her dark eyes shadowed with something unreadable. Yet, the weight in the room lifted slightly, giving way to a fragile peace.

But as the days passed, the reality of your condition became harder to ignore. The once-fragile peace began to crack under the strain of what lay ahead.

It was early morning when the first sharp pain woke you. The cottage was still, the faint glow of dawn just beginning to peek through the curtains. You gasped, your hand flying instinctively to your belly as a wave of nausea rolled over you, leaving you breathless.

Agatha was at your side in an instant, her blue eyes wide with concern. “What is it?” she said urgently, her hands hovering just above you, trembling slightly as if afraid to touch you and make it worse. “What’s wrong?”

You winced, struggling to steady your breathing as the pain rippled through you again. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice strained. “It feels… different.”

The door to the room creaked open, and Rio appeared moments later. She didn’t say anything at first, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in the scene—Agatha kneeling by your side, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips, and you, trembling and clutching your belly.

“Is it time?” Rio asked finally, her voice low but tense. She stayed near the door, her presence looming but not invasive.

Agatha shot her a quick glare, her jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” she admitted through gritted teeth. Her focus returned to you, her hands moving carefully to help you sit up. “But we’re not taking any chances.”

Rio didn’t move closer, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she stayed rooted near the doorway. Agatha, for her part, barely acknowledged her presence, her attention consumed by you. Her hands brushed over your hair, her voice softening as she murmured, “I’m here, love. I’ve got you.”

You leaned into Agatha’s touch, the pain ebbing slightly under the weight of her presence. Your breath came in shallow gasps, but you managed to nod, gripping her arm weakly. “I… I think it might be starting,” you whispered.

Agatha’s magic surged faintly in response, the violet light at her fingertips casting flickering shadows across the walls. Her expression hardened with determination, even as a flicker of fear glimmered in her blue eyes. “Then we’re ready,” she said, her voice steady but strained.

Rio lingered silently, her gaze fixed on you. Her hands clenched at her sides, but she didn’t move closer. Agatha’s protectiveness burned like a shield around you, and Rio knew better than to test it now. Instead, she stayed where she was, her dark eyes heavy with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

The tension in the room was palpable, the air charged with both love and fear. And as the morning light crept further into the room, you gripped Agatha’s hand tightly, bracing yourself for what was to come.

The labour room was a maelstrom of chaos and emotion, tension thick enough to suffocate. Your cries of pain tore through the air, raw and unrelenting, as Agatha clung to your hand like it was the only anchor she had left. Blood soaked the sheets beneath you, vivid and horrifying against the white fabric, spilling far too freely for anyone’s comfort. Agatha’s eyes darted between your pale, sweat-slicked face and the midwife’s grim expression, her panic barely restrained behind a mask of determination.

“Push, doll,” Agatha urged, her voice steady despite the tremor of fear deep in her core. She leaned close, brushing damp strands of hair from your flushed face, her grip on your hand unrelenting. “You’re almost there. Just one more.”

Your chest heaved, your breathing ragged as the contraction wracked your body. Tears streaked your cheeks, and your voice broke with exhaustion as you whimpered, “I can’t… I can’t do this… It hurts so much.”

“You can,” Agatha said firmly, her voice commanding and unwavering. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve come too far to stop now. You’re almost there, love.”

The midwife worked frantically at the foot of the bed, barking orders to her assistant, who scrambled to fetch more cloth. Blood was everywhere, a terrifying reminder of the precariousness of the moment. Agatha’s mind raced with incantations, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips as she searched desperately for something—anything—that could help. But magic, her greatest strength, felt useless here. She couldn’t destroy what threatened to take you from her. And for the first time in centuries, she felt truly powerless.

Rio stood silently in the corner of the room, her dark eyes fixed on you. Her presence was heavy, oppressive even, though her usual commanding aura was muted. Death lingered in her stance, in the tightness of her jaw, in the way her lips pressed into a grim line. She didn’t need to speak for Agatha to feel it—time was slipping away.

“Do something!” Agatha snarled suddenly, her head snapping toward Rio. Her voice was venomous, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “You can’t just stand there and watch!”

Rio’s gaze didn’t waver. Her voice, when it came, was low but steady. “You know I can’t interfere.”

“Like hell you can’t!” Agatha spat, her grip tightening on your hand as another contraction tore through you, wrenching a scream from your throat. “This isn’t just some arbitrary soul, Rio. This is her. This is our life. And I’ll be damned if you take her from me!”

“Agatha…” you whimpered weakly, your voice barely audible over the chaos. Your head rolled to the side as fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. “Stop… please… don’t fight…”

Agatha’s sharp gaze softened, vulnerability cracking through her unyielding façade as she turned back to you. “You have to stay with me,” she whispered fiercely, her hand trembling as she cupped your face. “You hear me? You have to stay.”

Another contraction hit, and you screamed, your body arching as blood poured from you in unrelenting waves. The midwife’s assistant hurriedly replaced the soaked cloth, her hands shaking. “The baby is close,” the midwife said urgently, her tone grim, “but the mother—she’s losing too much blood.”

You gasped faintly, your strength fading. “Save… the baby,” you murmured, your voice so weak it was almost lost beneath the midwife’s hurried commands.

“No,” Agatha barked, her head snapping toward you. “Don’t you dare say that!”

“Please,” you whispered, tears spilling freely now. “Promise me…”

Agatha’s hands trembled as she cradled your face, her magic sparking erratically. “No, love. We’re not doing that,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “You’re going to make it. Both of you are going to make it.”

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as your final scream shattered the air. Then, finally, the sharp cry of the baby cut through the chaos. The sound was piercing, raw, and beautiful all at once, and for a brief, miraculous moment, the room seemed to pause.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife announced, wrapping the squirming infant in a bloodied cloth before holding him out to Agatha.

Agatha took the tiny bundle into her arms, her breath catching as she stared down at him. His cries were strong, his little fists flailing as if protesting the ordeal of his arrival. “He’s perfect,” Agatha murmured, her tears falling freely as she looked at him. “Absolutely perfect.”

But the moment shattered as you gasped sharply, your body convulsing. Agatha’s head snapped back to you, panic flooding her expression. “No, no, no. F/N!” she cried, clutching your hand. Blood continued to pour from you, staining everything in its path.

“She’s fading,” Rio said quietly, stepping forward. Her voice was steady, but the tightness in her expression betrayed the depth of her own pain.

“No!” Agatha snarled, her magic flaring violently, the room trembling with the force of her power. “You’re not taking her, Rio! I’ll destroy everything if you try.”

Your hand weakly brushed against Agatha’s arm, drawing her attention. “Agatha…” you murmured, your voice faint but full of love. “Stop… I love you…”

“Don’t you dare leave me,” Agatha whispered, her tears falling faster as she pressed a kiss to your clammy forehead. “You stay with me, you hear me?”

Rio knelt beside you both, her expression unreadable as she extended her hands. “Agatha,” she said firmly, “I can help. But you must let me.”

Agatha hesitated, her entire body trembling. For a moment, her magic surged again, crackling in the air around her, but then she relented. Slowly, reluctantly, she loosened her grip on her power. “Do it,” she growled. “But if you take her…”

“I won’t,” Rio said quietly, her hands glowing faintly as her power washed over you like a soft, steady wave. The bleeding slowed, though it didn’t stop completely. Sweat beaded on Rio’s brow as she pushed against her own limits. “This will buy her time,” she said through gritted teeth. “But it’s up to her now.”

Agatha sobbed, clutching the baby close as she pressed another kiss to your forehead. “You hear that, love? You fight. You hold on for us.”

Your lips twitched into a faint smile as your eyes fluttered closed. “Nicky,” you murmured softly.

Agatha’s heart clenched, her voice breaking as she repeated, “Nicky. Our Nicholas.”

The baby’s cries softened as if soothed by your voice. Agatha held him close, her tears falling freely as she whispered, “He’s perfect, F/N. Just like you.”

Rio sat back slightly, her dark eyes heavy as she watched you breathe, each rise and fall of your chest a fragile miracle. Agatha didn’t look at her; her entire world was consumed by you and the tiny life in her arms. For now, you had survived. But the weight of what had almost been lingered between them, a reminder of how close they had come to losing everything.

The tension in the dimly lit room was suffocating, pressing down on every breath. The midwife and her assistant moved swiftly, their hands deft and precise as they worked to stabilise you. The bleeding had slowed, but their faces remained pale with worry. When your breathing evened out, and you fell into a fragile sleep, the midwife looked to Agatha, her voice low but urgent. “She’s stable, for now.”

Agatha nodded sharply, her expression carved from stone. “Thank you,” she said curtly, her voice tight with exhaustion. The midwife hesitated as her gaze flicked between Agatha, you, and the baby in Agatha's arms, but finally, she turned to leave. She and her assistant exited quietly, the door clicking shut behind them.

The silence followed was heavy and oppressive, broken only by the crackling fire and your soft, laboured breaths. Agatha stood at the edge of the bed, her blue eyes fixed on you. Your face, pale and damp with sweat, was peaceful in sleep, though the strain lingered faintly in the lines of your brow. Nicky stirred in Agatha's arms, his tiny body warm and content, blissfully unaware of the storm surrounding him.

Rio stepped forward from her place by the door, her dark eyes shadowed with regret. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, her voice heavy. “For now.”

Agatha didn’t look at her, her attention fixed on you as she carefully craded Nicky. The baby whimpered faintly at the movement, but she pulled him close, murmuring softly until he settled against her chest. “And she’ll stay that way,” Agatha said, her voice low and dangerous.

“You know the cost,” Rio said, her voice carrying an unmistakable weight. “You know what it’ll take.”

Agatha finally turned to her, her blue eyes blazing with unrelenting resolve. “I don’t care.”

Rio hesitated, her dark gaze flicking between Agatha and the child she held. “You’re talking about taking lives, Agatha. This isn’t something you can undo.”

“I don’t want to undo it,” Agatha snapped, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “I’ll give you whatever you need. Whoever you need. Just tell me what to do.”

Rio’s lips tightened into a thin line, her usual calm cracking under the weight of Agatha’s determination. “This isn’t a game,” she said quietly. “These are lives—souls that don’t deserve to be taken.”

“Don’t talk to me about who deserves what,” Agatha hissed, her grip tightening around Nicky protectively. “You want to talk about fairness? About justice? After everything that’s been taken from us?” Her voice cracked slightly, but the fire in her gaze didn’t waver. “If I have to destroy the lives of strangers to save the only family I have, then so be it.”

Rio’s expression softened for a moment, sorrow flickering in her dark eyes. “You’re sure?” she asked quietly, though the answer was already clear.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Agatha said firmly, her voice cold with finality. She glanced down at you, her expression softening as her hand brushed against your damp forehead. “She’s everything. He’s everything. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”

Rio exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as she stepped closer. “It’s not just the souls,” she murmured. “Once this starts, you’ll have to live with what you’ve done. You’ll carry that weight forever.”

“Then I’ll carry it,” Agatha shot back without hesitation. “I’ll carry it for her. For him. It doesn’t matter what it costs me. I’ll pay it.”

Nicky shifted slightly in her arms, his tiny hand brushing against her chest, and Agatha leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head. Her magic crackled faintly in the air around her, charged with the intensity of her resolve. “You tell me what you need, Rio,” she said, her voice dropping to a low growl. “And I’ll deliver it.”

Rio nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on you as you slept. “You’re not afraid of becoming the monster, are you?” she asked softly, her voice laced with sadness.

Agatha’s laugh was bitter, her eyes narrowing. “If being a monster means keeping her alive, then yes,” she said fiercely. “I’ll be whatever I need to be.”

The fire crackled softly, its light casting flickering shadows across the room. Rio stood silent for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she took a step back. “You’ve made your choice,” she said quietly. “I won’t stop you.”

Agatha turned back to you and Nicky, her focus unyielding. She adjusted the baby in her arms, holding him close as she sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Her free hand brushed against your cheek, her voice softening as she whispered, “You’re going to stay with us, doll. No matter what it takes.”

And as the firelight glimmered in her eyes, there was no hesitation in her heart. Whatever the price, Agatha would pay it. For you. For Nicky. For the family she refused to lose.

Agatha’s determination was as unyielding as the magic crackling at her fingertips. She had made her choice—whatever it took to save you and Nicky, she would do. The cost didn’t matter. The lives she would trade meant nothing compared to the life she had built with you. No one, not even Rio, could dissuade her from the path she had chosen. Agatha Harkness was a witch of extraordinary power, and now, she would wield every ounce of it to keep her family intact.

The coven of witches she sought was notorious—ruthless, power-hungry, and always eager to expand their strength through dangerous and questionable rituals. They were powerful, yes, but not as powerful as Agatha. She arrived at their hidden lair with precision, her expression cold and unyielding. Purple energy sparked faintly at her fingertips as she pushed open the heavy wooden doors with a mere flick of her wrist.

Inside, the witches turned, their eyes narrowing with suspicion and unease. The eldest of the coven, a tall woman with wild grey-streaked hair, stepped forward. “Agatha Harkness,” she said sharply, her tone laced with disdain. “What business do you have here?”

Agatha’s lips curved into a cold smile, her blue eyes gleaming with purpose. “An opportunity,” she said smoothly, her voice steady and confident. “A trade that will give you more power than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

The coven exchanged wary glances, their curiosity battling their mistrust. The leader tilted her head, studying Agatha carefully. “And why would a witch of your strength offer us such a thing?” she asked, her tone biting.

“Because I need something in return,” Agatha replied, stepping forward. The purple glow of her magic intensified slightly, casting flickering shadows across the room. “Something only you can provide.”

The leader’s suspicion deepened, but there was temptation in her gaze. “And what, exactly, do you seek, Harkness?”

Agatha’s smile widened, but it didn’t soften. “Your power,” she said simply, her voice like steel. “All of it.”

Realisation dawned on the witches, and the room erupted into chaos. Spells were cast with desperate speed, bolts of magic crackling through the air as they hurled their attacks at Agatha. But Agatha didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. As the first strike hit her, her magic flared in response, absorbing the energy like a sponge.

The witches’ attacks fed her power, each strike siphoned into her own magic, amplifying it. The violet tendrils surrounding her lashed out, wrapping around the witches like serpents. They screamed as their energy was torn from them, their bodies withering as their life force drained away. Skin shrivelled, eyes hollowed, and one by one, they collapsed to the floor, their lifeless forms little more than dried husks.

The leader, the last to fall, clawed at the air as Agatha’s magic coiled around her throat. “Mercy,” she croaked, her voice barely audible over the crackling energy.

Agatha tilted her head, her smile fading into something colder. “There’s no mercy here,” she said quietly before the final tendril of magic surged forward, leaving the leader’s body crumpled alongside the others.

When the last echo of their screams faded, Agatha stood in the centre of the carnage, her chest heaving. The power coursing through her was immense, nearly overwhelming, but she embraced it. It was enough. It had to be enough. She’d done it. It was enough—for now.

When Agatha returned to the cottage, the night was unnervingly quiet. Inside, you were sitting by the fire, Nicky cradled in your arms. Your eyes lit up with relief when you saw her, but your face was pale, exhaustion still etched into your features.

“Agatha,” you said softly, your voice faint but warm. “You’re back.”

“I’m here, doll,” she replied, her voice calm despite the raw energy still humming through her veins. She knelt beside you, her eyes softening as they fell on you and the baby. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you admitted, leaning into her touch as she brushed a curl from your forehead. “But better.”

“Good,” Agatha murmured. Her hand lingered on your cheek as she pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re going to be fine. Both of you.”

You nodded, your grip on Nicky loosening slightly as the baby stirred in your arms. “I was worried,” you whispered. “You were gone so long.”

“I had to make sure everything was safe,” Agatha said, her voice low and soothing. “But you don’t need to worry anymore. I’ll take care of everything.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as sleep pulled you under, your breathing evening out. Agatha carefully lifted Nicky from your arms, cradling him close as she stood. She rocked him gently, her lips brushing his soft forehead. “You’ll be safe,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “I’ll keep you safe.”

When she was sure you were asleep, she turned toward the doorway. Rio stepped out from the shadows, her dark eyes heavy with something between sorrow and resignation. “It won’t last forever,” Rio said quietly. “You know that.”

“I’ll do what I have to,” Agatha replied sharply, her blue eyes blazing. “I’ll find more. As many as it takes.”

“You’re hunting witches,” Rio said softly, her voice laced with regret. “Draining their lives, stealing their power. How many will it take to keep her alive? How long can you keep this up?”

“As long as I need to,” Agatha said firmly, her grip on Nicky tightening. “I’ll hunt every witch, every creature with the power to give if it means keeping her here.”

Rio’s expression flickered, but she didn’t argue. “And when she finds out?”

“She won’t,” Agatha said quickly, her voice hardening. “She doesn’t need to know. All she needs is to live. That’s all that matters.”

Rio sighed, stepping back into the shadows. “You’ve made your choice, Agatha,” she said softly before disappearing into the night.

Agatha stood for a long moment, her gaze shifting between you and the firelight flickering across the room. She kissed Nicky’s forehead again, holding him close as a faint tremor ran through her. Soon, she would have to leave again. Soon, she would have to hunt. But for now, she knelt beside you, her hand brushing over your sleeping face.

“You’ll never know,” she whispered, her voice a mix of love and despair. “You’ll never know what I’ve done for you.”

And as the fire crackled softly, Agatha’s resolve burned brighter than ever. She would keep you alive—whatever it took, whoever it cost.

The years had not softened Agatha’s resolve nor eased the strain on your heart. Six years had passed since your lives had irreversibly changed—since Rio left not long before Nicky’s birth, leaving you with an ache that had never fully healed. Six years since Agatha made the unrelenting choice to do whatever it took to keep you alive. The three of you moved constantly, never lingering in one place for too long, always leaving whispers of a powerful witch and her family in your wake. No matter how far you travelled, the shadows of the past always followed.

Nicky, now six years old, was the brightest light in your life. He was quick-witted, curious, and kind, with your quiet determination, Agatha’s sharpness, and a smile that was unmistakably Rio’s. That smile—radiant and full of life—warmed your heart and broke it all at once, a reminder of what you had lost and what you still carried.

Tonight, under a canopy of stars, Nicky lay curled against you, his small fingers clasping yours as you hummed a soft lullaby. The fire crackled softly nearby, its warm glow casting flickering shadows. Agatha sat a short distance away, her piercing eyes scanning the horizon. Even in these quiet moments, her vigilance never wavered. She wasn’t just protecting you and Nicky—she was a predator, honed and fierce, her magic thrumming with the energy she had stolen from others. You knew this because you had pieced it together over the years, even if she had never told you.

“Mummy,” Nicky mumbled, his voice muffled as he burrowed against your side, “do you think the stars are watching us?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “Maybe, sweetheart,” you said softly. “Maybe they’re watching and keeping us safe.”

He shifted slightly, his bright eyes glancing toward Agatha. “What about you, Mum? Do you think the stars are magic?”

Agatha’s expression softened, and a rare smile touched her lips. “The stars?” she repeated, her tone lighter than usual. “Oh, they’re magic, alright. But they can’t compare to you, my little star.”

Nicky giggled, his laughter warm and unguarded, as he buried his face against you. “I’m not magic, Mum.”

Agatha smirked as she stood, dusting off her hands. “Not yet,” she teased, though her tone carried a seriousness that made your chest tighten.

You glanced at her, smiling softly as you stroked Nicky’s hair. “As long as he’s safe,” you said quietly, “and if one day he can help people who need it… that would be my dream.”

Agatha turned to look at you, her blue eyes flickering with something unreadable before she returned her gaze to the horizon. She didn’t respond, and the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.

Nicky’s breathing slowed as he drifted into sleep, his small hand relaxing in yours. You stared at his peaceful face, your heart twisting at the sight. There were moments when you saw so much of yourself and Agatha in him—his determination, his sharpness, his playful nature. But then there was his smile, that radiant, mischievous grin that was pure Rio. It was a bittersweet reminder of the love you’d shared and the loss that still haunted you.

You looked at Agatha as she stood watch, her silhouette framed by the firelight. You knew what she had done—the lives she had taken, the sacrifices she had made to keep you alive. You knew because of the way she avoided your eyes after her “trips,” the faint hum of power clinging to her like an echo of her deeds. But you didn’t say anything. How could you? She had done it for you, for Nicky, and the weight of that truth sat like a stone in your chest.

The fire crackled softly, the night air cool against your skin. You leaned down to kiss Nicky’s forehead, your voice a soft whisper. “You’ll grow up safe, my love,” you murmured. “You’ll grow up to help people, to make the world better.”

Agatha turned slightly as though sensing your words. Her blue eyes flickered in the firelight, but she didn’t speak, and you didn’t meet her gaze.

Instead, you rested your cheek against Nicky’s soft curls, letting the silence stretch between you and Agatha. You carried the knowledge of her actions alone, blaming yourself for the path she had taken. If you had been stronger, if you hadn’t needed saving, maybe she wouldn’t have become a killer. Maybe Rio wouldn’t have left. Maybe your family wouldn’t feel so fractured, even in such moments.

You tightened your hold on Nicky as if to ward off the weight of your thoughts. The stars twinkled above, indifferent to your struggles, and the fire crackled softly at your feet. You closed your eyes, letting the night’s quiet lull you into a fragile peace.

But as the night deepened and the fire burned low, your thoughts turned darker. You couldn’t let this continue. Agatha carried the weight of her actions for you, and the love that drove her to do so was breaking her. You couldn’t stand to watch her bear that burden any longer.

Your jaw tightened, your resolve solidifying. It was time to end this. Agatha had fought long enough and sacrificed too much. You owed her more than just gratitude. You owed her freedom—from the guilt, the killing, the endless hunt.

You stroked Nicky’s hair one last time, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. As you stared into the embers of the dying fire, your heart ached with the enormity of what you would have to do.

It’s time, you thought to yourself. Time to end this and free her from the burden.

The night was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed heavily on your ears and amplified the flicker of dying embers. You sat near the fire, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the soft blanket draped over your legs. Nicky was fast asleep in the tent behind you, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His peaceful slumber was a reminder of innocence untouched by the turmoil surrounding your family. He had your resilience, Agatha’s sharpness, and—painfully—Rio’s depth, a complexity he carried in his quiet moments and, most strikingly, in his radiant smile.

Agatha was away for the night, having gone to a nearby town to gather supplies. Before leaving, she had lingered, her eyes scanning the perimeter as she conjured a powerful magical shield around the campsite. “Nothing gets in,” she’d said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “You and Nicky are safe.”

You had nodded, offering her a faint smile as she reluctantly departed, though the unease in your chest lingered. Even with Agatha’s magic protecting you, the absence of her presence felt like a vulnerability you couldn’t shake. Tonight, that vulnerability sharpened, your senses pricking as the air shifted.

It was faint but unmistakable—a presence, cold and familiar, brushing against your awareness like an unseen hand.

“Rio,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. You didn’t need to look. You knew she was there.

From the shadows, she emerged, her figure cloaked in an ethereal shimmer. The faint moonlight caught her dark eyes, making them glint like polished onyx as she stepped closer. She looked just as you remembered—beautiful, commanding, hauntingly familiar. Yet now, she carried something else: an aura of power that was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. She was Death, and she was here for you.

“You always know when I’m near,” Rio murmured, her voice low and melodic, resonating with a weight that tugged at your soul.

You exhaled shakily, turning to meet her gaze. “How could I not?” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re a part of me, Rio. You always have been.”

Rio’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped closer, her movements deliberate. The firelight flickered across her sharp features, casting her face in a blend of light and shadow. “It’s been years,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of grief and regret. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“You left,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “You walked away when I needed you most.”

Rio flinched, her gaze faltering briefly before returning to yours. “You were dying,” she said quietly. “And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stand to watch her sacrifice everything for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and you shook your head. “She’s destroying herself,” you whispered. “Killing witches, taking their power, becoming someone I barely recognise. All for me.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her shoulders squaring. “I warned her. There’s always a price.”

“And what about me?” you asked, your voice trembling. “What’s my price, Rio? To watch her turn into this? To let Nicky grow up with a mother consumed by darkness?”

Rio knelt in front of you, her movements slow and deliberate. Her hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly, but she didn’t touch you. “You know what you’re asking,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Take me,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “If that’s what it takes to save her, to save Nicky, then take me.”

Rio’s dark eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing deeply as her voice hardened. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, your voice steadier now. “You’re Death, Rio. You can end this. You can give her peace. You can give Nicky a mother who’s still herself, not someone breaking under the weight of everything she’s done.”

Rio rose abruptly, her figure towering over you as her cloak of shadows shifted and swirled. “You think it’s that simple? That taking you will fix everything?”

You stood too, squaring your shoulders despite the trembling in your frame. “I don’t care if it doesn’t fix everything,” you said fiercely. “I just want it to stop. I want her to stop hurting herself. I want Nicky to have the mother he deserves.”

Rio’s gaze softened, but her voice remained firm. “And what about you? Do you think Agatha will survive losing you?”

You hesitated, your throat tightening as you glanced toward the tent where Nicky slept. “She’ll survive,” you said softly, tears spilling freely now. “She’ll survive because Nicky needs her. She’ll hate you for it, but she’ll survive. For him.”

Rio’s silence stretched unbearably between you, her dark eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, trembling faintly. “You’re asking me to do what I couldn’t before.”

“I’m asking you to save her,” you said, stepping closer to her. “Please.”

Rio’s hands trembled as she reached out again, this time cupping your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache. Her cold touch sent a shiver through you, but it wasn’t fear—it was grief, love, and finality all woven into one. “F/N,” she murmured.

For a moment, she hesitated, her dark eyes searching yours. Then, with a trembling breath, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to hers. The kiss was desperate and tender, filled with all the things you couldn’t say. It was both an ending and a beginning, a goodbye and a promise.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against hers as you whispered, “Please. End this.”

Rio closed her eyes, her breath trembling against your skin. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice breaking. Then, in a movement so swift and gentle it felt like a dream, her arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace as the world faded.

The fire’s glow dimmed, and the stars above blurred into nothingness. All that remained was the sensation of Rio’s cold lips brushing against your forehead one last time, and the weight of her love and sorrow as she carried you away.

The dawn broke the light yet to be touching the forest. Agatha stirred, her body weary from the journey to the nearby town. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she imagined Nicky’s excitement when she returned with the small treats he had begged for. She turned over, expecting to find F/N resting beside her, warm and safe.

“F/N,” Agatha murmured softly, reaching out. Her fingers brushed against the cool fabric of the blanket draped over F/N’s sleeping form. Something about the stillness of her body made Agatha’s stomach twist.

“F/N?” Agatha’s voice sharpened, her eyes flying open as she sat up, leaning closer. Her hand cupped F/N’s cheek, and the icy chill of her skin sent a jolt through her chest.

“No. No, no, no.” Her voice cracked, panic gripping her as she shook F/N gently at first, then more forcefully. “Wake up, doll. Please, wake up.”

But F/N didn’t move. Her body remained lifeless, her serene face untouched by the pain that now tore through Agatha. Her lips still carried the faintest hint of a smile, as if she had left in peace. It was a look that should have comforted Agatha, but it only shattered her further.

Nicky stirred in his bedroll nearby, his small murmurs pulling Agatha momentarily back to the present. She glanced at him, her heart pounding as if hoping against reason that this was some kind of nightmare. But when her gaze returned to F/N, reality hit with the force of a tidal wave.

She leaned over F/N, her hands trembling as she whispered desperate words, magic crackling faintly at her fingertips. She tried everything—spells, incantations, pouring what energy she could into F/N’s unresponsive form. But no amount of magic could undo what had already been done.

And then she felt it.

Her head snapped up, her icy eyes locking on the treeline in the distance. A shimmer of movement caught her attention, and she stood abruptly, her body trembling with rage and grief.

Rio.

The figure stepped into view, her form cloaked in shadows, her dark eyes glinting with an emotion that Death rarely showed—sorrow. She stood silently, her head bowing slightly as Agatha approached, her steps quick and unrelenting.

“You,” Agatha spat, her voice a venomous growl as she stormed toward Rio. Purple sparks of magic crackled at her fingertips, barely restrained as her fury boiled over. “You took her from me. You took her!”

Rio didn’t flinch. She stood her ground, her gaze heavy with emotion. “She asked me,” Rio said quietly, her voice steady but pained. “She chose this, Agatha. For you. For Nicky.”

“Don’t you dare tell me this was her choice!” Agatha screamed, her magic flaring uncontrollably around her. “She was mine, Rio! Mine to love, mine to protect! And you took her—just like you always take everything!”

Rio’s composure faltered, the weight of Agatha’s words slicing through her. “She was dying,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Slowly. Painfully. She couldn’t bear to watch you destroy yourself, to watch Nicky lose both his mothers.”

Agatha’s magic lashed out, striking the ground near Rio, causing the earth to tremble. “And now he’s lost her anyway!” she roared. “He’s lost her, and it’s your fault!”

Rio stood motionless, her shoulders sagging under the weight of Agatha’s anger. “It’s my fault,” she admitted quietly. “But it’s also what she wanted. Her last kiss, her last breath—they were mine. She gave them to me so you could live, so Nicky could have you.”

Agatha’s knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, her hands clawing at the dirt as a raw, animalistic sob tore from her throat. “You took her from me,” she whispered brokenly, her voice barely audible. “You took my heart.”

Rio stepped closer, her movements hesitant. She crouched beside Agatha, her hand hovering over her shoulder before finally resting there gently. “I loved her too,” Rio murmured, her voice cracking. “I always did.”

When Agatha finally returned to the tent, Nicky was awake, crouched beside F/N’s still form. His small hands rested on hers, his tiny fingers trembling as he gently shook her shoulder. His wide eyes, filled with confusion, turned to Agatha as she entered. “Mummy won’t wake up,” he said softly, his voice quivering. “Why won’t she wake up?”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat as her heart shattered anew. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she pulled him into her arms. He came willingly, clutching her tightly as if she could provide the answers he sought.

“She’s gone, sweetheart,” Agatha whispered, her voice breaking as she stroked his hair. “Mummy’s gone.”

Nicky stiffened in her arms, his small sobs breaking free as he buried his face in her shoulder. Agatha held him tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her tears falling freely as she whispered soothing words.

After a long moment, Nicky’s tearful voice broke the heavy silence. “Where did she go? Is she… gone forever?”

Agatha swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. She leaned back slightly, cupping his tear-streaked face with both hands. “She’s not gone forever, my little star,” she said softly, her blue eyes glistening. “She’s up there now, with the stars, watching over you.”

Nicky sniffled, his eyes lifting to the darkening sky outside the tent. “Like… a star?”

Agatha nodded, her lips trembling as she forced a small smile. “Yes, sweetheart. Mummy’s become the brightest star up there. She’ll always be looking down on you, protecting you, loving you, no matter where you are.”

Nicky’s gaze lingered on the sky, his sobs quieting as the weight of her words settled. “Will she ever come back?” he whispered, his voice trembling with hope.

Agatha’s chest ached, but she kept her voice gentle. “No, love,” she said, stroking his hair. “But every time you look up at the stars, you’ll see her. And she’ll always be with us in our hearts.”

Nicky nodded slowly, his small hands clutching the feather he had been holding earlier. “Do you think she’ll see me if I wave to her?”

Agatha’s tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she kissed his forehead. “I know she will, darling. She’ll see you, and she’ll be so proud of you.”

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Agatha sat motionless, cradling Nicky as he drifted in and out of restless sleep. Her mind churned with plans, questions, and the single, searing truth that F/N was gone. The weight of her grief pressed down on her, unrelenting, as Nicky’s small body trembled against hers.

Hours passed, and as the day slipped into evening, Agatha rose silently. Her movements were stiff as she began to build a pyre, each action a painful reminder of what she was about to do. The wood creaked under her hands, and the firelight danced faintly in the distance as the stars began to appear.

When the pyre was ready, Agatha carried F/N’s body carefully from the tent, her arms trembling under the weight of love and loss. She cradled F/N as though she were still alive, her face serene, untouched by the agony that gripped Agatha’s heart. Agatha laid her atop the pyre with the same tenderness she had shown her in life, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Nicky stood nearby, clutching a small black feather he had found earlier. His young face was streaked with tears, and he looked at Agatha with wide, questioning eyes. She knelt beside him, brushing a tear from his cheek. “She’s with the stars now, sweetheart,” Agatha whispered, her voice soft but trembling. “She’s watching over us.”

“Will she see me?” Nicky asked, his voice quivering as he glanced at the sky.

Agatha pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Always,” she said. “She’ll see you every time you smile, every time you look up at the stars. She’ll be so proud of you.”

Nicky nodded slowly, his small hands gripping the feather tightly as Agatha rose and whispered a spell. The flames flickered to life, their glow illuminating the grief etched into her features. Nicky’s tearful gaze stayed on the fire, and he raised the feather as if offering it to the sky. Agatha stood beside him, her hand firmly holding his.

As the fire consumed the only love Agatha had ever truly known, she stood tall, her grief mingling with her resolve. She didn’t speak; there were no words for the depth of her sorrow. But as the flames burned low, she whispered into the night, “I’ll protect him, F/N. I promise.”

Together, they sat quietly as the last embers faded into ash. Nicky stared up at the darkening sky, his eyes scanning for the star Agatha had promised would now guide him. Agatha held him close, her arms wrapping tightly around his small form. Her heart ached, but there was a faint comfort in knowing that F/N’s love would always shine, forever watching over the child they had both cherished.

Somewhere, far beyond the veil, Rio watched silently. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears as she turned and dissolved into shadow once more.

Death moved on, as it always did. But this time, it carried the weight of a love it could never claim.

Years passed, and time softened the edges of Agatha’s pain, though it never truly faded. She and Nicky settled in a small, quiet town, far from the memories of the past. Agatha raised him with fierce love, determined to honour F/N’s sacrifice by giving Nicky the life she would have wanted for him.

Nicky grew into a strong and kind-hearted young man, his laughter a balm to Agatha’s weary soul. He inherited F/N’s quiet determination and Rio’s sharp instincts, and though he sometimes asked about his mother, Agatha always told him the truth.

“She loved you more than anything,” Agatha would say, her voice soft but steady. “She gave everything so you could live, so we could be together. She’s always with us, Nicky. In you, in me. Always.”

And sometimes, when Nicky smiled, Agatha’s chest ached with bittersweet emotion. She thought back to when you used to say his smile was Rio’s—mischievous, radiant, and full of life. And maybe you were right. But for Agatha, every time Nicky smiled, she didn’t see Rio. She saw you. She saw the warmth in your eyes, the love you poured into every moment, and the strength that had carried their family through even the darkest of times. Nicky’s smile wasn’t just Rio’s or yours—it was a blend of all the love that had created him.

In the quiet moments of the night, Agatha swore she could feel your presence—the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter. On those nights, she would sit outside under the stars, staring at the sky and wondering which star was yours, watching over them. It was enough to keep her going, enough to remind her that even in death, love never truly faded.

It lived on. In memory, in laughter, in Nicky’s smile.

Forever.

---RAR---

The sky stretched endlessly, painted in hues of gold and lavender, as Agatha opened her eyes. The world around her was soft, timeless, an ethereal plane that hummed with peace. She blinked, her crystal blue eyes taking in the surreal landscape. For a moment, she felt weightless, free of the burdens she’d carried for so long.

“You’re here,” Rio’s voice broke the stillness, steady and familiar. Agatha turned to find her standing there, her black hair cascading like a dark river. Her face was calm, yet her deep brown eyes carried the weight of centuries—a mix of sorrow and acceptance.

Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So, it’s done,” she said softly, no bitterness in her tone, just quiet resignation.

Rio nodded. “You lived well, Agatha. For Nicky, for yourself. For her.”

The mention of F/N sent a pang through her, though it was no longer sharp. It was more like a gentle tug, a reminder of a love that had burned brighter than anything in her life. “And now?”

Rio tilted her head, her gaze warm despite its depth. “Now, I guide you. As I do all souls.”

Agatha scoffed lightly, though there was no real bite in her voice. “Is that what you told F/N?”

Rio didn’t flinch, her expression softening. “No. She waited for you. She didn’t need my guidance. She knew exactly where she wanted to be.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, her stoic exterior faltering for a moment. “She waited?” Her voice trembled slightly.

“Always,” Rio replied simply, stepping aside and gesturing toward the horizon.

Agatha turned, and there she was.

F/N stood under a sprawling tree atop a gentle hill, her hair shining in the soft, eternal light. She was dressed simply, her form radiant, as though untouched by the years and hardships they had endured together. As Agatha stared, F/N seemed to sense her gaze and turned. A smile broke across her face—warm, familiar, and full of love.

Agatha’s legs moved before she could think, her steps quickening until she was running up the hill. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath catching with every step. When she reached the top, F/N opened her arms without hesitation.

“Welcome home, Agatha,” F/N said softly, her voice carrying the same tender warmth it always had.

Agatha stumbled into her embrace, her arms wrapping around F/N tightly as tears streamed down her face. She clung to her as though she might vanish, but F/N held her just as firmly, grounding her.

“I’m sorry,” Agatha whispered, her voice breaking. “For everything—for failing you, for—”

“Shh,” F/N murmured, pulling back just enough to cup Agatha’s face. Her thumbs brushed away the tears as her eyes searched Agatha’s. “You didn’t fail me. You gave me everything. And now we have forever.”

Agatha closed her eyes, leaning into F/N’s touch. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of guilt, pain, and loneliness lifted. She felt whole again.

A soft sound drew Agatha’s attention, and she turned to see Rio walking up the hill toward them. Her usual sharpness was tempered by something lighter—a sense of belonging. She stopped a few feet away, her gaze meeting Agatha’s briefly before shifting to F/N.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Rio said, her voice tinged with emotion. “Not anymore.”

F/N smiled warmly, extending her hand toward Rio. “We’ve been waiting for you, too.”

Rio hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, taking F/N’s hand in her own. Agatha watched as F/N guided Rio to sit with them under the tree, the three of them settling into a comfortable, familiar closeness that felt like coming home.

The breeze carried their laughter, soft and unburdened, as they spoke of everything and nothing. Nicky’s name came up often, their love for him weaving through their conversation like a golden thread. Though separated by the veil, they knew his life was their greatest legacy—a living testament to the love they had shared.

As the eternal sun warmed their skin, Agatha looked between F/N and Rio, her heart swelling with a peace she hadn’t known in years. This was home—not a place, but the people who had shaped her, loved her, and stood by her through it all.

The three of them sat together, their fingers intertwined, and for the first time, Agatha truly understood. They were together, they were whole, and they were finally at peace.

Forever.

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